(Lizzie had a crush

on Eric Bennion

even though he had some

fake teeth.)

Sometimes

I helped out in the

lunchroom, lining up cartons of

milk on red trays,

then trading slips of

paper with the teacher’s

name written on them

for the drink.

And sometimes

Adam came through the line

to get his milk

(chocolate—two cartons).

One night

I told Lizzie,

I think I love him.

I think I love Adam Stevens.

Oh,

she said,

he likes you, too.

He does?

I said.

Yep,

Liz said.

He told me so at recess.

Why?

I said.

He just thinks you’re pretty,

Lizzie said.

The cutest fourth grader

around.

Me and Liz sat in our room,

that long ago night,

drawing pictures for a

cartoon book we were making.

He told you that?

I asked.

Sure,

Liz said and gazed in my eyes.

You are the best little sister.

And nice.

Why wouldn’t he like you?

For days

me and Lizzie talked

about Adam Stevens

until he came to school

with a big scab

on his chin.

After that,

my admirations turned to

Dennis and Desmond,

the twins in the fourth-grade

class right next door to

my room.

Later, of course,

I loved

Ian St. Clair. And so

did Lizzie, at least

a little.

He would love you,

Lizzie said not that long

before the gun.

That Ian

would love you if he

got the chance to know you,

she said.

You’re the best little

sister anyone could have.

I love you, Hope. Why wouldn’t

Ian?

And the way my sister

Lizzie talked,

anyone would believe her.

Maybe even Ian St. Clair.

67.

At the hospital

that afternoon,

Momma puts herself in Lizzie’s room

right away,

pushing the door almost closed behind.

She’s just out of

lockdown again.

You keep watch

while I talk to my baby,

Momma says.

There isn’t even

a fake smile

on her face.

I don’t.

Instead

I put my ear to the

crack of the door.

What is it that Momma

says to my sister

every time we come?

Why won’t Lizzie talk to her?

Baby?

I hear Momma say.

Her voice is light as a balloon

filled with helium.

I hear the bed give a sigh,

like Momma sat down on the edge.

Baby,

she says,

what you been telling them doctors?

Now one of ’em wants to see me.

There’s no answer.

Honey, Liz,

Momma says,

what you been telling them?

She waits.

You know there’s them

secrets you and me have,

Momma says.

Them secrets no one

should know about.

You hear me, Liz? I

wish you’d open your

eyes, baby. You keep

them secrets to yourself, hear.

Do you hear me?

Has my heart stopped beating?

Am I alive here at the door?

Can I swallow?

Can I blink?

Or breathe

again?

Momma’s voice

gets an edge to it.

My skin prickles.

You keep them secrets

quiet or worse is gonna happen.

To you first,

then to me. I’ll

make sure about you getting it.