the hiding place always.

Then I run from the house

so I won’t be there when

Momma comes back,

my heart pounding in my throat

like I swallowed a fish.

I walk into town

fingering leftover change

in my pocket.

The same way me and Liz did before.

Only now the trip is

painful,

like the fish hasn’t moved

and isn’t going to.

When I get to

the Dairy Queen,

I buy myself a Dilly Bar,

cherry flavored,

Liz’s favorite.

Lizzie,

I think.

I’m tired and I’m scared.

As good as it tastes,

that ice cream,

hard cherry-flavored shell,

does nothing

to erase the sick,

sick

feeling of the diary

out of its safe place.

And me still having to read it.

94.

Okay,

Mari says,

Hope, you are in

charge of the party games.

Party games?

I say.

What kind of party games?

I’ve never done anything

like this before.

Never even been to a party

like this before.

We sit at a small

round table

by the pool. Mari’s

mom and dad

stand at the left-hand

corner of her yard

deciding where to put

a gazebo

and a rose garden.

You know what kind

of games,

Mari says,

waving her hand around

like I really do know.

Like . . . ,

Mari pauses,

because, just

as I suspected,

she has no idea what kind of games

either.

Oh you know,

she says, waving her hand

again. Then she starts

listing food for the party

out loud.

Tacosandsalsaandguacamole

andcandyandsodaandachocolate

fountainwithbananasandstrawberries

andgrahamcrackerstodip,

she says in one breath.

Good,

I say.

Eating can be one of

our games.

Mari rolls her eyes at me.

This has got to be

the best party ever,

she says,

so that Robbie notices

me and Jace notices

you.

Mari’s hair is pink

and purple

today, covering

the yellow purple gray of two days

ago. I

am sure that Robbie

will notice her.

And maybe not Jace,

but maybe Alex

will see me,

really see me,

dyed hair

and all.

The thought makes my

heart flutter.

You are in charge of the games,

Mari says again.

She taps her chin

with a pencil

before pressing the lead

to her tongue.

Make sure they

are kissing games.

Right,

I say,

wondering if I can find

kissing games

on the Internet.

95.

I do.

Suck and blow,

I say, looking over

my shoulder

at Mari whose list

has grown one and a half

pages long.

What?

Mari says,

and then she

laughs her face off.

It’s a kissing game,

I say, my face going

hot.

I gotta keep this party

PG–13,

Mari says.

No sucking.

No blowing.

She laughs again and her hair

catches in an evening breeze and waves

like flowers nodding.

No,

I say,

I said it’s a kissing game.

Mari raises her eyebrows.

One is half shaved-off.

Don’t ask me why.

I don’t know.

It was gone when I got here.

You use playing cards,

I say,

sucking a card

so it stays on your lips