than marigolds and

petunias

or going to the greenhouses

late, late, late

with Mari and her

daddy to make sure

the pipes haven’t frozen

in the winter.

Sometimes

I play games with her family—

like with Miss Freeman—

or eat dinner cooked by Mari’s momma

at the table with them all

(not brought in from

McDonald’s or Burger King)

served from a platter

shaped liked roses.

And sometimes

I pretend Mari’s momma

and daddy

are my momma

and daddy

though I have

never told anyone that,

not even Liz.

Now, they nod hello

when I come inside,

my scream ringing

in my ears,

and hold Mattie

(Mari’s little sister)

tight

so

me and Mari can have

us some time talking

alone.

I don’t say a word

not one word

about

Liz.

Mari knows what’s happened.

I told her on the phone.

That’s the best

I can do

right now.

28.

My momma.

My

momma,

she gets paid

for her time with

men.

She folds the money,

sometimes

tens

and twenties,

sometimes

lots of ones and

once a fifty,

and puts it into her bra for

safekeeping.

I keep it quiet,

and so did Liz,

when she was here.

This is a secret

I didn’t know

I should be ashamed of

until a few years ago.

Shame

makes a person

keep their lips pressed

tight together.

I know.

Never tell no one,

Momma says.

And I

don’t.

Momma hasn’t

always done jobs

like this.

She used

to work at the

Piggly Wiggly,

but she got fired for coming in

a little drunk.

She had lots of jobs—

working the counter at McDonald’s,

selling Avon,

even calling people for hair appointments

none were her favorite

or made this kind of money,

Momma says.

She would never

work with flowers.

Not petunias

or asters

or climbing roses trained to a trellis.

She’s said so.

29.

It was

right there—

when Momma

last worked at

the Piggly Wiggly—

that I saw a magazine

and Ian St. Clair

on the cover.

He sings on the radio.

Songs that make

my eyes tear up.

I think I love him.

30.

I have

three dreams

for myself.

One

is to be a writer,

telling stories

about true life and

maybe about

aliens.

Two.

Be a country and western singer

if I don’t get rich

writing books.

(Momma and me and Lizzie

we practiced

before Liz left, practiced

singing.

Liz or me lead or alto.

Momma tenor.)

Three.

My third dream

is to kiss Ian St. Clair

right on the lips.

(Maybe

we would sing onstage

together.)

Could be

any one of these dreams

is possible,

so I keep on hoping.

No one

knows

this brand-new plan

I’m just coming up with

but Mari.

I’d never tell

Momma

and I can’t tell

Liz

until

she comes

back.

31.

Out behind the house,

in a field

where only one cow lives,

Momma tells me

to throw the dead cats.

It’s six days since

Lizzie’s gone,

though it seems a forever,