She takes another look at me, a full un-self-conscious up-down. If I wasn’t feverish before, I certainly am now. My heart beats loudly from the grass below us.

She asks: “Why are you holding a bag of shrimp?”

“For your hand,” I say.

Her expression is complicated: bemused, curious, maybe even a little intrigued.

“Well,” she says, “are you going to give it to me or what?”

I swing the bag out to her, and her hand closes around it.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

But of course I can’t answer, because Celia and Touchstone show up right then. Celia is wringing her hands, fretting over nothing.

“I think it’s time to get out of here,” says Celia. She tugs on my elbow and asks, “You ready?”

No, I don’t say. I’m staying with Jess Orlando forever.

“Come on,” said Celia.

I walk away with my friends, but it feels like half of my body stays behind, under the tree with this new person, this Jess Orlando. Her newness sparkles, gives off light in the dark. It’s what I want: a whole new life, with someone who doesn’t know a thing about my dad, or the year I’ve had, or my whole story. I want someone who just knows me as Ros, without all the associations. Not Ros Whose Dad Left, just Ros. They have no idea who I am, and I love that.

“Hold on,” I say. “I think they’re calling for me.”

I run back and look to Jess, searching for words.

“Did you call?” I ask.

“No,” she says, and a slow smile creeps over her face.

“You fight good,” I say finally, and I scuttle back to my friends, embarrassed and hopeful and feeling like my limbs are on fire.

A TRIP TO THE TOWN,
or the Victor of the Great Flamingo Debate

The next morning, Ros was out of bed before me again. This time, they’d made pancakes.

“Finally, you’re up,” they said. This was perplexing: It was only nine thirty. What the hell did they mean by finally?

“Your options are blueberry, raspberry, chocolate chip, plain, and every permutation you can think of. Or is it combination?”

“Um. Combination, I think,” I said. It smelled like fifth grade, Saturday mornings at their house, only instead of their dad wielding the spatula, it was Ros. They looked just like him: a towel slung over their shoulder, whistling as they worked; Ros would probably pretend to bop me on the head with the spatula the same way their dad used to. Berries were sitting on the counter in green cardboard shells, berries that hadn’t been there when I’d gone to sleep. “Where did these come from?”

“I went out,” Ros said. “Turns out there’s a farmers’ market in town on Saturday mornings. That’s where I got these. Try them; they’re incredible.”