But that day, as I sat on the hard church pew in a scratchy dress, with an aching head, I kept quiet and I kept still and no matter how bad I wanted to cry and itch and let loose my hair and throw off my dress and tell everyone that the dead woman in the coffin wasn’t my mom because my mom had curly hair, not smooth hair and my mom had pink cheeks, not orange-beige cheeks, I didn’t. I kept quiet. I kept still. I imagined that somehow my mom wasn’t really dead. That somehow she was still there, I just couldn’t see her anymore.

When my dad and the others carried the pink coffin out, I ran from the church. I kicked off the shoes and the tights. I yanked out my braids. I tore off the itchy black dress so I was only in my cotton petticoat.

I ran and ran and ran. Until I ended up back home. But instead of going inside, I ran to the field. My chest ached and my legs were burning and itching from the run and my eyes stung from the sweat dripping.

I wiped at my eyes and sniffed.

“You’re ugly.”

I whipped my head up. There was a boy standing less than 10 feet away. He was my age and had on a formal navy blue school uniform.

I looked down at myself. My skin was blotchy and red, and my petticoat was old and dingy brown instead of white.

“I’m not,” I said. My mom had always said I looked like her and my mom was beautiful.

“You are.” Then the boy ran at me, an angry expression on his face. I stood still. Frozen by the snarl on his lips.

His hands hit my chest and he shoved me. Hard.

I flew back, my arms pinwheeling, and I hit the ground. I landed in the wet mud of the spongey springtime earth. The cold mud soaked through my petticoat and coated my legs and back. I tried to drag in a breath but I couldn’t. The whole world was spinning and roaring. The boy came and stood over me.

“Told you so,” he said.

Finally I pulled in a breath. Then I pushed it back out. He shrugged and walked away. I lay in the mud until the cold made my toes and fingers numb. When I sat up there was another boy there.

He looked the same as the last boy, except he had longer, shaggy hair and was wearing muddy jeans and a T-shirt.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

He cocked his head to the side and studied me. He didn’t seem mean like the last boy, so I stood up and shrugged.

“Are you a twin?”

“Yes,” he said defiantly. Then, “Wanna climb that tree with me?”