I leave her side, wander the edge of the cemetery. My eyes land on a black shape beneath the grass, a rocky mound. I lean down. It is a tiny tombstone, smaller than the crosses.

Stephen X
B: Jan 3
D: Jan 5

“Don’t look at that,” my mother hisses. “Get over here, that doesn’t concern you.”

“Who is it? Who is Stephen?”

“Who do you think it is? Use your head.”

A hollow feeling enters my chest and stays there through the drive home, through dinner, until I am in my bed, wrapped in my sheets, still as a body in a grave.

VISION

My father guides the truck over the land through the town to the big cemetery. Here, the strangers are buried. The sun is fat and hot in the blue sky.

“You ready to play our favorite game?” my father asks.

“Yes! Let’s play it!”

He stops the truck and we climb out. The steel black gate lets out a low moan when he unlatches it. We step into the cemetery, long green grass sprouting up between the headstones which jab up out of the ground like strange granite teeth.

“And... GO!” my father shouts.

I work my way through the cemetery, weaving through the graves. I get lost in the names, the small tombstones.

My father is always faster than I am. He starts shouting his numbers. “1913! 1908! 1898!”

I shout mine back once I catch up, heart pounding. “1916! 1884! 1911!”

“1879!” my father yells, and he is the winner.

We climb back into the car. He puts a very sad song on the stereo and hums along as he drives us to the ice cream store, the second part of our ritual.

“I’ll still buy you one,” my father says.

We both buy vanilla. We don’t speak on the drive home, just listen to the very sad song again and again as he navigates us home.

ONE AFTERNOON IS DIFFERENT FROM the rest. Sophia and I are alone in the house, which is quiet. I like the silence like that, a blanket.

“I want to teach you a new game,” Sophia says. “I learned it from Jarred. Let’s go into your bedroom.”

In the dull afternoon light, she climbs into my bed with me.

She slides her knee between my legs.

“This is called rocking horse,” she says. “Jarred loves this game.”

Then she moves her leg until my face flushes and my body trembles, until pink sweetness explodes from between my legs and floods my veins.

AT LUNCH, I CHEW A SANDWICH. JARRED does the same. His eyes catch mine. We lock gazes until he slams his sandwich down on the table.

My pulse quickens as he walks to my table. He gets close enough to drop his head to mine, his lips near my ear.

“Stop looking at me, you fucking freak,” he whispers. “You’re disgusting.”

He walks back to his seat and sits down. I keep my head down, fill my mouth again with bread.