My hand woke me up again that night. I closed one eye, went into the bathroom, and ran hot water over it until the itching stopped. The apartment was silent. I walked into the living room and looked at the couch—it was empty. Sheila must have gone home.

Our invitations were piled up on the table, neat stacks of them, stamped and ready. The extra invitations were still in the square cardboard box. I took one, along with an envelope and a little RSVP card.

There’s a drawer in the kitchen where Dad and Jesse keep phone numbers and business cards for people like the exterminator and the farmer Dad buys chickens from. Jesse leaves his address book in there, an old black spiral. I found Mission’s name under M and leaned on the kitchen counter to write his address on the envelope with the calligraphy pen. It didn’t come out like the ones Sheila did, but I figured he would have nothing to compare it to.

I went back to the table. The stack of books for Sonia’s head was still there, but Jesse’s laptop was gone. I found the “love” stamps. Jesse had picked them especially for the wedding invitations. I stuck one on the envelope, thought about it, and put a second one on. Just in case.

I mailed the invitation the next day, on my way to school.

Walking and Talking

Miriam didn’t open the door on time for our appointment that week, which had never happened before. I sat in the waiting room with Mom, listening to the hum of the noisemaker and drawing a maze all over the back cover of my math folder with a ballpoint pen. After a while, the side of my hand was all blue from ink, which matched how mad I was getting at Miriam for forgetting about me.

Finally, a woman came out, crying. She didn’t look at us. She took her coat from the coat rack and left without putting it on. A wave of freezing air came in as she closed the door.

Miriam’s head popped out five seconds later. “Bea, I’m so sorry I kept you waiting.”

“That woman was crying,” I told Miriam after we sat down.

She crossed her legs. “Yes.”

“So now she’s just walking down the street like that? Crying?”

She waited a few seconds, and then said, “She’s upset. Sometimes she cries. That’s normal.”

“I don’t think it’s normal. What happened to her? She’s not even wearing her coat.”

“Let’s talk about you, Bea.”

“I hope she stops, though,” I said. “It looks so bad when you cry.” I made a face, all scrunched, sticking my tongue out.

She said, “It looks so bad?”

I nodded.