She smiles, and in the light that’s shining through the stained glass, she looks a little angelic.

I believe in an equal opportunity God, she says. Sue me. Come on, let’s light some candles.

I always feel pressured lighting candles in church. If I light one for one of my grandparents, I worry the other might feel slighted. What if I light one for a cousin and forget someone else?

Then there’s James. It’s kind of odd lighting candles for people who are alive, right? I ask Becky, even though, lapsed as I am, I’m the one who should know. But I feel as though I’m jinxing people when I light one in their name. Like it’s some sort of bad omen.

It’s fine, Michael, she says, slipping a couple of dollars into the box. It’s about intention and prayer.

Intention?

What if my intentions and James’s are different?

I can’t lie in church, not even to myself, so I switch my focus to prayer.

What would James want me to pray for?

Why don’t I know?

Be happy, I think as I light a candle for him. And even though Becky thinks it’s okay, I still feel weird about doing it.

But he asked.

That being said, Becky might be on to something. I feel lighter as I leave the church. Like I’ve done something worthwhile.

It’s still snowing. Still snowing. And since it isn’t ridiculously cold, I walk back home, notes flying through my head. They’d make a good song if I’d only remember them, which I won’t.

I’m sleep-drunk. Or rather, tired-drunk. Exhausted. And the snow is making me numb and giddy. Happy. And that’s the odd thing. Not being happy, but realizing it. Because how often, when you’re happy, do you have the chance to step back and notice?

When the snow clears, the city goes back to trying to clean up the subway cars. Monday, they take the 1 train out of service, and on Tuesday, it comes back silver and heartless. It’s as if they dipped the whole thing in peroxide, and I spend the whole ride trying not to touch anything.

By Wednesday, the train is comfortably covered in tags and graffiti again, the station boasting a Haring chalk drawing of dancing figures losing themselves in joy.

My morning starts with chemistry.

How’s your brother? Mrs. Bryson asks. She had him his senior year and really liked him, even tutoring him for free to get his grades up high enough for college applications.

He’s good, I say, not knowing if I’m telling the truth. I have to assume Connor’s good since it isn’t like he’s easy to get hold of. But at least he’s having fun, I guess.

Is he giving any thought to college? she asks.

Mrs. Bryson knows that my dad cut Connor off financially after kicking him out of the house, so he had to get a job. But no way am I telling her that I’m pretty sure his entire hourly salary goes toward boys and drugs and summer tickets for the ferry to Fire Island.