hopped over to the van and
peeked into the back. “Cool! A bike,”
she said.
“Anything else? Nothing else in there
besides the bike?”
“No,” she said. She looked back at me
like I was a wacko. Still, she didn’t run.
I began to worry for her. Where were
her parents?
If she stayed with me for much longer,
she really would catch it. She’d catch it
off me and carry it around with her
through elementary school and middle
school and into high school. She’d carry
it down the field during soccer matches,
up to the top of the Empire State
Building when she visited on a class
trip, down hallways and in the pockets
of her tightest jeans, and then her
birthday would come, and she’d
celebrate with friends, they’d have a
party, and she’d fling herself around the
room dancing, not having any idea of
what’s to come. She’d be 17, and by
then she wouldn’t remember any of this.
She won’t know what meeting me will
have done to her.
I stood up all of a sudden and grabbed
the handles of the back doors, closing up
the van. “Go back inside,” I told the girl.
Didn’t she hear me?
“Go,” I snapped, louder this time.
“Get away from me. I mean it. Get out of
here. Now. Go .”
She leaped back as if I’d smacked
her. Her face twisted like she was about
to cry, but before she let me see, she
whipped around and started running.
She was racing away, away from the
gray, salted sidewalk, and away from
me, into the warm and cheerful interior
of the local Friendly’s. Her mom was
probably in there, her dad and siblings,
too, and maybe a trademark Happy
Ending Sundae would help her forget
about this, and me.
I watched to be sure. When she was
safely inside, I realized it was snowing.
Snow falling on the roof of my van and
on the pavement and in my hair and on
my eyelashes and on my outstretched
limbs. Fluffy white flakes of snow
covering me just like they’d cover a
dead body.
— 18 —
FIONA Bur ke did run away—there
was never any question.
After she’d finished packing and
making up her face, her bags strewn
around the foyer and her lashes
protruding from her eyelids in gnarled
spikes, Fiona Burke made a phone call.
Her voice softened as she spoke, turning
simpler, slower, like she’d regressed to
my age, or was mocking me by
pretending so.
She kept assuring the man on the
phone that everything was cool. She said
yes a lot, like she wanted to agree with
every single thing he said. She got very
silent at one point and it sounded like the
person on the other end was yelling at
her. She stuttered, and said she was
sorry, and after a while the yelling
stopped and they were just talking and
making plans for the night.
I felt her looking at me, where I was
in the dining room in my My Little Pony
pajamas, and then I heard her speak
about me for the first time.
“The thing is,” she told the man, “it’s
like . . . someone’s gonna be here when
you get to the house. Like, I’m not
alone.”
I held my tongue. While she talked,
for a reason I didn’t understand, she was
making me stand in the corner, face
mashed into the crook of the wall. If I
opened my eyes from this position, all I
could make out was her mother’s dining-
room wallpaper: a pattern of yellow
blooms marching north in one mindless,
orderly flock. They blurred to butter
close-up. I couldn’t see her as she
spoke, but I could hear everything she
said.
“No! Not my parents. I told you my
dad’s navy buddy had a fucking heart
attack and they’re in Baltimore for the
fucking funeral. It’s not them. It’s . . . the
kid who lives next door. I’m sort of
watching her since her mom sort of had
no one else to ask. But I’ll just leave her
here. I’m still going with you.”
There was some arguing then. About
me. About what I’d see and who I’d tell.
But then Fiona Burke hung up the
phone and held still. Something in her
face told me she
peeked into the back. “Cool! A bike,”
she said.
“Anything else? Nothing else in there
besides the bike?”
“No,” she said. She looked back at me
like I was a wacko. Still, she didn’t run.
I began to worry for her. Where were
her parents?
If she stayed with me for much longer,
she really would catch it. She’d catch it
off me and carry it around with her
through elementary school and middle
school and into high school. She’d carry
it down the field during soccer matches,
up to the top of the Empire State
Building when she visited on a class
trip, down hallways and in the pockets
of her tightest jeans, and then her
birthday would come, and she’d
celebrate with friends, they’d have a
party, and she’d fling herself around the
room dancing, not having any idea of
what’s to come. She’d be 17, and by
then she wouldn’t remember any of this.
She won’t know what meeting me will
have done to her.
I stood up all of a sudden and grabbed
the handles of the back doors, closing up
the van. “Go back inside,” I told the girl.
Didn’t she hear me?
“Go,” I snapped, louder this time.
“Get away from me. I mean it. Get out of
here. Now. Go .”
She leaped back as if I’d smacked
her. Her face twisted like she was about
to cry, but before she let me see, she
whipped around and started running.
She was racing away, away from the
gray, salted sidewalk, and away from
me, into the warm and cheerful interior
of the local Friendly’s. Her mom was
probably in there, her dad and siblings,
too, and maybe a trademark Happy
Ending Sundae would help her forget
about this, and me.
I watched to be sure. When she was
safely inside, I realized it was snowing.
Snow falling on the roof of my van and
on the pavement and in my hair and on
my eyelashes and on my outstretched
limbs. Fluffy white flakes of snow
covering me just like they’d cover a
dead body.
— 18 —
FIONA Bur ke did run away—there
was never any question.
After she’d finished packing and
making up her face, her bags strewn
around the foyer and her lashes
protruding from her eyelids in gnarled
spikes, Fiona Burke made a phone call.
Her voice softened as she spoke, turning
simpler, slower, like she’d regressed to
my age, or was mocking me by
pretending so.
She kept assuring the man on the
phone that everything was cool. She said
yes a lot, like she wanted to agree with
every single thing he said. She got very
silent at one point and it sounded like the
person on the other end was yelling at
her. She stuttered, and said she was
sorry, and after a while the yelling
stopped and they were just talking and
making plans for the night.
I felt her looking at me, where I was
in the dining room in my My Little Pony
pajamas, and then I heard her speak
about me for the first time.
“The thing is,” she told the man, “it’s
like . . . someone’s gonna be here when
you get to the house. Like, I’m not
alone.”
I held my tongue. While she talked,
for a reason I didn’t understand, she was
making me stand in the corner, face
mashed into the crook of the wall. If I
opened my eyes from this position, all I
could make out was her mother’s dining-
room wallpaper: a pattern of yellow
blooms marching north in one mindless,
orderly flock. They blurred to butter
close-up. I couldn’t see her as she
spoke, but I could hear everything she
said.
“No! Not my parents. I told you my
dad’s navy buddy had a fucking heart
attack and they’re in Baltimore for the
fucking funeral. It’s not them. It’s . . . the
kid who lives next door. I’m sort of
watching her since her mom sort of had
no one else to ask. But I’ll just leave her
here. I’m still going with you.”
There was some arguing then. About
me. About what I’d see and who I’d tell.
But then Fiona Burke hung up the
phone and held still. Something in her
face told me she
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