A Season for Fireflies by Rebecca Maizel

because you quit theater that we all decided to stop being friends?” When she says it like that, I feel stupid for assuming so.
    â€œI don’t know,” I go on. “I guess you guys had to pick up the slack or something. I just—” I am about to say, “miss you” when May says, “Look, Penny. I don’t want to talk about this when your memory is so messed up. It’s not right.”
    â€œNo, I have to know. I need to know why I have twenty get-well cards and none are from you, Wes, Panda, or Karen. Or why none of my friends came to see me in the hospital.”
    She takes a deep breath. “Fine. You decided Kylie was a better friend to have. So you ditched Panda, Karen, Wes”—she pausesbefore she says—“and me. You wanted to party instead of be onstage.”
    â€œI wanted to party ? That sounds made up.”
    â€œIt felt like that to me for a long time too.”
    A tear rolls down my cheek and I was so deep in her words I didn’t notice I was going to cry. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, not caring that it’s gross and my skin is sticky. “But I don’t remember,” I whisper. “I don’t remember why”—I swallow hard—“we aren’t friends.”
    May stumbles over her words and I hear things like, “secrets,” “popular,” followed by “you got kinda mean, people didn’t want to walk by you in the halls or sit near your crew at lunch.”
    I don’t want to hear anymore.
    â€œYou were an ice queen all of a sudden—”
    She’s midsentence when I hang up.
    I lower my cell, placing it back on the carpet next to me. I hold down hard to turn it off so I don’t know if she calls me back.
    I gently place the newspaper clippings and photo albums back into the trunk in the order I took them out, making sure to close the lid, sealing all the photos, the scrapbooks, and the memories back inside. I rest a shaking hand on top of the trunk. An ice queen?
    â€œPenny!” Dad’s voice. “Kylie’s here.”
    My stomach tightens when I hear Kylie say, “Thanks, Mr. B.” It’s so weird to hear her voice in my house. Now that I’ve heard it again, it’s definitely the same voice from the hospital corridor. God, I don’t want her to see the doll collection but my hand isn’t strong enough to get them all in and tucked away fastenough. I stand up from the floor and head back to sit at the edge of my bed.
    I smell Kylie’s perfume first. The rose essential oil that I’ve coveted since freshman year is made bitter by the overwhelming taste of metal still lingering in my mouth. There’s a quick smack of Kylie’s flip-flops on the hardwood landing and they stop at my doorway. I haven’t covered my arms—it will be the first time anyone other than my parents and the people in the hospital have seen the strange burns on my body. I push up on the bed, scurrying to pull on the cardigan resting on my night table, but it’s inside out and I’m not fast enough to slip it over me.
    Kylie steps into the room and before “hello” can escape her mouth, her tight puckered lips ease and part. There they are—the figures, twisting across my skin, and shiny from the oodles of burn cream I put on last night. I can’t hide my embarrassment.
    But Kylie grins.
    â€œWow!” she says about the figures. “Pen, you are badass.”
    â€œThanks,” I say, not sure if that’s the right response. I cross the floor to my desk and place the weight in my heel so I am grounded as I walk. It doesn’t matter; my right foot drags a little anyway until I lean my hand on the back of the chair for support.
    â€œYou’re limping,” Kylie says. She tries to keep it cool, but it’s easy to see concern in her eyes.
    â€œThanks for trying to come see me at the hospital. I heard your voice, I