The Center of Everything by Laura Moriarty Page A

in white cupcakes with pink icing, a candy heart with red words placed on top of each one. Mine said LOVE YOU and Star’s said TOO CUTE . But that was before the fight, before Traci’s clothes were stolen. I don’t know if Mrs. Carmichael will give me a cupcake now. It would be terrible if she didn’t, if I were the only one who didn’t get a cupcake.
    Star says there’s a park we can go to, that we can play in the sprinklers. “I do it all the time,” she says again, pushing back her hair. “Evelyn, you should try to have some fucking fun now and then.”
    “Okay,” I say. “I’ll go.”
    We run to the chain-link fence, crouching low. Once over it, we cross a ravine and creep through backyards, staying away from barking dogs and people watering their lawns. I take off my shoes and walk barefoot in the grass, thinking about how good it feels in between my toes, and Star does the same thing, carrying one Dr. Scholl’s sandal in each hand. It’s a good day to be outside. Nickel-sized balls of cotton drift down from the cottonwood trees by the river, floating slowly in the warm breeze and covering the ground, so that it looks like a gentle snow falling, even though the grass beneath our feet is warm as early June.
    “Fuck, it’s hot,” Star says.
    She’s right about the sprinklers in Rocket Park. Seven sprinklers sputter out arches of cool water, little rainbows in the mist of each one. Only two older girls are in the park, wearing bikinis and smoking cigarettes, stretched out on beach towels. One lies on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. The other one is pregnant, lying on her back and smoking a cigarette, so much baby oil rubbed on her round belly that it glistens in the sunlight.
    Star runs out in front of me, dodging the spray of the sprinkler long enough to get behind it and take aim. I scream when I feel the first slap of cold water on my shoulder, and then on the side of my face. The sunbathing girls look up and glare at us, even though their radio is playing music that is louder than we are. They talk for a moment, glare at us again, and the unpregnant one helps the pregnant one to her feet. They fold up their towels, turn off their music, get in their car, and drive away.
    “Pregnant women aren’t supposed to be around sprinklers,” Star says. “It can be bad for the baby. That’s why they left.”
    I am the one to discover we can pull the sprinklers right out of the ground. We do this, chasing each other as far as the hose will stretch. We slide into stretches of mud, rinse ourselves off, then slide in the mud again. It’s wonderful. The sun moves across the sky. I begin to get tired, feeling the first pinpricks of a sunburn on my nose and shoulders. We are both dripping wet, our hair sticking to the sides of our faces. And then the sprinklers turn off, all at once, slowing to a trickle and then nothing. Star stops running and looks at me, the dry sprinkler still in her hand.
    “I’m hungry,” she says. We have missed lunch.
    “What do you usually do?”
    “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
    We go to Arby’s, and I spend six dollars of the science fair money because Star hasn’t brought any. We sit shivering in a booth with a sunny window, our wet clothes too cold for the air-conditioning, dipping salty fries into ketchup.
    “This is great,” Star says. She doesn’t chew with her mouth closed. “When I grow up, I’m going out to eat like this every single day.”
    “That’d be expensive,” I say. Six dollars, gone, just like that.
    “I’ll be rich. I’ll be a stewardess.”
    “They aren’t rich.”
    She rolls her eyes. “They are. We had one come and talk to us on career day in Florida. She said the only bad part of her job was that she had to sleep in hotel rooms and eat out in restaurants all the time. That’s what she was complaining about.”
    There are five french fries left. Star puts them all in her mouth at the same time and swallows, looking at