The Question of Miracles by Elana K. Arnold

underneath that, next to
Mirror Gazing,
she wrote her own name. Then she said, “Maybe we could try to find out more about the Catholics, too. Since you got that miracle, and all. Maybe we could learn about how those nuns contacted the dead pope.”
    â€œI think they just
prayed
to him,” Boris said.
    â€œI know,” said Iris. “But I mean, why did
that
prayer work? Lots of people pray for stuff, and they don’t get miracles.”
    â€œI guess I could ask the Vatican guys, when they come to visit,” said Boris, but he sounded dubious.
    Iris wondered about the people from the Vatican, what they would look like, what kind of answers they might have. “Yeah, maybe,” said Iris. But she thought,
Maybe I can ask them myself.

13
    The list grew. Some of the ideas were silly—
Ouija Board, Crystal Ball—
and Iris dismissed them almost as soon as they were written down. Others were scary—
Visit a Graveyard, Hold a Séance
—and Iris considered these to be last-resort ideas. Boris was enthusiastic about what he had started to call “The Ghost Project” in a way that Iris found increasingly irritating, especially once winter break began and they had whole days together.
    â€œI don’t think we should give up on the idea of a séance quite yet,” Boris told Iris on the second day of vacation. The two of them were wandering around downtown, poking into various shops. Boris needed to buy Christmas presents for all of his sisters, and Iris wanted to get something for her parents. Each store they went into had a bucket by the entrance for umbrellas, and a rack for hats and jackets. Most of them also had a large rubber mat just inside the door.
    â€œA séance just sounds creepy.” Iris picked up a ceramic cabbage and turned it over, enjoying its cool smoothness against her palm. Maybe she could start a collection of glass vegetables for her dad. Then she saw the price, $17.95, and she put it back down.
    â€œThe whole thing is creepy, though, isn’t it?” He sounded eager. Too eager, Iris thought.
    â€œYou don’t get it,” she said. “Sarah is my friend. This isn’t some fun game, Boris, like Magic.”
    Next to her, Iris felt Boris deflate a little. He cleared his throat and adjusted his beanie. It was black and white striped, with a fuzzy ball on top. Iris stepped away and pretended to be really interested in a collection of shell figurines on the next shelf, but it was hard to see them through the tears that clouded her eyes.
    A minute later, Boris walked up behind her. She felt his hot breath on her ear.
    â€œHey, Iris,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”
    She lifted and dropped her shoulders in answer.
    â€œI guess I just get excited about things,” Boris said. “And I want to help.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” Iris said. “But Sarah isn’t creepy.”
    â€œI know,” Boris said. “She was your best friend.”
    Iris nodded.
    â€œWhat was she like?”
    Iris considered this question. She wanted to remember everything about Sarah, wanted to hold on tightly to all of her—the way she could raise one eyebrow and then the other, the sound of her laugh, the joy she found in winning—but so much of Sarah was already gone. And Iris worried that if she shared anything about Sarah with Boris, she would halve what little she had left.
    Â 
    Later, sitting with Dr. Shannon, Iris shared this concern. She left out the stuff about trying to communicate with Sarah; Dr. Shannon didn’t need to know
everything.
But she did tell Dr. Shannon that she felt like she was sort of cheating on Sarah. By hanging out with Boris. By having another friend.
    Dr. Shannon nodded, but didn’t answer at first. She passed Iris the ever-present box of tissues, and she waited for Iris to blow her nose. Then she said, “When I was about your age, my parents got a divorce. My dad