She dropped her gaze.
That evening, I opened a box labeled Clover’s Art Projects and found the macaroni bracelet I’d made in second grade. The string was fraying. The glue had hardened. Flecks of yellow paint still clung to the edges.
Michael had worn it all day when I gave it to him — even to the grocery store — as if it were priceless.
I slipped it over my wrist. It barely fit now, the elastic pressing into my skin.
“Still holds,” I murmured.
Under a paper-mâché volcano, I found an old Polaroid of me missing my front tooth, sitting proudly on his lap. He was wearing that ridiculous flannel I used to steal when I was sick.
The same flannel still hung behind his bedroom door.
I pulled it on and stepped out onto the porch.
The night air was cool. I sat on the steps, hugging my knees, the bracelet snug against my skin. Above me stretched a wide sky dusted with stars I never learned the names of.
I took out my phone and Frank’s card.
