“Throw rice, not bricks” is the slogan of a pacifist group that sprang up to oppose Johnny’s redeath penalty. Group members encourage couples across Town to tie the knot, to offset hatred with love. I have never discussed love before because it is not a topic as fascinating as, say, electricity and garbage chutes. But, yes, two townies can fall in love and even wed here. They hold their wedding at a house of good with a member of the do-good council as their priest. Pledges of “I do” are exchanged, confetti is thrown, and tin cans are tied to the backs of bicycles.

Esther considers the wedding campaign lame. Nonetheless, she sits beside me with a plastic Baggie filled with rice dyed pink. I have a Baggie of blue rice. We are in the chapel of the Jonathan Livingston House of Good, where Liz McDougall, the vice president of the do-good council from Eleven, stands on a little stage in a shiny robe that looks to be made out of a theater curtain. “We are gathered here today,” she says, “to celebrate the love between Thelma Rudd and Peter Peterman.”

When their names are spoken, the bride and groom swing open the doors at the back of the chapel. They march down the center aisle wearing matching macramé vests, which Esther calls hideous—but the party pooper has tears in her eyes. As do I.

When the bride and groom reach the foot of the little stage, Liz McDougall says, “Thelma Rudd, do you take Peter Peterman as your husband and equal and promise to help him remain an honest and upstanding townie in the eyes of Zig?”

Thelma nods her beaded head. “Do I ever!” she exclaims.

“Peter Peterman, do you take Thelma Rudd as your wife and equal and promise to help her remain an honest and upstanding townie in the eyes of Zig?”

“I certainly do.”

I always wished I had attended your wedding, Father and Mother, so this day is special to me.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Liz McDougall says. “You may kiss!”

Thelma and Peter Peter turn to face the two dozen guests and then peck each other on the lips. People cheer and clap. Esther and I stand and throw fistfuls of rice into the air. It rains down hard on our heads.

The newlyweds lead us all out of the chapel and into the garden at the back of the house of good. Set up under an awning is a table with a bowl of punch and plates of sandwiches. Liz McDougall also serves as the hostess. While Esther is off fetching us food, I sit on the grass beside a bed of daisies and try to think of what to say to Johnny when I see him tonight.

Czar wanders over and sits beside me. He is wearing a T-shirt printed with a tuxedo jacket. His hair is shorter, so now his ears seem to stick out even more. Despite how big they are, they are also thin and delicate. They look as though they might break if I tweaked them.

“Have you found me a portal yet?” he asks.

“Death might be the ultimate portal, Czar.”

“Yeah, but once you walk through that door, there’s no turning back.”

“Some of us don’t want to come back.”

“You’re doing okay here.”

“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Johnny.”

“Listen,” he says, “Petey says we’re too old to bear grudges. As usual, he’s right. So I want you to know I won’t throw bricks tonight. For cripes’ sake, I live in a glass house.”

How odd that the hypnotist and I have forgiven Johnny, but the gommers have not. I hear they are the only ones who applied to be brickers. They want payback no matter what the cost.

In the middle of the garden is a little gazebo with a shingled roof. Thelma climbs its steps and asks for our attention. “Me and Peter Peter are going to have a bigger party one day to celebrate our wedding. But today’s event ain’t about us. It’s about a boy I met months back. I have a song I want to sing for that boy, Johnny Henzel. May he rest in peace.”

Thelma starts singing a song about a new kid in town called Johnny-come-lately, whom everybody loves. While she sings, Czar fishes his blue bauble necklace out from under his tuxedo T-shirt. He takes the necklace off and slips it over my head. The bauble, which is the size of a Susan B. Anthony coin, rests against my heart.

“Wear it tonight, kid,” he says. “It’ll bring you luck.”