In late summer, someone threw a party. Families came from other parts of Tonawanda and from as far away as the Allegany and Cattaraugus reservations. Kids ran wild and thirsty through the mowed sections of Billie’s land. I lingered near the water basin, scooping cool water into my mouth while other kids yelled and screamed, caught up in their games. Feeling someone’s eyes on me, I looked up. A girl. A stranger, nearly a teenager. She was smiling, and wore pink lipstick and a miniature plastic Pepsi bottle on a satin string around her neck.
When she saw me notice her, she headed my way. As she moved, the amber liquid in the bottle splashed inside its clear plastic container. The Pepsi necklace stopped my heart—it was the best thing I’d ever seen. I must have stared as she approached, for in an unexpected gesture of kindness, she removed it from her neck and circled it around mine.
I stood taller suddenly and followed her around all afternoon. When the older girls finally tsked-tsked my presence, she abandoned them and asked if I wanted to bike-ride. I said yes and grabbed the handlebars. I sat on the front half of the gold-flecked banana seat while her bronzed legs pushed at the pedals from the rear.
“Can you steer?” she asked, her voice a song.
I nodded the lie, convincing myself that steering didn’t really matter and that riding worth anything was done in a straight line anyway—besides, I had no clue why this girl had befriended me and didn’t want to spoil it all with something as unfortunate as the truth.
The ride was glorious. We breezed past groups of jump-roping girls, and I imagined myself a bird. A silver-winged bird. All of this, until we approached the hole. Straight ahead. Black-mouthed and ugly. I froze.
Other kids screamed, adults stood and looked our way, and my older friend asked again about my steering ability, her voice sounding suddenly alarmed. I had no answer as we plunged toward the late summer hole and only wondered what it would feel like to be swallowed by something so rank. I heard the vulgar croaking of bullfrogs, spied a rusted-out fender and calculated the exact place we’d land. I closed my eyes and prepared for our launch, the sound of kids screaming and the wind on my face somehow sharper as we flew at the hole.
Just then, she slammed her body to one side, stopped the bike with the tangle of her legs, and pushed us onto the hole’s grassy edge. I looked down and realized I’d gotten away with only minor injuries. I waited for her anger. But it did not come. Instead she wiped dirt and grass from my lemon-yellow shorts, and when I tried to hand the necklace back, told me to keep wearing it.
I wore it for the rest of the afternoon and watched its liquid move as I jumped and ran, felt the solidity of it flapping against my halter top. My neck had never been so proud. When the party ended, she asked if I’d like to have it. And, though it was exquisite, the feel of it around my neck somehow anchoring me, I could not bring myself to receive it.
So once again I lied, and shook my head no.