Lola looks at my arm,
the scratch is deep.
You okay?
For some reason when she asks me,
the words pour out.
Yes, it was kinda scary.
Lola smiles.
Inside, the paintings on the wall are sideways,
and in the kitchen, cabinet doors
are flung open and glass is shattered
on the floor.
We walk in with our shoes on.
Lola cleans off my arm, puts a Band-Aid on it.
Malia’s mom hands us brooms and dustpans,
and we sweep.
I’m good at sweeping. I’ve helped out Mrs. Li
and everyone else on Main Street.
It feels good to help.
When we are done cleaning,
we each take a glass of mango juice,
and Lola carries a basket of soft rolls
outside to an old picnic table.
Malia’s blanket is once again
wrapped around her.
Right as we sit down,
I feel words rising up,
unstoppable like exhaling:
Thank you.
You are welcome, Etan! Lola says.
Malia stares at me with one eye.
I think she’s impressed.