52.

Hey, Hope?

It’s Mari on the phone.

Wanna come over,

go swimming?

It’s the day after the picnic

and nothing

got me last night

when I crawled into bed

and slid beneath the covers.

You know it,

I say.

I change into my suit.

It’s getting small on me.

Growing bosoms,

at last.

Momma says

becoming a woman

is taking longer for

me than Lizzie.

Man, is she

right.

Lizzie

looks way older,

more than a year older

than me.

She’s bigger breasted,

smaller waisted,

more grown-up.

Now I slip shorts

over my bathing suit

and go into the

room I shared with

Liz.

It’s so lonely here

without her.

I walk

into my room

only to go to sleep.

At night it’s harder to

see the empty bed

but easier to sleep

without

the crying.

Before,

not even that long ago,

I got ready

to go somewhere

with Mari.

Liz watched me,

then said,

Where you going?

Where you going, Hope?

To Mari’s,

I said.

Stay this time,

she said.

Stay with me.

What? Uh-uh.

Go visit a friend of your own,

I told her,

brushing my hair.

Go hang out with

Amanda or Cheri.

Not hanging out with

them anymore.

Liz looked away

like she was embarrassed.

You fighting?

Nope,

she said.

And kept looking away

out the window away

away from my eyes away.

We’re still

friends.

I’m just not

doing so much

with anyone

anymore.

A deep breath.

Besides, Momma doesn’t

want me to go so much.

She wants me here,

Liz said.

Not off.

When’d she start

to care if you’re here?

I said.

Lizzie let out

a sigh

big as our room.

I guess it’s me, too.

I don’t feel like going.

Don’t feel like going?

I said.

That’s weird, girl.

You go on,

Liz said

after a moment.

You go, Hope.

I’ll stay.

So I left.

Went off with Mari.

Left

Liz at home, watching me

leave.

Sometimes

I would go

for a whole weekend.

Liz, she would

stare after me,

follow

out onto the porch,

and

watch me pull

my bike

from the falling-down

garage.

She

would watch me pedal

down the street

away from

her.

Waving good-bye

like she didn’t quite mean it

like she needed Amanda

or Cheri

like I needed Mari.

I’d look back

and there

she’d be

just a dot on the porch,

still standing

there.

Alone.

This memory

is like bricks on me now.

Heavy as a wall.

My sister standing there

alone.