JULY. We crouched in the bushes outside Tommy’s bedroom. Lola heaved loudly, like we had just walked a mile instead of a hundred feet. She looked like she might cry, but as far as I knew, Lola hadn’t cried all year. “What’s going on?” I finally asked. She stared at the grass like she was counting the number of blades. A butterfly darted by, and I watched its wings flutter, a smear of yellow and black fighting hard against a sudden current of wind. “Lola,” I said gently, “can you at least tell me why we’re here?” She started to cry then, and I couldn’t help but think that her cry was like some sort of a miracle, like seeing Jesus in a grilled cheese sandwich or something. Eventually, she wiped her hand across her nose, snot clinging to the edge of her wrist. She pushed her hair into her face and shook her head, like she wanted to keep whatever it was to herself.
