My tears would be as hot as the hot Georgia sun, and I would collect them in ajar and . . . do something with them. Pour them on Amanda’s head, maybe, so her beautiful blond hair would burn to a frizzle. Only I would never do that, so fine. Instead, I kicked Bearie, my stuffed animal bear that I loved. Ow. That Bearie was a Very Heavy Bear. He was stuffed with rice, was why, and if the urge fell upon me, I could microwave him and he would get toasty-warm and extra-cuddly. In the winter, I shoved him under the sheets to the bottom of my bed, and he kept my feet cozy while I slept. Today he made my foot unhappy, that bad bear. Except it wasn’t his fault, since I was the one who kicked him, and that was mean of me, too. It made my heart unhappy. I scooped him up and clutched him to my chest. “I’m sorry, Bearie,” I said. My voice wobbled, and I was tempted to go get a hand mirror so I could watch myself be sad. Then I remembered that I wasn’t sad. I was mad, and not at Bearie, but at Amanda.
