“Okay. But here. Catch.”
And she threw the sparklers at me, the box turning end over end in the air before I caught it in both hands. “Happy Fourth of July,” I said, but they didn’t hear me.
I closed the door carefully, then slid my hand into my pocket and retrieved my lip ring, carefully securing it back in its proper place. I took off my shoes and tiptoed down the hallway; I didn’t know how late it was, but I didn’t want to wake Mira.
I shouldn’t have worried. Before I’d taken two steps, I heard her voice.
“Hey there.” She was sitting in her chair, a disassembled telephone in her lap. I recognized it: it was the one from the upstairs hallway, which had a very quiet ring. “How were the fireworks?”
“Good,” I said. I walked over and sat down beside her. The entire house was dark, except for the light over her shoulder, illuminating the parts strewn across the table. Behind the house, over the water, someone was continuing their celebration, the snaps and cracks loud in the dark.
“Another project,” I said, nodding at the telephone, and she laughed.
“You know,” she said, “it’s always just one thing that needs to be adjusted.” She picked up a bracket and examined it, turning it in the light. “But the hardest part is discovering what that one thing is.”
“I know,” I said.
She sighed and looked at me. And then took a closer look, and smiled. “You look wonderful,” she said softly. “What’s different?”
“Everything,” I told her. And it was true. “Everything.”
We sat there. Through the living room windows I could hear faint music from next door, soft, drifting love songs. I closed my eyes.
The fireworks kept on across the water, pops followed by laughter and bellowing. “Such a noisy holiday,” Mira said. “I hate all the pomp and circumstance, everything blown up into a big deal. I much prefer a nice, quiet celebration.”
“We can do that,” I said. “Come with me.” I got up and found some matches, and she followed me onto the front porch, where we sat on the steps. I shook two sparklers out of the box, handing her one. When it burst into light she smiled, surprised.
“Oh,” she said, waving it back and forth as the sparks showered down. “It’s beautiful.”
I lit one for myself and we sat there, watching them in the darkness. “To Independence Day,” I said.
“To Independence Day.” And then she tipped hers forward, touching mine, and kept it there until they both burned out.
Chapter Twelve
The annual Baptist Church Bazaar was crowded, even at eight A.M. I went with Mira. She pushed her bike over to the church steps, carefully chaining it to the rail while I took a look around.
Most of Colby was there. The church itself was small and white, like something from a picture postcard, and people were milling across its neat green lawn, picking over the displays and tables of junk: mismatched plates, old cash registers, vintage clothing. In the parking lot were the bigger items, like a pop-up camper, an old rowboat with chipped red paint, and the biggest wrought-iron mirror I had ever seen—its glass broken, naturally—which instantly caught Mira’s eye. As soon as the bike was secure she headed right for it, leaving me standing in front of a table stacked with old hamster and bird cages.
For the next hour, as I browsed, I was increasingly aware,
again, of how everyone reacted to Mira. I watched as they eyed her, or smirked once she had passed. A few people—Ron from the Quik Stop, the pastor of the church—waved and greeted her. But most of the town seemed to view her as some kind of alien.
“Oh, goodness, look at that,” I heard a voice I recognized. “Mira Sparks is already doing her shopping.”
I turned around slowly to see Bea Williamson standing there, the Big-Headed Baby on her hip, shaking her head at Mira, who was crouched down, examining a pair of old roller skates.
Maybe it came from facing down Caroline Dawes. Or it could have been building all summer. But suddenly, I felt a fury rise in me toward Bea Williamson and every nasty thing she’d said about Mira in my earshot. It built like a flush, crawling up my neck to make my scalp tingle, so different from my own shame yet feeling the same. I narrowed my eyes at her; she was wearing a gingham sundress and white sandals, her blond hair bouncing as she bent down to deposit the Big-Headed Baby on the grass. When she looked up, her gaze shifted past. She didn’t recognize me.
She’s got some kind of issue with Mira, Morgan had told me all those weeks ago. I don’t know what it is.
But there didn’t have to be a reason.
I moved to the other side of the table, watching her, and pretended to check the price on a bent hamster wheel.
“I’m surprised she wasn’t the first one here,” Bea was saying, as the baby toddled past her legs and started around a table covered with plastic placemats. “I half expected her to camp out last night to get the best bargains.”
“Oh, Bea,” said one of the other women—a clone, in blue and white, same hairstyle. “You’re terrible.”
“It’s just awful,” Bea said, fluffing her hair. “Whenever I see her, it practically turns my stomach.”
I thought of Caroline again, the way her nose wrinkled when she’d seen me at the Last Chance. And I glanced back at Mira, knowing this wasn’t my fight, that if she acted like she didn’t care, I should too.
But enough was enough.
I found myself walking around that table, right up to Bea Williamson. I stepped between her and the blue clone, and she stepped back, surprised, then remembered who I was: her eyes went right to my lip ring. The flush was still burning my skin, as I stood there ready to do for Mira what she’d never done for herself.
I took a deep breath, not even sure what words I would say, how I would begin. But I didn’t even get a chance.
“Colie?”