“So you’re stuck?”

“Worse; I’m careful and I don’t know how to stop it. I wouldn’t fall in love with James now. I’d get one sniff of what he’s like and run away. Or push my wheelchair as fast as I could to get out of there. He’s too dangerous.”

“’Cause he has legs?”

“And arms and… a tail! He could swing from trees with it. That’s what was so wonderful about him, what was so wonderful about those days—I was using all my arms and legs and loved it. Today I’d be too scared of the risk. I wish I knew the flavor of my happiness.”

She looked at me while I continued to cry. Life had come to a stop on a nice summer’s day in my oldest friend’s backyard. I had no desire to go to the reunion now, even if James was there. Seeing him would only make things worse.

2. What the Dead Talk About

“DO YOU EVER wonder what the dead talk about?”

We stood elbow to elbow in front of the mirror in her tiny bathroom, putting the final touches on our makeup.

“What do you mean?”

She turned to me. One of her eyes was perfectly done, the other bare and young-looking. Made up or not, her eyes were too small to contain the amount of life behind them. In a corner of the room a small radio played Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.”

“I was just thinking about my parents—”

“No, go back to what you said: what the dead talk about.”

She pointed her mascara stick at me. “Well, I believe in an afterlife. I don’t know what kind, but I’m sure something’s waiting. So if there is, is it one big place? Do you get to be with people you knew? Assume for a minute that you do. I was thinking about my parents. What if they could see us now, getting ready to go out tonight? What would they say?”

“They’d say it was cute.”

“Maybe. But now they know so much more than we do. Whenever I see a hearse go by or hear someone’s died, that’s the first thing that comes to mind: Now they know. Always, the first thing. Now they know.”

“Hmm.”

“Even the smallest, most forgettable little… termite of a person. Some guy who sat on the street in Calcutta all his life, begging, dies and suddenly knows the biggest answer of all.”

“A lot of good it does him when he’s dead. Why are we having this conversation, Zoe? Are you trying to get us in the mood for the reunion?”

“I’m thinking out loud to my oldest friend.”

It was my turn to stop. “Do you have a lot of friends? The kind you can really talk to, cover a lot of ground with?”

“No. It gets harder the older you get. You’re less patient. You need so much patience for a good friendship.”

“All right, you’re the optimist: What does get better as we get older? You get wrinkles, you’re less patient, you’re supposed to know more, but that’s not true. At least not as far as important things are concerned.”

She didn’t hesitate a second. “Appreciation. I appreciate things much more. My kids when they’re around. Or sitting with Hector in a bar that smells musty and old… things like that. I was never aware of what things smelled like when we were kids, you know? Too busy wondering if I looked right or what was going to happen next. Now I’m just happy if the minute is right. When there’s peace in the air and I don’t want to be anywhere else in the world. I always wanted to be somewhere else—even when I was having a good time. I was always sure there had to be better.”

We looked at each other and, as if on cue, slowly shook our heads.

“Don’t you wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now? Say, ‘Zoe, it doesn’t get any better than this so enjoy it, for God’s sake.’”

“It wouldn’t make any difference. I tell that to my kids all the time but they look at me like I’m nuts.”

Finished with the makeup, we carefully looked each other up and down.

“Why are we so worried about how we look?” she asked. “All the men will be wearing plaid pants and white loafers.”

In as deep a Lauren Bacall voice as I could find, I said, “James Stillman would never wear white shoes.” Then I added, “I’m not worried about tonight: twelfth-grade me is.”

“Bullshit!” We both laughed. “Let’s go.”

Even though it was evening, her car had been sitting in the sun all day and it felt as if we were riding inside a deep fryer. Neither of us said much because we were trying to steel ourselves for whatever was coming.

The parking lot at the country club was full of cars, but not so full that it didn’t send a chill up my spine.

“What if we’re the only ones who came?”

“No way. Look at all the cars.”

“But Zoe, there aren’t many! What if only Bob Zartell and Stephanie Olinka come?”

Just saying the names of the two most awful people in our class made me laugh. It was terrible, but I couldn’t help it.

“Bob Zartell is worth a zillion dollars.”

“Get out!”

“Really! He owns a huge condom company.”

“Condoms? That adds new meaning to the word dickhead.”

We parked and got out. I was already so sweaty that I had to peel the dress off my back. A bunch of dark sweat patches would make my grand entrance complete. Why hadn’t I gotten tan before tonight? Or worn more of a power outfit, one that radiated money and cool?

Before I had a chance to think more such happy thoughts, Zoe put her arm through mine. “Let’s go.”

The only other time I had been to Spence Hill Country Club was in tenth grade when a girl invited me to spend a summer afternoon there. She had a face the color of wet cement and a personality to match. After a few hours, I got so tired hearing about how she hated everything that I excused myself early and went home. What I remember most about that day was arriving home so happy to be there that I sat in the kitchen and talked with my mother till dinner.

“Here we go, Miranda.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Zoe? Zoe Holland?”

We turned and there was Henry Ballard, the nicest person in our class, looking exactly as he had fifteen years before.

“And Miranda! Both of you. How great!”

It was the best way to begin the evening. Henry, like Zoe, had been everyone’s favorite. In a moment, we were all gabbing away while people walked around us into the building. Some said hello, others smiled, some we even recognized. For the first time all day I felt relaxed. Maybe everything was going to be all right.

“I guess we’d better go in?”

He nodded, but turned and looked behind. “I’m just waiting—ah, there he is!”

A nondescript guy in a beautiful blue suit waved and hurried toward us. Zoe and I exchanged glances but neither could place him.

“Sorry I’m late. I dropped the car keys; they hit my knee and slid under the car.” The man smiled and their look said everything.

Why did it jolt me? Because Henry had played football and dated sexy Erma Bridges? Because I’d once made out with him at a movie and could still remember how gently he kissed? Or because some obnoxious part of me couldn’t accept he’d lived a life where he’d learned he liked men and ended up kissing them the same tender way we’d once kissed?

“Zoe, Miranda, this is Russell Lowry.”

We shook his hand and talked as we moved slowly toward the door. Henry kept touching Russell in the way one does when a relationship is new and still sending off sparks. I’ve never been able to figure out if those touches are to reassure yourself the person is still there, or just the delight of knowing they’re close enough to touch whenever you like.

“Henry told me about you. He made sure I was well prepped on who’s who tonight so I don’t make any serious faux pas.”

I stopped and asked, “What’d he say about me?”

Russell narrowed his eyes and pretended to be scrolling through a mental file. “Miranda Romanac. Smart, attractive rather than pretty. Big crush on her in tenth and eleventh grades. Several serious make-out sessions. Most of all, Henry said you were the first girl he ever wanted to hang around with.”