I guess Kasey actually likes Hannah more than just to mess around with, because he sends her flowers—red tulips, which are her favorite. She likes to show them off for everyone at school. Principal Weiner is getting tired of Hannah having deliveries in the office, but Hannah says that the flowers are from her uncle for her to bring to her grandma, who’s sick at home. The principal asks why he doesn’t just send them to the house, and Hannah says that it’s because no one answers the door there, so they would just wilt in the sun. The principal knows Hannah’s lying, but she can’t say much, on account of Hannah’s grandma being sick and her grandpa being too hard of hearing to understand the principal if she tries to complain, and probably too tired to care much, anyway. So as it is, Hannah carries Kasey’s flowers from class to class, puts them on her desk, and slumps down behind them so that the teachers can hardly see her. And she leans over to Natalie’s desk and makes silly faces.

I think Natalie sort of hates the flowers and hates that Hannah gets them. Because she’s always saying how she doesn’t believe in flowers or things like that. But I don’t know if that’s completely true, because she’s making Hannah a painting of tulips in her art class. Natalie showed it to me after school the other day, but she told me not to tell Hannah about it. It’s a surprise. Natalie is really a good painter. The first petal of the tulip already had more shades of color than you could count.

I am at Dad’s this week, which means I usually take the city bus home, because he works too late to pick me up. But today, instead of going right home after school, I walked with Natalie and Hannah to get Dairy Queen. On the way there, Natalie and Hannah kept wanting to flash people. I was scared of doing it at first, but I tried to remind myself to swallow what scares me, the way I learned to do when I’d go out with May. And I ran really fast afterward. I outran Natalie and Hannah every time. They’d catch up to me a few blocks later, still screaming and giggling. And then I’d scream and giggle, too, and the worst part was over, and I was happy to be one of them.

Hannah bought us our ice cream (she looked proud to be able to do this), and then she had to leave to go to work. Even though she’s late for class a lot, Hannah’s always on time for her job. Before she went, she said she and Natalie are going to spend the night at Natalie’s house tomorrow, which is Friday, and that I should come. I was so happy when she asked, because it means that we are becoming real friends.

Dad came back from work a few minutes after I got home from Dairy Queen. He works at Rhodes Construction, fixing the broken foundations of houses and things like that. When May and I were kids, Dad used to walk in the door in the evening and we’d run to hug him. I loved how he’d be covered with sweat and dirt, like he’d been on an adventure. Mom would be making dinner, the smell of fried meat and chili filling up the house. She cooked like a baker, Dad always said. She didn’t throw in ingredients and taste later. Each was perfectly measured.

But life isn’t like that. You can’t be sure how it’s going to come out, even if you do everything right. They turn around on you, lives do. Dad used to come home and look strong from the day of building. Now he looks tired, like a bulldozer ran him over. When May and I were kids, he used to be good to climb on. But now it’s like I’m afraid if I get too close to him, I’ll trip and spill out all the sadness he’s keeping hidden.

He used to love to play jokes on all of us, like switching salt with sugar (he did this so much that we got used to shaking it out on our hands and licking it to determine which was which). Mom got annoyed by it, but May and I thought it was funny. He’d hide his alarm clock on the weekends, under a couch cushion or something, and we’d have to go running through the house to find it when the alarm went off. Or sometimes he’d poke holes in the apples in the fridge and stick gummy worms in. This was our favorite, because it meant candy. He doesn’t do that sort of stuff anymore, but he still kisses my forehead when he walks in the door. Then he asks about my day, like he knows he should, and I do my best to make it sound good.

Tonight I made microwave mac and cheese with little mini hot dogs for us for dinner, which is our favorite. We still have food in the freezer from May’s memorial nearly six months ago, but I don’t think either of us wants to eat it.

“So you’re making friends?” he asked over our mac and cheese.

“Yep.” I smiled.

“That’s great,” Dad said.

“Actually, I was going to ask you, can I spend the night at my friend Natalie’s tomorrow?”

Dad hesitated a moment, and I crossed my fingers under the table. Finally he said, “Sure, Laurel.” He paused and added, “I don’t want you cooped up with me.”

Then he turned on the baseball game—he’s a Cubs fan, because he grew up in Iowa near their farm team—and I watched with him while I did my homework. Dad used to give me “baseball is like life” lectures, but he doesn’t do that anymore. Now we just watch in silence. I guess some things turned out too sad even to be explained with a bases-loaded strikeout.

Yours,

Laurel

Dear Kurt,

Last night, I got drunk for the first time. When I got to Natalie’s for the sleepover, we walked to the grocery store, which felt too cold in that air conditioner way. We walked half shivering down the liquor aisle, and Natalie pulled a bottle of cinnamon After Shock off the shelf and into her halfway-on hoodie. Then we took it to the bathroom and peeled off the label so it wouldn’t beep. I ignored my quick-beating heart and tried to act normal, like I’d done this sort of thing before. I didn’t say anything about the woman’s feet with mom sneakers and a little girl in the next stall. Then we just walked right out.

We went back to Natalie’s house, where we were alone, because her mom was on a date that night. Natalie said that means she doesn’t get back till morning. We climbed up onto her flat roof with the bottle. The After Shock had cinnamon-flavor crystals in the bottom, and when I first took a sip it burned like someone lit a sweet fire in my mouth. I swallowed fast and didn’t make a face, and I didn’t tell them that it was my first time ever drinking. I thought if May did it, I could, too. How bad could it be? So I let the liquor burn down my throat and into my stomach. It made me laugh and got my body loose, until I forgot to be afraid. We lay down on our backs to watch the planes pass overhead and made up a song about them. I don’t remember the words, though I keep trying. I do remember that Hannah’s voice sounded like the cinnamon crystals, sweet and full of fire. I think she really could be a singer.

I am not sure what happened next, but then we were down from the roof and Natalie and Hannah had gone into the backyard to jump on her old trampoline. I was in the front yard on a hammock swinging, and the stars were buzzing toward me.

I remembered how May would sneak out at night and I’d wait up in bed until I heard her come back in. Usually I’d just listen to her tiptoe down the hall and close her door, and then I’d know that I could sleep because she was safe. But once in a while, and this is what I loved the best, she’d come to my room instead and whisper, “Are you up?” My eyes would pop open, and I’d whisper that I was, and she’d come to lie on my bed. I remembered how her breath would smell sweet and hot, like alcohol, I guess. How a smile would spread slowly across her face and she’d laugh in a whisper and slur her words a little, like every sound led into another. As she’d tell me about her adventures—the boys and the kissing and the fast cars—I pictured it sort of like I did when we were little kids, when I believed that May had fairy wings and I’d imagine her on her flights through the night, swooping under the stars.