The party was two weeks ago.

I stole a few beers when the adults weren't looking and shared them with Lucy Sitkins away from the crowd.

She drank hers greedily as we sat beneath a bow of a low tree, speaking low so no passers-by could hear.

Every time we whispered, we tilted our faces a little closer and closer.

There was a moment when I thought she was going to rest her head on my shoulder, as she told me

about how she wanted to be a vet, and my heart skipped as I debated putting my arm around her

waist.

It was all cut short when a father, Larry, stood in front of everyone in the party

and forced the beer can down his throat.

I didn't see it.

I only heard the cries that had us both sitting upright beneath the branches.

By the time we got back to the party, the adults were escorting the kids away, and

ambulance sirens were fast approaching.

Dad was there, and he told me to take my little sister home.

The grim and frightening lock on his face made me forget Lucy and the smell of beer on her

breath.

I try hard to remember if she ate from the barbecue. Sometimes I think she didn't. Other times I swear I can picture

her biting into a burger and it's so vivid I think it must be a memory. It's mootty

the way. I'll moot either way.

I'll never see her again.

I felt a little gross when I went into school the next day and asked around if the stories

about a dad were true.

...