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ground, then snuck around to the front of the house where the cars were parked. She hunkered down behind a Jeep until she saw Harumi appear.
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” Harumi said.

4
    â€œDear Cassandra,” Esther Shealy wrote. “Have I ever told you how beautiful I think you are?
    â€œThe Japanese believe that something that is perfect cannot be beautiful. Sometimes a potter will deliberately make a vase lopsided because it’s more interesting that way. Or the guy (or woman) will put a scratch in it or chip it after it’s finished. My Japanese-American friend told me all this and I know it’s true.
    â€œI think that your heart is probably beautiful, too, in a damaged kind of way. I hope you don’t mind me saying all this. I only write these things because I care about you and think about you all the time.
    â€œAs always, I love you.”
    Esther put down her pen and folded the paper. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the sounds of her brother Mark’s stereo coming from the other side of the wall. She was alone in her room, the desk lamp her only source of light. Her clothes were piled on the floor, twisted and wrinkled. Although she had a pile of homework, she had yet to take her textbooks out of her bookbag. It was so much better to sit in her room, close her eyes, and think about Cassie.
    Cassie didn’t seem to have many friends. Sure, she hung out with the cheerleaders and student council members and the other popular kids—they lived in the same neighborhood of Tudors and palatial brick colonials; Esther had driven by a few times—but there was always something aloof about her. Esther doubted that she had a best friend. Some girls said that she was loose. Slutty. Esther figured those girls were just jealous. In spite of the scar, she was gorgeous. Maybe good looks were isolating. She wanted to be Cassie’s friend, her confidante, her shoulder to cry on. And if anyone said anything bad about Cassie’s scar or her alcoholic mother or her Daddy’s skirt-chasing, well, Esther would punch them in the face. Just like she beat up that snot-nosed kid who picked on Harumi.
    Esther remembered that day, remembered how the summer sun was frying the grass. She and Harumi were sitting on Esther’s front porch, their feet on the hot concrete steps, waiting for the ice cream truck.
    Cicadas buzzed in the bushes and Esther’s little brother Mark wailed inside the house. Then, another sound—the tinkle of the big white van as it rounded the corner. Esther and Harumi had their quarters ready. Esther’s was all slimy from sweat.
    â€œWhat are you going to have today?” she asked.
    Harumi looked into the sky and squinted at the sun. “I don’t know. Maybe a grape Popsicle. But then I’ve got to go practice my violin.”
    Harumi was always practicing. Esther thought that her mother was cruel for making her practice all the time. Plus, Harumi was Esther’s only friend and when she was busy studying Japanese or music or the abacus, there was no one else to play with.
    â€œHere it comes.” Harumi stood up and brushed off the back of her skirt. She waited till Esther had stood, and then led the way down the sidewalk.
    The music tinkled like a wind-up toy, louder and louder, till the van was in full view. The vehicle came to a halt and a man in a white uniform and matching cap climbed out. All over the neighborhood, doors opened and kids spilled into the street. There were five or six of them pulling on the man’s jacket and waving their money in the air.
    Harumi and Esther approached slowly and solemnly. When they got to the van, they waited at the fringe until they were noticed.
    â€œWhat’ll it be, ladies?” The man was about the same age as Esther’s father and his face was sprinkled with freckles.
    The other kids, three boys and two girls, stood off to one side licking their fudge bars. They