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obscenely high platform Mary-Janes I’d talked her into buying, even though they were totally impractical. She had needed something for some interviews. The salesgirl was a sister of one of the most popular girls in our grade. “Even Melissa can’t walk in those,” she’d said. Sold.
    We sat down at the kitchen table so she could give her toes a break. Miriam saw the hamsa straight away. “Did you just get that? My aunt has one. She wishes on it all the time.” Miriam reached into a brown bag and pulled out a box of cinnamon buns. “Doofus out there will bring the coffee.” She rolled her eyes. “He’ll come in as soon as his song is over.”
    Five minutes later, Abe appeared, balancing five steaming paper cups on a cardboard tray. When he put the cups on the table, a little bit of foam bubbled out of each lid.
    He gave me a long, overly formal hug, the kind that meant I’m sorry about yesterday and Whatever you need and I’m not totally comfortable hugging you in front of your aunt . It was a reasonable response—I was still in my pajamas. I wasn’t wearing a bra. If he didn’t let go of me soon, Lo was going to have a heart attack.
    I pushed him away. “Did you see the paper?”
    Abe gave me a coffee. “I bought four copies.” When I didn’t laugh, he said, “Come on, J. Have a sense of humor. I’m joking.” He sighed. “Only two.”
    Before I reminded him that this was all his fault—he was the idiot who hadn’t seen them hiding—Miriam raised her cup. “To your parents, Karen and Martin.”
    Lo nodded. “Their memory should be a righteous blessing.”
    I didn’t know if my memories were righteous or not or, for that matter, even mine, or if they had all come from stories I’dheard a million times. What I was sure of: Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but this one was too big to fix. This was the day my parents died. It was the day that changed the rest of my life, the day that made me famous. If Dave Armstrong wanted to believe that I was a miracle, there was nothing I could do.
    I needed to get dressed. It was time to go to the cemetery and pay our respects.

SIX
    I settled on a navy blue dress with white collar and cuffs that I made last year for a Social Studies presentation. It had an empire waist. It wasn’t too tight. I could wear it with flats. “Your hamsa is really pretty,” Miriam said. She stood back to look at me. She thought the dress made me look “mature.”
    â€œIs that another word for fat?”
    â€œIt’s another word for let’s go.” She held on to the rail as she walked one half-step at a time down the stairs toward her car.
    â€œSorry about the mess,” Miriam said, like her car wasn’t always scattered with junk.
    There was a science journal and four weeks’ worth of The Economist . The New York Times crossword puzzle—completed in pen. The floor was covered with crunched-up brown bags and a lot of dirt, courtesy of an old pair of rubber boots, two shovels, and a dozen green containers. Miriam liked to say that during the growing season, she lived out of her car. “The other day, I planted beets and carrots and I didn’t have time to straighten up.” Abe added,“Tomorrow after school we’re going to put in some turnips and onions. You want to help?”
    I said, “If I have time,” but I knew neither one of them expected to see me there. I blamed my portfolio—the ruined brown dress—but the truth was, this was their issue, not mine. Philosophically, I agreed with their mission, but that didn’t mean I wanted to play on my knees in the mud.
    Miriam pulled out of the driveway, and Abe cranked up the music. I slumped as low as possible so no one outside could see me. “Could you turn it down?” I asked. “You’re practically begging for