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his mother picks at her food, moving it around her plate, pretending no one notices she’s not eating much.
    A raw silence sits at the table with us, glassy and hard. Forks scrape the ceramic plates. People’s lungs bellow into the quiet air. No one seems to care but me. I want to go home, but I don’t know how to walk out of this.
    â€œYou not hungry?” Harold asks.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDiane worked hard,” he says.
    â€œI know.”
    My skin feels tight and thick. I can barely move.
    â€œThe beans are too sweet to miss,” Harold says.
    I lift my fork and poke at the food.
    â€œDiane does that,” he says. “Look at her. She’s just a bone.”
    The windows are fogged. The walls seem too close, too heavy. If there were somewhere for me to go, I’d leave right now, but Mom’s working and Grandma’s sick. Grandpa’s down at the Eagle’s Club drinking and playing poker. No one wants me. I’m stuck here. I’ll only be free after eating something.
    â€œDo you have a girlfriend?” Harold asks.
    I shake my head.
    â€œYou don’t need a girlfriend,” he says. “You’re too young.”
    I’m shy and awkward. The collard greens are too sour and the pot roast is underdone. My belly turns.
    â€œYou want a beer?” Harold asks.
    I’ve had beer before. The bitter taste of it might clear my head. Harold gets a beer from the kitchen and sets it on the table
    â€œDon’t tell no one,” he says.
    I sip it. It goes to my head. I’m weak and wobbly. My hands seem too far away. Harold lights another cigarette, chewing the smoke with his yellow teeth.
    â€œYou done with that food?” he asks.
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œI’ll walk you home.”
    Rain makes the night cold. Wind makes it loud. Trees rattle their fingers against their trunks. Fog blinds the valley. Harold puts his hand on my neck like a leash,steering me through the night. At the edge of the yard, we stop. Lights burn in the windows. Grandpa’s hounds come sniffing at us, making sure it’s okay for us to be there.
    Harold leans in. He leans in and kisses the side of my neck. Shivers run like water along my ribs. The hairs of my arm tingle and twitch.
    â€œI’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œTomorrow then.”
    He walks away. I don’t know what just happened, but something’s changed. Something’s never going to be the same again.

Getting High at the Still
    T HERE’S A CLEARING down by the creek, hemmed in with oak trees and elms, all kinds of pine and cedar, chestnuts and yew. Harold keeps his still there, a mess of copper tubes, vats and crates of Mason jars stacked amongst the trees.
    We walk through the woods, the soft ground giving under our feet. Rain and fog and smoke cloud the way. The creek laughs just over the rise. We pull up a couple of crates and build the fire. The mash boils and the whiskey dribbles. The place smells of ash.
    He loads the pipe and we smoke pot and it’s good pot. My lips are numb. My nose tingles and my eyelids get heavy, drooping down until the lashes hang over my eyes like bars.
    â€œYou ever drink this shit?” he asks.
    â€œOnly Everclear.”
    â€œClose enough.”
    â€œI got sick.”
    â€œToo much too fast,” he says. “This is sipping whiskey.”
    The leaves on the ground press into each other. Crows and jays scream at the sky.
    â€œI like you,” he says.
    His hands reach for my face. His hands hold my chin and my eyes close. The kiss is gentle and kind. It’s wet and warm.
    Slowly, the light spreads through me. He shows me the rain, the wind. He eats me alive and leaves me lying naked on the leaves, the sky dark and folded over me.
    All I know is that this is not real. All I know is that the tears on my cheeks burn like candle wax. In the end, I’m alone and the wind says my