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that you don’t mean. Honestly, Ellen, I didn’t mean it.”
    “I’m going to kill myself,” she said in a flat voice.
    I could feel the terror twisting up inside my stomach. I wanted to open the window and yell for help. I wanted to get up and run away from her, away from what she was saying. She was going to kill herself. My God! I didn’t even want to be in the same room with her.
    “No,” I cried, “no, don’t . . . .”
    “I’m going to kill myself,” she repeated.
    I wanted to get out of that room as fast as I could. But I knew I couldn’t leave her alone there in the house. Where was her mother? Oh, God! Her mother wouldn’t be back until she dropped Matt off at the park, bought Ricky his tennis shoes, and picked up a few things at the store. Maybe a couple of hours. I was all alone with the fat girl in her house, and I was going to have to stay with her until her mother returned, and I was going to have to stop her from killing herself. I was so frightened and so close to bawling myself, I could barely say to her, “Please, Ellen, don’t talk like that. Don’t! Just because a creep like me says a dumb thing . . .”
    “It’s not you.”
    “I didn’t mean it, Ellen. Honestly.”
    “It’s everybody else too. Nobody likes me. I’m going to kill myself.”
    “Don’t Ellen! Don’t say it!”
    “Why not?”
    “Nobody should say it. And you’re only a kid. Kids shouldn’t talk like that. There’s all sorts of wonderful things ahead of you to look forward to.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like . . . well . . . like . . .”
    Her arm lay on the table, huge and pale like lard. I should’ve reached out and held those swollen fingers in my hand and showed her I cared about her. A shudder of revulsion ran through me.
    Her fat face glistened from all her fat tears. Her nose began running, and she sniffled and snorted and said, “Nobody cares about me.”
    “Sure they do. Your family . . .”
    “They’re ashamed of me. My brothers don’t want to be seen with me. They don’t want anybody to know I’m their sister. Nobody cares about me.”
    I reached out and took her hand in mine. I felt her hot, clammy, fat fingers in my palm, but I held on. The tears were bouncing off the plate of cookies in front of her. “I’m going to kill myself,” she said again, but it sounded different this time, not so fierce, as if it mattered that I was holding her hand. I could feel the panic inside me begin to ease.
    “Look, Ellen, stop talking like that. Things are going to be different from now on. Maybe the kids in school haven’t been very nice, and maybe I’ve been a jerk too, but . . .”
    “You’re not the only one.”
    “It’s going to be different from now on, Ellen,” I said very slowly, stalling for time. I looked at the clock over the refrigerator. Only eight minutes had passed. I had at least another hour and three-quarters to go before her mother returned.
    She looked at me, and I smiled and squeezed her hand. Then she looked away, as she always did when I caught her watching me. She was embarrassed. Good, I thought, sneaking another look at the clock. Nine minutes gone and all I had to do was stall her until her mother returned. What should I do? Ask her to play cards or Monopoly?
    “Why don’t you just go and leave me alone,” she said.
    “I’m not leaving,” I told her.
    I checked the clock again. Not even ten minutes had passed. I felt exhausted, but I knew I couldn’t just get up and leave her alone in that house. As long as I remained, she would stay alive. I didn’t want her to die. I didn’t want anybody to die, not even the fat girl. I loathed her, loathed her fat, ugly face and the fat, ugly fingers I was holding in my hand. But I didn’t want her to die—even if it meant she would be in my ceramics class next term.
    “Look,” I said, dropping her hand carefully but moving my chair closer, “Promise me you won’t do it.”
    She shook her head but kept her eyes