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like when she was my age, but I can’t imagine it. Even if I saw a picture, the way she is now would still be stubborn in my brain, like she has been that way forever. It seems like you always are the way you are right now, unless you are a movie star, when people always see you the way you were best. Sometimes I wonder, If there is a heaven and people are themselves up there in their bodies, what body is it? The one they died in? It doesn’t seem fair if it is, because for one thing, there would be people from car wrecks walking around saying, Well, this isn’t how I really looked. But what would be the time that you would say “This is my real look”? My mother always used to say on her birthday that she was twenty-nine, no matter how old she was. So I guess that might be the age.
    When I think of my mother now, she is sort of gauzed over, not as clear as she used to be, but still so shining. Her real age when she died was forty-one. It’s so funny that I didn’t know her age until she died. I look like her around the eyes, and I am so grateful. It is a partof her I will never lose. She had such a nice laugh, like bells. And also she knew how to tap dance a little. One thing I do still remember clearly is that every time she came home from the grocery store with Green Stamps, I was the one who got to put them in the book. We were working on getting the waffle iron. I don’t know what ever happened to those books of stamps. I think they got thrown out when we moved, which is a shame; there was at least enough there for a toaster.
    I watch Mrs. Randolph’s chest rise and fall, listen to the tick of her bedside clock. I practice different ways of crossing my legs, while in my head I conjugate the French verb être. One thing I hope they don’t do in high school is ask you to write about what you did on your summer vacation and then read it aloud. I would be Sominex to the entire class.

W ELL, I MIGHT AS WELL GO shopping for a crystal ball and a silk scarf to wrap around my head, because once again I have told the future. Cynthia and I are sitting around her bedroom late on this Friday night after having watched the kids in front of us kiss so much it would be a wonder if they saw anything that happened on the screen. Forget the movie; this was the real show: The boy and girl come in together, a little ways apart. The boy has on a clean shirt and is wearing a belt on his pants and you can see the comb marks in his hair. The girl has a necklace on with her dress and nylon stockings, and her hair got washed that afternoon—she has the aura of Prell. Lights dim, and three seconds later, kiss, kiss, kiss. Next, slouch way down in the seat, and then the boy does something that the girl starts giggling and says, “Stop!” You would think they would have the decency to sit in the back, but no, they must put themselves smack in the middle of the theater so all can see. Cynthia and I sat there with popcorn boxes on our lap, and I felt like we were in kindergarten making macaroni necklaces.
    Now, just as we are making ourselves comfortable, we have the horror of her mother sticking her head in. “Everything fine up here?” she asks, and her eyeballs seem like they’re sticking out three miles. I look around for broken bones and other catastrophes and then say, Yes, everything is fine.
    â€œCynthia?” Mrs. O’Connell asks, and Cynthia sighs. “ Yes , Mother, everything is fine.”
    â€œA little girl talk, huh?” Mrs. O’Connell says.
    Neither of us says anything, and finally she closes the door.
    Cynthia turns the radio up loud, so no one can hear us. It’s Fab Freddy, talking about a rocking Friday night on 99.9 FM. I wish I could be doing the show with him. “And now, a record that my good friend Katie picked,” he could say. “All you lovebirds cuddle up, here comes Bobby Vinton.”
    â€œI hate my mother so much,”