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time to wrap it,” Sukey said, pulling something out of her bag, but when I saw what it was, I was too happy to care. It was one of her bird paintings—she’d done this matching pair while she still lived here, and I’d been begging her to let me have one forever. The one she gave me had the words we gamboled, star-clad spiraling out over the birds in silver paint. The other one said, simply, daffodiliad .
    “You’re the BEST!” I kept saying over and over as I danced around the kitchen with the painting in my hands. I was still squealing my thanks when Mom came downstairs to talk to Sukey—or try to—before she left.
    I didn’t open the card taped to the back of the painting until after Sukey was gone. It said:
Hey, k-bird. Hang this in your room, and I’ll keep the other one hanging in my studio. Be cool and don’t be a faker. Love, S .
    For the next few weeks, I worked furiously on my new composition. Hunched over my keyboard, I made up strange chords, bold rhythms, soaring melodies. Maybe I could play it at Sukey’s art opening—we could even put my name on the card, feat. kiri byrd on keyboard .
    I called and called Sukey’s cell phone to tell her about this idea, but she must have lost it on the beach again, because she didn’t pick up. Mom said not to worry; Sukey would call me back soon. I lay on my bed planning the details of our show: the crackers and lemonade, the clothes we’d wear.
    When she died, it was like my house burned down.

chapter seven
    The next morning I dress carefully , putting on ripped jeans, a vintage blouse, and the dangly beaded earrings that used to belong to Sukey and that have lived on my dresser ever since. If Doug Fieldgrass was calling from razzle!dazzle!space, he’s probably the curator. I want to look hip and mature and artistic when I meet him; I want to look like Sukey.
    Why’s the gallery closing? I’ll ask sympathetically. It’s such an interesting space .
    I try Doug’s number three times, but he doesn’t answer. I sit at the piano, telling myself to be patient, but after practicing for ten minutes, I decide to ride my bike downtown anyway. Maybe he’ll be at the gallery, and if he isn’t, at least I’ll know where it is for next time.
    In daylight, Columbia Street seems way less sketchy. The Chinese grocery store is open, and there are wooden trucks of produce out on the sidewalk in front of it, long, hairy daikon radishes and bundles of bok choy and mountains of tangerines for fifty-nine cents a pound. The white lettering on the awning says MONEY FOOD ENTERPRISES, which I find impressive in its bluntness. In my neighborhood, even stores that sell nothing but lotto tickets and flavored cigars have names like Willowtree Natural and Organic Market. As I ride past on my bicycle, I can see old people with canvas shopping bags moving around the bins of dried fish and mushrooms, chatting in Mandarin.
    Past MONEY FOOD ENTERPRISES, Columbia Street extends into Chinatown proper, with the pagoda-style roofs and dragon flags and a zillion little stores selling paper lanterns and mysterious plastic cooking utensils of indeterminate function. There’s a restaurant piping out the twangs and trills of Chinese opera, and old ladies in floppy hats pushing fold-up trolleys down the sidewalk.
    I ride up and down the block a few times, looking for the gallery. When I can’t find it, I cruise down East Pender. No dice. There’s a vacant lot that worries me, surrounded by a newly erected chain-link fence. I wonder if they’ve relocated, if the old building’s been torn down. I pause next to the curb and call Doug’s number, which I carefully programmed into my phone before leaving the house. It rings interminably, just like the three other times I tried to call him this morning.
    Where Columbia meets East Pender, there’s a small grassy park with cherry trees, an overflowing garbage can, and a few benches. I put away my phone and ride past the park very slowly, trying to