When I wake, I expect Even to be at the window, watching the sun greet the city, but he is beside me, lying on his belly, with one arm down the side of the bed, the other tucked by his chest. I’ve never seen someone look so perfect. And like last night in Times Square, I realize it isn’t in the “Oh, he’s so hot” kind of way. He looks innocent and peaceful. Tears come to my eyes as I’m struck with wonder, with a sense of how bittersweet and fleeting life is. All we have is this one moment, really. I wipe my tears away as his blue eyes open. I don’t want him to think I’m sad or anything.

  “Who’s the sleepyhead now?” I ask playfully, thwacking him with a pillow.

  “Happy birthday,” he says.

  “Rabbit, rabbit.”

  “Huh?”

  “Whoever is the first to say that at the beginning of a new month—”

  Even interrupts, “Wins a prize?”

  “Actually, I don’t know. You just win because you’re the first to say it,” I say.

  He clobbers me with his pillow. We romp in the bed, my hair frizzy and his with bedhead, and then we drop back, hand-in-hand, and I count our inhales and exhales until he rolls over to face me.

  “Where to today?” The previous night, in all its detail, races into my mind, and, once again, I lose my ability to make decisions. “Central Park? A museum? Both?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I answer, relieved he thought ahead to come up with something. I’m so overwhelmed, I feel clueless.

  After breakfast in a quintessential New York diner, we take a cab to the Upper West Side. The evidence of the night before in all its messy chaos and revelry still litters the streets. The taxi drops us off in front of the Museum of Natural History. I’ve never seen this classic building in old stone, with massive pillars and the statue of Theodore Roosevelt on horseback greeting us on the steps. I’m in awe.

  “Remember that from A Night at the Museum?” Even asks, pointing.

  “The night at the what?”

  “You know, the movie with Ben Stiller. Everything comes to life? He has a battle of wits with the monkey? The statue that says, ‘Dum-dum’?”

  I look blank as we take our tickets. “No?”

  “I think we have a movie to watch in our future. It’s hilarious. I can’t believe you’ve never seen it. It was my favorite when I was a kid. I think they made a sequel, but I never saw it. We’ll do a double feature,” Even says.

  I quickly wonder where we’d watch it. Skunk and his friends seem to have taken over ownership of our television with illicit videos. And Nash? I just want to stay clear of him.

  I’m not paying attention to where I’m going, and then an elephant, frozen in time amongst its herd, its trunk raised triumphantly, rises before me. I forget my anxious thoughts. It’s enormous. It is beautiful. I’m instantly in love. It’s not alive, of course, but I identify with its beautiful face and its immense body that almost seems too big to be allowed. I detect the faintest of smiles on its wrinkly lips. Either way, I know then that someday I’ll see an elephant in real life instead of someone rudely commenting that I’m as big as one. We ask a museum patron to snap a photo of us in front of the display.

  We stroll through the museum, and the day escapes us. It’s midafternoon. I know we’ll have to leave soon. A desperate urge to tell Even to just stay here and never go back pulls at my heart. No one will miss us. We can get jobs and find a place to stay. We have our lives ahead of us. Then I think of Mama. How would she get along without me?

  As we exit the museum, the wooded haven of Central Park spreads grayish-green across the street. I didn’t notice it earlier, distracted by the impressive museum building.

  We cross to the park and continue to stroll, leisurely, purchasing a small bag of roasted chestnuts from a vendor, watching skaters, and ending up by a fountain.

  Even pulls some change from his pocket.

  “Want to make a wish?”

  “Right now, I don’t have anything I’d wish for except for today to go on forever. But I guess I have a wish for the future, though.”

  I hold the coin in my hand tightly and then toss it in.

  We return to the underground parking garage where Even stowed the Harley. We tug on our helmets. After I’m securely on the back, I say goodbye. Tears moisten my eyes as the sun sets behind the skyline.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There is no mention of our New Year’s Eve kiss as we make the trip north back to New Hampshire. We don’t kiss again either, which is fine by me because, for a first kiss, ours was outstanding. I’m still dizzy from it. I went from a big fat loser to a girl who’s had her first kiss with the nicest and cutest guy she’s ever known. I can hardly see straight.

  Even leaves me at the curb in front of my house. I turn to go in as he pulls away, but then I pause on the porch. I watch his motorcycle until he’s beyond the reach of my vision on the lamp-lit street. I don’t want him to go, and I don’t want to go in.

  The house is silent. I half expected Skunk to have burned it down or to be waiting at the front door with a shotgun, but maybe he doesn’t have the need to antagonize me as much as I’d thought.

  When I get in my room, I close my eyes. I can almost feel Even’s lips on mine from the night before. He tasted woody and minty at the same time, but I also detected salt and coffee. He was delicious. I fret over my performance, but he seemed satisfied. I hope for another moment like that soon. My lips turn up into a smile at the thought.

  I trot downstairs to get something to drink, and my footfalls must cause Mama to stir because she calls my name as she coughs long and hard. Fug. I hope Skunk was still drunk in the morning when he saw me leave and didn’t say anything. I don’t feel inclined to endure her harassment.

  “Hey, Mama. Happy New Year,” I say when I duck my head into her room.

  “Where the hell did you think you were going? I know you didn’t come home last night. I bet you’ve been partying with Brittany and those losers over in the trailer park. Damn scum is what they are. You stay away from them, you hear me? You’ll start up with that twitchin’ and then there’ll be nothing left of you. They start using that shit and get all skinny. Nasty business, Sugar. You hear me? I have the mind to ground you.”

  I have nothing to say to this. I did leave without permission, but she’s never made clear what I’m allowed to do and what I am not. Sometimes I think Mama makes things up as she goes along or to suit her aims. It goes unwritten and unspoken that I am to look after her, make sure she has food, make sure she is cleaned after she goes to the bathroom, and make sure she’s relatively OK. I have the idea of what she wants and doesn’t want me to do, but she doesn’t impose rules on Skunk, so I assume the same goes for me.

  She starts coughing again when she lights up a cigarette. The smoke as she exhales obscures her for a moment, and I wish myself away.

  In my mind, I drift out of the stuffy bedroom with its clutter and smoke. Even and I whiz through the snowy fields, then we’re ice-skating, and then, as if we’re two pieces of the same cozy puzzle, I remember how we fit together on the back of the motorcycle.

  “I see that smirk on your face, young lady. Now don’t you—” A cough interrupts her lecture again, and every part of her shakes.

  Then I realize today is still my birthday. I’m eighteen. I may still be a “young lady,” as she says, but it also means I’m free—legally an adult. No one in this house can actually make me do anything. When her coughing dies down, she speaks again.

  “Listen, Sugar, I need your help. I hate to admit it, but Skunk don’t do nothing but cause me more trouble. I can’t get along without you. I need you, Sugar, and you need to help me or else I might not—” Her voice gets quiet. “I’ve lost your father and my sons. You’re all I got. You ain’t much, but I need you.” She practically whimpers and looks up at me with beady eyes. I try to see the beauty in her face as I did in all those faces late last night seeking hope and possibility in the sky as it turned to a new year. I search her for authenticity and love.

  She can’t force me to do anything, but it wouldn’t be right of me not to help her. “Whatcha need, Mama?”

  I rush out to the drugstore and get some cough medicine; she still refuses to see a doctor. When I get back, I go to the kitchen and get her a box of corndogs and French fries. I fry up some bacon. The house fills with its enticing smell. My mouth salivates as I pull a box of cake mix from the pantry and begin to add the ingredients, one at a time, mixing away the lumps. I shovel heaping spoonfuls into my mouth. If I am going to endure this life with Mama, I need something to take the edge off. Sugar, sweet sugar.

  I spoon the batter into the baking cups of a cupcake pan and begin to mix the frosting. I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth; it mixes with the remnants of the vanilla cake. It tastes surprisingly good together. I dip a piece of bacon directly into the icing. Then, opening my mouth like a baby bird fishing for a worm, I swing it into my mouth. It’s a taste explosion. Sweet and salty goodness.

  While everything cooks, I go to Mama’s room and clean it up a bit, shoving food wrappers in a trash bag along with old magazines and other garbage. It’s amazing what a mess she makes in just a few days from her stationary place on the bed.

  The ding of the microwave brings me back to the kitchen. I consider chopping up the bacon real fine and adding it to the cupcake frosting. I wonder if Even would like it. He had bacon at breakfast. I stop in my tracks. We were just in New York City today. It seems like a lifetime ago, or maybe that’s just the magnetic pull of returning to this sorry town and this sorrier house.

  Mama has me running, as usual, retrieving her ketchup and soda. Then she has me fetch mayonnaise. Finally, I finish making the cupcakes, adding the bacon to half of the frosting just as an experiment. I put a candle in one that really puffed up on the top. I light it and then quietly hum “Happy Birthday” to myself. I make a wish as I blow out the single, flickering flame.

  Mama makes no mention of my birthday, but Even’s thoughtful trip fills every crevice in my heart. I eat one cupcake, with the bacon added to the frosting, then two, and I can’t help myself when I have the third. They’re so delicious. I save one in a small box I find, wrap it in string, and plan to bring it to Even the next day at school.

  Even and I sit together at lunch on Monday. He gives me the thumbs-up after he takes a bite of the cupcake. As a crumb falls from his lip he asks, “Bacon?” I nod and he shakes his head in a way that tells me it’s unexpectedly good.

  He has a project due in physics, and intends to skip lunch the rest of the week because he needs to use the science lab and can’t stay after because he picked up more shifts at work.

  When I get to my locker, there’s a Post-it Note stuck to it. The letters spell out the message “Try Anorexia.” I tear it up as my eyes tear up and then slam my locker and consider leaving for the day. But leaving is akin to admitting defeat. I can do this, I tell myself. The rest of this year and then one more. I’ll make it. Then the vicious voice in my head asks, And then what?

  On Tuesday, I bring Even another cupcake, this one with caramel and bacon. Since I forgot he wouldn’t be here to enjoy it, and I had one too many, I toss it in the trash with the rest of the cafeteria slop. I eat by myself, pretending to be busy on my phone, answering all my emails, texts, and keeping my social media up-to-date because I am so popular. Not.

  On Wednesday, Allie laughs when she passes my table at lunch. Not thinking fast enough, I make the mistake of looking up and making eye contact.

  “I see Even has abandoned you. What, did you steal all his food? Leaving him hungry? Wanting more than a girl like you could give him?” I want to retort with something witty or snarky even, but she swishes her long hair and sits at the table by the window, joining in some critical conversation about ending the injustices in the world. Not. They’re probably either laughing at me or something else insignificant.

  Near the end of the week, I’m up to my elbows in homework and helping Mama, and growing ever more melancholy as gray skies hover overhead. After I’ve made sure Mama has her dinner, I dig into a Lean Cuisine meal. I’m determined not to be the source of amusement for the entire student body at Johnson Regional anymore. My phone rings; I don’t recognize the caller, but it’s local, and I answer.

  I hear breathing. “Hello?” I ask. I’m about to hang up when I hear a squishing noise or slurping or something, I can’t quite tell, and the breathing gets heavier. Then I hear laughter. The caller hangs up. Yeah, that was hilarious. Prank calls are so clever. Not.

  I block the number from calling again and turn to the TV. I treat myself to a package of chocolate mint cookies I picked up from Od Town the other day. The Thursday night lineup of comedy entertains me until nine, when I dip into my homework, feeling extremely unmotivated. At ten, I drag my feet upstairs and collapse on my bed and fall deeply into a sugar-induced coma.

  Friday blurs by with assignments due, and no Even on the walk home, but he promises we’ll go Monday after school and get my motorcycle license. Having this to look forward to carries me through the weekend of laundry, cleaning, tending to Mama, church, where I see Fat Henry, and then my routine grocery shopping at Od Town.

  On Sunday night, as I pick the mini chocolate peanut butter cups out of a pint of ice cream while watching a cooking show, the power suddenly blinks out. Mama panics. Fush.

  “Sugar. Help. I can’t see. Who turned out the lights?”

  “Darned if I know,” I say, though she can’t hear me. I wade through junk in the living room and stub my toe as I make my way to the kitchen. I paw through a drawer trying to find a flashlight. My hand lands on one, but the batteries are dead. I use my cell phone to find a new set and then make my way to Mama.

  “Do I need to find the fuse box or something?” I ask.

  “It’s in the basement. Go on.” She swipes for the flashlight.

  “I’ll need the flashlight,” I say.

  “Oh no. You ain’t leaving me up here in the dark.”

  “How am I supposed to see?”

  “Find another one.”

  I sigh. I flick on my phone and dial Skunk. He doesn’t answer. I text. Still nothing.

  After unsuccessfully trying to locate another flashlight, I go to Mama’s room to see if she has stashed some in there for just this kind of scenario. When I come up empty-handed, I dial Skunk again as Mama complains.

  He answers with an annoyed “What?”

  “The power has gone out. What do I do?”

  “Hell if I know. Ask Mama,” he says grouchily.

  “She doesn’t know either. Do you have a flashlight in your room?” Although I don’t dare go in there without electric lighting. Mama starts talking as I try to listen to whatever it is Skunk tells me. A headache comes on. He must hear Mama squawking in the background.

  “Dammit, Sugar. Do I need to come there?” he asks.

  “Yes, I think you do.”

  “You owe me. You know that.” He hangs up.

  I don’t owe Skunk a darn thing. If anything, I’ve kept him in house and food for the past nine months that Mama has been off her feet. I tell her Skunk is on his way.

  “That good-for-nothing twit? And what do you expect he’s going to do? Sit around in here and wait for the lights to come back on? I’m gettin’ cold. You realize without electricity we ain’t got no heat.” I leave Mama to complain, but am powerless to do anything. Back in the kitchen, I dial Even.

  “Hey, sorry to bother you. I have a problem. The power went out. I’m not sure what to do,” I say.

  “Has it gone out in your neighborhood? Check out the window,” he instructs.

  I split the vinyl blinds and see lights on in the other houses. I tell him.

  “Did you pay your bill?”

  I let out an insulted sound.

  “Hey, I had to ask. Just like if the toaster isn’t working, you always check to see if it’s plugged in. Where’s your electrical panel?”

  “In the basement. Skunk said he’s on his way, but he doesn’t know any better than I do how to get it back on. Mama’s flipping out because she’s getting cold. I wish I paid more attention when my granddad was alive; he always knew how to fix things.”

  “Sugar, it isn’t your fault. I’ll be over in five minutes.”

  I hear his door slam and his feet hitting the wooden stairs outside his apartment as his breath comes in little bursts through the earpiece.

  “You don’t have to do that.” The Harley starts. “It’s snowing. And what about Skunk?” I ask.

  “I’ll be there in three minutes.”

  “Seriously, you don’t have to. I’ll get it figured out. I can call an electrician.”

  “It’s late. I’m sure it’s just a switch.”

  “Fuse box.”

  “OK, a fuse. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “I can see your dark house.”

  “Did you bring a flashlight?”

  “Of course.” Then he’s knocking on the front door.

  “Skunk, is that you?” Mama calls out. Mama’s high-pitched, yet somehow gravelly voice, probably from all the smoking, embarrasses me, but I’m thankful for the dark because Even can’t see how hideous our house is.

  The beam of the flashlight bobs up and down, casting shadows on all the boxes of junk and discarded memories in the basement.

  “Lead the way,” he says. I know I’ve seen the fuse box before, but never really paid attention to it. I take a moment to orient myself. The clock is ticking. I don’t want Even to be here when Skunk gets back. That could get ugly. We walk over to the freezer and then the washing machine. To the right, my granddad’s old workbench is exactly as he left it, in the corner, little baby-food jars of screws and nails lined up neatly. If he could see this house, he’d roll over in his grave. He was fastidious about taking care of it; he even enjoyed maintenance projects, as if the house itself was the son he never had.

  Even sees the box on the wall before I do, and flips the door open. He says, “Hmm,” and then roots around the shelves of the workbench.