“Aha,” he says, after a moment. I can’t really see what he’s doing, since he’s working so closely with the light shining directly into the box, but there are some clicks and then the freezer hums to life, followed by the appliances on the floor above.

  Even turns, looking triumphant in the glow of the dim flashlight bulb. I wrap my arms around him.

  “Thank you for saving the day.”

  “I wouldn’t want to find a Sugar Popsicle, all frozen up in here, tomorrow morning. But I should probably get going—don’t want Skunk to get an inferiority complex or anything,” Even says.

  “Thanks. You’re the best,” I say, thanking him profusely and keeping up a constant flow of dialogue to try to distract him from the mess and dilapidation of the house as we make our way through the hall and kitchen. Even slips out the door, and moments later, the back glass slider jerks opens as Skunk battles to get it to move.

  “What the fuck?” he says, laying into me. “I thought the power was out? You called me all the way back here in this snow to what is clearly a house with the lights on?” He stumbles closer to me, nearly falling over an old filing cabinet he dragged out of the attic a couple of years ago. “Sugar, was this some kind of prank?” He reeks of beer and sweat.

  “No. The power really went out. You heard Mama.” As if on cue, she hollers.

  “Skunk, is that you? Did you get the power back on? Well, I’ll be. You know your Mama has to watch her shows. Sugar, bring me some more soda, would you?”

  Skunk’s voice gets low. “Did you have that pretty boyfriend of yours come over here to fix it? What? You thought I couldn’t do a man’s job?” He grabs me by the shoulder and holds me firmly at a distance as if he’s getting ready to slug me.

  I try to wriggle away.

  His face is red and he’s breathing heavy. His lips bunch together tightly.

  “I better get Mama her soda,” I say quietly.

  “Yeah, you had better, you fat turd. Oh, and you got a call earlier?”

  I’m confused.

  “We dared Caleb to call you and jerk off into the phone.” He laughs like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world. “Did you like that, you nasty slut? Or are you going to run to your boyfriend and tell him big brother and his friends are being mean?”

  “Shut up, Skunk.”

  “Oh. Sugar told me to shut up. I’m scared,” he says.

  “You act like you’re six, you know.”

  “Suuuugarrrrr,” Mama calls.

  With the roads plowed and the skies a continuous sheet of gray, the only thing that brings relief for the fatigue I feel from a nearly sleepless night, as I continued to argue with Skunk, is the sight of Even waiting for me at our usual spot the next morning. I thank him again for his help and we fall into our easy routine as we walk to school and back again at the end of the day.

  We hop on the Harley and go to the DMV that afternoon while Even has someone filling in for him at Vin’s Garage. I print my name in block letters on the form, make the correct little ovals dark, and pay the application fee. I’m prepared to take the test, but my sweaty palms betray my anxiety. It’s one thing to scoot around in the parking lot with Even, but another under the scrutiny of the examiner, who, with his pleated khakis and cardigan, doesn’t look like he’s ever ridden a motorcycle in his life. Then again, I probably don’t look like a prime candidate either. He determines whether I pass or fail. My palms continue to sweat.

  Even takes my hand, smooths my hair behind my ears, and says, “We’re going to do this. I can see the finish line. Ride like the wind.” He kisses me tenderly on the lips.

  The first item on the test is to identify the various parts of the motorcycle. I pass with flying colors. Even smiles, but there’s more to come.

  The examiner tells me to move through a course of orange safety cones, to turn and stop. This is easy. Then I move into traffic with a testing vehicle behind me giving horn signals for when to turn onto other streets. I am freaking out. What if I screw this up? What if I fail? We cross over the main road into town, and although I’m familiar with my surroundings, doubt plagues me. Was I supposed to let the other car go first? Am I allowed to make a right on a red? Why have I completely forgotten the rules of the road? Taking my regular driver’s test wasn’t this stressful. Up ahead, I see a familiar Toyota Corolla. I wonder if Allie is with Hillary. I envision myself crashing in the road, going up in flames, and there, that’s the end of the fat girl. Happy, ladies?

  But Even’s back at the DMV, and some part of him is counting on me. Even though I don’t believe I’ll be traveling cross-country with him on motorcycles—it sounds like something out of a movie—I can’t let him down. I take a deep breath and almost laugh when I pull alongside the Corolla. I’m focused ahead of me, but I imagine their faces seeing me sailing by on a motorcycle. Fat chicks can ride, too!

  I can’t take my eyes off the road. I take a smooth left on the green arrow, and the Corolla waits for the solid green to go straight. After a few more stops and turns, I am triumphant as I pull back into the parking lot with the orange cones.

  Even rushes out of the building and gives me a big hug. We both look at the examiner. He gives a quick nod. “Woo hoo! You did it!” Even doesn’t shrink from full-fledged enthusiasm. “OK, now I just need to find you a bike. Any preferences?”

  He hurries to work, but later that night sends me no less than a dozen texts about what kind of motorcycle I’d like. Of course, it’d be a cheap one he has to fix up, but he sends photos of examples. I like his bike, the Harley, but that’s because I’m used to it. Finally, I tell him I trust his judgment and am sure it will be perfect.

  Thankfully, Skunk makes himself scarce over the next few days. As we near the end of the week, sans porn in the living room, prank phone calls, and his butt hogging the sofa, I can’t help but wonder if he took up with his girlfriend again.

  The weekend arrives too slowly, and motivated by my general boredom, I’ve managed to come up with a plan for Even and me for Saturday night, his first weekend off in a couple weeks. I dip into my savings and buy us tickets to a motorcycle show at the civic center down in Massachusetts. I don’t have the most vested interest in the event, but given the fact that I am now a licensed rider, and motorcycles are probably his favorite hobby, I expect it’ll be fun.

  We travel in my car because the weather sloshes between rain and sleet. “So where are we off to?” Even asks once we’re en route.

  “This time I get to surprise you. But it’s no enchanted lodge in the woods or New York City on New Year’s Eve.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be great,” he says with anticipation. “I hope this turns to snow. I’d hate to see the trails ruined before the season’s over. I’m going snowmobiling tomorrow—meeting up with some guys from work. I hear your brother has been out there, causing havoc.”

  “Skunk on a snowmobile? I thought he sold his. Whatever. I haven’t seen him for a while. Thank goodness.” That’s probably what has kept him away lately; he replaced his dirt bike with a snowmobile.

  When we pull up at the show, Even practically jumps out of his seat. “No way! This is awesome. I didn’t realize it was happening this weekend. Thanks, Sugar,” he says, pulling me into a hug.

  We walk in, hand-in-hand. I’ve never seen so much chrome and leather in my life. It’s a motorcycle lover’s paradise and Even is a kid in a candy store. He points out his dream bike and some kit he’d like for his accessories, and we listen to some old-timers swap stories about the good ol’ days.

  Once back in my car, Even can’t stop talking about his plan to head west on bikes. I’m beginning to warm to it, if only slightly. As we drive back north, his hand reaches for mine in the darkness. Wherever life takes us, I don’t ever want to let go.

  We get home late, and as I leave Even off at his apartment, the road is turning to ice. He leans over and gives me a kiss on the lips. We linger there, letting our lips and the minutes do a trickling thing that makes me forget what time it is, where I am, and even my name.

  “This was nice. Thanks,” he says softly. We’re both chilled in the car.

  “My pleasure,” I say, happy to have done something for him.

  “You know, you really are the best. I’m lucky, Sugar.” I think, No, I am, but he goes on, “Listen, drive safe. OK?” I nod, and he dashes up the stairs in the icy rain. I want to go after him and sneak into his room, listen to music, and fall asleep in his arms, but the door opens and closes, and he is gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  January is the cruelest month. Aside from the constant twilight—with the days never quite fully revealing themselves with a flash of sun—the rain, sleet, and snow are enough to dampen anyone’s spirits.

  I go to sleep Sunday night not having heard from Even. Which is OK; we’re not married or anything. He doesn’t have to check in with me, but we usually text at least a couple times a day. After the show, I was expecting motorcycle madness, with more texts of potential bikes. Nothing. I worry Allie got her talons into him, but no, he went snowmobiling, probably against better judgment, with the guys from work. The icy rain and cold temperatures have coated everything in a slick frozen layer. I sleep fitfully with worry.

  The next morning, I wait at our spot. And wait. My frozen toes beg me to get a move on to school, but my heart wants me to linger, just one more minute. He’s coming; I’m sure of it. He’s late. I count ten cars go by. Not wanting to be late, myself, and endure Mr. Hammons’s wrath, I finally start to walk.

  When I settle into my chair, I notice, oddly, that everyone else has already taken their seats. The raucous mood that usually persists until the bell is absent—it’s somber, quiet. The bell rings. Mr. Hammons bows his head. The principal’s nasally voice crackles over the intercom.

  “Teachers and students,” he begins. “I regret to make this announcement, but we have lost one of our own this past weekend.”

  In the pause, I know. A chill works its way over my skin.

  “Even Anderson died in a snowmobile accident yesterday. He was new at Johnson Regional this year—” Whatever other kindness the principal offers is lost to me.

  I cry out. Through vision blurred by tears, twenty faces stare at me, including Mr. Hammons’s. Something blocks my throat. I can’t breathe, but the sobbing still comes. The principal asks us to take a moment of silence. I can’t be silent. I rush out of the room, not caring that I trip over someone’s backpack. I don’t know where to go. I need to get away. This can’t be right. There must be a mistake.

  I leave the school. I walk and walk. I don’t want to walk, but I put one leg in front of the other. I find myself in front of my house. I go in. Mama calls my name. I ignore her. I turn on the television. The news is on. There’s footage of a newscaster, reporting at dusk the night before. She wears a winter coat and stands on the side of the road in front of snowy woods. The lights of emergency vehicles swirl, casting eerie blue-gray light on the ice-covered ground. Someone at a live news desk appears on the screen and says something about tragedy and loss, a young man, and then the name Even Anderson. I refuse to believe it.

  “You’re lying!” I shout. This can’t be right.

  Mama calls again, but it is as if she is somehow far away, too far for me to answer.

  I throw the remote control at the television. At the spot it makes contact, the screen briefly turns blue, and then I pound up to my room and throw myself on my bed. I cry and gulp for air.

  How could anything have happened to Even? He’s solid. He knows how to ride a snowmobile. He’s careful. He is smart. He is beautiful. He’s mine. It can’t be possible he’s been taken away. “No, no, no,” I say through fits of tears. My blanket is damp beneath me.

  I picture him, tall, strong, blue-eyed, always generous with his smile. My friend. My Even. No, no, no, I replay moments we shared and then, no, no, no, and this repeats until I’ve exhausted memories, and I know nothing.

  When I wake up, it’s dark. My damp bed and aching eyes remind me why I’ve been crying. I look on my phone for the time. It shows a couple of messages, one from the school and one from Brittany. I don’t want to listen to them, but hanging on to the sliver of hope that there’s a mistake, I press play: “Mercy, this is Ms. Barrows, the counselor from JRHS. I understand you were friends with Even Anderson. In light of this tragedy, I’d like to invite you to come into my office tomorrow. Thank you.”

  I can’t imagine going back to school. Ever. I listen to Brittany’s message: “Hey, Sugar. I heard. I’m so sorry. Call me.”

  I don’t want to talk to anyone but Even. I want Even. My stomach grumbles. I’ve missed lunch and dinner. Downstairs, I find Skunk on the couch, playing a video game.

  “Hey, chubs. Heard about your boyfriend. Too bad. How sad.”

  I don’t detect a hint of sympathy. I ignore him. I hate him. I go into the kitchen and root through the pantry. There’s nothing to satisfy me.

  I go outside without my jacket. The cold car reluctantly starts, and I drive, in a trance, to Od Town. When I enter, the lights overhead are too bright.

  The cashier calls out, “We close in five. Hurry up.”

  I sleepwalk to the candy aisle. I grab Skittles, Twizzlers, and Swedish Fish. I wander to the Hostess display and fill my basket with three different kinds of cakes. Then I walk down to the dairy section and get reams of cookie dough, one in each flavor, and a carton of ice cream.

  I pay and leave. When I return to the house, Skunk starts in on something, but his voice sounds distant, just as Mama’s did. I take the two plastic grocery bags to my room. I open the cookie dough, and using my fingers, I dig in. The chocolate chips crunch amidst the soft dough. I mash a couple Twizzlers into my mouth. Unable to decide which kind of cake to have, I open all three and have a bite of each and then another and another. I anticipate the calm I feel when I eat sweets, but it doesn’t come.

  I go downstairs to get a spoon.

  Mama calls, “Sugar, is that you?” She coughs. “I’m thirsty; bring me some soda.”

  I open the fridge and my hand is on the plastic bottle. I take a chug. I pour the rest into a cup and bring it to her after getting a spoon.

  “What’s the matter with you? Why haven’t you been answerin’ me?”

  “Sorry Ma—” The scene on the television screen interrupts me. A school photo of Even wearing a blue button-down sits serenely in a square in the upper right-hand corner. The reporter says something about snowmobile accidents becoming more common. Then she’s interviewing an expert on snow safety. I’m crumbling.

  “Stupid kids get drunk and go too fast. I told Skunk to get rid of that thing. Do you think he listened? Nope. He was out there that night.”

  A dim light goes on in my mind. I slip out of the room and enter the living room. I plant myself in front of the TV, where Skunk continues his game.

  “Move it, fat shit.”

  I stare at him and search his face for recognition.

  “I said out of the way, Sugar.”

  “Skunk, were you there last night? Did you see Even?”

  Skunk leans back on the couch. He wears a nasty look; his eyes are like two black beads set in his thick face.

  “There were a lot of people out last night at Cripple Canyon; there’s a jump there that skirts the gulch.”

  “Did you see Even?”

  His eyes are hard.

  “Answer me.” I ball my fists, one still clutching the spoon. “Skunk, did you see Even?”

  “Yeah, I did. And you know what? He’s a jackass,” he says. “He’s a fuckin’ idiot. I told him to stay off my trails and he ignored me. I pointed him out to Caleb. Told him that Even was the boy you liked. Well, we were just having a little fun. A little game of cat and mouse. Listen, if he knew how to handle a snowmobile, nothing would have happened, but he’s a tool and—”

  I roar. I lunge at him, but he pushes me to the side, and I roll to the floor. Tears spring from my eyes.

  “And now he’s gone, Skunk. Gone.” I can’t believe my brother. Did he really have some part in this? “Did you tell the police?”

  “Fuck no. Why would I? There was craziness down there last night. No way am I getting involved.”

  “But you just said you were chasing him.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t cause him to run into that tree. He shouldn’t have been going so fast.”

  “But you were after him?”

  “We was just fooling around. We didn’t make him go so fast or drive into a tree. The fucker did it to himself. I probably did you a favor. I bet you were ready to give it up to him. Slut.”

  I feel ill. I want to stab Skunk with the spoon, with a fork, with a knife, with anything. I want him to disappear. My body quakes with nausea and disgust. It’s so brutal I don’t imagine it ending. Ever. I bend over and overturn the coffee table in a rage. I scream and run up to my room.

  “You’ll just have to clean it up later, fat face,” he calls after me.

  I jam the spoon into the soft ice cream. I eat bite after bite, hoping for that hit of relaxation, the cessation of nerves pinging dangerously, emotionally, despairingly over the loss of Even. I tear into the candy and dump it in my mouth. I chew until my jaw aches. I return to the ice cream, practically pleading with the sugar to erase my emotions.

  I am beyond sad over Even. I am beyond angry at Skunk. I don’t want to feel so much. Tears come. I hiccup and burp. I hold half of what is left of the roll of sugar-cookie dough, the plastic torn. I look around at the mess on my bed; it looks like a starving animal came in here, tearing through the wrappers and containers, hunting for something other than food. I take a hunk of dough on my finger and bring it to my tongue. The oblivion I’d hoped sugar would bring me doesn’t come. I pull my finger from my mouth. I am overly full, and yet I’m starving. I long for Even.

  I step back from my bed and survey it. Skittles form rainbow polka dots, there are cake crumbs everywhere, and the ice cream has melted onto the comforter. I’m disgusted with myself. I crumble to the floor in a big heap. I am intensely aware of every inch of fat in my body. I cry. I cry and cry. I’m upset with myself for eating all of this junk. I am shattered that Even’s been taken away. I’m furious at Skunk for his callous attitude and possible part in Even’s death. I can’t think through all the tears, but for these simple facts. I can’t begin to untangle the ways in which they are interwoven.