Page 42 of The Last Thing You Said

Lulu didn’t say anything.

“He’ll come around,” Trixie said. “I know my brother, Lulu. Be patient.”

Lulu pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. “How can you be so sure, Trix? Sometimes he talks to me, sometimes I wonder if he notices I’m even there.”

“Trust me, he notices. And someday, he will love you as much as you love him. As much as I love you. I promise.”

For a long time, Lulu didn’t say anything. She picked at the fringe at the edge of the blanket. She thought about what Trixie had said—that she should be patient, that Ben would figure it out. But what if he didn’t? What if Lulu waited, but Ben never learned to love her? What then?

Trixie scooped up the pile of clovers. “Hold out your hands, Lulu.”

Lulu did, and Trixie dropped the clovers. They poured down and multiplied and spilled out over the edges of Lulu’s fingers.

“For luck,” Trixie said. “I promise you.”

“Trixie, how can you be so sure it’s going to happen?”

“I know it. I know it in my heart.”

JULY

What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.

—Helen Keller

23 · Ben

Guthrie’s brother Eddie throws a party every Fourth of July. He and his buddies set off fireworks from an island in the middle of Story Lake that will forever be known as Firecracker Island. The morning of the Fourth, we’re roasting hot dogs over the campfire for breakfast, and I ask Eddie if I can shoot them off, too.

He laughs. “There’s not much to it. They’re wired together, so we only light it once. It’s mostly work up front. Manual labor. You up for that?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie’s head is cocked to one side, and he’s got this look on his face like something is off. “You know it’s illegal, right?”

I shrug. “So?”

“You could get in a shitload of trouble if we get caught.”

“Dude,” I say. “You’ve been doing this for what, three years? You really think some cop is going to drive his ass all the way out here to bust you?”

“Uh, ever hear of water patrol?”

“I know all of ’em,” I say. “They’re too lazy to bother coming out this far.”

“Well, whatever. It’s your funeral.”

There’s a pause.

“You know what I mean,” he says, his face bright red.

• • •

Late afternoon, Guthrie and me, Eddie, and some of his hockey buddies load the fireworks and equipment onto the pontoon and a beat-up old speedboat. We make three trips out to the island.

Eddie wasn’t kidding about manual labor. It’s hot, and before we’ve unloaded the first haul, I’ve got sweat running down my back. I strip off my shirt and carry another of Eddie’s custom-made wooden crates over to the clearing on the beach. Each group of fireworks is on a separate plywood plank or wooden crate, labeled one to twenty-six.

“There’s no thirteen,” I tell Guthrie. He’s carrying number four, a dozen Roman candles.