A snippet

Lisa May and I walked arm-in-arm down Sycamore. We were convinced the greatest feeling in the world was walking arm-in-arm down Sycamore in the springtime with your best friend. Even years later, I’d have to admit that there is something to be said for the easy physicality of closeness—the parallel drawn between hearts and arms. The sidewalk was damp from rain. I looked forward to walking into Lisa May’s house through the back screen door, hearing my rubber soles squeak up and down the linoleum kitchen floor. We were eleven. Squeaking was the sound of clean.

I didn’t see it there; I stepped on it; it was square and foreign under my weight. It stuck to the wet on my shoe, as paper will, and I peeled it off. A purple-and-white square with a raised circle in the middle. A package—like those HandiWipes they gave you at the diner down the street with your buffalo wings. “What is it?” I said.

“A rubber,” said Lisa May. She took it and put it in the pocket of her windbreaker. She had three older sisters.