70 The Meadow weary recorded voice says. “She says she wants to see you.” I open my locker, and a swatch of baby blue, my favorite color, catches my eye. It’s a hat made from thick, chunky yarn, the top adorned with a ridiculous pom pom. There’s a note inside, but I already know who made it. To keep you warm when I’m not around. Lupita is a knitting wizard. I wouldn’t be surprised if she made the entire hat last night after Danny proposed, the tiny diamond winking on her left hand as her needles clicked over this wretched, perfect parting gift. When I head out to the parking lot at the end of the day, my car is gone. I want to scream, but all that comes out is animal laughter. That’s what you get for telling your sister where you work. I call Judah and he says he’ll be right over. While I wait, I sit on the low stone wall that rings the parking lot. The mountains are silent, just a dark outline behind me in the dusk. At the crest, the radio tower lights flicker on. We are here, they seem to say. Danny pulls up in his Chevy and Lupita strides towards him in her sleek gray pants and black boots. I’ve memorized just about every inch of her, but I’ve never seen her barefoot. I imagine unzipping her boots and watching her pad around the room, her toenails painted a surprising mint or mustard. The sun slips behind the sleeping volcanoes in the west and the woman I’m trying very hard not to love slides into her fiancé’s car. They share a brief kiss, passionless for a newly engaged couple, but still I grip the wall until my fingers ache. I try to imagine the words passing between them. The headlights flicker across my body as Danny makes a wide turn, the pom pom a beacon atop my vacant face. When Judah pulls up a minute later, ABBA is blaring from his Prius. Mamma Mia, here I go again. He rolls down the window.
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