Beside it sat a tiny smiling sun.
A circle. Seven short rays. Two dots for eyes. One uneven curve for a mouth.
I had seen that sun countless times.
Glen drew it on shopping lists.
On napkins.
On birthday cards.
On every note he slipped into Ariel’s lunch bag.
I rose too fast.
Something in my voice silenced the yard.
Glen approached while wiping his hands on a towel.
“What happened?”
I pointed toward Clara.
“Why is your drawing on her body?”
Glen looked.
The towel fell from his hand.
Clara stared directly at him.
For one endless second, neither spoke.
My aunt stopped gathering plates.
My father straightened beneath the umbrella.
Someone switched off the music.
Glen’s face lost its color.
“Please,” he said. “Let me explain.”
It was the worst possible choice of words.
Naturally, it was.
Clara wrapped the towel tightly around her waist.
“I don’t know what kind of story you’ve made up in your head.”
