Sunlight skips across a manhole cover and reminds her of how her father used to ruffle her hair and call her Sunbeam. When she thinks of her father she thinks of that, of half-silly nicknames and round metal discs and a good-bye that never came.
"Hi."
The voice is soft, tentative, sweet -- everything she's not. Maria turns her head and sees Liz Parker standing behind her, wearing clothes Maria knows didn't come from a thrift shop, and carrying two milkshakes in sweating paper cups.
"Hey," Maria answers, sliding over on the dusty curb in an invitation.
She watches as Liz sits daintily on the curb -- she does everything daintily, with a hint of grace that Maria envies -- and hands Maria one of the cups. She takes a sip and smiles a little.
"Good?"
Maria nods and tilts her cup. "Strawberry, my favorite."
Liz looks satisfied and wraps small hands around hers. "It's hot today."
"Yup." Maria pauses, then points out into the street and turns to Liz. "See that manhole cover?"
"Yeah," Liz says, eyes fixed where Maria is pointing.
"On days like this my dad used to say that you could fry an egg on one of those. So, one day, I asked him if we really could." She turns away from Liz to look out at the street. "And he took the eggs from the fridge and said that we should find out."
There's a pause. "What happened?"
"Nothing." She shrugs. "It wasn't hot enough, or maybe it's just not true. We ended up with a mess of eggs on the street and a pissed-off Amy when she came home and realized what we'd done with the last of them. It was stupid."
Liz doesn't answer and Maria doesn't expect her to. She turns her eyes to the ground and finds herself staring at two pairs of feet. Liz's are tiny and sit in almost unnaturally white sneakers. Maria's suddenly seem too large, and her once-white imitation Nikes are now gray and splattered with green paint from her mom's store. She kicks Liz's right shoe with her left and looks up. "How do you always look so perfect?"
"Hmm?"
Maria smiles at the confusion in Liz's eyes. "Nothing. It's just -- I mean, look at your sneakers."
Liz looks down at her sneakers and then up at Maria again. "What about them?"
"I know you got them months ago and they still look brand new."
Maria watches as Liz's eyebrows scrunch together. "Is that bad?"
"No," Maria says, a hint of a laugh at the back of her throat. "It's not bad at all. I wish I was like that. Everything of mine is ruined ten minutes after I get it."
"That's not true."
Maria rolls her eyes. "Right."
"I am right."
Maria smiles at the determination in Liz's voice and lifts her milkshake up to see how much is left. She pauses, considering the pink liquid, and is a little surprised at the sound of her own voice.
"Do you think he misses me?"
Liz's answer is quiet, but sure. "Yes."
Maria turns to face her. "Why?"
Liz shrugs. "Because there's no way he couldn't."
Liz's brown eyes are solemn and sincere under Maria's gaze, and she suddenly feels her throat tighten with tears. She stands up and tries to distract herself by wiping at a pink dribble on the edge of her shirt, but quickly thinks better of it. The idea of taking any action to lengthen the life of an irregular surplus electric-green T-shirt from her mom's store with "I Was Abducted in Roswell and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt" printed across it seems stupid.
She feels a familiar, quiet anger bubble up, one she's never proud of, when she thinks of the blue Gap T-shirt Liz wears. For Maria has often wondered, but never asked out loud, why she was the one who had to wear irregular surplus T-shirts while Liz got to shop at the mall two towns over. When she thinks of all she's wanted but doesn't have, she thinks of Liz and her mall-bought clothes and the father who didn't walk away.
"Hey." The voice is accompanied by a slight scuffle as Liz gets up. "Want to come over tonight and watch Dirty Dancing? My mom was at the store today and rented it. She picked up some ice cream, too, the good kind. She said we could have it. If we wanted it."
Liz's voice is halting, unsure, and a piece of Maria's resentment falls away with each syllable. It sometimes feels like forever since the day her Dad left -- she tries not to remember how long anymore -- but Liz asks this every year.
Liz always remembers.
Maria turns to the open arms of the small girl standing beside her. "Thanks, Lizzie," she says. Her voice is froggy with tears that are getting caught in Liz's hair -- along with a little snot, too -- but she knows her friend won't mind. She holds the girl a little tighter because of that -- because she knows she won't mind -- and maybe a little bit because whenever she thinks of friendship she thinks of this, of open arms and ice cream and not minding tears at all.
END
