“I’m going,” Isabel announced. She was already halfway down the driveway.

“Where?” Morgan called after her, but Isabel didn’t answer.

“Some clambake,” I explained. “With that guy she met at the fireworks.”

“So that’s where you were,” Mark said, slipping his arm around Morgan’s waist. She had the goofiest smile on her face. “I missed everything.”

“No you didn’t,” she said suddenly. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a box, then opened it and shook something out into her hand. “Got a match?”

Mark handed her a lighter and she flicked it, then held the long object toward the flame, stepping back as it erupted into a shower of sparks between us.

“The sparklers,” I said. I’d forgotten all about them.

“Happy Fourth of July,” she said to Mark, and he kissed her.

I started toward Mira’s, wanting some time alone to savor everything that had happened, from the Chick Night to my triumph over Caroline Dawes.

“Colie, stay and light these with us,” Morgan called after me.

“I should go,” I said.

“Okay. But here. Catch.”

And she threw the sparklers at me, the box turning end over end in the air before I caught it in both hands. “Happy Fourth of July,” I said, but they didn’t hear me.

I closed the door carefully, then slid my hand into my pocket and retrieved my lip ring, carefully securing it back in its proper place. I took off my shoes and tiptoed down the hallway; I didn’t know how late it was, but I didn’t want to wake Mira.

I shouldn’t have worried. Before I’d taken two steps, I heard her voice.

“Hey there.” She was sitting in her chair, a disassembled telephone in her lap. I recognized it: it was the one from the upstairs hallway, which had a VERY QUIET RING. “How were the fireworks?”

“Good,” I said. I walked over and sat down beside her. The entire house was dark, except for the light over her shoulder, illuminating the parts strewn across the table. Behind the house, over the water, someone was continuing their celebration, the snaps and cracks loud in the dark.

“Another project,” I said, nodding at the telephone, and she laughed.

“You know,” she said, “it’s always just one thing that needs to be adjusted.” She picked up a bracket and examined it, turning it in the light. “But the hardest part is discovering what that one thing is.”

“I know,” I said.

She sighed and looked at me. And then took a closer look, and smiled. “You look wonderful,” she said softly. “What’s different?”

“Everything,” I told her. And it was true. “Everything.”

We sat there. Through the living room windows I could hear faint music from next door, soft, drifting love songs. I closed my eyes.

The fireworks kept on across the water, pops followed by laughter and bellowing. “Such a noisy holiday,” Mira said. “I hate all the pomp and circumstance, everything blown up into a big deal. I much prefer a nice, quiet celebration.”

“We can do that,” I said. “Come with me.” I got up and found some matches, and she followed me onto the front porch, where we sat on the steps. I shook two sparklers out of the box, handing her one. When it burst into light she smiled, surprised.

“Oh,” she said, waving it back and forth as the sparks showered down. “It’s beautiful.”

I lit one for myself and we sat there, watching them in the darkness. “To Independence Day,” I said.

“To Independence Day.” And then she tipped hers forward, touching mine, and kept it there until they both burned out.

Chapter twelve

The annual Baptist Church Bazaar was crowded, even at eight A.M. I went with Mira. She pushed her bike over to the church steps, carefully chaining it to the rail while I took a look around.

Most of Colby was there. The church itself was small and white, like something from a picture postcard, and people were milling across its neat green lawn, picking over the displays and tables of junk: mismatched plates, old cash registers, vintage clothing. In the parking lot were the bigger items, like a pop-up camper, an old rowboat with chipped red paint, and the biggest wrought-iron mirror I had ever seen—its glass broken, naturally—which instantly caught Mira’s eye. As soon as the bike was secure she headed right for it, leaving me standing in front of a table stacked with old hamster and bird cages.

For the next hour, as I browsed, I was increasingly aware, again, of how everyone reacted to Mira. I watched as they eyed her, or smirked once she had passed. A few people—Ron from the Quik Stop, the pastor of the church—waved and greeted her. But most of the town seemed to view her as some kind of alien.

“Oh, goodness, look at that,” I heard a voice I recognized. “Mira Sparks is already doing her shopping.”

I turned around slowly to see Bea Williamson standing there, the Big-Headed Baby on her hip, shaking her head at Mira, who was crouched down, examining a pair of old roller skates.

Maybe it came from facing down Caroline Dawes. Or it could have been building all summer. But suddenly, I felt a fury rise in me toward Bea Williamson and every nasty thing she’d said about Mira in my earshot. It built like a flush, crawling up my neck to make my scalp tingle, so different from my own shame yet feeling the same. I narrowed my eyes at her; she was wearing a gingham sundress and white sandals, her blond hair bouncing as she bent down to deposit the Big-Headed Baby on the grass. When she looked up, her gaze shifted past. She didn’t recognize me.