“Oh, this isn’t mine,” I said. “I just, um, borrowed it from a friend.”

“Really?” She looked at it again, trying to picture, I was sure, one of my student council friends sporting such a thing. “Who?”

Kristy’s face immediately popped into my mind, with her wide smile, the scars, those big blue eyes. If the tank top was enough to cause my mother concern, I could only imagine how Kristy, in one of her full outfits, would go over, not to mention any of my other Wish friends. It seemed simpler, and smarter, to just say, “This girl I work with. I spilled some salad dressing on my shirt last night so she lent me this, to drive home in.”

“Oh,” she said. It wasn’t that she sounded relieved, but clearly, this was an acceptable explanation. “Well. That was nice.”

“Yeah,” I said, as she left the doorway, heading to the kitchen, where my sister and her swatches were waiting. “It was.”

I left them downstairs, my mother listening dubiously as Caroline explained about how corduroy wasn’t just for overalls anymore, and went up to my room, putting my laundry basket on the bed. After I’d stacked all my T-shirts, shorts, and jeans in the bureau, and laid out my info desk clothes for the week to be ironed, the only things left were Kristy’s jeans and the tank top. I went to put them on my desk, where I’d be sure to see them the next time I was leaving for work and could return them, but then, at the last minute, I stopped myself, running the thin, glittery strap of the tank top between my thumb and forefinger. It was so different from anything of mine, it was no wonder my mother had noticed it instantly. That was why I should have returned it immediately. And that was why, instead, I slipped it into my bottom drawer, out of sight, and kept it.

On Sunday, my sister was cooking dinner, and she needed arugula. I wasn’t entirely sure what that was. But I still got recruited to go look for it with her.

We’d just started down the second aisle of the farmer’s market, my sister deep into an explanation of the difference between lettuce and arugula, when suddenly, there was Wes. Yikes, I thought, my hand immediately going to my hair, which I hadn’t bothered to wash (so unlike me, but Caroline, convinced there was going to be some mass rush on exotic greens, had insisted we leave right after breakfast), then to my clothes—an old Lakeview Mall 5K T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops—which I’d thrown on without considering the fact I might see anyone I knew, much less Wes. It was one thing for him to see me catering, when, even if I was in disarray, at least I wasn’t alone. Here, in broad daylight, though, all my old anxieties came rushing back.

“. . . not to be confused with field greens,” Caroline was saying, “which are an entirely different thing altogether.”

He was at the very end of the row, with a bunch of sculptures set up all around him, talking to a woman in a big floppy hat, who was holding her checkbook. Looking more closely, I saw one big piece, which was sporting a SOLD sign, as well as several smaller ones. They were all whirligigs, a part of each spinning in one direction or another in the breeze.

I took a sudden left, finding myself facing a table full of pound cakes and crocheted pot holders, as Caroline kept walking, still talking about various types of greens. It took her a second to realize I’d ditched her, and she doubled back looking annoyed.

“Macy,” she said, entirely too loudly, at least to my ears, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing.” I picked up one of the pot holders. “Look, aren’t these nice?”

She looked at the pot holder—which was orange and spangled and not nice at all—then at me. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I glanced back down at Wes, hoping he’d gone to look for arugula too, or had maybe gone to help the woman get the sculpture to her car. But no. Now, in fact, he was looking our way.

My way, to be exact. The woman with the floppy hat was gone, and he was just standing there, watching me. He lifted his hand and waved, and I felt my face flush as I put the pot holder back with its hideous brethren.

“Macy, what on earth is wrong with you? Are you okay?” Caroline squinted at me from behind her entirely too expensive designer sunglasses, then turned her head to see what, exactly, had made me turn bright red. I watched her gaze move across the tables of fresh corn, goat cheese, and hammocks, until, finally: “Oh.”

I knew what she was thinking, could hear Kristy’s voice in my head: Sa-wooon.

“Do you know that guy?” she asked me, still staring.

“Sort of,” I said. Now that we’d all seen each other, there was no amount of pot holders, or hammocks, that could save me. Thinking this, I took Caroline by the elbow. “Come on.”

As we got closer, I looked at the sculptures and realized there were no heart in hands on display. Instead, I noticed another theme: angels and halos. The smaller pieces were all stick figures made of various bits of metal and steel, with gears for faces and tiny nails for fingers and toes. Above the heads of each was a sculpted circle, each decorated in a different way. One was dotted with squares of different colored glass, another had long framing nails twisting off in all directions, an angel Medusa. On the large sculpture with the SOLD sign, barbed wire was threaded around the halo, much the same as on the sculpture on Sweetbud Drive, and I thought of the Myers School again, the way the wire there had curved the same way around the fence, roped like ribbon.

“Hey,” Wes said as we came up. “I thought that was you.”