Upstairs, Jordan is practicing trombone too loud for me to handle. Mom’s too busy feeding Rachel in the kitchen to really tell her to shut up, so I left the house and took to wandering the streets. Everything seems so vibrant and alive, even in the dark. Almost everyone’s porch light is on, the windows wide open. There are men playing cards on the porch, smoking cigarettes like me. It’s a normal thing for me to smoke, but people will never stop staring blatantly at the eldest Wulbarry girl who smokes cigarettes.

I give the Robinson’s a weak smile when I pass, holding my cigarette in my left hand. They’re a religious family with Jesus statues all over their yard and stickers on the car bumper. They don’t know I took their son to the cemetery to show him the ghosts there, then kissed him till I couldn’t breathe. As far as I know, he’s never gone back.

For some reason, the cemetery calms me. It may be the fact that it’s so quiet and empty, or the fact that I know I’m walking over bodies that were once moving and alive. Maybe it’s just the fact that no one else is there to ask me to change a diaper or feed a whining little sister.

The long uncut grass of the cemetery brushes against my bare legs, leaving cold dewy trails. My skirt catches on some of the bushes further along, the ones that surround the bottom of the thin trees. It all hides the tops of the shorter headstones, and from the street a person can only see the mausoleums and tall stone angels.

The sparse trees block out most of the light while I wander. I’m done with my smoke and I press out the remaining ashes of the lipstick-stained butt. I put it in my pocket; I won’t litter in the cemetery.

I find my angel, Marcello, near the center of the labyrinth of graves. He’s a huge upright statue looking down at the ground, one elegant hand extended. Whoever paid to have him over their heads forever must have been loaded.

“ ’Evening, Marcello,” I say quietly, putting my hand in his frigid one. I bend down to read the letters on the stone he stands on. There’s only a last name and a date: Artilles 1895-1928. Whoever it was, they were young.

I sit down at Marcello’s feet and look back the way I came. Through the greenery, I can see where the sidewalk makes a wide circle, making no driveway or path up here. It shows just how much people don’t like it. I’ve heard the complaints. “No one wants to live by a cemetery. It’s so depressing.” “I don’t know how the city let them have one of those so close to home. It looks bad.”

Personally, I think it’s enticing; almost romantic. Hence, the reason for dragging Thomas Robinson with me here. He’s hardly my type, just a poor kid who doesn’t know what it’s like outside of living in a church. Almost.

I pull a stick of lipstick out of my pocket. It’s almost dark, but I can still see the cherry red color before I put it to my lips. I don’t dress up for anyone, it’s just fun. Back before Paige, my mother, became a full-time Mom, she gave me the lipstick, which belonged to her. It was just before Jordan was born.

“Here you go, Lacey. You can be a big girl like mommy.”

Yes, I was a big girl. A big girl who wants to be on her own soon. But maybe it’s the thought of being alone that scares me most.

I lean back into the arm of my angel, watching the lightning bugs flicker until it’s too dark to see.