Peaches

they swam, the feeling flooded in on her all at once, and she laid her hands on the softness of her less-soft-than-it-used-to-be belly and felt herself breathe. She listened to the heartbeat of the orchard and felt Leeda’s and Murphy’s pulses where their ankles touched.
    Honey Babe and Majestic had stopped competing for her attention for the moment. And they sat still when Birdie hoisted herself over onto her elbows and pulled out the Swiss army knife she had used to cut tufts of fur for Enrico, and cut some for Leeda and Murphy too. She shoved them into the pockets of their dry clothes, piled nearby. Murphy made a face and complained about the dogs, but Birdie knew Murphy liked them, and she just didn’t want to say.
    When they all got hungry, they tromped up to the kitchen to munch on the last of the amaretto-peach salsa, which Poopie swore she would show them how to make. Then they sat on the porch, drying themselves in the breeze. Walter came by once, on his way out to his truck, and patted Birdie gently on the head,almost shyly, like she was a stranger, but someone he would be willing to get to know. That’s how Birdie saw it anyway. On a day like today, everything seemed goodwilled and perfect and right. Even when her mom called, and she ducked in to talk to her for a few minutes, and Cynthia guilted her again about her decision not to move in, Birdie hardly noticed it. She told her she’d see her tomorrow at Liddie’s Tea Room for lunch. Her mom, for the moment, seemed perfect too.
    Leeda and Murphy kept saying that they were going to get going, that they had to get ready for school, and that they both had a ton of stuff they had to do. But nobody moved from the porch for an hour, and when they did, it was to walk down to the pecan grove and look for nuts, which they then threw at each other. Murphy and Birdie convinced Leeda to climb one of the trees, but the limb she hoisted herself onto splintered and broke, and Birdie—slapping her hand against her forehead, feeling stupid—suddenly remembered pecan wood was the most brittle wood there was. Leeda said she hated trees. But it was obviously one of those things Leeda said to cover up her embarrassment, even though she didn’t really seem all that embarrassed anymore. Birdie was wiser now. About them both.
    The day, though days were supposed to be shortening, seemed to stretch longer than any other they’d had that summer. And Birdie kept expecting to see sunset, and then she’d look at Leeda’s watch, and it would only be two, or three, or four. She wondered if the day wouldn’t end at all because they all, including the orchard, were still holding on to it as tight as they could, unwilling to let it go.
    They did headstands against the trees. They carved their initialsinto the magnolia by the cider house with Birdie’s Swiss army knife. They lay on their backs and talked about Enrico, but not Rex. They watched a random duck waddle by on his way to the lake. Birdie had a feeling that they all noticed the chill in the air, that the day seemed to be getting cooler, and that fall was just around the corner. But nobody said anything about it.
    They ended up in the lake again in the late afternoon. Their feet took them there without them deciding.
    As they swam and talked, dusk finally fell around them, so slowly that they barely realized it. At dark they ended up on the bank on their backs again, dripping onto the grass. The day had turned out like circles—turning back on itself, bringing them to the same spots over and over. And it almost made Birdie’s heart ache that time was passing. It was all too good to let go.
    A gaggle of lightning bugs popped their lights on just above the grass. They seemed to be blinking in unison, over and over, lighting together on some secret signal that Birdie would never have been able to explain but that she understood.
    “Look at those bugs,” she whispered, pointing it out to the other girls.
    “I don’t see anything,” Leeda said, tugging at her wet hair.
    “You’re a nature freak, Bird,” Murphy added, not even turning around.
    Birdie sighed. She knew it meant something.
    The day felt almost like any other day of the summer, like they’d rewound and summer was still ahead of them. But this time, from the start, there would be no question of whether they had each other or not.
    This time, they would know.
    On September 1, though nobody knew it or ever would, the Darlington Orchard peaked at the