“Why do you say that?” I asked. Truthfully, I hardly noticed Kristy’s scars at all anymore. They were just part of her face, part of who she was. Her outfits garnered more of my attention, maybe because they at least were always changing.

She looked at me. “Well,” she said, “only because of the disfigurement. It’s hard enough being that age, without a handicap to deal with.”

“She’s not handicapped, Mom,” I said. “She just has a few scars.”

“It’s just so unfortunate.” She sighed, picking up a folder, moving it to the other side of the desk. “She’d be a pretty girl, otherwise.”

Then she started writing, opening the folder and jotting something down. Like I was already gone, this was the end of it, there could be no rebuttal, no other side. Of course Kristy wasn’t beautiful: her flaws were right there, where anyone could see. Of course we were over my dad’s passing: just look around, we were successful, good in school, fine just fine. I’d never spoken up to say otherwise, so I had no one to blame but myself.

Thinking this, I went back into the kitchen, where I found Wes now sitting next to Kristy, both of them looking at Southern Living.

“See, this stuff isn’t nearly as good as yours,” Kristy was saying, pointing at a page. “I mean, what is that supposed to be, anyway?”

“An iron heron,” he said, glancing at me. “I think.”

“A what?” Kristy said, squinting at it again.

“No way,” I said, coming over to look for myself. Sure enough, there was an iron heron, just like my sister had been talking about.

“They’re big in Atlanta,” Wes explained to Kristy.

“Huge,” I said.

Kristy looked at him, then at me. “Whatever,” she said, nodding, as she pushed her chair out and hopped down. “I’m going to find out about that Big Buzz.”

I watched her as she walked into the living room, flopping down in our overstuffed chair. She ran her hands over the arms, settling in, then looked up at the ceiling before directing her attention to the TV.

Wes, across from me, turned a page of the magazine. “Everything okay with your mom?” he asked, not looking up.

“Yeah,” I said, glancing down at one of the iron herons. “I’m not getting the appeal of those,” I said.

He pointed at the picture. “See, first, they’re very clean and simple looking. People like that. Second, they have the wildlife thing going for them, so they fit in well with a garden. And thirdly,” he turned the page, indicating another picture, “the artist takes himself, and the herons, very seriously. So that gives them a certain cachet as well.”

I looked at the artist. He was a tall guy with white hair pulled back in a ponytail, striking a pensive pose by a reflecting pond. To me, one of the quotes below it read, my herons represent the fragility of life and destiny. “Ugh,” I said. “If that’s taking your work seriously, he can have it. ”

“Exactly.”

“Just wait, though,” I said. “Someday you’ll be in Southern Living, with a picture just like that, talking about the deep true meaning of your work.”

“Unlikely,” he said. “I don’t think they pick people who got their start by being arrested and getting sent to reform school.”

“Maybe that could be your angle,” I suggested. He made a face at me. “And anyway, what kind of attitude is that?” I asked.

“A realistic one,” he told me, shutting the magazine.

“You,” I said, poking him, “need a little positivity.”

“And you,” he said, “need to stop poking me.”

I laughed, then heard something behind me and turned around. It was my mother again, standing in the doorway. How long had she been there, I wondered, but one look at the expression on her face—stern, chin set, clearly not happy—answered this question.

“Macy,” she said, her voice level, “could you hand me that folder on the counter, please.”

I walked over to the counter by the fridge, feeling her watching me. Wes, who couldn’t help but pick up on the sudden tension in the air, started toward the living room. As he got close, Kristy moved over in the big chair, making room, and he slid in beside her.

“A reverberation,” the announcer was saying from the living room, “that would cause a domino effect among the population, causing people to slowly go insane from the constant, unknown droning.”

“You can go crazy from vibrations?” Kristy said.

“Oh, yeah,” Bert said. “You can go crazy from anything.”

“. . . a natural phenomenon,” the announcer was saying, “or perhaps a tool used by extraterrestrials, who may communicate using sounds beyond our comprehension?”

“Interesting,” Delia murmured, rubbing her stomach.

“Mmm-hmm,” Monica echoed.

I picked up the folder and brought it to my mother. She stepped out into the darkness of the hallway, giving me a look that meant I should follow.

“Macy,” she said, “did I just hear that boy say he’s been arrested?”

“It was a long time ago,” I said. “And—”

“Macy!” Kristy called out. “You’re going to miss the megahunami! ”

“Tsunami,” Bert said.

“Whatever,” she said. “It’s the mega part that matters, anyway.”