Instantly, the world splintered into disjointed images; I felt myself rising, the chair flung out behind me… Liz and Marge turning their heads, shock in their expressions… Vivian’s mouth in the shape of an O… My mom reaching for London… London beet red and crying, shaking her hand, her face contorted…

“IT HURTS, DADDY!!!”

I bolted off the porch toward her, adrenaline coursing through my system. As soon as I reached her, I scooped her into my arms.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

London was sobbing too hard to answer, her screams drowning out her ability to answer, her hand held away from her body.

“What’s wrong? Did you hurt your hand?”

Mom’s face was white. “She was stung by a bee!” she called out. “She was trying to swat it off her hand…” Vivian, Liz, and Marge were beside us as well. Even my dad had appeared in the doorway and was hustling toward us.

“Was it a bee?” I asked. “Did a bee sting you?” I tried to reach for London’s hand, but she was frantically waving it, convinced the bee was still attached.

Vivian quickly took hold of London’s arm, even as London continued to scream. She rotated it, finally focusing on the back of London’s hand.

“I see the stinger!” she shouted at London. London continued to flail, oblivious, as Vivian went on. “I have to get it out, okay?”

Vivian gripped London’s arm tighter. “Hold still!” she demanded. Using her fingernails, it took a couple of attempts to loosen the stinger, but then with a quick pull, the stinger was out. “It’s out, sweetheart,” she announced. “I know it hurts,” she soothed, “but it’ll be okay, now.”

No more than fifteen seconds had passed since I first heard London begin to scream but it seemed far longer. London was still crying, but she struggled less and her screams had begun to subside as I held her. Her tears dampened my cheek as everyone pressed in around her, trying to comfort.

“Shhh…” I whispered, “I’ve got you now…”

“Are you okay?” Marge asked, stroking London’s back.

“That must have hurt, you poor thing…,” Liz added.

“I’ll get the baking soda…,” my mom announced.

“Come here, baby,” Vivian said, reaching for London. “Let Mommy hold you…”

Vivian’s arms snaked around London, but all at once, London buried her face in my neck.

“I want Daddy!” London said, and when Vivian started to lift her, I felt London squeeze even harder, nearly choking me, until Vivian finally relented.

I carried London back to my chair and took a seat, listening as her cries gradually diminished. By then, my mom had mixed baking soda and water, forming a paste, and brought it to the table, along with a spoon.

“This will help the swelling and take away some of the itch,” she said. “Do you want to watch me put it on, London?”

London pulled away from my neck, watching as my mom applied the paste to her skin.

“Will it sting?”

“Not at all,” my mom answered. “See?”

London was back to sniffling by then and when my mom was finished, London brought her hand closer. “It still hurts,” she said.

“I know it does, but this will make it feel better, okay?”

London nodded, still examining her hand. I brushed away her tears with my finger, feeling the moisture on my skin.

We sat at the table for a while making small talk, trying to distract London and watching for an allergic reaction. None of us expected one – neither Vivian nor I were allergic, and London hadn’t been allergic to the fire ants – but since it was London’s first bee sting, no one knew for sure. London’s breathing seemed normal and the swelling didn’t worsen; when we turned the conversation topic to Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles, London even seemed to temporarily forget her pain, if only for a few seconds.

Once we knew that London was fine, I recognized that all the adults had overreacted. Our panic, our rush to soothe, the way we’d fussed over her in the aftermath, struck me as a bit ridiculous. It wasn’t as though she’d broken an arm or been hit by a car, after all. Her screams of pain had been real, but still… she’d been stung by a bee. As a kid, I’d probably been stung half a dozen times and when it happened the first time, my mom hadn’t made paste from baking soda and water, nor had she held me in her arms to comfort me. If memory serves, my mom simply told me to go wash the stinger off and my dad said something along the lines of, “Stop crying like a baby.”

When my mom finally asked if London would like another spoonful of chocolate pudding, she hopped off my lap and gave me a kiss before following my mom into the kitchen. She held her hand out in front of her like a surgeon who’d just prepped for an operation. I said as much out loud, eliciting a laugh from Marge and Liz.

Vivian, however, didn’t laugh at all. Instead, her slitted gaze seemed to accuse me of a crime: betrayal.

CHAPTER 13

Crime and Punishment

I was twelve years old and Marge was seventeen when she came out of the closet, or whatever the politically correct way to say it is these days. Marge wasn’t conscious of being politically correct back then; it just sort of happened. We’d been hanging out in her bedroom and the subject of the homecoming dance at the high school came up. When I asked why she wasn’t going, she turned toward me.