Instead I laughed until I cried again.
Ethan picked up the hummingbird.
“I made this four times.”
“Why?”
“The first one looked like a chicken.”
I started laughing.
“The second one?”
“Fish.”
“The third?”
He paused.
“Also chicken.”
I nearly fell apart.
He handed me the fourth one.
The crooked hummingbird.
I held it like it was worth a million dollars.
After the ceremony, something happened I hadn’t expected.
People kept approaching Ethan.
Not me.
Him.
One father asked about the wood-burning tool he’d used.
A senior from the art program wanted to inspect the brass corners.
Our principal shook Ethan’s hand and asked how long the box had taken.
“Four months and eleven days,” Ethan answered.
Of course he knew exactly.
A girl from my history class told him, “That was definitely the best gift tonight.”
Ethan frowned.
“No.”
She looked confused.
“No?”
He pointed across the auditorium.
“Michael’s grandmother made a quilt.”
