that.”
“Something more global,” Syl said. “Maybe an offering to the moon goddess.”
“Not my firstborn,” Mom said. “He’s not available.”
Syl laughed. “I’m not about to sacrifice Matt,” she said. “But there must be something we could give up. Something that matters, that Diana will accept.”
“Diana’s the goddess of the hunt,” Mom said. It always amazes me she knows stuff like that.
“She’s also the goddess of the moon,” Syl said, proving she had every bit as much useless information as Mom did. “Apollo, god of the sun, is her brother.”
“Maybe he’s the one we should make an offering to,” I suggested. “We need sunlight a lot more than we need moonlight.”
Syl shook her head. “It all began with the moon,” she said. “We should start there.”
I looked around the sunroom. Horton was sleeping by the woodstove. He’s gotten thinner the past couple of weeks, but I wasn’t about to offer him to any goddess.
“Maybe Jon’s baseball card collection?” I said. “Diana might like a Mickey Mantle rookie card.”
“No,” Syl said. “The offering has to come from us. We’re Diana’s handmaidens.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ll give Diana some fish.”
“No,” Mom said. “We need that fish. Diana can eat out on her own dime.”
Syl looked at us. “What do you cherish most?” she asked.
“My children,” Mom said. “After them my home. And they’re all off limits to Diana, Apollo, and any other god who might happen by.”
“My diaries,” I said.
“No,” Mom said. “Off limits also.”
I had mixed feelings about that. Mrs. Nesbitt, I remembered, burned all her letters before she died. Not that I’m planning to die in the immediate future, but if I burned my diaries, I wouldn’t have to worry about Syl reading them.
“I don’t mind,” I said.
“I do,” Mom said. “Your diaries are the only record of this family’s existence. They’re our link to the past and the future. I won’t let you destroy them. Not on a whim.”
“I don’t have anything else,” I said, thinking about how pathetic my life was, that I didn’t have a single possession worthy of an offering to a goddess I hadn’t known existed ten minutes before. “Oh, I do have some trophies, from when I skated. Maybe Diana would like those.”
“One trophy,” Mom said. “That third-place one you got. The tacky one.”
I ran upstairs to my bedroom and found the tacky third-place trophy. I clutched it for a moment, thinking about that competition. I’d fallen twice. If I’d only fallen once, I might have come in second, but the girl who won was really good, and there was no way I could have gotten first.
I’d been ten. Mom and Dad were there, and even Dad, who loved to encourage all of us to do better at our sports, could see the difference in quality between me and the girl who won. On the drive home, instead of talking about my practicing more and harder, he said how proud he was of me, the way I’d gotten up after both falls and continued to skate well enough to medal.
I held on to the trophy and thought about what life had been like when Mom and Dad were still married, when I thought the worst thing that could possibly happen was falling during a competition. I’d been so young, so dumb, upset only that falling twice had cost me the silver.
I went back to the sunroom and found Mom and Syl discussing the appropriate ceremony. “I can’t believe you’re agreeing to all this,” I said to Mom.
“I don’t see why not,” she said. “I did sillier things in college. I’ve decided to sacrifice my first book contract. Stay here while I go look for it.”
I put the trophy on the floor and sat on my mattress.
“Your mother is amazing,” Syl said. “I thought she’d be all righteous about this. No pagan practices, if you know what I mean.”
I shrugged. “I don’t think Mom believes in much of anything,” I said. “And it’s not like we really think the moon’s going to zip back into place just because we give it a tacky trophy.”
“It’s a beautiful trophy,” Syl said, walking over and picking it up. “You must have been very proud when you won it.”
“Not really,” I said. “Mom’s book contract is a much bigger offering. First book, firstborn, that kind of thing.”
“I have to give up something as well,” Syl said.
“You didn’t come with a lot of stuff,” I said.
Syl laughed. “I travel light,” she said.
“I’m sure Diana will understand,” I said. “Besides, she’ll be so dazzled by my trophy, she won’t notice anything else.”
“She’d better notice my contract,” Mom said, joining us. “At least she should appreciate how quickly I found it. You may not believe this, Syl, but I used to be a very organized person.”
“I know what I can offer,” Syl said, her eyes lighting up. “My hair.”
“No!” I cried. “You can’t cut your hair. It’s an asset.”
“I don’t need it anymore,” Syl said. “Matt loves me, not my hair. Well, not just my hair. Where are your scissors?”
“Do you really think you should?” Mom asked. “Your hair is so beautiful.”
“So is Miranda’s trophy,” Syl said. “So is your contract. They’re things that matter. Where do you keep the scissors?”
Mom shook her head, but I got the scissors and brought them to Syl. “I won’t be able to cut your braid,” I said. “It’s too thick.”
“Don’t worry,” Syl said. She unbraided her hair and then took the scissors from me and whacked away. By the time she was finished, her hair looked ragged, the same as Mom’s and mine, but her cheekbones looked even better.
Life really is unfair.
“Now what?” Mom said. “We can’t make a burnt offering out of Miranda’s trophy.”
“Let’s bury everything,” Syl said. “I’m sure Diana will understand.”
I wasn’t too sure about that. The last thing I want is for the moon to get any closer because of a simple misunderstanding.
“I have a gift bag somewhere,” Mom said. “Left over from last Christmas. No, Christmas before last. I keep bows in it. Hold on, I’ll get it.”
“I’m going to the bathroom to look in the mirror,” Syl said. “It’s been years since I had short hair.”
Horton and I stayed in the sunroom until they got back. Horton didn’t seem at all interested in offerings, so I didn’t ask him if he’d be willing to give up his favorite catnip mouse.
Mom and Syl came back, and we put the trophy in the bag first, and then the contract around it, and stuffed in Syl’s hair.
“There should be a shovel in the garage,” Mom said. “Miranda, get it, and you girls can bury everything by the window. I’ll stay inside where it’s warm.”
“Join us—” Syl said, and she stopped in such a funny way, Mom and I both understood the problem immediately.
“Call me Laura,” Mom said. “And thank you, but I’d just as soon watch from here.”
I went to the garage and got the shovel, and then Syl came out with the bag. We picked a spot where it would be easy for Mom to see us, and we took turns shoveling. All the snow is melted now and the ground is soft, so it didn’t take much effort. Besides, I folded the bag over, so it wasn’t very big.
I thought about how hard it had been for me to pray by the mound of bodies, and I realized if I couldn’t pray there, I didn’t want to pray to a goddess. “You say something,” I said to Syl. “I’ll pray silently.”
“All right,” Syl said. “Oh, Diana, goddess of the moon. Take our offerings and return peace and wholeness to our planet.”
I thought about the earth then, really thought about it, the tsunamis and earthquakes and volcanoes, all the
