When Roselyn, whose body was like Venus, whose face was like Isis, and whose family could teach vengeance to the Greeks – if word about her mother trying to set fire to her father’s wardrobe was true – started meeting me under the bleachers after third period European History, it started with her sharing her gum with me. She said she was sorry that her brother hadn’t quit giving me a hard time since summer baseball ended. She told me she watched my homerun hit in the final game from behind the concession stand while Piper Gaston smoked her out. She said it had been too bad we were already six runs down at the time and still lost pretty brutally, since our best player, also her brother, was grounded from finishing the season after he caught on to their dad’s visits to Mrs. Cardone’s and spread it all over whole town just to spite him. By November we were still under the bleachers, and by then Roselyn let me see her outshine the ecstasy of Saint Teresa under the touch of an angel, except she was with me. She said I could tell anyone I wanted, even the guys on the team. I said that would obviously get back to her brother, and if that’s what she wanted, then she was better than proving whatever she wanted to prove to him and her family. Though I’d also quit the team by then and didn’t keep up with the same crowd as she thought. So it’s not like anyone would believe me. I told her, no one believes in miracles until everyone who saw them are dead. So for the next week I didn’t tell anyone. Then she shuttered herself like Julian of Norwich and when I saw her in the hallways she treated me like I’d released her from anchored walls that she never wanted to leave. She could move around me like I divided her and I saw her start to hate me, like I hated my new need to prove that I could encase somebody who wanted to be away from the world, or who saw the world as just a vision and I could be one of the visions.