Imani came across the grass with frosting on her thumb and the blue hat slightly sideways. She stood in front of Andre. Up close she was just a seven-year-old who had been the center of a day and had felt the center move without understanding the machinery. "You can have the rest of mine," she said. "I ate the flower already. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Andre said. His voice was rough from not using it. "I'm full."
"You're not full. You had three bites. I counted."
He almost smiled and didn't. "I don't want it, Imani."
She frowned, hurt in the simple way, and Denise, from the table, said, "Leave him, baby. Go inside and change if you're done. Don't get chocolate on that dress."
Imani hesitated. She put her fork on the edge of Andre's plate, not the cake, just the fork, a transfer of tools. Then she went in. The plastic heels tapped. The sliding door stuck and gave. The house took her back as if the house had been waiting to do one easy thing.
Pearl watched the fork. "She loves you," she said to Andre. "That's not the same as the day being fair. Both can be true."
"I know," he said, though he was nine and knew it only as a feeling of not wanting his sister to be the one who paid. He looked at the thin slice. "Do I have to finish?"
"No."
"Is she mad I didn't?"