Seven Days in June

by Tia Williams

Lizette wasn’t sentimental. The only moment that mattered to her was the one she was in. But she did keep a thin, fraying scrapbook, which Genevieve had discovered in a cardboard moving box as a kid. On the last page, there were two four-by-six black-and-white photos with “Delphine” and “Clotilde” scrawled under them in Lizette’s Catholic-school cursive. Genevieve stared and stared into their faces until her eyes unfocused, the photos blending into each other. It was like time hiccupped. And she knew Lizette’s stories were real.

He’d always appreciated families from a distance, looked at them like they were a fascinating experiment: all that intimacy and domesticity couldn’t have been more foreign.

And if she never saw Shane again after today, she’d be fine. Today was enough. Stay tuned for this and other lies on Fox News at eight, she thought.

They hated everyone who wasn’t them.

Listen to me, she thought. I get one slice of dick and turn into a wide-eyed Disney