Kyle was the first to see the head. He’d spent the night in TJ at strip clubs. They downed shots of tequila. They snorted a little speed. The pulsing music still beat in his ears, the lights still flashed in his eyes, strobing on women’s body parts. Feet and toes. Legs and arms. Fingers and hands. Tits and ass.
          He arrived home as the sky began to lighten. He couldn’t stand the thought of being shut in his room. So he snuck onto the deck overlooking the canyon and sat on a chaise. No one was up yet. A layer of fog hugged the ground, fuzzing the line between sky and earth. In his early hangover and comedown, he felt fuzzy, too, like the fog was his projection. It was his last summer at home, and he felt like a rocket awaiting launch. He didn’t know how he was going to make it another three months.
          He watched a turkey vulture circle above the chaparral. Two more joined it. The last time he’d followed the trail of turkey vultures, they’d led him to the remains of his mom’s dachshund, Bruiser, identifiable only by a collar among mangled coyote leftovers. The air caught in his throat. He worried it was the Parkers’ new puppy.
          He went to the edge of the deck, but still couldn’t see anything. One of the vultures dove. He pictured himself shooing it away and then finding the sad corpse and then protecting Imani Parker by telling her how she didn’t want to see it. She’d try not to cry. He’d be there for her. She would need to be held. Her body would be against his, trembling as tears fell.
          He slid under the railing. His feet landed with a thud, dust clouding up around his ankles. The brush smelled like sage and cardboard. He sniffed for the sickly sweet scent of rot but couldn’t smell it. He followed the old trail toward where he thought the bird had landed. It wound diagonally across the canyon, cutting behind the cul-de-sac. The canyon was like an extended communal yard. It dropped off to a steep cliff and then down to a highway, making it nearly inaccessible from anywhere but the cul-de-sac. From it their houses were exposed. Kyle looked up at Imani’s window. Her blinds were closed tight. Keira, though, Imani’s baby sister, was out on their deck, staring down at Kyle. He waved. She didn’t respond. Their new labradoodle pup sat patiently by her side. Something else must have died.

          Keira wasn’t allowed to walk Noodle on her own yet. So she got up before anyone else. She would say the dog had to pee. Maybe she could sneak her down into the canyon, or at least the edge of it. She wanted the dog to run free and hunt. She wanted to see what Noodle would find. She only made it as far as the deck when she saw Kyle. She didn’t trust him. She hated being the youngest in the cul-de-sac. Everyone ruled over her. The older kids, especially her sister, were worse than the parents. She knew Kyle would tell. She pretended not to see him.

          Kyle had gone too far to not investigate. The birds were gone, so he no longer had a beacon. But he saw something ahead, whitish and furless, nestled in the brush. Was it something skinned or flayed? Pure curiosity took over.
          Even up close, he couldn’t tell what it was at first. Sickly beige on the side, a grey stubble on the top. He leaned in closer. He saw a nose and a mouth. It was a head. A human head, damp with morning dew. Its eyelids closed over empty sockets. Leaves and twigs stuck to its skin. He crouched around to the other side, so he could see its face. The small features of a woman, her lips now a deep purple-grey, like dried lipstick. Her neck had been cleanly severed, the spine a neat circle, the various muscles and bits compressed around it.
          Panic shot through him. Was it was a joke like one of those prank shows? Or what if it was the Mafia? Or drug lords? Then, he thought, where was the rest of it? There could be body parts all over the canyon. A foot here. An arm there. A headless, limbless torso, left for the coyotes and turkey vultures and rats. He imagined the animals pecking and snacking on it. He looked around again, his heart pumping. Keira and the dog were gone. He seemed alone, but what if whoever dropped it off hadn’t gone far? Maybe they were still scattering body parts about?
          He poked at it with his foot in case it woke up. He knew that wasn’t likely, but he’d seen a lot of horror movies. That’s when he smelled it, a chemical like the fetal pig in AP Bio. Formaldehyde. It was a lab head, the kind in glass jars in movies. The sun was burning off the fog. His panic subsided. The head seemed a gift dropped from the heavens. Something just for him, an awesomely misplaced lab specimen, though a part of him was kind of bummed it wasn’t drug lords or the mafia.
          He needed to find a place to keep it, away from the prying eyes of his sister and the other cul- de-sac kids. His old fort. He was halfway there already.
          He touched the head gently, testing his ability to handle the feel of a dead human. His hand snapped back involuntarily. The skin was rubbery. Parts of it still moist and parts beginning to dry out and flake off. He took off his shirt to wrap it up. It made a squishing noise. It was lighter than he expected, as if hollowed. He rested it against his belly. Its chill seeped through the shirt.
          Kyle’s fort was a cave created by the umbrella of a squat live oak tree. He crouched under the leaves. He hadn’t been there for a couple years. He found a rock to lean the head against, so it wouldn’t roll down the slope of the canyon. He propped it at a good angle, so he could really study it. The head looked sad, he thought, though in a peaceful way, except where the neck had been severed, the violence of that severing lingered, the remnant of cut spine and tendrils of vein and muscle, all dried up, a mess like tangled roots, but he found the mess beautiful.
          The mouth looked the most human. He ran his finger along the purpled lips. He pulled them out a little. The teeth were yellow, browner at the root, stained with age. The bottom row leaned in. The top row came down over them. An overbite. His first diagnosis. He thought of the science kit he got for Christmas one year. He wondered if he still had the scalpel. Mom did save everything. The set had vials and test tubes. He went through all of the experiments methodically. He saved the frog for last. Other than the miniature microscope, the frog was the biggest thing in the box, sealed in a tube, stretched out and deflated. His sister Candi teased him about it. Said he was afraid. That wasn’t it all. He wanted to savor it. He knew once he sliced it open, he wouldn’t be able to un-slice it.

          Candi heard her brother fumbling through the linen closet. She knew he’d been out all night. Some mixture of envy and opportunity pulled her from bed. She might be able to blackmail him for something, though she wasn’t sure what. She hated that even in blackmail she was boring.
          What are you doing?
          Nothing. Going to be beach.
          This early? In those clothes? You just get home?
          No.
          I wanna go.
          You don’t have on pants.
          She was wearing the Hannah Montana shirt she liked to sleep in. It was a joke no one in her family got. She followed him down the hall. He slipped into the garage, though his car was parked out front.
          Fuck, he said.
          What?
          He picked up the old red Lunchmate. He had his camo sleeping bag under one arm.
          She crossed her arms, resting them on her jutted-out hip and stared him down. He wasn’t going to the beach. What’s in the cooler?
          Ice. Duh. He stared back. I’m just going down to the canyon, he said. Camping out.
          At eight am?
          Yeah. Now. He turned and went out the side door into the backyard.
          Candi needed shoes and pants, but she knew he wouldn’t wait. She made it to the edge of the deck, watching Kyle trek down into the canyon. She stepped one foot onto the trail. She feared scorpions and tarantulas and sunburn. She feared someone seeing her full, dimpled white thighs. The dirt was abrasive under her feet. She walked on tiptoes.
          Kyle was going to the old tree, where she and Imani used to play. They called it Malibu.They brought their Barbies. But when middle school came around, Imani started to drift away. Then one day, Candi saw Imani go down to Malibu without her. Hurt that Imani had not invited her, she invited herself. She watched Imani from outside for a bit. She hid when Imani went back up to her house, leaving her Barbies. Then Candi crept in. She picked up one and popped the head off, then the legs and arms. She stomped on the couch and the kitchen set. She smashed whatever she could, knowing she was smashing whatever was left of their friendship and regretting it as she did it. Imani never said anything about it, but they no longer hung out. Now in high school, Imani was a cinnamon-skinned goddess, with almond shaped eyes and a main of braids, worshipped by just about everybody, while Candi was chubby and freckled, ignorable, and mediocre. She felt queasy as she approached the tree.
          Through the leaves, she could see Kyle hunched over. She squatted to fit under the leafy door, trying not to expose her undies to the world.
          So what’s the big mystery?
          He snapped the cooler closed. He grimaced.
          Why are you awake? Why do you even exist?
          Well, dad put his . . . .
          Very funny.
          Candi walked toward the cooler.
          You don’t wanna do that. Kyle stood in front of it.
          Candi rolled her eyes.
          I swear. You don’t.
          Candi moved closer. Kyle blocked her. She laughed. He grabbed her arm, hard. It’s a head, he said. Kyle loved nothing better than to scare people. He was always walking up ahead and hiding behind a bush and jumping out, and then laughing hysterically when she screamed. She hated it, especially the glee in his face. But there was no glee in him at that moment.
          If I show you, you can’t tell anyone, especially not Mom, but nobody OK? His voice softened, a pleading in it that was appealing.
          She nodded.
          He opened the cooler. She leaned forward. He was gushing now, telling how it smelled of formaldehyde and how it must be a specimen from a lab, something for medical school.
          The sight of it pulled her back to waking up from her tonsillectomy in the post-op room. Through drugged eyes, she looked around at others recovering, bodies swaddled in light blue paper garments on gurneys, a man with a tube in his throat. She wondered what horrors the doctors had visited upon these people. She wondered how the doctors could go from cutting into bodies and taking parts out and sewing skin back up to going home and kissing or fucking someone.
          What are you going to do with it?
          Dissect it, Kyle said. You can watch if you want.
          Candi smiled faintly. She didn’t want to watch. She wouldn’t tell anyone, anyone at all. He was right. She didn’t want to know. She wished she’d stayed in bed.
          I gotta get some pants on.
          Kyle didn’t move. He was staring at the head, with a look Candi could swear was close to love.

          Tristan snuck down to the salon with Keira. He knew she was a little young to hang out with, but she didn’t judge him yet. He stored the supplies—nail polishes in a wild variety of colors, rose-scented cuticle cream, emery boards, orange sticks, cotton balls, and, of course, remover— in a vintage Pan Am bag he bought especially for this purpose. The canyon was perfect. His mom thought he was doing good boyish things outdoors, though he wasn’t even sure what those were.
          Technically, he was Keira’s English tutor. Her mom made him accept money, and he put all that money into mani supplies for them, including fancy Belgian chocolates. She would come over for tutoring, and they’d go down into the canyon to the tree. He’d quiz her about stories on the way, so he wasn’t entirely shirking his duties. Besides, he was bringing a wider world of culture to her, indulgence, style, and self-care.
          Tristan asked Keira to wait outside while he prepared. He crawled under the cascading foliage. He breathed in deeply. He loved the citrus and sage scent of the canyon. He spread a blanket out under the long horizontal branch that made a perfect mani table. He tied a mini foam disco ball to an upper branch, using the bowline knot his stepdad taught him. The ball didn’t catch much light, but occasionally a few sparkles would dance in the shadows. He laid out the supplies in a neat row. He’d bought a new color, Big Apple Red, which he thought would look great against Keira’s dark skin. The rainbow of colors calmed him. He put on a K-Pop playlist. Ready, he said.
          Keira parted the leaves. She didn’t have to duck yet. She kneeled opposite him. What’s that? She asked. She pointed to a lump in the corner with a camouflage sleeping bag draped over it.
          He’d been so focused on his preparations, he hadn’t noticed it. Others had been there. The place was spoiled. Nothing, he said. He didn’t want to know. But Keira had already crawled over and pulled off the sleeping bag. A cooler. They’d come down to drink beer or whatever, Tristan thought. Kyle, he was sure. Big senior and all.
          Kiera opened the cooler. No, she said. It’s something.
          Tristan peeked in. What the fuck? He said, not worrying that he was swearing in front of a child. It must have been fake. Something created for a movie set. But it looked super real. It looked like a human head. He slammed the lid closed.
          He grabbed his phone. He took Keira by the wrist and pulled her out. He started to drag her back up the hill, but he remembered all their supplies and the disco ball. Wait here, he said. He tossed the supplies back into the bag carelessly. He tugged at the knot to take the disco ball down, but it just grew tighter. It wouldn’t budge. His could feel the blood pulsing in his ears, like he was in a movie where he’d snuck into the murderer’s house looking for clues and now the murderer was home and he was about to be found out. He grunted. He tucked the ball and its string up into an upper branch of the tree to get it out of the way. He wanted it to look like no one else had been there.
          Back on the trail, he tried to calm himself, to pretend nothing was odd. OK, he said. Promise me you won’t say anything. Not to your Mom. Your dad. Not even your sister. Promise, he said.
          She nodded.
          If you do, we can’t come down here anymore. No more manicures. Even as he said it, he realized that was probably more of a loss for him than her.
          She drew one hand across her lips, miming zipping them shut, a smile at the edge of her eyes.
          OK. Let’s finish your lesson inside. I’ll let you have all of the chocolates, but remember to keep those quiet, too. I don’t want your mom thinking I’m spoiling your appetite. He didn’t want to send her home early and raise any eyebrows. There’d be so many questions. Why was he taking her down into the canyon? What did they do there? He knew it would look suspicious, and his answer, he just enjoyed nail polish, was only going to raise more questions. He hoped the head didn’t give the girl nightmares. He hoped the head didn’t give him nightmares.

          Imani caught Keira with Noodle at the edge of their deck, where it gave way to the canyon.
          She had her hand on the collar, as if about to unleash her.
          What are you doing? Imani said.
          An experiment, Keira said.
          About what?
          To see how good the dog can smell, sniff things out.
          What do you want it to sniff out?
          The head.
          What head?
          The one in the cooler, under that tree in the canyon.
          What are you talking about? Imani took the leash from Keira. The word “head” didn’t register. When were you down in the canyon?
          Keira shrugged.
          Tell me.
          Nothing. Just go there sometimes.
          Well don’t. There’s rattlers and coyotes and axe murderers. Imani walked Noodle back inside.
          Tristan takes me. I’m not alone.
          Imani felt her skin tighten. She went back to the word “head.”
          What do you mean “head”? Like a rabbit or something?
          No, like a person. A dead person.
          Imani doubted it. She pulled out her phone to text Tristan and stopped. Show me, she said.
          You can’t tell him I told you. I promised to keep it quiet, though I crossed my fingers behind my back.
          You should never keep anything from me.
          Keira looked out over the canyon and huffed.
          C’mon. Show me. You’re not in trouble.

          There was still light in the evening. Summer was on the horizon. Imani let Keira walk in front of her. Let’s make lots of noise, she said. To scare the snakes away. Imani hated getting her white Keds dusty from the red dirt. Keira led her to the biggest tree in the canyon, though it was still flat and low to the ground. It was more like a massive bush than a tree.
          Imani remembered it too well. She used to play down here with Candi. They called it Miami or something. The tree made her angry. She could still see her Barbies torn apart, their orange- pink limbs scattered across the dirt. Her favorite, the only Black one she had, beheaded and broken. The furniture smashed and torn. She’d left them here only for a moment. She’d gone back to the house for lunch. And when she returned, it had been raided. She knew it was a minor incident in the scheme of the world, but it marked a clear transition for her, the loss of innocence. She’d never again trust a place. She was sure who did it, too. Kyle. Who else? But to confront him or, worse, to tell on him would be to let him have victory, to let him know he got to her. She couldn’t bear that. She’d gathered her mangled dolls and threw them away. She was too old for that shit anyway.
          Maybe that’s all it was that Keira was describing. A doll head, Imani thought.
          Keira pulled away a branch and led her into the tree’s belly. She pulled aside a sleeping bag to reveal a cooler. She opened it and pointed. See, a head.
          Imani peeked in. There it was, resting on a towel, surrounded by fresh ice and odds and ends. A lighter. A baseball. A Pez dispenser. Chips. A soda. What the fuck? she said. She gagged. Bile gathered in her throat.
          Imani was the one who suggested Tristan to her mom when Keira’s English teacher complained about Keira’s reading skills. She knew her parents didn’t like their neighbors and thought Tristan was snotty, but she thought he was funny. He saw through the bullshit of their school and his parents. She liked being an ally, though Tristan had never officially come out to her. Once in a while, she could see traces of polish on Keira’s cuticles the evenings after a tutoring session. It tickled her that somehow this queer boy next door could teach her tomboy sister feminine things she’d never have the patience to learn from Imani. But now she wondered what she had done, letting her little sister hang out with him. Why was he bringing her down into the canyon at all?
          It’s Kyle’s, Kiera said.
          What? How do you know?
          Keira shrugged again.
          You need to come clean, right now. Imani felt clouds gathering. Parents were going to have to get involved. She hated that.
          Start. What are you doing down here with Kyle? Kyle creeped Imani out. Not only had he violated her dolls, lately she could feel him ogling her. It was like he watched her breasts grow.
          I’m not. I mean. Tristan brings me down here for tutoring. He didn’t want me to tell anyone. I wanted to see it closer. Tristan wouldn’t let me. So, I came down on my own.
          Imani shook her head.
          I know, but I wanted to see. But when I came down I saw Kyle. I watched from over there.
          Kyle likes the head, Keira said. He talks to it.
          This was so many kinds of crazy, Imani thought. She couldn’t find one end from the other. She thought about what she’d heard about serial killers. How they started with little things, torturing helpless animals like squirrels and rabbits. Weren’t dolls the same thing? But, fuck, Kyle had moved on quickly.
          It’s from a lab, Keira said.
          What?
          Smell it.
          No thanks.
          It’s formaldehyded. Like a frog.
          How do you know?
          It’s obvious. Keira rolled her eyes.
          How’d he get it?
          I don’t know.
          Just like white people, she thought. Even their science kits took shit to the extreme. This wasn’t some frog or pig or whatever. It was a human they got to play with. She sucked in a deep breath and went to take a closer look. It was disgusting.
          On my god. Its eye sockets are empty.
          I bet they removed the eyeballs for something else. Maybe donated them. Maybe they’re in someone else’s head. They can do that.
          Imani looked at her little sister in wonder and fear. Who are you?
          Keira Parker.
          No shit. Imani closed the cooler. She felt an idea rising, one that would save what was left of this woman and exact sweet revenge. Let’s give it a proper burial, she said. Like a funeral. It deserves it. Not gross Kyle fingering it or who knows what.
          He’ll be mad.
          So.

          A lot had changed in the last few years. If Kyle were hiding this down here, under a stupid camouflage sleeping bag, he wasn’t supposed to have it. But, as he’d taught her, anything down here was free game.

          Keira watched Imani digging the hole. Imani chose a place nearer to the wall edge of the canyon, a spot that couldn’t be seen from Kyle’s house. They only had one shovel so they started out taking turns, but Keira wasn’t strong enough to do much. She watched the sweat bead on Imani’s forehead, her shirt darkening at the arm pits. She wished she hadn’t opened her big mouth. Now, she’d never have a chance to play with it. She wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted to do with it, but putting in in the ground seemed a waste. She wondered if she could unbury it later when Imani forgot about it, though she knew Imani would keep an eye on her for a while.
          OK, Imani said. I can’t dig anymore. The ground is too hard.
          It’s not going to fit, Keira said, as her sister lifted the cooler and brought it toward the hole. It reminded her of those tests she’d had to do where they ask you to put shapes—stars, circles, squares—into matching holes.
          Imani tried anyway. Shit, she said, when it didn’t fit. Nowhere near.
          We’ll have to take it out, Keira said.
          Imani grunted and set the cooler down. She opened the lid. I don’t want to touch it. She tipped it, so that the head rolled into the hole. It landed face down. Fuck, she said. She poked at it with the shovel.
          What are you doing? Keira asked.
          Its eyes should face up. It seems wrong to be buried that way. Smothering.
          It doesn’t know any better.
          So.
          Keira crouched down and grabbed the head, one hand on each side, its skin was like Styrofoam, she thought. Interesting. She spun it so that its closed eyes aimed up to the heavens.
          Which passage should we read? Imani asked. She’d made Keira bring their mom’s old Bible.
          I don’t know.
          Imani opened it and thumbed through. It’s mostly just long lists of names, she said.
          They stared at the head a moment. Let’s just sing Kumbaya, Imani said. It’s got the word “lord” in it.
          Keira watched Imani put her hands in front of her heart in a prayer position. She did the same. Imani let her throw in the first handful of dirt.

          Kyle wanted to dissect it properly. He watched every video the internet offered. In his favorite, a man in a white lab coat drew a scalpel along a jawline, explaining how thin and fragile the muscles were, how careful one had to be. The man lifted the skin, and then used the scalpel to point to various muscles, calling out their Latin names. He pointed to tiny muscles around the mouth, noting how important it was that dentists understood their function. He paused and shifted their focus to the even more fragile muscles around the eyes, just because they were cool, interesting, beautiful. Kyle fell in love.
          The man explained that he’d be using six heads for his demonstration, so he could show the layers of muscles. The next head he showed had been bisected. He showed the nose cavity, the tube of the throat, the cup of the eye socket, the stunning squiggles of the brain. Kyle was overwhelmed by the many options for dissection. He only had one head. He was back to that science-kit frog dilemma. Once it was sliced.
          He knew he’d need a few proper tools, that sharp, thin scalpel, those fine-toothed tongs. He hoped the order would come fast. It meant a lot of ice. Every time he visited, he brought the head a gift, his Darth Vader Pez dispenser, a signed Padres baseball, a bag of Funyuns, a can of Mountain Dew, a Hot Pepper Slim Jim. He tried to put himself in the head’s shoes. It was a woman’s head, and he didn’t know much about what a woman might want. One morning, he snagged some of Candi’s Carmex. The woman’s lips were so chapped. He was proud of himself. He pictured tenderly putting some on her lips.
          But the cooler wasn’t there. He didn’t believe it at first. He retraced his steps, going back out and coming back in, like he might rewind a video. But the cooler still wasn’t there. His camouflage sleeping was tossed aside. The ground was still brushed and flattened where the cooler had been. He got on his hands and knees, sniffing the ground as if that might give him clues. He crawled under the low branch at the opposite end of his fort and explored the hill below, in case it had slipped out somehow. He scanned the brush, looking for that crayon red color of the cooler, but saw nothing but the tan and army green of the canyon.
          He went back into his fort. Rage and confusion flooded his body. He reached up to the top branch and shook the tree, needing to do something with his hands. A disco bell fell out and smacked him in the head.

          Candi yelled as Kyle burst into her room, almost jabbing her mascara into her eye.         
          Who the fuck did you tell?
          Knock.
          Who?
          I could have been naked.
          He looked around her room for something to break. He picked up the sculpture on her bookshelf, a bird’s nest made of repurposed recycling she’d made at summer camp. She won a prize. Her mom loved it. A powerful comment on humans and nature. He gripped it in his fist.
          No one.
          I’ll crush it.
          I swear. I didn’t tell anyone.
          It’s gone. The head.
          Candi stuck the mascara wand back into its sheath. I really didn’t. I don’t know.
          Kyle’s face was flushed, his expression somewhere between tears and fury. He lowered his arm.
          What happened? She eased the nest out of his hand.
          He explained how he went to bring ice. How the cooler was gone, the sleeping bag tossed aside. How there was some stupid disco ball.
          She laughed. She couldn’t help it. The only person I know who’d have disco ball is Tristan, she said. Maybe he made a little club out of it.
          She watched Kyle’s face shift in a way that frightened her. His color drained and a hardness took over.
          Kyle rushed out of the room. She checked to see if she had Tristan’s number. She didn’t. She wanted to warn him. She grabbed her backpack and ran down the stairs, only one eye made up.

          Tristan knew there was trouble when he saw Kyle waiting outside his last class, felt it thickening in the air like poison invading his lungs, spreading through his arms and legs, making them weak and hard to control. As he walked past Kyle, he tried to imagine the attack. It might start with a blow to the back of his head, or maybe to his knees. They would buckle, and he would fall. Then a kick to the stomach. He tried to feel the impact, the shock to those tender organs when he failed to protect them. How a rib would crack upon impact. He hoped Kyle would avoid his face. He loved his face.
          When Kyle put his hand on Tristan’s shoulder, Tristan swallowed hard and turned.
          Where is it?
          Tristan knew he must mean the head.
          I’m not going to ask again, Kyle said.
          Tristan’s intestines were getting antsy. He hoped they wouldn’t betray him.
          A crowd gathered, encircling them.
          What? he asked. Kyle would have to say that he had a fucking severed head in front of everyone. Who would be the freak, then?
          You know.
          Tristan shook his head.
          The cooler.
          What cooler?
          I’ll count to five.
          Tristan wanted to ask if he could go that high.
          One.
          Tristan stared back at the school, the sad effort of the white rocks on its roof, meant to deflect the sun. An umbrella in a hurricane.
          Two.
          Tristan hugged his bag tighter.
          Three.
          People pulled out their phones to film.
          Four.
          Tristan felt a shift in his bowels and clenched tight.
          Five.
          There was a pause. Then Kyle charged, knocking Tristan’s bag to the side. Kyle landed on him, pinning him to the ground. They wriggled. Tristan hated to admit he’d thought about this before, not Kyle’s body necessarily, but a hulking male body on his, the wonderful weight of it, how it made breath precious. Kyle’s stomach ground into Tristan’s groin. He started to get hard and then he started to laugh. He couldn’t control either his dick or his laughing, though he knew both only made matters worse.
          Over Kyle’s head, he saw Imani push through the crowd. She was always nice to him. Having her as a witness spiked his courage. Tristan, snuggled his head into Kyle’s neck like a lover, sunk his teeth into Kyle’s trap muscle but then softened his jaw and started sucking as hard as he could. He’d leave a hickey instead of a bruise.

          Imani was surprised by Candi’s hand on her arm. Candi panted, her face flushed and pupils wild.
          Please come. He’s going to beat the shit out of Tristan. Stop him. I can’t.
          She didn’t have to say Kyle. Imani felt a twinge of responsibility. She let out a long exhale and blew a bubble with her spent gum. She was sorry that Tristan was taking the blame. She didn’t want him hurt, though he shouldn’t have taken Keira down into the canyon in the first place.
          Hurry, Candi said. She ran ahead, but I mani walked slowly, watching Candi’s generous butt bounce as she trotted.
          Kyle and Tristan were in the center of a circle. Candi cut a path through the crowd. Just as they arrived, Tristan landed a harsh kiss on Kyle’s neck.
          Kyle jumped up. Faggot, he yelled. Kyle kicked Tristan in the stomach.
          Hey, Imani shouted.
          Kyle stopped and looked at her, his face blotchy.
          You got the wrong guy. It was me. I took your sad head.
          Kyle flinched.
          I don’t want to ask what you planned to do with it, Imani said. What the fuck? Dismembering dolls wasn’t enough for you, huh? You some Jeffrey Dahmer? People’s phones panned from Kyle to her and back to Kyle. She knew he’d be called Dahmer for a long time.
          It was for medical school, Kyle said, between heavy breaths. For dissection. Anatomy. What dolls? Kyle put his hand on his neck and rubbed it. His eyes were wet and rimmed red. He’d been crying. For a flash, Imani felt bad. The cooler and ice. The gifts. How often did he have to bring more? It was caring of a sort, though fucked up and twisted.
          She looked at Candi, who stared at the ground. It was you, Imani said. Her mom had been right all these years. These people weren’t to be trusted. Whole family of sickos, she said. Let them eat each other. Imani turned and walked away.

          Keira didn’t think about the head for years and years. Then one day there was Kyle. The metal panel slid down to reveal his face, though it could have been any shaved-head white guy, but something about this one seemed him. Maybe it was the way he still didn’t see her, like he hadn’t seen her standing outside the oak tree, watching him talk to the head, or, after she and Imani had the burial, trying to break a branch off. The branch snapped back and hit him in the face. He hadn’t heard her laugh.
          She’d knew he’d gone to medical school to study dentistry. She was a junior in college herself now, pre-med, too. She worked this side job as an exotic dancer, not because she had to, but because it would horrify her sister and her parents. It was one of those old-fashioned places, a peep show, with the booths and windows that opened up onto the floor where the women danced, protected by glass. She discovered it on a date with a woman her friends set her up with. The women liked dancing for other women and had crowded their window. There was no second date, but she came back later that week and applied for a job. She liked how the people on the other side of the glass thought they were in control but weren’t. She was. She liked how she didn’t have to talk to anyone or, worse, touch them.
          She worked her way over to Kyle’s window. He was only a floating head in the booth. She took her time, revealing bits of herself, never her whole being, only her legs, her feet, her hands, her tits, and when she was good and ready, her ass.