"to make a daisy chain, you have to kill the flower," he says absentmindedly, elbows-and-knees deep in the rushing waves of summer field grass.
"no, you don't," I insist. my back is pressed to the bark of the tree behind me and the summer sun is caramel yellow on my skin. I'm thirteen, naive, soft-centered. at this point in my life, I have let no one break my heart or ruin the neat tight zippers of my long skirts.
"yes, you do." to prove his point, he wrenches a flower from the soil, taking up a clod of roots with it. teasingly, he shakes it in front of my eyes, dusts me with the dirt--I squeal girlishly and brush myself off. then his