Sarah remembered perfectly. Fifth grade in the lunchroom, shifting her plastic chair from side to side, gripping the seat. How vividly she feels the plastic, and the strain of her fingers.
Amy is talking, her hair pulled back tight with pink barrettes, her face covered with freckles. The ones on her left cheek look like Africa (at least what ten-year-old Sarah thinks Africa looks like). Her blue eyes, light blue eyes, intensify everything she says.
"My Mom has a stress problem."
"What's that?"
"You know," she says exasperatedly, "when you have a lot of stress."
"Oh," says Sarah, not wishing to antagonize her further.
"Her doctor gives her a lot of stuff to do to get better. Sometimes I got to have a baby sitter."
"Why?"
"She got a lot of stuff to do from the doctor. She got to avoid stress."
"Oh."
"You know, we get stress, too."
"We do?"
"Yeah, like when you worry about stuff."
"I worry all the time," says Sarah.
"Stress," says Amy authoritatively.
"What does your Mom do?"
"She's in Real Estate."
"I mean, what does she do about stress?"
"Oh. I don't know, except for this one thing."
"What?" asks Sarah. "What?"
"When she goes to the bathroom." Amy brings her head in close. Sarah leans into their shared secret excitedly. She sees her own shadow climbing up Amy's face, like a protective shade tree that is covering them both. Amy grins embarrassedly, but she is also very amused.
"What?"
"She turns the light off," Amy whispers, and laughs breathily.
"No way."
"Yes way."
"Why?"
"It's a relaxation."
"You mean, like sleeping?"
"It's the opposite of stress. Relaxation."
From that moment on, Sarah peed in the dark, hoping to lose her guilt in a case of temporary blindness.