“You know,” Isabel a said to Ben, “when I was little and my family played Life, we had this rule. If any of the pegs fel out of your car, then you lost them. It was considered a car accident and the plastic peg was dead. You had to give it back.”

“Real y?” Ben sounded bored.

“Yeah,” Isabel a said. She’d told that story before, and usual y people at least laughed a little. Ben just looked around the bar.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of a mean rule?” Isabel a asked him.

“I guess,” he said. He rattled the ice in his glass. “I have to go to the bodega to get smokes.”

“Okay,” Isabel a said. When he left, she pul ed one of his pegs out and laid it down right next to his car.

The dead-peg rule had always made Isabel a cry. Somehow, her little pegs never seemed to stay put, and they always popped out. “That’s the rule, Izzy,” her brother Marshal always said to her when she tried to protest. It was so rotten, Isabel a thought, the way that everyone squealed and laughed when someone’s peg fel out, the way they al clapped at that person’s misery and misfortune. Mol y would always pat Isabel a’s back when this happened and say, “If you can’t fol ow the rules, then maybe you shouldn’t play.”

Ben came back inside, but he didn’t notice his dead peg.

Isabel a went to the bar and ordered shots for herself and Mary. “Here,” she said, handing it to her. “No excuses. This is a time of mourning.

We’re never going to live together again.”

“Don’t say that,” Mary said.

“It’s true,” Isabel a said. She could feel herself getting sentimental, which she always was. Sometimes she missed people before they even left her, got depressed about a vacation being over before it started.

“Wel then, cheers,” Mary said. They clinked the glasses, touched them to the counter, and drank.

“You’re going to miss me,” Isabel a said. “There won’t be anyone to blame for the dirty dishes in the sink.”

“I don’t leave dirty dishes in the sink,” Mary said.

“Exactly,” Isabel a said.

Ben and Mike came over and suggested another bar. “This place is beat,” Ben said. He leaned back and stretched his arms.

“We can’t go anywhere,” Isabel a told him. “We stil have to finish packing. The movers are coming early.”

“Okay,” Ben said. “Talk to you tomorrow.” Isabel a noticed that he didn’t offer to help her move, but she didn’t say anything. She and Mary had another drink and headed back to the apartment, which was ful of boxes and stil had stuff al over the floor.

“What is this stuff?” Mary asked.

“Crap,” Isabel a said. “It’s just al crap.” She kicked at a pink hand weight. “When have either of us ever lifted weights?” she asked.

“I think I bought those thinking I’d lift weights in my room,” Mary said.

“How did that go?” Isabel a asked.

“Not great,” Mary said. “I think that’s why they were underneath the couch.”

“Here,” Isabel a said. She reached into her pocket and took something out. “I stole these for us.” She opened her palm and showed Mary two pink peg people from Life and two pigs from Pig Mania. She handed Mary a peg person and a pig. “They’re us,” she said. “Roommates always.”

Mary laughed. “Who’s the pig?” she asked.

In her new apartment, Isabel a glued the pig and the peg person on a piece of cardboard and hung it in a frame by the door. People always commented on it when they walked in. “Hey, look,” they’d say. Sometimes they recognized the peg from Life, and some people even knew where the pig was from, which usual y made them laugh. When the glue wore out and the peg person or the pig fel down, she didn’t throw them out.

Instead, she glued them right back on and said a silent prayer that they were the only critters in her home.

O ur friend Elen dates ugly boys,” Lauren used to say. She said it al through colege. She said it to warn attractive boys who were interested in El en. “You’re not her type,” she’d try to explain. “It’s weird, I know, but you’re far too good-looking for her.” Most of the time, these boys didn’t listen.