“I guess.” Someone was mowing their lawn a few yards down, the motor humming. “I just thought everything was perfect for her, like it always was. You know?” Boo nodded, standing up and stretching her back. “Well, that's a lot of pressure. Being perfect. Right?” I shrugged. “I wouldn't know.”

“Me neither,” she said with a smile. “But I think it was harder for Cass than we realized, maybe. It's so easy to get caught up in what people expect of you. Sometimes, you can just lose yourself.” She walked to the edge of the patio, bending down to pull another dandelion. I watched her, then said, “Boo?”

“Yes?”

“Did she tell you she was going?” She stood up slowly.

“No,” she said, as the lawnmower droned on down the street. “She didn't. But Cass had a hard year, last year. Things weren't always as easy as she made them seem, Caitlin. It's important that you know that.”

I watched her pull a few more flowers, adding them to the bunch in her hand, before she came over and squeezed my shoulder. “What a crappy birthday, huh?” she said. I shrugged. “It doesn't matter. I wouldn't have done anything anyway.”

“What about Rina?” she said. “She's off with her new stepdad,” I told her, and she shook her head. “Bermuda this time.” My best friend Rina Swain's mom had just gotten remarried again: This was number four. She only married rich, and never for love, which led to Rina living in nicer and nicer houses, going to endless exotic places, and piling up huge therapy bills. Rina had what Boo called Issues, but the guys at school had another name for it. “Well, come inside,” Boo said, pulling the door open and stepping back to let me in first. “Let me make you breakfast and we'll not talk about any of this at all.” I sat down at the table next to Stewart, who had finished his peach and was now sketching on the back of the power bill envelope, while Boo filled a mason jar with water and arranged the dandelions in it. Stewart's canvases, both finished and unfinished, covered the walls and were stacked against any solid surface in the house. Stewart did portraits of strangers: All his work was based on the theory that art was about the unfamiliar. Stewart might have been unconventional, but his art classes were insanely popular at the university. This was mostly because he didn't believe in grades or criticism, and was a strong proponent of coed massage as a way of getting in touch with your artistic spirit. My father had been quoted about Stewart's teaching practices more than once, and always used words like unique, free spirit, and artistic choice. Privately, he wished Stewart would wear a tie now and then and stop leading meditation workshops in the quad on big football weekends. Stewart looked over and smiled at me. “How's it feel to be sixteen?”

“No big difference,” I said. With all the confusion, my father had forgotten about taking me to get my driver's license, but everyone had been so crazy I hadn't wanted to ask. “Oh, now,” he said, pushing the envelope away and putting down his pen. “That's the great thing about aging. It just gets better every year.“ ”Here you go,“ Boo said, plunking a plate down in front of me: scrambled tofu, Fakin' Bacon, and some pomegranates. ”I remember when I was sixteen,“ Stewart said, sitting back in his chair. His feet were bare, too, and sprinkled with green paint. ”I hitched a ride to San Francisco and had a burrito for the first time. It was incredible.”

“Really,” I said, picking up the envelope he'd been doodling on. It was just half a face, sketchily drawn. I turned it over and was startled to see something in Cass's writing: her name, doodled in blue, signed with a flourish, as if she'd been sitting in this same chair some other morning, eating scrambled tofu, just like me. ”Just being free, out on the road, the world wide open...“ He leaned closer to me, but I was still looking at Cass's name, suddenly so sad I felt like I couldn't breathe. It seemed impossible that Cass had been planning to change her life completely while none of us even noticed; even when she doodled on that envelope, it could have been on her mind. .. anything possible,” Stewart was saying. “Anything at all.” I blinked, and swallowed over the lump in my throat. I wanted to keep that envelope and hold it close to me, like it was suddenly all I had left of her, some sort of living part pulsing in my hand. “Caitlin?” Boo said, coming over and bending down beside me. “What is it?” She leaned down and saw the envelope, catching her breath. “Oh, honey,” she said, and even before she wrapped her arms around me I was already leaning in, tucking my head against her shoulder as she held me, as I knew she'd held Cass, in this same chair, at this same table, in this same light, on other mornings, not like this. When I walked up to our sliding glass door, the phone was ringing. No one seemed to be around, so I picked it up. “Hello?” There was a silence, with just a bit of buzzing. “Hello?” My father appeared in the doorway, out of breath: He'd been outside, in the garage. “Who is it?” I shook my head.

“I don't* He was immediately beside me, pulling the receiver out of my hand. ”Cassandra? Is that you?“ ”Jack?“ my mother said from their bedroom. I could hear her moving, coming closer, and then she appeared in the hallway, clutching a tissue, one hand over her mouth. ”I dozed off. Is it“ ”Cassandra, listen to me. You have to come home. We're not mad at you, but you have to come home.“ His voice was shaking. ”Let me talk to her,“ my mother said, coming closer, but he shook his head, holding out one hand to keep her there. ”Tell her we love her!“ my mother said, and I couldn't stand the way her voice sounded, unsure and wavering. I slipped around them both and into my room, slowly picking up my own phone. On the line, no one was speaking. ”Cassandra,“ my father said finally. ”Talk to me.“ Silence. I pictured her standing in a phone booth by a highway, cars whizzing by. A place I'd never seen, a world I didn't know. Then, suddenly, I heard her voice. ”Daddy,“ she began, and I heard my father take in a breath, quickly, as if he'd been punched in the stomach. ”I'm okay. I'm happy. But I'm not coming home.”