“But what bugs me most,” I added, “is what she's probably thinking.”

“Which is ...” Dr. Marshall said, sticking her pen behind her ear, “... what?” I pulled my knees up to my chestdefensive stance, as they called it in group. “It's just that I've always been the weaker one, the less talented. The perennial second-​place also-​ran. The more likely to screw up. And now, with this, I've, like, totally proved it. To her, and to everyone.”

“Caitlin,” she said, taking her own Rancher out of the bowl and laying it on the arm of her chair, “we've discussed quite a bit that being a victim does not make you weak.”

“I know,” I said. This, too, though, was hard to learn. “And from what you've told me about your sister, she doesn't sound like the kind of person who would judge you that way.”

“Of course not,” I snapped. “She doesn't judge anyone. She doesn't do anything wrong. She's perfect in every way.” Dr. Marshall raised her eyebrows, then picked up the Rancher on her chair and unwrapped it, not saying anything. The crinkling of plastic seemed to go on forever, with neither of us talking. “Perfect people,” she finally said, “live in picket-​fenced houses with golden retrievers and beautiful children. They always smell like fresh flowers and never step in dog doo, or bounce checks, or cry.” I rolled my eyes at her, cracking my Rancher in my mouth. “They also,” she went on, “don't run away with no explanation. They don't leave their families with questions that aren't answered, and make their parents worry, and leave their younger sister to try and hold everything together.” I swallowed, hard, and looked out the window again. “Your sister's not perfect, Caitlin. In fact, I'm willing to bet that if you take time to think about it, you might find you have more in common right now than you ever thought possible.”

Since our first session, Dr. Marshall had been trying to convince me that things weren't my fault. That Cass leaving had led me scrambling to fill her place for my parents, which was impossible because I was me, not her, so instead I'd tried to be everything she wasn't, which led me right to Rogerson. She'd told me it was all right to be mad at Cass. That it didn't make me a bad sister any more than her leavingand leaving me to deal with her absencemade her one. So now I thought about Cass, and all the reasons she might have had to do what she did. Maybe they were the same ones that Corinna had as she stood by the highway in Tennessee, coaxing her little Bug to take her that much closer to the West Coast. Dreams, and plans, and a stark desire to change your life, all on your own. I wanted that too, but I didn't want to have to run away to do it. After my session, I went back to my room, where Ginger was just leaving for crafts class. We'd done macaroni mosaics the week before, and were just about to jump full-​throttle into clay sculpting. Ginger had been through this before, and had two lumpy, lopsided ashtrays she kept on her part of the windowsill to show for it. “You coming?” she asked me. “I heard we can make bird feeders this year. Big rehab fun!”

“I'll be there in a minute,” I told her. “Save me a seat, okay?” She nodded, shutting the door behind her, and I went to my desk and picked up Cass's letter, feeling its small weight in my hand. Then I put it back on the desk. Picked it up again. Stupid, I thought. It's Cass, Caitlin. Just open it. The letter was folded neatly, and fell into my hand when I ripped the envelope open. Cass's careful script filled line after line, my name written big at the very top of the page. Caitlin, I don't even know where to start this letter. But if there's one thing I've learned in the last few months, it's that sometimes you just have to close your eyes and jump. So here goes. I haven't been really proud of myself this year, with everything that's happened. But I don't regret leaving, or making the choice I did. Maybe you'll never understand this, but in a way it was a relief to know when I walked out that door that I was letting everyone down. I'd spent so much of my life working hard to make Mom and Dad happy, to be what everyone thought I should be. Coming here was like starting from scratch, and scary as it is sometimes, I like it. I've been thinking a lot the last few days about that time when we were kids and I cut your face with that stupid shovel. Remember? I think you know I always cringe when I look at that scar over your eyebrow, blaming myself for something I can't change. It's funny.

I don't even remember doing it. Do you remember how Stewart and Boo took care of us that time that Aunt Liz died? (You might notyou were only about four or five.) I remember Mom had bought us a bunch of new toys to keep us out of their hair: a Play-​Doh factory, books, puzzles, new Barbies for each of us. I was running around playing with everything at once, ripping open boxes and half-​assembling puzzles before losing interest and moving on to the next thing. I remember that Stewart was exhausted, trying to keep up with me, and finallyI remember this so well, it's like it is burned in my mindhe sighed, so tired, and glanced over at you, so I did too. And there you were, sitting quietly on the rug with your Barbie in your lap, quietly concentrating on reading a book. You were just so still, and focused, and I remember that was the first time I envied you that, too. You used to tell mejokinglythat you hated me for being “perfect.” But it wasn't easy, Caitlin, to always have Mom and Dad's expectations weighing so heavily. You were always able to make your choices based on you and what you wanted, nothing else. And as this summer ended, I realized that Yale was the last place I'd be able to do that. Up here, away from everyone's notions, I can be whatever I want. And that's crucial to me now. I've been crying off and on ever since I heard what happened to you. From that day at Boo and Stewart's to right now, you've always been able to make your own choices: some good, some bad. But they're yours.