Every year for as long as I could remember, my family and Boo and Stewart have had an end-​of-​summer cookout to celebrate Labor Day. This year, with Cass gone, I wondered if we'd stick with tradition or just let it go. It was hard to say. In the end, it was my mother who made the call. ”Well,“ she said to Boo the weekend before, over coffee, ”I suppose Cassandra would be gone anyway. Freshman orientation started on the third." As she said this, she glanced over to the fridge, where the Yale calendar still hung next to Cass's junior prom picture and the grocery list. It was the one reminder of Cass's thwarted college plans that she hadn't taken down yet.

“Exactly,” Boo said, taking another grape out of the bowl in front of her and tossing it into her mouth. “Besides, it's bad luck to mess with tradition. And I have a wonderful new recipe for eggplant pasta salad that will knock your socks off.“ My mother smiled at this. ”I suppose I'll make my ambrosia salad,“ she said, stirring her coffee with a clink of her spoon. ”And Jack can handle the steaks, like always.“ ”Stewart will make his famous tempeh fajitas,“ Boo added. ”What about you, Caitlin? What can you make for us?” I thought about this: My biggest traditional contribution was usually lighting the grill. Cass had been famous for her chocolate-​chip cheesecake. It was the only thing she could make, and it was always a huge production, involving her taking over the entire kitchen. She'd bang pans, mumbling and cursing to herself, before finally emerging with a somewhat lopsided, always delicious dessert. As a vegetarian dish, it was loved all around, unless Stewart was in a vegan cycle, which just meant more for the rest of us. The image of Cass in the kitchen with her face smeared with flour, using a spatula to shoo us all out of the kitchen as we tried to help her, always symbolizedmore than the pool closing, cooler nights, and homeworkthe end of summer to me. In the end, I made coleslaw; it was, after all, a summer dish. My mother turned on the bug light, Boo brought a huge bouquet of the last of her zinnias and cosmos, and my father flipped the steaks on the patio and drank beer with Stewart, who had pre-​cooked his fajitas to avoid any meat- tempeh interaction. My mother and Boo took their wineglasses and went for a stroll in the yard, already discussing fall bulbs, while I went inside and turned on the football game for my father, who could half- watch it while keeping an eye on his steaks. The bugs were out in force, and since Stewart had a conscientious objection to the bug light, he winced, as if ;n pain himself, each time it claimed another victim. “Well, I hear we have quite a team this year,” said Stewart, trying to make conversation. He knew nothing about sports and had lost our respect years ago by asking how many points a basket counted for while watching the second half of an NCAA Final Four Game. “Quarterback's good,” my father said, poking at a steak with a fork. “But the defensive line needs help. A good rushing team and we're in trouble.”

“Ah,” Stewart said, nodding. A bug flew into the lightbzzzt! and he sighed. “Right.”

“What's that score say, Caitlin?” my father asked me, squinting through the patio door. “I'll go check,” I said, picking up my Coke and going inside. “Ten-​seventeen. Nebraska's up.”

“Good,” my father said, flipping another steak. I was standing in front of the TV, watching the offense get organized, when Stewart said, in a lower voice, “Is there any news about Cassandra?” I glanced outside at my father, who didn't even flinch at the sound of her name. We'd all been acting like things were fine. It was just another Labor Day, I was already back at school, Cass was at YaleI mean, there was her schedule up on the fridge. “No,” my father said in his press-​conference, news-​sound-​bite voice. “Nothing new.” Stewart nodded, rubbing his hand over his chin. “I know this probably doesn't help,” he said. Stewart, who prided himself on Being Fully in Touch with His Emotions, was the complete polar opposite of my stoic father. “But you know, I took Boo away from her family when she was eighteen. We were just kids, of course, and it was stupid, and it took years for her parents to forgive me.” My father flipped another steak, then pushed down on it, hard, with the spatula. A bug flew into the bug light, dying a loud, noisy death. “But I took good care of her,” Stewart went on. “And I know that Adam is doing the same for Cassandra. She's such a smart girl. She wouldn't be with anyone who'd do anything less.”

My father, with those nerves of steel, didn't react to this except by one, solid nod. Outside, I could hear my mother laughing, her and Boo's voices getting closer. “Well,” my father said, glancing in again at the game as a quarterback ran down the field, dodging and twisting, ducking and rushing, all the way to the end zone. “I hope you're right.” They were quiet after that, with just the sizzle of the steaks and the bug light buzzing every few minutes. It was getting dark outside, and the food was almost ready. So I went into the kitchen, watched the sun set, and ate ambrosia salad with my fingers at the end of this, another summer.

Chapter 4

My making cheerleader changed my mother's life. She showed up at all our early exhibitions and games, wearing one of many Jackson High School sweatshirts and pins, clapping and cheering so loudly I could always hear her over anyone else. She organized our bake sales and car washes, packed snack bags full of apples and Rice Krispies Treats for away trips, and had my uniform dry-​cleaned and pressed promptly after each game. She had finally found something to concentrate on that was familiar and busy in the strange silence of Cass being gone. She was almost happy. And that should have been enough for me to keep at it. But the truth was, I hated cheerleading. Whatever zest and pep the other girls had that made them cartwheel, high kick, and smile constantly was missing in me, like a genetic or chemical malfunction. I felt like an impostor, and it showed. Because I was the lightest of all the girls, it was decided early on that I would be the one at the top of the pyramid formation we did in our big cheers. This also led to me being hated with a passion by Eliza Drake, who because of the birth control pill had put on about fifteen pounds over the summermostly in her hips and buttand was subsequently bumped to a lower, supporting position. She could have been on top, for all I cared. I was scared of heights, and climbing up all those backs to be lifted to stand, with someone grasping the backs of my knees, made my head spin. All I could think about was toppling down, falling head over feet to crash on the gym floor just as the marching band trampled over me playing “Louie Louie.” When I was up there, wobbly and light-​headed, I always thought the same thing: After this game, I quit.