We waited an hour for Morgan to come out. Then another.

By two-thirty A.M., when I was nodding off again, Isabel told me to go home.

“There’s no point in you sticking around,” she said, standing up. “I’ll sleep on the couch and she’ll be fine in the morning.” She looked back at the bedroom door. I could tell she wasn’t so sure.

“I can stay,” I offered.

“No.” She was already stretched out on the couch, reaching up to turn off the light on the end table. “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I walked to the door and pushed it open. I could see my bedroom light from the porch, bright and waiting for me.

“Hey, Colie,” Isabel called out behind me. The living room was dark now and I couldn’t see her.

“Yeah?”

“What were you doing out so late, anyway?”

“Norman and I were finishing the painting,” I told her. “It’s done.”

“Great,” she said, yawning.

“He’s making me dinner tomorrow,” I added softly. “We have, like, a date.”

“Really?” Now she sounded more awake. “What time?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Dinnertime, I guess.” Norman was never one for exactness, exactly.

“Come here first,” she said. I could hear her turning over, her voice muffled as she settled in. “And I’ll help you get ready.”

“You will?”

“Absolutely.” Now she was drifting off, her voice soft. “Everything will be fine tomorrow. Just fine.”

I shut the door softly and crossed the lawn, cutting through the hedge to Mira’s. I passed her bedroom on the way to mine; she’d fallen asleep with the light on, listening to a tape on her headphones, one of which—of course—was missing an earpad. It was still running as I turned her Walkman over and peered down at it, recognizing the tape instantly. I slipped the headphones off and pulled the blanket over her, then lifted them to my own ears, closing my eyes at the sound of my mother’s voice.

“I don’t believe in failure,” she was saying in that confident, breezy way. “Because simply by saying you’ve failed, you’ve admitted you attempted. And anyone who attempts is not a failure. Those who truly fail in my eyes are the ones who never try at all. The ones who sit on the couch and whine and moan and wait for the world to change for them.”

I smiled. I had heard those words so many times before. And as I kept listening, I walked to Mira’s window and looked at the moon.

It hung brightly in the sky, a bit yellow, ripe and waiting for me. Then I glanced down at the little house. The porch light was on now, and I could see someone sitting on the steps. Someone with her head in her hands, a dirty lei around her neck, sitting under the light of Mira’s moon.

“If you try anything,” my mother went on, her voice building, “if you try to lose weight, or to improve yourself, or to love, or to make the world a better place, you have already achieved something wonderful, before you even begin. Forget failure. If things don’t work out the way you want, hold your head up high and be proud. And try again. And again. And again!”

Try again, I thought, thinking of my night with Norman as I looked down at Morgan, remembering how she’d been so happy that Mark had chosen her. And I wondered where that shiny ring was now.

Try again.

Chapter fourteen

The next morning Norman and I were the only ones who showed up for work. Morgan was on the schedule, but I opened alone; luckily it was slow, so I could handle it by myself. I’d thought it might be strange to be with Norman now, but it wasn’t. We just ate fat-free potato chips and played Hangman, listening to the radio while he huddled over a grocery list—secretive as ever—planning the Big Dinner. Still, I was glad when two-thirty came and I could close up and go home to find out what was going on.

“It’s crazy, Mira,” I heard Isabel say as soon as I walked in. “This morning I get up and drive all the way to Starbucks just to get her some of that special snotty coffee she likes so much, and she locks me out! She’s been over there crying and playing Patsy Cline ever since. This is bad, Mira. This is really bad.”

I walked in to the back room and saw Mira sitting at her drafting table, with Isabel on the couch beside her. They were both drinking iced tea with somber looks on their faces. Through the window facing the little house I could hear music. Sad music.

“Her heart is broken,” Mira said, sticking her pen in her hair. “You’re just going to have to ride it out.”

“But I should be there. I’ve always been there when she was upset like this. I just don’t get why this is suddenly all my fault.” Isabel looked terrible; her hair was in a sloppy ponytail and she was wearing jeans, a torn red T-shirt, and no makeup whatsoever. She saw me looking and snapped, “I thought I was only going out for a second.”

“Fine,” I said. I was not going to get on her bad side today.

“She has to blame someone,” Mira explained.

“Then blame Mark!” Isabel slammed down her tea glass. “He’s the one who cheated on her, married someone else and got her pregnant. All I ever did was—”

“Tell her he was no good. That he was lying to her. That she was going to get hurt,” Mira filled in. She shook her head ruefully. “Don’t you see, Isabel? She’s embarrassed. She’s humiliated. And when she looks at you, she knows you were right all along.”