The girl on the steps turned her head. “On the kitchen counter,” she called out in a clear voice. “In the box with the realtor’s stuff.”

“The box with—” The voice came back, uneven, as if its owner was moving around. “—the realtor’s stuff, hmmm, honey I don’t think it’s here. Oh, wait. Yes. Here it is!” The woman sounded triumphant, as if she’d discovered the North-west Passage, which we’d just learned about at the end of the school year.

The girl turned back and looked at me, kind of shaking her head. I remember thinking for the first time how she seemed old for her age, older than me. And I got that familiar fiendette pink-bicycle feeling.

“Hey,” she said to me suddenly, just as I was planning to turn back and head home. “My name’s Scarlett.”

“I’m Halley,” I said, trying to sound as bold as she had. I’d never had a friend with an unusual name; all the girls in my classes were Lisas and Tammys, Carolines and Kimberlys. “I live over there.” I pointed across the street, right to my bedroom window.

She nodded, then picked up her purse and scooted down a bit on the step, brushing it off with her hand and leaving just enough space for someone else about the same size. And then she looked at me and smiled, and I crossed that short expanse of summer grass and sat beside her, facing my house. We didn’t talk right away, but that was okay; we had a whole lifetime of talking ahead of us. I just sat there with her, staring across the street at my house, my garage, my father pushing the mower past the rosebushes. All the things I’d spent my life learning by heart. But now, I had Scarlett. And from that day on, nothing ever looked the same.

The minute I hung up with Scarlett, I called my mother. She was a therapist, an expert on adolescent behavior. But even with her two books, dozens of seminars, and appearances on local talk shows advising parents on how to handle The Difficult Years, my mother hadn’t quite found the solution for dealing with me.

It was 1:15 A.M. when I called.

“Hello?” Strangely, my mother sounded wide awake. It was all part of that professional manner she cultivated: I’m capable. I’m strong. I’m awake.

“Mom?”

“Halley? What’s wrong?” There was some mumbling in the background; my father, rousing himself.

“It’s Michael Sherwood, Mom.”

“Who?”

“He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?” More mumbling, this time louder. My father saying Who’s dead? Who?

“Michael Sherwood,” I said. “My friend.”

“Oh, goodness.” She sighed, and I heard her telling my father to go back to sleep, her hand cupping the receiver. “Honey, I know, it’s horrible. It’s awfully late—where are you calling from?”

“The camp office,” I said. “I need you to come get me.”

“Get you?” she said. She sounded surprised. “You’ve still got another week, Halley.”

“I know, but I want to come home.”

“Honey, you’re tired, it’s late—” and now she was lapsing into her therapist voice, a change I could recognize after all these years—“why don’t you call me back tomorrow, when you’ve had a chance to calm down. You don’t want to leave camp early.”

“Mom, he’s dead,” I said again. Each time I said the word Ruth, the camp director who was still standing beside me, put on her soothing face.

“I know, sweetie. It’s awful. But coming home isn’t going to change that. It will just disrupt your summer, and there’s no point—”

“I want to come home,” I said, talking over her. “I need to come home. Scarlett called to tell me. She needs me.” My throat was swelling up now, hurting with its ache. She didn’t understand. She never understood.

“Scarlett has her mother, Halley. She’ll be fine. Honey, it’s so late. Are you with someone? Is your counselor there?”

I took a deep breath, and all I could see in my mind was Michael, a boy I hardly knew, whose death now seemed to mean everything. I thought of Scarlett in her bright kitchen, waiting for me. This was crucial.

“Please,” I whispered over the line, hiding my face from Ruth, not wanting this strange woman to feel any sorrier for me. “Please come get me.”

“Halley.” She sounded tired now, almost irritated. “Go to sleep and I’ll call you tomorrow. We can discuss it then.”

“Say you’ll come,” I said, not wanting her to hang up. “Just say you’ll come. He was our friend, Mom.”

She was quiet then, and I could picture her sitting in bed next to the sleeping form of my father, probably in her blue nightgown, the light from Scarlett’s kitchen visible from the window over her shoulder. “Oh, Halley,” she said as if I always caused these kinds of problems; as if my friends died every day. “All right. I’ll come.”

“You will?”

“I just said I would,” she told me, and I knew this would strain us even further, a battle hard-won. “Let me talk to your counselor.”

“Okay.” I looked over at Ruth, who was close to dozing off. “Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

Silence. I would pay for this one for a while, I could tell. “It’s all right. Let me talk to her.”

So I handed the phone over to Ruth, then stood outside the door listening as she reassured my mother that it was fine, I’d be packed and ready, and what a shame, how awful, so young. Then I went back to my cabin, creeping onto my cot in the dark, and closed my eyes.