I stepped into the kitchen and closed the door. I dripped all over the floor. Dad freaked out about stuff like this. Someone might slip! I’d have to find a towel in the laundry room and drag it behind me all the way to the den—unless, of course, he heard me come in and called to me to ask me how my night went. Then I’d have an excuse to skip the towel. I could sit in his lap, even though I was soaked. I could break down, and he could tell me what to do about Adam.

He didn’t call to me. Maybe he hadn’t heard me in my bare feet. I opened and closed some kitchen drawers gratuitously. Still he didn’t call to me.

I gave up, got a towel out of the laundry room, and scooted it across the floor with my feet, catching the water that dripped from me. As I headed through the den to the stairs up to my room, I saw Dad. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the TV, cell phone gripped on his chest. I was on my own.

I walked up the stairs, which took more energy than usual. There were a lot of stairs. Thirteen, to be exact:

1. Made

2. You

3. Change

4. From

5. What

6. You

7. Were

8. In

9. To

10. A

11. First

12. Class

13. Bitch

By the time I got to the top, I was pooped, and not furious anymore. Confused and hurt about Tammy. Hurt and sad about Adam.

A long time passed before I realized I was standing in my dark room, listening to the laughter and music from the party outside.

Closing my door behind me, I slid my wet clothes off. Oh God, dead wet cell phone in my skirt pocket. There went my birthday money from my grandparents. I didn’t need to turn on the light to find my mother’s sweet sixteen disco dress in my closet, because it practically glowed in the dark. I slipped it on and walked to the window.

Sean and Adam lay on that strip of grass between our yards where they liked to fight each other because their mom couldn’t see them from their house. Adam and Sean had finally killed each other! No—Adam’s arms were behind his head. Sean’s legs were bent, with one foot propped casually on the opposite knee. They watched the stars, talking.

Talking!

Adam sat up. He wore his sweatshirt with his football number on the back, the one I’d borrowed last weekend. He shook a little like he was shivering again. He stuck his hands in his pockets. He pulled out one hand and looked at it, then looked over his shoulder at my house. He’d found my eyelash comb.

Maybe he saw my dress glowing in the moonlight, because he turned all the way around to stare. Now Sean sat up and turned around, too. Or maybe it was Sean and then Adam. I couldn’t tell them apart in the dark. It didn’t matter now, anyway. Bwa-ha-ha, I hope I creeped them out like Miss Havisham (Great Expectations, eighth grade English).

But one of them was Adam. Tingles crept up my arms and across my chest at the thought of him watching me. This would have to stop. Pining after Sean had been bad enough. At least I’d always thought pining after Sean would have a happy ending. I knew no good would come from pining after Adam. Plus it was a lot more real to me now, not a cartoon relationship lost but a real boyfriend, a real friend. I choked back a sob as my throat closed up.

I watched him for a little longer. Yes, I could tell him from Sean, even at a distance, even in the dark. The way he moved his head, the way he tapped his fingers on the ground in that fidget I’d fallen in love with. That could have been me instead of Sean, sitting with Adam in the dark. But there wasn’t a way to fix this.

Ten years from now, I’d be married to someone I’d met at college. Adam would be married to someone he’d met on the bomb squad. We’d all come home to visit our parents at Thanksgiving. Adam and I would see each other out on the docks. We would feel obliged to talk for a few minutes and laugh uncomfortably about this one summer that had ruined our friendship forever. And then we’d walk away.

I looked at the clock on my bedside table behind me. 12:02. I closed the window shade, blocking out the party and Sean and Adam. I slipped off the disco dress and folded it into a big box with the scrapbook Mom and I had made to fill in with pictures of my sixteenth birthday. Standing in a chair precariously balanced on books, mags, and Mr. Wuggles—God only knew what was under there, really—I slid the box onto a shelf in the top of my closet. Where it belonged.

I woke to Kelly Clarkson’s “Breakaway.”

My body had gotten used to waking at this time. I didn’t remember my dreams.

I would miss them.

But I tried to shake it off. I tried not to wish Adam would show up with a birthday present for me—even though I’d forgotten to get one for him! I would have the usual birthday breakfast with Dad and McGillicuddy, just like every year, and then I’d try to get through my first-ever day of avoiding my ex-best friend. While I worked at his parents’ marina. And he worked there too. Easy.

For breakfast, Dad made me pancakes with blueberries in the shape of smiley faces, because he was a dork. Between the butter and the syrup, McGillicuddy handed me a long tube-shaped present. Actually it was just a wrapping paper tube with the wrapping paper still on it, and something rolled up inside. Boys were like that. He saw my look and shrugged. “It would have been a waste of perfectly good wrapping paper. This worked.”

Still giving him the look, I pulled out the contents of the tube and unrolled a wakeboarding poster. “Dallas Friday!” I exclaimed. “Dallas Friday shattered her femur doing a whirlybird.”

“I thought it was perfect for the occasion,” McGillicuddy said. “Fearless.”

Dad cleared his throat and pushed a little box across the table to me. It was beautifully wrapped with an intricate bow that most girls would keep on their bulletin boards. Obviously wrapped in a store. I slipped the bow off intact and tried to unstick the paper without tearing it. It tore by accident and then, what the hell, I ripped it off.

I flipped open the velvet ring box. Inside was a silver ring with pearls and diamonds. It looked real. Was I supposed to bite it to make sure? No, that was gold coins in cowboy movies. It also looked vaguely familiar. “You didn’t get this at the store.”

“I had them check the settings,” Dad said. “They cleaned it and wrapped it for you.”

I examined the ring more closely. “It belonged to Mom.”

“Her parents gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday.”

I looked into his eyes, so full of concern. We had a touching moment. Then of course McGillicuddy dropped his fork and went under the table to hunt for it, and it was hard to keep the touching moment going while McGillicuddy sat on my toes. “Ow!” I kicked him.

“When you were younger,” Dad said, “I thought you’d never wear it, because it wasn’t your style. Lately, I’m not so sure. I thought I should give you the choice.”

I freed it from the box and slipped it onto my finger. It was a crazy ring, diamonds glinting in contrast with the smooth pearls. And it was heavy. If I ever got in a fix in a dark alley, I could use it as brass knuckles. Or if I was cornered on a rooftop, I could hook it onto a clothesline and slide to freedom like James Bond. Don’t try this at home.

“I’ll wear it because it’s a part of me,” I said. “Thank you, Dad.” I walked around the table and hugged him. Then I sat back down, took another bite of pancake, and stared straight ahead at the empty chair.

And I realized for the first time ever that we kept an empty chair at the table. There were three of us. You would think we would have three chairs normally, and bring in a fourth when Adam came to dinner, which clearly wouldn’t be happening anymore. It wasn’t like the table was square, and a chair missing from the fourth side would be conspicuous. The table was round, and could have three chairs as easily as four or five or eight.

I was swallowing my pancakes in order to point this out when Dad said, “I need to tell you something, Bill. I don’t want you to see me on the bank during the wakeboarding show and wipe out because of the shock. We’ve had enough wakeboard falls for one lifetime.” He took a sip of coffee. “I have a date for the Crappie Festival.” He took another sip of coffee. “It’s Frances.”

I sat still, thinking back to that talk I’d had with Frances. She’d said, You’re the only one who comes to visit. Except—

McGillicuddy didn’t budge, either. Dad must have taken our nonreaction as disapproval. “I never said anything while she worked here,” he hurried on. “I never did anything. We were coping so well, for a grieving family—”

“Except for when you sent me to the shrink,” I pointed out.

He continued more loudly, “—and I was terrified of messing that up.” He turned to McGillicuddy. “But now you’ve got a foot or two out the door.” He turned to me. “And you’re—” He sighed. “Grown. I thought it would be okay now.” He took still another sip of coffee, nonchalant, but his eyes darted to McGillicuddy and me in turn. “Even if it’s not okay, I’m still going out with her.”

We sat in silence a few moments more. Then McGillicuddy hollered, “Fanny the Nanny!”

“It’s all very Jane Eyre of you, Dad,” I said. McGillicuddy had read Jane Eyre in ninth grade English, and then I’d read it in ninth grade English. We’d wished we had Frances back just so we could make Jane Eyre jokes.

McGillicuddy snorted. “Hide the lighter fluid.”

“Check the attic,” I said.

Dad sat back in his chair, relaxing a little.

“No wonder she used to get so mad when Sean sang to her from The Sound of Music,” McGillicuddy said.

“Does this mean we have to start drinking soy milk again?” I asked Dad.

“I’m glad we’ve gotten this settled,” Dad said. “Bill, what’d you dream about?”

McGillicuddy blinked at the change of subject. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” I grinned.

“She’s a real person.”

I took this as my cue to head for the marina. Dad would probably coax the dream out of McGillicuddy—Dad was a lawyer, after all—and I didn’t particularly want to hear just then about Tammy beating McGillicuddy at wrestling in chocolate pudding.

But McGillicuddy stood when I did. Dad looked up at him and said, “You take care of your sister today.”

McGillicuddy shrugged. “How?”

Dad looked at me. “And you watch out for those boys.”

It was way too early in the morning for a breakdown, so I squeezed my eyes shut to hold back the tears and stepped out the door, calling, “I’m afraid I have nothing to be afraid of.”

20

In the garage, balanced on the handle of the seed spreader, looking out of place between the lawn mower and the tiller, was a long-stemmed pink rose.

McGillicuddy passed me. I called, “Tammy left you a gag gift.”

He hardly glanced at the rose on his way out the garage door. “Pink isn’t my color.”

Frances must have left it as a joke for Dad, then. I should take it into the kitchen before it wilted. Almost wishing it were mine, I ran my finger across a soft petal. My hand found a pink ribbon tied around the stem, then a tag hanging from the ribbon. The tag said in Adam’s scrawl, “YES it’s for you.” I let a little laugh escape even as my eyes filled with tears.

He’d called me a bitch. I wasn’t running back to him when he left me one rose. On the other hand, there was no need to stuff it down the garbage disposal. Maybe Adam and I could be friends again after all. Someday. Besides, I adored the scent of roses: perfume and dirt. I put the blossom to my nose, inhaled deeply, grinned, and headed to work.

Another rose lay atop the woodpile.

A third was tied to an oak tree with a hangman’s noose fashioned from kudzu vine.

A fourth stuck out of a broken brick in the seawall.

A fifth lay across the handles of the doors into the marina. They all smelled so lovely, my blood pressure hardly went up when Mrs. Vader shrieked at me, “Where have you been?”

She must have freaked out because the marina was already swamped with customers. The Crappy Festivities today were divided among the town swimming park and the three biggest marinas on this section of the lake, including ours. We got the crowning of the Crappy Queen. I wished we got a more interesting event, such as the Crappy Toss. I could have thrown a dead fish as far up the beach as anybody. The Crappy Queen contest was just a bunch of high school girls parading up and down the wharf as Mr. Vader called their names and announced the weights of the biggest fish they’d caught all year, and what bait they’d used. At least the event did its job of bringing customers in.

Well, if Mrs. Vader wanted me there sooner, she should have told me the day before. “Where have I been?” I repeated. “I get asked that a lot for some reason.”

She took the roses from me without comment and shoved me into the showroom, where a small crowd of people in shorts and flip-flops milled between the displays. “It’s been a revolving door in here since we opened this morning,” she hissed. “People want to buy wakeboards, and they want to buy them from you.”

“Wow! Really?” I’d feel a little guilty selling people wakeboards, considering my experience two days before. But after all, my wreck was caused by a brain cloud and a broken heart, not equipment failure. I patted my head to make sure my bangs hung down over my stitches.

“Yes, really!” Mrs. Vader said. “Adam’s been covering for you, but he just mumbles at customers.”

“Where is Ad—,” I started to ask. Then I saw his broad back, and the door to the warehouse closed behind him. Where he’d stood, a rose protruded from behind a Liquid Force on the wall.