First published in the USA by Dial Books 2015

This edition published 2015 by Electric Monkey,

an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © Huntley Fitzpatrick 2015.

Published by arrangement with Dial, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

First e-book edition 2016

ISBN 978 1 4052 8039 6

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1739 7

www.egmont.co.uk

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To my mother, who knew how to love. And had a weakness for troublemakers with hearts of gold.

To my father, who has always loved and admired strong women.

And to Georgia Funsten and Patricia Young, the smartest and strongest women I know.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Back series promotional page

Chapter One

I’ve been summoned to see the Nowhere Man.

He’s at his desk when I step inside the gray cave of his office, his back turned.

“Uh, Pop?”

He holds up his hand, keeps scribbling on a blue-lined pad.

Standard operating procedure.

I flick my eyes around the room: the mantel, the carpet, the bookshelves, the window; try to find a comfortable place to land.

No dice.

Ma’s fond of “cute” – teddy bears in seasonal outfits and pillows with little sayings and shit she gets on QVC. They’re everywhere. Except here, a room spliced out of John Grisham, all leather-bound, only muted light through the shades. August heat outdoors, but no hint of that allowed here. I face the rear of Pop’s neck, hunch further into the gray, granite-hard sofa, rub my eyes, sink back on my elbows.

On his desk, three pictures of Nan, my twin, at various ages – poofy red curls, missing teeth, then baring them in braces. Always worried eyes. Two more of her on the wall, straightened hair, expensive white smile, plus a framed newspaper clipping of her after delivering a speech at this summer’s Stony Bay Fourth of July thing.

No pics of me.

Were there ever? Can’t remember. In the bad old days, I always got high before a father/son office visit.

Clear my throat.

Crack my knuckles.

“Pop? You asked to see me?”

He actually startles. “Tim?”

“Yep.”

Swiveling the chair, he looks at me. His eyes, like Nan’s and my own, are gray. Match his hair. Match his office.

“So,” he says.

I wait. Try not to scope out the bottle of Macallan on the . . . what do you call it. Sidebar? Sideboard? Generally, Ma brings in the ice in the little silver bucket thing ten minutes after he gets home from work, six p.m., synched up like those weird-ass cuckoo clock people who pop out of their tiny wooden doors, dead on schedule when the clock strikes, so Pop can have the first of his two scotches ready to go.

Today must be special. It’s only three o’clock and there’s the bucket, oozing cool sweat like I am. Even when I was little I knew he’d leave the second drink half-finished. So I could slurp down the last of the scotchy ice water without him knowing while he was washing his hands before dinner. Can’t remember when I started doing that, but it was well before my balls dropped.

“Ma said you wanted to talk.”

He brushes some invisible whatever from his knee, like his attention’s already gone. “Did she say why?”

I clear my throat again. “Because I’m moving out? Planning to do that. Today.” Ten minutes ago, ideally.

His eyes return to mine. “Do you think this is the best choice for you?”

Classic Nowhere Man. Moving out was hardly my choice. His ultimatum, in fact. The only “best choice” I’ve made lately was to stop drinking. Etc.

But Pop likes to tack and turn, and no matter that this was his order, he can shove that rudder over without even looking and make me feel like shit.

“I asked you a question, Tim.”

“It’s fine. It’s a good idea.”

Pop steeples his fingers, sets his chin on them, my chin, cleft and all. “How long has it been since you got kicked out of Ellery Prep?”

“Uh. Eight months.” Early December. Hadn’t even unpacked my suitcase from Thanksgiving break.

“Since then you’ve had how many jobs?”

Maybe he doesn’t remember. I fudge it. “Um. Three.”

“Seven,” Pop corrects.

Damn.

“How many of those were you fired from?”

“I still have the one at –”

He pivots in his chair, halfway back to his desk, frowns down at his cell phone. “How many?”

“Well, I quit the senator’s office, so really only five.”

Pop twists back around, lowers the phone, studies me over his reading glasses. “I’m very clear on the fact that you left that job. You say ‘only’ like it’s something to brag about. Fired from five out of seven jobs since February. Kicked out of three schools . . . do you know that I’ve never been let go from a job in my life? Never gotten a bad performance review? A grade lower than a B? Neither has your sister.”

Right. Perfect old Nano. “My grades were always good,” I say. My eyes stray again to the Macallan. Need something to do with my hands. Rolling a joint would be good.

“Exactly,” Pop says. He jerks from the chair, nearly as angular and almost as tall as me, drops his glasses on the desk with a clatter, runs his hands quickly through his short hair, then focuses on scooping out ice and measuring scotch.

I catch a musky, iodine-y whiff of it, and man, it smells good.

“You’re not stupid, Tim. But you sure act that way.”

Yo-kay . . . he’s barely spoken to me all summer. Now he’s on my nuts? But I should try. I drag my eyes off the caramel-colored liquid in his glass and back to his face.

“Pop. Dad. I know I’m not the son you would have . . . special ordered –”

“Would you like a drink?”

He sloshes more scotch into another glass, uncharacteristically careless, sets it out on the Columbia University coaster on the side table next to the couch, slides it toward me. He tips his own glass to his lips, then places it neatly on his coaster, almost completely chugged.

Well, this is fucked up.

“Uh, look.” My throat’s so tight, my voice comes out weird – husky, then high-pitched. “I haven’t had a drink or anything like that since the end of June, so that’s, uh, fifty-nine days, but who’s counting. I’m doing my best. And I’ll –”

Pop has steepled his hands and is scrutinizing the fish tank against the wall.

I’m boring him.

“And I’ll keep doin’ it . . .” I trail off.

There’s a long pause. During which I have no idea what he’s thinking. Only that my best friend is on his way over, and my Jetta in the driveway is seeming more and more like a getaway car.

“Four months,” Pop says, in this, like, flat voice, like he’s reading it off a piece of paper. Since he’s turned back to look down at his desk, it’s possible.

“Um . . . yes . . . What?”

“I’m giving you four months from today to pull your life together. You’ll be eighteen in December. A man. After that, unless I see you acting like one – in every way – I’m cutting off your allowance, I’ll no longer pay your health and car insurance, and I’ll transfer your college fund into your sister’s.”

Not as though there was ever a welcome mat under me, but whatever the fuck was there has been yanked out and I’m slammed down hard on my ass.

Wait . . . what?

A man by December. Like, poof, snap, shazam. Like there’s some expiration date on . . . where I am now.

“But –” I start.

He checks his Seiko, hitting a button, maybe starting the countdown. “Today is August twenty-fourth. That gives you until just before Christmas.”

“But –”

He holds up his hand, like he’s slapping the off button on my words. It’s ultimatum number two or nothing.

No clue what to say anyway, but it doesn’t matter, because the conversation is over.

We’re done here.

Unfold my legs, yank myself to my feet, and I head for the door on autopilot.

Can’t get out of the room fast enough.

For either of us, apparently.

Ho, ho, ho to you too, Pop.

Chapter Two

“You’re really doing this?”

I’m shoving the last of my clothes into a cardboard box when my ma comes in, without knocking, because she never does. Risky as hell when you have a horny seventeen-year-old son. She hovers in the doorway, wearing a pink shirt and this denim skirt with – what are those? Crabs? – sewn all over it.

“Just following orders, Ma.” I cram flip-flops into the stuffed box, push down on them hard. “Pop’s wish is my command.”

She takes a step back like I’ve slapped her. I guess it’s my tone. I’ve been sober nearly two months, but I have yet to go cold turkey on assholicism. Ha.

“You had so much I never had, Timothy . . .”

Away we go.

“. . . private school, swimming lessons, tennis camp . . .”

Yep, I’m an alcoholic high school dropout, but check out my backhand!

She shakes out the wrinkles in a blue blazer, one quick motion, flapping it into the air with an abrasive crack. “What are you going to do – keep working at that hardware store? Going to those meetings?”

She says “hardware store” like “strip club” and “going to those meetings” like “making those sex tapes.”

“It’s a good job. And I need those meetings.”

Ma’s hands start smoothing my stack of folded clothes. Blue veins stand out on her freckled, pale arms. “I don’t see what strangers can do for you that your own family can’t.”

I open my mouth to say: “I know you don’t. That’s why I need the strangers.” Or: “Uncle Sean sure could have used those strangers.” But we don’t talk about that, or him.

I shove a pair of possibly too-small loafers in the box and go over to give her a hug.

She pats my back, quick and sharp, and pulls away.

“Cheer up, Ma. Nan’ll definitely get into Columbia. Only one of your children is a fuck-up.”

“Language, Tim.”

“Sorry. My bad. Cock-up.”

“That,” she says, “is even worse.”

Okeydokey. Whatever.

My bedroom door flies open – again no knock.

“Some girl who sounds like she has laryngitis is on the phone for you, Tim,” Nan says, eyeing my packing job. “God, everything’s going to be all wrinkly.”

“I don’t care –” But she’s already dumped the cardboard box onto my bed.

“Where’s your suitcase?” She starts dividing stuff into piles. “The blue plaid one with your monogram?”

“No clue.”

“I’ll check the basement,” Ma says, looking relieved to have a reason to head for the door. “This girl, Timothy? Should I bring you the phone?”

I can’t think of any girl I have a thing to say to. Except Alice Garrett. Who definitely would not be calling me.

“Tell her I’m not home.”

Permanently.

Nan’s folding things rapidly, piling up my shirts in order of style. I reach out to still her hands. “Forget it. Not important.”

She looks up. Shit, she’s crying.

We Masons cry easily. Curse of the Irish (one of ’em). I loop one elbow around her neck, thump her on the back a little too hard. She starts coughing, chokes, gives a weak laugh.

“You can come visit me, Nano. Any time you need to . . . escape . . . or whatever.”

“Please. It won’t be the same,” Nan says, then blows her nose on the hem of my shirt.

It won’t. No more staying up till nearly dawn, watching old Steve McQueen movies because I think he’s badass and Nan thinks he’s hot. No Twizzlers and Twix and shit appearing in my room like magic because Nan knows massive sugar infusions are the only sure cure for drug addiction.

“Lucky for you. No more covering my lame ass when I stay out all night, no more getting creative with excuses when I don’t show for something, no more me bumming money off you constantly.”

Now she’s wiping her eyes with my shirt. I haul it off, hand it to her. “Something to remember me by.”

She actually folds that, then stares at the neat little square, all sad-faced. “Sometimes it’s like I’m missing everyone I ever met. I actually even miss Daniel. I miss Samantha.”

“Daniel was a pompous prickface and a crap boyfriend. Samantha, your actual best friend, is ten blocks and ten minutes away – shorter if you text her.”

She blows that off, hunkers down, pulling knobbly knees to her chest and lowering her forehead so her hair sweeps forward to cover her blotchy face. Nan and I are both ginger, but she got all the freckles, everywhere, while mine are only across my nose. She looks up at me with that face she does, all pathetic and quivery. I hate that face. It always wins.

“You’ll be fine, Nan.” I tap my temple. “You’re just as smart as me. Much less messed up. At least as far as most people know.”

Nan twitches back. We lock eyes. The elephant in the room lies bleeding out on the floor between us. Then she looks away, gets busy picking up another T-shirt to fold expertly, like the only thing that matters in the world is for the sleeves to align.

“Not really,” she says in a subdued voice. Not taking the bait there either, I guess.

I grope around the quilt on my bed, locate my cigs, light one, and take a deep drag. I know it’s all kinds of bad for me, but God, how does anyone get through the day without smoking? Setting the smoldering butt down in the ashtray, I tap her on the back again, gently this time.

“Hey now. Don’t stress. You know Pop. He wants to add it up and get a positive bottom line. Job. High school diploma. College-bound. Check, check, check. It only has to look good. I can pull that off.”

Don’t know if this is cheering my sister up, but as I talk, the squirming fireball in my stomach cools and settles. Fake it. That I can do.

Mom pops her head into the room. “That Garrett boy’s here. Heavens, put on a shirt, Tim.” She digs in a bureau drawer and thrusts a Camp Wyoda T-shirt I thought I’d ditched years ago at me. Nan leaps up, knuckling away her tears, pulling at her own shirt, wiping her palms on her shorts. She has a zillion twitchy habits – biting her nails, twisting her hair, tapping her pencils. I could always get by on a fake ID, a calm face, and a smile. My sister could look guilty saying her prayers. Feet on the stairs, staccato knock on the door – the one person who knocks! – and Jase comes in, swipes back his damp hair with the heel of one hand.

“Shit, man. We haven’t even started loading and you’re already sweating?”

“Ran here,” he says, hands planted hard his on kneecaps. He glances up. “Hey, Nan.”

Nan, who has turned her back, gives a quick, jerky nod. When she twists around to tumble more neatly balled socks into my cardboard box, her eyes stray to Jase, up, slowly down. He’s the guy girls always look at twice.

“You ran here? It’s like five miles from your house! Are you nuts?”

“Three, and nah.” Jase braces his forearm against the wall, bending his leg, holding his ankle, stretching out. “Seriously out of shape after sitting around the store all summer. Even after three weeks of training camp, I’m nowhere near up to speed.”

“You don’t seem out of shape,” Nan says, then shakes her head so her hair slips forward over her face. “Don’t leave without telling me, Tim.” She scoots out the door.

“You set?” Jase looks around the room, oblivious to my sister’s hormone spike.

“Uh . . . I guess.” I look around too, frickin’ blank. All I can think to take is my clamshell ashtray. “The clothes, anyway. I suck at packing.”

“Toothbrush?” Jase suggests mildly. “Razor. Books, maybe? Sports stuff.”

“My lacrosse stick from Ellery Prep? Don’t think I’ll need it.” I tap out another cigarette.

“Bike? Skateboard? Swim gear?” Jase glances over at me, smile flashing in the flare of my lighter.

Mom barges back in so fast, the door knocks against the wall. An umbrella and a huge yellow slicker are draped over one arm, an iron in one hand. “You’ll want these. Should I pack you blankets? What happened to that nice boy you were going to move in with, anyway?”

“Didn’t work out.” As in: that nice boy, my AA buddy Connell, relapsed on both booze and crack, called me all slurry and screwed up, full of blurry suck-ass excuses, so he’s obviously out. The garage apartment is my best option.

“Is there even any heat in that ratty place?”

“Jesus God, Ma. You haven’t even seen the frickin’ –”

“It’s pretty reliable,” Jase says, not even wincing. “It was my brother’s, and Joel likes his comforts.”

“All right. I’ll . . . leave you two boys to – carry on.” She pauses, runs her hand through her hair, showing half an inch of gray roots beneath the red. “Don’t forget to take the stenciled paper Aunt Nancy sent in case you need to write thank-you notes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ma. Uh, forgetting, I mean.”

Jase bows his head, smiling, then shoulders the cardboard box.

“What about pillows?” she says. “You can tuck those right under the other arm, can’t you, a big strapping boy like you?”

Christ.

He obediently raises an elbow and she rams two pillows into his armpit.

“I’ll throw all this in the Jetta. Take your time, Tim.”

I scan the room one last time. Tacked to the corkboard over my desk is a sheet of paper with the words THE BOY MOST LIKELY TO scrawled in red marker at the top. One of the few days last fall I remember clearly – hanging with a bunch of my (loser) friends at Ellery out by the boathouse where they stowed the kayaks (and the stoners). We came up with our antidote to those stupid yearbook lists: Most likely to be a millionaire by twenty-five. Most likely to star in her own reality show. Most likely to get an NFL contract. Don’t know why I kept the thing.

I pop the list off the wall, fold it carefully, jam it into my back pocket.

Nan emerges as soon as Jase, who’s been waiting for me in the foyer, opens the creaky front door to head out.

“Tim,” she whispers, cool hand wrapping around my forearm. “Don’t vanish.” As if when I leave our house I’ll evaporate like fog rising off the river.

Maybe I will.

By the time we pull into the Garretts’ driveway, I’ve burned through three cigarettes, hitting up the car lighter for the next before I’ve chucked the last. If I could have smoked all of them at once, I would’ve.

“You should kick those,” Jase says, looking out the window, not pinning me with some accusatory face.

I make to hurl the final butt, then stop myself.

Yeah, toss it next to little Patsy’s Cozy Coupe and four-year-old George’s midget baby blue bike with training wheels. Plus, George thinks I’ve quit.

“Can’t,” I tell him. “Tried. Besides, I’ve already given up drinking, drugs, and sex. Gotta have a few vices or I’d be too perfect.”

Jase snorts. “Sex? Don’t think you have to give that up.” He opens the passenger-side door, starts to slide out.

“The way I did it, I do. Gotta stop messing with any chick with a pulse.”

Now Jase looks uncomfortable. “That was an addiction too?” he asks, half in, half out the door, nudging the pile of old newspapers on the passenger side with the toe of one Converse.

“Not in the sense that I, like, had to have it, or whatever. It was just . . another way to blow stuff off. Numb out.”

He nods like he gets it, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. Gotta explain. “I’d get wasted at parties. Hook up with girls I didn’t like or even know. It was never all that great.”

“Guess not” – he slides out completely – “if you’re with someone you don’t even like or know. Might be different if you were sober and actually cared.”

“Yeah, well.” I light up one last cigarette. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Chapter Three

“There is,” I say through my teeth, “an owl in the freezer. Can any of you guys explain this to me?”

Three of my younger brothers stare back at me. Blank walls. My younger sister doesn’t look up from texting.

I repeat the question.

“Harry put it there,” Duff says.

“Duff told me to,” Harry says.

George, my youngest brother, cranes his neck. “What kind of owl? Is it dead? Is it white like Hedwig?”

I poke at the rock-solid owl, which is wrapped in a frosty freezer bag. “Very dead. Not white. And someone ate all the frozen waffles and put the box back in empty again.”

They all shrug, as if this is as much of an unsolvable mystery as the owl.

“Let’s try again. Why is this owl in the freezer?”

“Harry’s going to bring it in for show-and-tell when school starts,” Duff says.

“Sanjay Sapati brought in a seal skull last year. This is way better. You can still see its eyeballs. They’re only a little rotted.” Harry stirs his oatmeal, frowning down at what I’ve tried to pass off as a fun “breakfast for lunch” occasion. He upturns the spoon, shakes it, but the glob of cereal sticks, thick as paste, stubborn as my brother. Harry holds the spoon out toward me, accusingly.

“You get what you get and you don’t get upset,” I say to him.

“But I do. I do get upset. This is nasty, Alice.”

“Just eat it,” I say, clinging to patience with all my fingernails. This is all temporary. Just until Dad gets a bit better, until Mom doesn’t have to be in three places at once. “It’s healthy,” I add, but I have to agree with my seven-year-old brother. We’re way overdue for a grocery run. The fridge has nothing but eggs, applesauce, and ketchup, the cabinet is bare of anything but Joel’s protein-enhanced oatmeal. And the only thing in the freezer is . . . a dead bird.

“We can’t have an owl in here, guys.” I scramble for Mom’s reasonable tone. “It’ll make the ice cream taste bad.”

“Can we have ice cream instead of this?” Harry pushes, sticking his spoon into the oatmeal, where it pokes out like a gravestone on a gray hill.

I try to sell it as “the kind of porridge the Three Bears ate,” but George and Harry are skeptical, Duff, at eleven, is too old for all that, and Andy wrinkles her nose and says, “I’ll eat later. I’m too nervous now anyway.”

“It’s lame to be nervous about Kyle Comstock,” Duff says. “He’s a boob.”

“Boooooob, ” Patsy repeats from her high chair, the eighteen-month-old copycat.

“You don’t understand anything,” Andy says, leaving the kitchen, no doubt to try on yet another outfit before sailing camp awards. Six hours away from now.

“Who cares what she wears? It’s the stupid sailing awards,” Duff grumbles. “This stuff is vomitous, Alice. It’s like gruel. Like what they make Oliver Twist eat.”

“He wanted more,” I point out.

“He was starving, ” Duff counters.

“Look, stop arguing and eat the damn stuff.”

George’s eyes go big. “Mommy doesn’t say that word. Daddy says not to.”

“Well, they aren’t here, are they?”

George looks mournfully down at his oatmeal, poking at it with his spoon like he might find Mom and Dad in there.

“Sorry, Georgie,” I say repentantly. “How about some eggs, guys?”

“No!” they all say at once. They’ve had my eggs before. Since Mom has been spending a lot of time at either doctors’ appointments for herself or doctor and physical therapy consults for Dad, they’ve suffered through the full range of my limited culinary talents.

“I’ll get rid of the owl if you give us money to eat breakfast in town,” Duff says.

“Alice, look!” Andy says despairingly, “I knew this wouldn’t fit.” She hovers in the doorway in the sundress I loaned her, the front sagging. “When do I get off the itty-bitty-titty committee? You did before you were even thirteen.” She sounds accusatory, like I used up the last available bigger chest size in the family.

“Titty committee?” Duff starts laughing. “Who’s on that? I bet Joel is. And Tim.”

“You are so immature that listening to you actually makes me younger,” Andy tells him. “Alice, help! I love this dress. You never lend it to me. I’m going to die if I can’t wear it.” She looks wildly around the kitchen. “Do I stuff it? With what?”

“Breadcrumbs?” Duff is still cracking up. “Oatmeal? Owl feathers?”

I point the oatmeal spoon at her. “Never stuff. Own your size.”

“I want to wear this dress.” Andy scowls at me. “It’s perfect. Except it doesn’t fit. There. Do you have anything else? That’s flatter?”

“Did you ask Samantha?” I glare at Duff, who is shoving several kitchen sponges down his shirt. Harry, who doesn’t get what’s going on – I hope – but is happy to join in on tormenting Andy, is wadding up some diapers from Patsy’s clean stack and following suit. My brother’s girlfriend has much more patience than I do. Maybe because Samantha only has one sibling to deal with.

“She’s helping her mom take her sister to college – she probably won’t be back till tonight. Alice! What do I do?”

My jaw clenches at the mere mention of Grace Reed, Sam’s mom, the closest thing our family has to a nemesis. Or maybe it’s the owl. God. Get me out of here.

“I’m hungry,” Harry says. “I’m starving here. I’ll be dead by night.”

“It takes three weeks to starve,” George tells him, his air of authority undermined by his hot cocoa mustache.

“Ughhh. No one cares!” Andy storms away.

“She’s got the hormones going on,” Duff confides to Harry. Ever since hearing it from my mother, my little brothers treat “hormones” like a contagious disease.

My cell phone vibrates on the cluttered counter. Brad again. I ignore it, start banging open cabinets. “Look, guys, we’re out of everything, got it? We can’t go shopping until we get this week’s take-home from the store, and no one has time to go anyway. I’m not giving you money. So it’s oatmeal or empty stomachs. Unless you want peanut butter on toast.”

“Not again,” Duff groans, shoving away from the table and stalking out of the kitchen.

“Gross,” Harry says, doing the same, after accidentally knocking over his orange juice – and ignoring it.

How does Mom stand this? I pinch the muscles at the base of my neck, hard, close my eyes. Push away the most treacherous thought of all: Why does Mom stand this?

George is still doggedly trying to eat a spoonful of oatmeal, one rolled oat at a time.

“Don’t bother, G. You still like peanut butter, right?”

Breathing out a long sigh, world-weary at four, George rests his freckled cheek against his hand, watching me with a focus that reminds me of Jase. “You can make diamonds out of peanut butter. I readed about it.”

“Read,” I say automatically, replenishing the raisins I’d sprinkled on the tray of Patsy’s high chair.

“Yucks a dis,” she says, picking each raisin up with a delicate pincer grip and dropping it off the side of the high chair.

“Do you think we could make diamonds out of this peanut butter?” George asks hopefully as I open the jar of Jif.

“I wish, Georgie,” I say, looking at the empty cabinet over the window, and then noticing a dark blue Jetta pull into our driveway, the door kick open, a tall figure climb out, the sun hitting his rusty hair, lighting it like a match.

Fabulous. Exactly what we need for the flammable family mix. Tim Mason. The human equivalent of C-4.

We walk up the creaky garage stairs and Jase hauls a key out of his pocket, unlocks the door, flips on the lights. I brush past him and drop my cardboard box on the ground. Joel’s old apartment is low-ceilinged and decorated with milk crate bookcases, ugly couch, mini-fridge, microwave, denim beanbag chair with Sox logo, walls covered in Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue and all that – tits everywhere – and a gigantic iron weight rack with a shit-ton of weights.

“This is where Joel took all those au pairs? I thought he had better game than this massive cliché.”

Jase grimaces. “Welcome to Bootytown. Supposedly the nannies never minded because they expected it of American boys. Want me to help yank ’em down?”

“Nah, I can always count body parts if I have trouble sleeping.”

After a brief scope-out of the apartment, during which he makes a face and empties a few trash cans, he asks, “This gonna work for you?”

“Absolutely.” I reach into my pocket, pull out the lined paper list I snatched off my bulletin board, and slap it on the refrigerator, adios-ing a babe in hot pink spandex.

Jase scans my sign, shakes his head. “Mase . . . you know you can come on over anytime.”

“I’ve been to boarding school, Garrett. Not like I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Don’t be a dick,” he says mildly. He points in the direction of the bathroom. “The plumbing backs up sometimes. If the plunger doesn’t work, text, I can fix it. I repeat, you’re always welcome to head to our house. Or join me on the pre-dawn job. I gotta pick up Samantha now. She ended up not going to Vermont. Ride along?”

“With the perfect high school sweethearts? Nah. I think I’ll stay and see if I can break the plunger. Then I’ll text you.”

He flips me off, grins, and leaves.

Time to get my ass to a meeting. Better that than alone with a ton of airbrushed boobs and my unfiltered thoughts.

Chapter Four

When I walk up the Garretts’ overgrown lawn after the meeting – which only partially took the edge off – the first thing I see is Jase’s older sister, Alice, tanning in the front yard.

In a bikini.

Shockwave scarlet.

Straps untied.

Olive skin.

Toenails painted the color of fireballs.

Can I say there are few things on earth that cheer me up more than Alice Garrett in a bikini?

Except Alice without a bikini. Which I’ve never seen, but I’ve a hell of an imagination.

She’s almost asleep, in a tiny blue-and-green lawn chair, her head and her long, always-morphing hair (brown with blond streaks right now) flopping heavily to one side, curling shorter in the late-summer heat. Because I’m unscrupulous, I flop down on the grass next to her and take a good long look.

Oh, Alice.

After a few seconds, she opens her eyes, squints, flips her hand to her forehead to block the sun, stares at me.

“Now,” I tell her, “would be an excellent time to avoid unsightly tan lines. I stand ready to assist.”

“Now,” she says, with that killer smile, “would be an even better time to avoid lame come-ons.”

“Aw, Alice, I swear I’ll be there to soothe your regret for wasting time once you realize I’ve been right for you all along.”

“Tim, I’d chew you up and spit you out.” She slants forward, yanks the straps of her bikini behind her neck, ties them, and settles back. God. I almost can’t breathe.

But I can talk.

I can always talk.

“We could progress to that, Alice. But maybe we start with some gentle nibbling?”

Alice shuts her eyes, opens them again, and gives me an indecipherable look.

“Why don’t I scare you?” she asks.

“You do. You’re scary as hell,” I assure her. “But that works for me. Completely.”

She’s about to say something, but the family van pulls in just then, even more battered than usual. The right front fender has flaking paint. They’ve tried to put some rust primer around the sliding back door. The side looks like it’s been keyed. Both hubcap covers on this side are missing. Alice starts to get up, but I rest my hand on a smooth, brown shoulder, press her down.

“On it.”

She squints up at me, head cocked to the side, rubs her bottom lip with her finger. Then settles back in the chair. “Thanks.”

Mrs Garrett, wearing a bright blue beach cover-up type thing and a wigged-out face, climbs out of the van.

“Everything okay?” I ask, sort of a joke since there’s nothing but ear-melting screeching when I slide open the side door. Patsy, George, and Harry are all red-faced and sweaty. Patsy’s mouth is open in a huge O and she’s a sobbing mess. George also looks teary-eyed. Harry’s more like pissed off.

“I’m not a baby,” he announces to me.

“Clear on that, man.” Though he’s wearing bathing trunks with little red fire hats on them.

“She ” – he jabs a sandy finger at his mom – “made us leave the beach.”

“Patsy’s naptime, Harry. You know this. You can swim in the big pool for a while. Maybe we can get a cone at Castle’s after the sailing awards.”

“Pools aren’t cool,” Harry moans. “We left before the ice-cream truck, Mommy. They have Spider-Man Bomb Pops.” He stalks up the steps, his angry scrawny back all hunched over his skinny, little-dude legs. The screen door slams behind him.

“Whoa,” I say. “Child abuse.”

Mrs Garrett laughs. “I’m the meanest mom in the world. I have it on good authority.” Then she glances at George and leans into me, smelling like coconut sunscreen. At first I think she’s sniff-checking my breath, because that’s why adults ever get this close. Instead she whispers, “Don’t mention asteroids.”

Not my go-to conversation starter, so all good there.

But George is clutching a copy of Newsweek, his shoulders heaving. Patsy’s still shrieking. Mrs Garrett looks back and forth between them, like, who to triage first.

“I’ll take Screaming Mimi here,” I offer. Mrs Garrett shoots me a grateful smile and flicks open Patsy’s car seat. Good thing, since I know dick about car seats.

As soon as she’s freed, Patsy looks up at me and her sobs dry up, like that. She still does that hic-hic-hic thing, but reaches out both hands for me.

“Hon,” she says. Hic-hic-hic.

I don’t get why, but this kid loves me crazy much. I pick her up and her sweaty little hands settle on my cheeks, patting them gently, never mind the stubble.

“Oh Hon,” she says, all loving and shit, giving me her cute/scary grin with her pointy incisors, like a baby vampire.

Mrs Garrett smiles, swinging George out of the car onto her hip. He snuggles his head into her neck, magazine still rumpled in his clammy fingers.

“You’ll make a good dad, Tim. Someday in the far distant future.”

To cover a sudden embarrassing rush of . . . whatever . . . from the consoling weight of her hand on my back, I answer, “You better believe it. No the hell way am I adding knocking up some girl to my list of crimes and misdemeanors.”

The minute it’s out of my mouth I get that I’m an ass. Mrs Garrett still looks pretty frickin’ young and her oldest kid is twenty-two. Could be she got knocked up and had to get married.

Also, probably? Knocking up? Not a phrase you should use with parents.

“Always good to have a plan,” she answers, unfazed.

She carries George into the house, leaving me with Patsy, who tips her teary, soft cheek against my own, nuzzling. Alice still has her eyes closed and is evidently removing herself from this scene every way but physically.

“Hon,” Patsy says again, slanting back to plant a sloppy kiss on my shoulder, checking me out from under her dew-droppy eyelashes. “Boob?”

“Sorry, kid, can’t help you there.”

I avoid looking at Alice, who has again untied the top strings of her bikini. She yawns, stretches. The top edges down a little lower. No tan lines. I close my eyes for a second.

Pats grabs my ear, as if that’s a cool substitute for a boob. Could be. What do I know about babies? Or toddlers, or whatever you are when you’re one and a half. Could be it’s all about holding on to something and doesn’t matter much what you grab. I, of all people, get that.

Chapter Five

“Alice?”

“Dad?”

“Recognized your Gators,” he says.

“Crocs, Dad.”

“Those. Come on in.”

I brush aside the stiff hospital curtain. Even nearly a month after the car accident, I still have to struggle to pull on the “all is well” nurse face I never dreamed I’d need with my own father. He looks a lot better. Fewer tubes, color better, bruises faded away. But Dad in a hospital bed still makes my stomach crimp and my lungs too heavy to pull in air. Before all this, I’d almost never seen him lying down, not in motion. Now the only thing that moves is one hand, stroking Mom’s hair. She’s asleep, nestled tight against him in the tiny, cramped bed.

“Shh,” Dad says. “She’s beat.”

She’s totally out, for sure. One arm hooked behind his neck, one wrapped around his waist.

“You too, hmm?” His voice is still faintly slurry, but gentle, the same steadying sound that got me through kid-nightmares, mean teachers, and Sophie McCade in eighth grade spreading rumors I’d had boob implants during the summer.

“I could ask you the same, Dad.”

He makes a scoffing sound. “I lounge around all day.”

“You have a broken pelvis. Not to mention lung damage from a pulmonary embolism. You’re not exactly eating bonbons.”

He peers at me, shifting aside Mom’s hair so he can look me more clearly in the eye. “What are bonbons? I’ve heard it and I’ve never known.”

“I have no idea, actually. But if I figure it out and bring you some, will you eat them?”

“I will if you will. We could make a contest of it. ‘My boy says he can eat fifty eggs . . .’ ”

“No, God. No Cool Hand Luke. What it is with that movie? Every male I know has, like, a thing with it.”

“We all like to believe we have a winning hand, Alice,” he says, dragging up the pillow behind him one-handed and giving it a hard punch to fluff it up.

“Say no more.” I reach for the cards in their familiar, worn box, next to the pink hospital-issue carafe of water, the kidney-shaped trough to spit into after tooth brushing, the clutter of empty, one-ounce pill cups, and the roll of medical tape to re-bandage his IV shunt. Nothing like home, his nightstand piled with wobbly, homemade, clay penholders and mugs, heaps of sci-fi books, the picture of him and Mom in high school, big curly hair on her, leather jacket on him.

“I haven’t the heart to break your streak,” he says with that grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes before overtaking his entire face. “The painkillers gave you an unfair advantage.”

“I’m six for seven, Dad. Is it your painkillers or my raw talent?” I smile.

“Well, I’m off ’em now. So we’ll see.” He edges to one side a bit and his face goes sheet-white. He looks up at the ceiling, his lips moving, counting away the pain, taking deep breaths.

“Pant, pant, blow,” I murmur. Labor breathing. Everyone in our family knows it.

“Whoo, who, hee.” Dad’s voice is tight. “God knows I should have that one down.”

“And yet Mom says you still don’t.” I try for another smile but it slips a little, so I focus on the cards, shuffling them once, twice, three times. “Do you want me to call your nurse?”

He reaches out for the cards, takes them, and does his famous one-handed shuffle.

“Only if she’s got bonbons. Look, they’re kicking me out of here soon,” he says abruptly. “Not enough beds, I’ve outstayed my welcome, I’m all fixed now. Not sure what the latest explanation is.”

“And then –?”

“Home,” he says on a sigh. “Or a rehab facility. They’ve left it up to us.” He glances down at Mom, smiles, the same grin as in the SBH photo, tucks the hanging-out tag of her dress under the neckline. She nestles closer.

“Rehab’s covered by our deal with the devil,” I point out. Our devil may be a tall, blond, conservative state senator, but facts are facts.

“You can’t think of it that way, Alice.” He shakes his head, winces.

Still in pain, no matter how often he says it’s not a problem. The last of his summer tan is fading, the line of his jaw cuts sharper, his shoulders locked in rigid lines. He looks at least four years older than he did four weeks ago and it’s all that woman’s fault. However often she sends fancy dinner salads and gourmet casseroles over with Samantha, I can’t forget. I can’t drive past reality without even stopping, the way she did.

“Grace Reed did this, Dad. She wrecked us. She –”

“Look at me,” he says. I do, trying not to flinch at the shaved part of his scalp where they drilled the hole to relieve pressure from his head injury. Duff, Harry, and George just call it “Dad’s weird haircut.”

“A little battered maybe. But definitely not wrecked. Accepting rehab, on top of all the hospital bills – charity.”

“Not charity, Dad. Justice.”

“You know as well as I do that it’s time to get on with things, Alice. Suck it up and get on home. I’m needed there.”

I want him there. I want everything back the way it was. Coming in late at night from a date or whatever to find him watching random History Channel or National Geographic documentaries, baby after baby, Duff, Harry, then George, then Patsy conked out against his shoulder, clicker poised in his hand, nearly dozing himself, but awake enough to rouse and say, “Do you know the plane Lindbergh flew to Paris was only made of fabric? A little glue brushed over it. Amazing what people can do.” But I’m enough of a professional to look at his vital signs and translate his medical chart by heart. No matter how amazing it is what people can do, bodies have their limits.

“You know better,” I say, “about what’s needed. What you have to do.”

A muscle in Dad’s jaw jumps.

How much pain is he in? He should still be on those pills.

I wipe my expression clean, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. Game face.

The things Mom and I traded off doing, today alone. I did breakfast, while she did morning sickness and talked on the phone setting up everyone’s back to school doctor appointments. I drove Duff to the eye doctor, she took Andy to the orthodontist, then the little guys to the beach. Then we all went to the sailing awards. Mom cheered up Andy in the bathroom after Jade Whelan said something stupid to her, then took her to get frozen yogurt. I hauled the little kids to Castle’s for hot dogs. Mom ferried the gang to Jase’s practice, then dropped them off and came to visit Dad – and dozed off. I stayed home until everyone crashed except Andy, then came here, chugging a venti Starbucks on the way. And I’m only Mom’s stunt double. I’m not Dad.

“If you leave here for home, you’ll be picking up George and Patsy, toting them to the car. You’ll be driving Harry and Duff to soccer. Taking Andy to middle school dances. Relieving Jase at the store. You’ll be on, all the time, Dad. You can’t do that yet. It’ll only set you back and make things worse. For all of us.”

He scrubs his hand over his forehead. Sighs.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the child I’m imparting all my hard-earned wisdom to, Alice?”

Mom shifts in her sleep, pulling her arm from his waist to rest on her stomach.

The new baby. Right. I almost always forget about that. Her. Him.

Dad reaches his good hand down to cover hers. He never forgets.

I rest against the windowsill, put my head down on my crossed arms. Cloudless night with, I don’t know, crickets, locusts, whatever, making sounds in the high grass the Garretts wait too long to cut. You can even hear the river if you listen hard enough.

When my eyes adjust to the dark, I see her.

Alice is tipped back against the hood of the Bug, looking up. Not at me. At the sky. Full moon, a few clouds. Stars. She’s darkly silhouetted against the white car, all curves, one foot on the bumper, moonlight shining off a knee.

Jesus.

A knee.

Oh, Alice.

Chapter Six

Early the next morning, I jolt out of bed so fast my brain practically sloshes against my skull. Where am I? The familiar feeling – the burning, dizzy oh shit of it – makes my temples crash and bang.

I got drunk last night.

Or something.

Because, if not, why am I so freaking disoriented?

Then I remember, assisted by the twelve girls in twelve different improbable contortions staring at me. I rub sweat off my forehead, fall back on the hard-as-hell couch I crashed on after too much quality time with the Xbox, and listen to the emptiness.

I never realized how freaking quiet it is when you’re all alone in a building.

Then I’m up, yanking one poster off the wall, then the next, then the next, until the walls are bare and I’m breathing hard.

Running – isn’t that what Jase does when he doesn’t want to think? I rummage around in my cardboard box for gym shorts I can’t find. Just lame gray slacks. Who packed those? And my Asics – nowhere to be found. I pull on the only workout option, a faded pair of swim trunks, and head for Stony Bay Beach. I read once that Navy Seals train by running on sand. Barefoot. It’s harder, a better workout.

I’ll jog to the pier. Gotta be like a mile or something. Good start, right?

It would be, except that a mile’s a hell of a long way. The pier’s still as distant as a mirage and I’m gasping for breath, wanting to collapse in the sand.

I’m seven-fuckin’-teen, for God’s sake. The prime of my life. The height of my physical prowess. The golden age I look back on one day when I’m boring my own kids. But I can’t run like the wind. I can’t run like the breeze. Patsy could run faster, without needing an oxygen tank afterward. I slump down in the sand, falling first to my knees, then rolling to collapse onto my back, hand over my eyes against the early morning light, sucking in air like it’s filtered through nicotine.

Gotta lose the cigarettes.

“Need mouth to mouth?” asks a female voice.

Damn, I didn’t know there was anyone on the beach, much less someone close . . . Alice. How long has she been watching me? I edge my hand away from my eyes.

Ah, another bikini. Thank you, Jesus. If I’m gonna die of shame, at least I’ll die happy. This is one of those Bond-girl types, dark green with a lime green zipper down the front, a little belt cinching in the bottom, about three fingers below where her waist swoops in before her hips fan out. My fingers twitch, will of their own. I shove my fists in my pockets. “Definitely,” I gasp. “I need mouth to mouth. Right now.”

“If you can talk, I think you’ll survive.”

I lick my dry lips. “Don’t think I’m ready for the triathlon, Alice.”

She does an unexpected thing, lying down next to me on her side, tilting toward me, sudden smile, curvy as the rest of her.

“At least you’ve got your running shoes on.” She looks down at my feet. “No, you don’t even, do you? Who jogs barefoot?” Her toes tangle with mine for a second, then move away. She looks down at the sand, not at me, draws a squiggly line between us.

“It matters?”

“Traction, honey,” Alice says.

“I thought that was only when you’d broken a leg. Navy Seals do it. So I’ve heard.”

I wait for her to make fun of that, but instead she smiles a little more, almost undetectably, unless you’re looking hard at her lips, which I may be doing – says, “Maybe put off the BUDs challenge until you’ve built up more . . . stamina.”

There are so many ways I could answer that.

She moves closer; smells like I’ve always thought Hawaii would, green and sweet, earthy, sun and sea mixed together, smoky warm. Her greenish gray eyes, flecks of gold too –

“You’ve only got one dimple,” she says.

“That a drawback? I had two, but I misplaced one after a particularly hard night.”

She gives my shoulder a shove. “You joke about everything.”

“Everything is pretty funny,” I say, trying to sit up but sinking back, my back groaning. “If you look at it the right way.”

“How do you know you’re looking at it the right way?” Alice’s head’s lowered, she’s still circling an index finger in the sand, only inches from brushing her knuckles past my stomach. The morning air is still and calm – no sound of the waves, even.

“If it’s funny,” I wheeze, “you’re looking at it the right way.”

“Yo, Aleece!” I look up and there’s that douche-canoe, her boyfriend, Brad, looming large, big shoulders muscling out the sun.

“Brad.” She’s up, brushing sand from her swimsuit. He pats her on the butt, looking at me in this my territory way.

Dick.

“You’re late. Brad, Tim. Tim, Brad.”

“Yo, Tim.” Brad, man of few, and strictly one-syllable, words. One of those guys built like a linebacker but with a little kid face, all rosy cheeks and twinkly eyes. To compensate, I guess, he has a scruffy, barely there beard.

“So, Ally-pals,” he says to Alice.

Ally-pals?

“Ready?”

“I’ve been ready for a while. You’re the one who’s late,” Alice says, sharply.

Atta girl.

She turns to me, running her hands through her hair, flipping it back from her face. “I’m training for the five K – Brad’s timing me.”

“You’re a runner? How did I not know that?”

She opens her mouth, like why on earth would I know anything whatsoever about her, but then looks down, tightens the notch on the belt of her bikini bottom. Which brings my attention back to her stomach, the belly ring, and I . . .

Roll over onto my stomach.

Brad clears his throat, arms folded, chin jutting. Got it, caveman.

“I won’t hold you up,” I add. Alice shoots Brad an unreadable look, drops down on her knees, bending over me again, her breath biting sweet as peppermint candy. “Sneakers next time, Tim.”

I’m panting, hands on knees, at the end of my first sprint. Sweat slides into my eyes, and I brush my hair back, try to corral what isn’t in my ponytail behind my ears.

Brad uncaps the water bottle, hands it to me, stooping low to squint at my face. Then he says in a low voice, “You wanna tell me what that was about?” He jerks his thumb toward the distant figure of Tim, still collapsed on the sand, head on his folded arms.

“What? Tim? He’s my kid brother’s friend. We were talking.”

He rubs his chin. “I dunno, Ally. That’s all it was?”

Two more sips of water, then I pour some into my hand, rub it over my face.

Tim’s standing up now, shielding his eyes, looking toward us – then the other way down the beach. Now he’s sprinting in that direction, no stretching out, no slow jog to start, right into a flat-out run. Gah.

“Ally?”

“Of course that’s all it was.”

Chapter Seven

Sam’s Club is no stranger to Garrett family meltdowns. Harry always loses it in the toy aisle, George is extremely sensitive about our ice cream choices, Patsy gets overtired and screeches. This time, though, the meltdown is all mine.

“I think you’re taking this waaay too seriously,” Joel says, holding up both palms in that whoa, you overemotional woman way that makes me furious.

I shake the papers at him. “It says two red, one-inch binders. Red. One-inch. I send you off to do that one simple thing. These are blue. Two-inch.”

“So what?” Joel scratches the back of his neck, checking out a girl who’s smiling at him while daintily placing huge packs of glitter glue in her cart.

“So, the school list says red. We get red. That’s what lists are for. So people get things right.”

“Al, I don’t think this is about school supplies. You’re scaring Patsy. You’re scaring me.”

“Good,” I snap.

Patsy points at me. “Bad.” She’s scowling from her perch in the shopping cart.

“Not you, honey. You, Joel. Maybe you need scaring, or some reminder of what’s really going on. Because you’re not around – not all the time. You don’t see how close everything is to – to –”

“That’s what this is about.” My brother settles back against a wall of paper towels, tilts his chin. “Me not being around all the time. That you are.”

“No,” I say. “Not that at all. What do I care if you’re moving in with your girlfriend and starting your training at the police academy when everything is up in the air? So what? Whatever.”

Joel sighs, reaches over, and plucks a handful of chocolate chip cookies off a free sample tray. “Al, I’m twenty-two. Out of college. I need to get on with it. Gisele and I have been seeing each other for a while. I want to find out where that goes. I don’t want to be living above our garage for the rest of my life. Not too functional.”

“Since when has that mattered?” I say, moving away from Patsy, who’s trying to yank down the top of my shirt, still scowling.

“Uh, since I spent my twenty-second birthday at the hospital the night Dad was hit. I love our family, Al. I’d do anything for any of us, even you. But everything – my life – it can’t stop.”

Everything has done anything but stop – as Joel should know. It’s accelerated to warp speed. Before that, this summer, for me, there were a few classes, a few hours of work at the hospital rehab center, maybe covering at the store, but other than that it was the beach and Brad and my favorite time of year. Sand and salt and ice-cream cones.

Now it’s almost Labor Day and things – classes, sports, afterschool stuff – will be picking up – for everyone. Dad will be recovering for who knows how much longer, Mom pregnant, Jase’s football schedule, band for Andy and Duff – we’ll need to figure out more babysitting and my actual own life is –

Deep breath. I lower my shoulders, which are practically grazing my earlobes.

Joel tosses a 500-pack box of Slim Jims into the cart. I snatch them out and shove them back on the shelf. “Do you even know what’s in those?”

“Is this about you not liking Gisele?”

“I like Gisele fine,” I say.

Can’t stand Gisele.

Last time she came by, she had Joel pumping up her bicycle tires while she stood there looking all Parisian in a striped blue-and-white dress and a red scarf, fluttering her hands. But I know better than to say that. He’s moving in with her. That should be the kiss of death for both of them.

“Sure you do. Brad’s no prize, you know.” Joel hands Patsy a chocolate chip cookie, which she immediately smooshes all over her face and into her hair, wiping the last of the chocolate across her pink shirt for good measure.

“Brad’s on his way out,” I say, leafing through the school supply lists, mentally crossing things off. Harry – still needs twelve-count colored pencils, one “quality” pack of erasers, whatever that is. Duff – no, I am not getting materials for the solar system project yet – otherwise he’s set, Andy can get her own supplies, for God’s sake, she’s fourteen. “Too time-consuming.” As if to confirm this, my phone vibrates with what turns out to be another selfie of Brad at the gym.

“Alice,” Joel says, giving yet another girl the once-over (Gisele, you are toast!). “That’s what I mean. You’re supposed to have your time consumed by that sort of thing.” He flicks the school supplies list. “Not this.”

“That baby is too young for chocolate,” says a grouchy-looking woman who has her own baby in one of those weird sling things.

“Nobody asked you,” I snap. Her brows draw together. Joel gives her his most charming smile, drawing me away by the elbow.

“But we’re grateful for your advice. Who knew? Thank you.”

She smoothes her shirt and actually smiles back at him.

Honestly.

Here’s Brad sitting on our steps when we get home, texting – probably me – with a frown. “Allykins,” he says, coming to his feet for a hug.

Joel raises an eyebrow at me with a smirk, mutters, “I’m off to see Dad.” And leaves.

Without carrying in any of the school supplies.

In the kitchen, Jase, obviously fresh from practice, sweaty and with grass stains on his jersey, is plowing through a huge bowl of chicken and brown rice. Tim’s planted on our counter like he belongs there, scarfing down something with melted cheese all over it, hot enough to be steaming. Duff, Harry, and George are eating blueberry pie with melting vanilla ice cream. Dirty plates everywhere. The kitchen smells like boy and feet.

And . . . Tim again.

All relaxed and at home, wearing the swimsuit he was jogging in this morning and a Hodges Heroes baseball shirt that’s slightly too tight even on him. He grins at me, lopsided dimple and all.

Hot mess inside and out, that boy, probably hasn’t even showered. Certainly hasn’t shaved carefully, since he’s got a little cut near his chin. Yet another person who needs a mother, a maid, a manager –

I set Patsy down, grab her pink princess sippy cup, slosh milk into it, screw on the top, shove it at him. “Slow down. I’m not driving you to the hospital when you get second-degree tongue burn.”

Tim takes a defiant bite of scalding cheese. Another. Then slowly raises the sippy cup, salutes me, and, watching me with serious eyes, gulps it down.

“Pie,” Brad says happily. “I love pie.” He pulls out a chair, flips it around, straddles it, and says, “Cut my slice extra-big, Allosaurus.”

George cocks his head, wrinkling his nose. “Allosauruses were some of the biggest dinosaurs of all. They ate Stegosauruses. Alice isn’t very big. And she’s a vegetarian.”

Brad can get his own damn pie.

“Get your own damn pie,” Tim mumbles between more mouthfuls of volcanic cheese.

“Hey, Alice, Joel’s completely out of the garage – he’s not coming back for anything, right?” Jase slosh-pours himself a huge glass of milk, drains half of it, refills. Finally got groceries, and at this rate they’ll be gone tomorrow.

“Thank God, yes,” I say.

“Great,” he says. “I told Tim he could take it. He moved in last night.”

“No escaping me now,” Tim tells me cheerfully.

“Boy, Alice. Your face is really red,” George says after a second.

“Al –” Jase starts, then falters.

Tim takes one look at me and jolts off the counter, hand outstretched. “Whoa. What – hell – what did I – ?”

I hold up my own hand. “Don’t say another word . . . There are groceries and school supplies in the Bug. Deal with them.” Then I practically drag Brad out by his hair.

“I screwed up again, yeah?” I say to Jase as the door slams behind Alice and ol’ Brad.

Jase rubs a hand down his face. “I’ll talk to her.”

“What, was she, like, going to move in there – with that guy? ‘I love pie’? What is he, five?”

“Alice never said a thing to me, Tim.” Jase picks up a forkful of chicken, puts it back down.

George says philosophically, “Pie is good. Except the kind with four and twenty blackbirds baked in it, prolly. You know, like, sing a songofsixpence, pockafullarye?” he warbles in this high voice that sort of slays me. “That sounds yuck.”

“No way would they sing when they opened it,” Harry says, with his mouth full of crust. “Because they’d all be cooked and dead.”

George’s eyes get big. “Would they?” he asks, looking back and forth between me and Jase. “Cooked?”

“No way,” Jase says firmly, “because . . .” He hesitates a second, and George’s eyes start filling.

“Because, dude, it wouldn’t be an eating pie,” I say. “It would be a performance pie. Like something to make the king laugh because he was all stressed from –”

“Counting out his money,” Jase finishes, nodding, all confident. “Right, G-man? Isn’t that what he was doing – ‘in the countinghouse, counting out his money’?”

George nods, soberly. “He’d be all upset like Daddy at work, so they’d make him a performance pie? Like, like a play?”

“Exactly,” I say. “They’d make this, uh, fake pie –”

“To make him laugh. Like Mommy does.” George is nodding, like the whole thing makes total sense now.

“But where would they get the blackbirds ?” Harry asks. “Who has blackbirds lying around?”

“They’d probably have them in the barn or something,” Duff says, all fake-casual. “Like, kind of tame ones. Maybe the king was, uh, into birds.”

This story is getting away from us. But George is down with it. “We could look them up in my Big Birds of the World book. See if you can tame blackbirds.” He slides off the kitchen chair and trots off, Harry at his heels.

“Nice job, Duffy,” Jase says. “Thanks for chiming in.”

“I was sort of lame,” Duff admits, scraping up the last of his pie. “‘The king was into birds’? But I tried. It’s just hard sometimes to see what’s gonna scare George.”

“Dead, baked birds? It’d give me nightmares.” I shudder.

That or that asskite Brad, and what Alice might be getting up to with him right this very minute.

“Do we have to?”

Brad may be upward of 225 pounds and over six feet tall, but he sounds like my little brothers when I drag them shoe shopping. “Yup,” I say.

He weaves hesitantly through traffic – he drives like he’s in one of his video games on slo-mo, sudden spurts of speed and then well below the limit. Staring out the car window, I don’t see the blur of the maple trees that line the turnpike but the garage apartment reinvented, the way I was going to do it.

All of Joel’s heinous furniture piled into the attic. My great-aunt Alice’s brass bed down from there. Along with her big wardrobe that Jase and I were always trying to find Narnia in. The walls painted a deep burnt-orange color, October Sky, a paint we got in at Garrett’s Hardware last week – so not the dingy white that’s in there now – far from the “bridal pink” in the room Andy and I share. I saw something in a magazine last month – this tulle canopy that goes over your bed, making it into your own cocoon. Splurge on those billion-thread-count sheets that are so soft you barely notice them at all. Stereo speakers for my iPod and a reading corner full of books that aren’t textbooks, with big puffy floor pillows and –

“C’mon, Ally-pally. Let’s hit Pizza Palace and you can bash my butt at Slimin’ Sumos.” Brad elbows me, giving me his best smile.

“I don’t feel like eating bad pizza while we play videogames, Brad.”

Now I sound whiny too. I dig my fingernails into my palm and kick my feet up onto the dashboard. Let it go. It’s just an apartment. Just a space of my own, for the first time ever, and for the last time for a while too, assuming I can still accept the transfer to Nightingale Nursing in the spring, assuming things at home are running smoothly, assuming I can get student housing and –

Sharp inhale. Another.

Brad squeezes the back of my neck. “Yowch, you’re tense, Allo. Don’t do that funky breathing thing. It freaks me out. How ’bout we go back to my place? I’ll send Wally out for decent pizza. Like all the way to Ilario’s or something. That would give us at least half an hour. I could . . . relax you.” Now he’s rubbing my shoulder, giving me a sunny, hopeful grin. No stormy weather with Brad. All one mood, like the easy listening music they play at the dentist.

“I see a smile, Als. You want to, don’t you? C’mon. Let’s book it home. I’ll boot the Walster for the whole night if you want. Bummer for sure about the apartment – that would have been sweet – but it’s not like I don’t have my own place.”

Brad’s “place” is a three-story house in White Bay. His parents live on the first two floors, Brad and Wally in the basement, his grandmother, who I’m pretty sure refers to me as That Whore, on the top.

He reaches over and gives my knee a squeeze, while passing a camper on the right and leaning on the horn.

I sigh.

“Is that a yes? C’mon, Aliwishous. We could take a shower or something. My dad fixed the hot water tank.”

“Let’s go to the batting cages. I need to hit something.”

“Works for me. Whatever floats your boat.”

He’s nothing if not steady. Which is good when you’re a little bit shipwrecked. He’s now singing along to the radio – a commercial for river cruises. Steady is solid ground under your feet. Even if the planks are a little thick.

But the garage apartment? I’m not letting that go down without a fight.

Chapter Eight

“You’re actually knocking, sis?” I open the door to find Nan, one arm balancing sheets and towels, the other extended to knock again.

“I always knock,” she says, swatting my nose instead. “I respect your privacy, unlike you, reading my diary.”

I kick the door open wider. “C’mon, get my towels out of the rain, assuming those are for me and you’re not dropping off laundry. And really? The diary again? Jesus. It was once, it was four years ago, and I had insomnia. Your diary was like a sleeping pill. ‘Dear Diary, I –’” I start, all sugary. But I cut myself off. I’m being a jackass.

You want the truth, that diary about broke my damn heart. It was full of these letters from Nan to God. I knew she’d gotten the idea from this Judy Blume book she loved crazy much, because I’d read part of it when I was ten and someone told me it was all about tits. It was, but not in the way I was hoping. Anyway, Nan’s diary entries were just sad – like, she was begging God as if he was Santa, the jolly old elf who could give you good grades and parents who were always proud of you, and a brother who wasn’t a fuck-up and get Mark Winthrop to love you forever and ever, amen.

Nan dumps the sheets and towels on the Sox beanbag chair and looks around, pulling off her windbreaker and wrinkling her nose. “Since when are you the big sports fan? What’s with the weights? Where’d you get all this stuff, anyway?”

“I robbed Dick’s. What do you care? What’s with all that?”

“Mom wanted me to bring it and to –” She stops dead.

“Spy on me, right? Make sure I wasn’t up to no good?”

“Are you?” Her voice is sharp. “Are you in trouble again or something?”

“Wha-at? No. Not more than usual. Why?”

“Some woman, or girl, or whatever – keeps calling, asking for you. Do you owe anyone money? I – know what Dad said to you. If you need money, I have –”

“Nan, kid, I’m fine. I don’t owe anyone anything but a shitload of apologies. Don’t stress. It’ll affect your grade point average.”

Her cheeks flame at that last and she says, “I . . . I’ve been doing my college applications. Starting them. So maybe I can be early-decision, I won’t have to freak out all year. And –”

“Nano –”

“It comes easy to you, Tim, but it’s really hard for me to concentrate –” Her voice breaks a little. She’s blinking rapidly, shoulders hunched, giving me the face.

But I shake my head. “Just no, okay. No.”

Her expression goes blank for a second, then she says, “That’s that, then. So . . . so . . . where do you sleep?”

I point to the bedroom door. “Be my guest. The drunk, naked babes are all in the shower right now, so no worries.”

“You’re such a jerk. I thought I’d make the bed, because I doubt you have any idea whatsoever how to do that. You can come watch and –”

“What, you’ll quiz me on it later? I’ll pass. I’m gonna get in the shower.”

“Fine,” she says. “Watch out for the naked girls. Word is they’re slippery when wet.”

I start laughing. She’s a pain in my ass, Nano. But I’m a dick to her ninety percent of the time and she loves me anyhow. She went all uptight right when I went all crazy and I wish to hell there was an AA for perfectionism, because I’d haul her ass there in a heartbeat.

She’s smiling back at me now, because I laughed, and she was the one who made it happen, because, as she said in that goddamn diary, “Dear God, make me funny like Tim, because people like funny people and maybe then Mark Winthrop would . . .”

Love her.

“Nano – the school shit,” I say, then swallow. “I can’t help you that way anymore. You get that, right?”

She nods, staring fixedly at the beanbag chair. “Look, about the college money, Tim – Dad said I’d probably get it for Columbia because you –” She stops, and I can hear the gears turning as she tries to figure out how to put it. Because you –

Are the boy most likely to.

Fail.

Everyone and everything.

There it is again, its silver top gleaming under the light of the Schmidts’ fake streetlamp, glossy from the rain. The car pauses at the end of our block, as it has three times since Brad dropped me off. Then, as I watch, it signals the turn, though our street is completely deserted. I edge down the steps, arms folded against the wet, silty breeze blown over from the river.

Looking up at the shaded windows of the garage apartment, I see Tim’s rangy figure pass by, then someone else, a girl, hair in a ponytail, gesturing with both hands.

As I’m watching this, the car pulls slowly into our driveway at a bad parking angle, sharply slanted behind my Bug and Tim’s Jetta.

The headlights snap off.

Enough. Who’s this weird about pulling into a driveway? Who cases the street beforehand? I can’t see through the tinted windows.

Dealers?

Maybe the garage apartment’s new tenant has brought his sketchy past with him.

Or hired a hooker to join the party.

I stalk down the steps to the car.

Rap sharply on the window.

Right as it occurs to me what a stupid thing this is to do.

No weapon. No Mace. Unless they’re vulnerable to the power of Harry’s authentic Nerfblaster Lightsaber with glow-in-the-dark detailing, lying in the grass nearby.

The car turns back on, window slowly rolling down, and I’m staring at a girl, my own age or younger, with long brown hair and huge, thickly lashed blue eyes, wide and unblinking in the throw-back glow of her headlights.

“Looking for someone?”

She edges back at the sound of my voice. Her fingers, with chipped dark pink polish, clenched at the ten-and-two position on the wheel, tighten even more.

“Yes. No. I mean . . . I . . .” she stammers. “I . . . I –”

“Are you lost?”

She gives a quick, unsteady laugh, and then says, “You got that right. Sorry – don’t worry about it. I’ll find my way.” Then she rolls the window up and backs out as slowly as she drove in.

Chapter Nine

“I’m coming in, we need to talk,” I say before the door’s even half-open.

Tim blinks at me, takes a step back, then peers over my head as though expecting a lynch mob.

“The scariest phrase in the universe.” He’s wearing baggy striped pajama bottoms, with a toothbrush in one hand, Crest poised in the other.

“Let me in,” I repeat, louder.

“Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin. You’re looking predatory.” He stares down at my shirt, slightly damp with rain. “And your – uh – chest is heaving. Is that you huffing and puffing?”

“Tim. Now.” I’m not here to be disarmed.

Raising his hands holding the toothbrush and Crest, he steps aside. I brush past him, into the center of the room. My room. Which he’s completely marked as his territory. Open Grape-Nuts cereal box and an empty carton of orange juice on the counter next to a worn leather wallet and a handful of crumpled bills. Socks and a sweatshirt balled up in a corner. More clothes piled on the couch. Dishes in the sink. An iPod with a tangled wad of chargers and an Xbox next to the TV.

A lavender windbreaker tossed on the bean bag chair.

“Look, for starters, where’s the girl?”

Except when he’s loaded, I’ve never seen Tim so slow on the uptake. Now he’s blinking again. “Um – you mean . . . ? What girl?”

“You’ve got more than one? Look – you can’t do this – I need to be here, and I’m sorry if you were planning to use this place for your hookups and booty calls or whatever. I don’t care what you told Jase you’d pay, he had no right to go ahead and hand this over to you.”

Tim tosses the toothbrush and toothpaste on the counter, grabs a pack of Marlboros, whips out a lighter, shakes out a cigarette, and lights up, all in about two seconds.

I scowl at him. Smoking in my apartment.

“Sorry – where are my manners? Want one?” he asks around the cigarette trapped between his lips.

The bedroom door opens and out comes . . .

Nan, Tim’s nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof twin sister.

“So, yeah,” she says, twisting a coil of hair around a finger and reaching back to flip off the light, “I’ll reassure Mom I did my duty. Think she wanted me to tuck you in too? I forgot to bring Pierre the Bear, but I can . . .” She stumbles to a halt. “Oh – hi, Alice.”

“Hey, Nan.” I give her a brief, but actually genuine smile, which she returns hesitantly. This girl, she’s like one of Jase’s animals that was badly treated by its previous owner.

“We can skip the tucking in,” Tim tells her. “Sending over sheets and towels, that was – uh, nice. Tell Ma thanks. Not when Pop’s around, though. Pretty sure I’m supposed to be sleeping under some newspaper on a sidewalk grate somewhere.”

Nan bites her pinkie nail, tearing at the cuticle so savagely, mine nearly bleeds in sympathy. Studying me with a vertical line between her eyebrows, identical to Tim’s, she picks up the windbreaker, looks back and forth between us, then doesn’t budge – until Tim sets his hand in the middle of her back, steering her toward the door.

“Good deed done, Two-Shoes. You’d better beat it. I don’t think Alice here wants any witnesses to the homicide.”

When the door closes behind her, he gestures at me, like, bring it on. Then, before I can say a word, “You want me to get lost, right, Alice? Spreading like a virus, that. Schools, jobs, my folks – should I start a running tally? We can put a list on the fridge.”

No flirty flippancy. Hard, sarcastic – like a shove. I haven’t heard him like this since he first stopped drinking. Then he studies me, eyes drifting from my face down to my clenched fists, back to my face again.

He turns away. “Shit, I’m sorry, Alice. I was gonna go to my friend Connell’s, but he relapsed, so that was a no-go. Jase said . . . I didn’t know this place was supposed to be yours. Shoulda guessed. No worries. I’m one hell of a fast packer.” He tosses me the kind of smile one of my little brothers would after skinning his knee. See, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt at all.

Then he starts skimming the crumpled bills off the counter, shoving them in the wallet, concentrating harder on it than the job requires.

“Where will you go? Back home?”

“Not your problem, Hot Alice.”

I examine his downturned face, but the parts I can see reveal nothing. He finishes with the wallet, tries to shove it in his back pocket, then seems to realize his pajama bottoms have no such thing.

“Wait. Why exactly are you here, Tim?”

Shrugging, he steps around me to pick up an empty cardboard box from the floor, tosses the wallet, then the sweatshirt and socks into it. Automatically assuming I’m kicking him to the curb right this second, late on a windy, rainy night.

Even I am not that cold.

Then I get it, sharp as a slap.

His parents were on that get-lost list. His own mom and dad kicked him out.

When Tim glances at me, he goes suddenly, stunningly red, wraps both arms around his middle. “What?”

“How . . .” I start; I’m not sure how to finish. I can’t even imagine. “Never mind. I’m making you tea and you’re going to tell me what happened,” I say.

“Or what? I might like my other options better. Spanking? Water torture? I can get the shower going in no time.”

Amazingly, there is tea. But of course no kettle. I fill a saucepan with water and cross my fingers that there are mugs. Ah yes, ugly black-and-yellow ones from Fitness Planet. Joel’s such a class act. I turn to the fridge to see if there’s actually milk too, and there, tacked to it, is a list. A long one, in various different colors of messy, boy-handwriting scrawls.

Tim Mason: The Boy Most Likely To . . .

Need a liver transplant

Find the liquor cabinet blindfolded

Drive his car into a house

I scan down the paper.

“Find the sugar,” I say to him. “Then tell me the rest.”

“I doubt there’s sugar,” he says, “but I see resistance is futile. Hey – it’s not a big deal. Turns out . . . I guess . . . my parents, my pop . . . quitting the senator gig? Final straw. Embarrassing, see – Grace Reed is a family friend, yada, yada – he’s done with me. I’m out the door – no need to turn up for Sunday dinner. Small upside, that. And I’ve got four months to turn it all around until I’m out a college fund, and probably stricken from the family Bible. End of story.”

Now I feel sick. “He couldn’t have been serious – I mean . . . he’s your dad.”

Tim looks down at his fingers, raising his eyebrows as though surprised not to find the cigarette still there. “He’s a serious guy, Pop.” His voice deepens. “Time to be a man, Tim. Maybe I should have read the fine print on ditching ol’ Gracie. That it meant” – he indicates the apartment – “this. But, I mean – he didn’t repo my car and yank my allowance or anything.” The smile that follows is tight, not his open, wicked one. “In his defense? He did offer me a scotch for the road.”

I inhale sharply and he reddens again, rubs his hands through his hair so some parts are sticking straight up. I turn to the cabinet again, searching for sugar, but no such luck. “You’re going to have to go without sugar.”

He nods. “Here’s where I tell you you’re sweet enough, right?”

“It’s definitely not. Move, so I can pour this without burning you.” I slosh the boiling liquid into one cup, then the other, nod toward the couch. “Keep talking.”

“While the Ilsa-the-She-Wolf-of-the-SS act is hot as hell, Alice, there’s really nothing more to say. It’s probably temporary anyway. If me not being office boy for Senator Grace is embarrassing for Pop, you can only imagine how he’d feel about me hanging around the steps of the building and loan with a tin cup.” Tim collapses onto the couch anyway, without bringing the mug along. ”Can we talk about something else? You? Your endless collection of bikinis? Your tan lines? I notice you don’t have any. Wanna show and tell?”

I carry both mugs from the kitchen, set his down in front of him.

“Look. Stay. I mean . . . I can wait. It’s only fair. Jase didn’t know I wanted it anyway. Four months is nothing. You can be here for four months and then . . .” I trail off.

Then what?

Troubled gray eyes search my face for a long time. Finally, he sighs, shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll find somewhere else. You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

Like a home’s something you have to earn when you’re seventeen.

He’s a kid. Not a man, not on some deadline. But with his jaw set and raised – I know that face. The I’m going to push on through, no problem, I’ll deal. Moving right along. Nothing to see here face. Know it as well as my own. It is my own. And I picture the rest of the lines on that paper.

Tim Mason: The Boy Most Likely To . . .

Forget his own name even before we do

Turn down the hottest girl in the world for the coldest beer

Be six feet under by our fifth reunion

Don’t go that way, Tim. Such a stupid, stupid waste. “I mean it,” I say aloud. “Stay.”

Pause.

“I want you here,” I add, my cheeks flaring. He shifts on the couch and I’m hyper-aware of him next to me, the smell of soap and shampoo, the heat of him, the alive of him.

“Please, stay.”

My words fall into the silence, and something changes. Tim’s shoulders straighten. He stills, but not frozen, more like . . . more like . . . alert.

“Yeah? Then . . . I’ll be here,” he says quietly. “Since you asked so . . . nicely.”

“Look – if you stick around, there’ll be rules.”

“Always are,” Tim says immediately. “Helps if they’re clear.”

Like, posted on the refrigerator? But I don’t say it.

“Not that I’ll necessarily follow them, but –”

“The cigarettes go,” I say. “This place is not going to be a refuge if you burn it to the ground, and if I ever do get it to myself, I don’t want it smelling like an old-man bar.”

Unfolding himself from the couch, he brushes past me, wings the pack of Marlboros into the trash can under the sink, knots the bag tight, sets it next to the door. Collapses back down on the couch next to me, laces his hands behind his head, stretches.

“Sorry – again. Trying to kick ’em. I tossed a whole carton but . . . that pack was an impulse buy. Trying to control that, because my impulses suck.”

His eyes flick to my face, my lips, lower, back to my eyes.

Outside, it’s gone on raining, slashing sideways against the windows, the wind loud and constant. It’s warm in here. Overheated even.

Even though I’m laying out rules, Tim is not one of my brothers.

He glances at my lips again, and there’s the sound of a sharp inhale. His or mine?

I jolt up. “I have to get home.”

“I’m walking you out.” Tim gets quickly to his feet, grabs the green plastic garbage bag, steps in front of me. “Dangerous neighborhood and all that. There’s a raccoon under the woodshed the size of a puma.”

We keep our trash cans in a low shed near the stairs. When we reach it, Tim bends over to jettison the bag. “Don’t tell Jase about, about . . . the whole thing with my parents, ’kay?” His voice is muffled. “A man has his pride.”

I’m walking backward up the driveway, forcing a light laugh. “Of course not. I never kiss and –”

“I missed the part where we kissed? Wait, let’s rewind. I promise not to put up a fight.” He dodges in front of me, smiling, holding up his hands in surrender. “You’d take me, anyway. And I’d let you.”

I shake my head, laughing, then shield my eyes as headlights flare, backlighting Tim, and a car backs slowly out of our driveway.

Chapter Ten

“I’m two seconds from utter and total collapse!” Andy calls from her handstand position, her legs, kicked up against the fence by the side of our driveway, swaying wildly.

“You can do this,” Samantha says, slightly breathless, in the same position. “It’s really great for your form, trust me. If you can get the handstand down, you’re golden – right, Alice?”

“It’s the core gymnastics move,” I call. Andy and I share a bedroom, a bathroom, and half my clothes. I love my sister. But I thank God Sam’s helping her practice for gymnastics tryouts.

Jase is fiddling with his Mustang. Mom’s supervising Duff and Harry, who are mostly spraying each other and throwing sponges and sometimes washing the van. George is drawing on the blacktop, standing back, then jumping on his drawing, over and over again. Patsy waves at me from the kiddie pool. “Ayiss! A me, Ayiss!”

As usual, our driveway and lawn are completely overpopulated. Perfect. Easier with a crowd.

Brad has pulled gingerly in next to the Mustang, glancing around with an anxious look. He’s terrified of our driveway. I think he worries about running over one of my siblings, but it might also be the damage Patsy’s Cozy Coupe could do to his beloved Taurus. I slide into the passenger seat and Brad gives me a damp cheek smack and a thigh squeeze.

Beyond my open window, Harry swings the hose toward Brad’s car, but, quick as lightning, Mom swoops down and puts a kink in it. “No spraying people unless they say yes, Harry. George, lovie, I think that only works when Mary Poppins is there.”

George leaps again onto a chalk painting of, I think, a palm tree and a turtle. “Text her, then, Mommy.”

“Mary Poppins doesn’t believe in cell phones.”

“So, Ally. Want to come over? We can hang with Wally, you can cook us up some mac and cheese. I scored the last copy of Annihilation 7: The Grizzlies’ Revenge. I’m going to whip Wally’s ass at it and wipe the floor with him.”

I pause, turn to him. “Here’s the thing, Brad. I’ve been thinking . . .”

Jase’s gaze lights on me for a moment, eyebrows lifting. He’s seen these dominos fall before.

“Mommy!” Harry bellows, “Patsy’s getting bitey!”

“She walked on my island picture. It’s wrecked now!” George adds, pointing accusingly at Patsy, who is chasing Harry, top-knot of hair bobbing, tiny teeth bared.

Mom scoops up Patsy, who squirms in her arms. “I tiger, Mama,” then “Grrr” to Harry.

“You’re a friendly tiger,” Mom suggests. “George, actually, the wave part looks more watery now. It’s good. Step back and take another look.”

Patsy’s still glaring at Harry. “I bite,” she says ominously.

“Mom!”

“A sleepy tiger.” Mom strokes Patsy’s back. “All cozy. With her jungle friends. Harry, you’re the elephant. The hose is your trunk. You missed a spot on the back window.”

Brad chuckles. “Your mom’s awesome.”

And then he says things like that, which make this harder. Tim’s car eases in behind Jase’s Mustang, hanging half out in the street so as not to cover George’s drawings. Sam waves him over, but he calls distractedly, “Late for a meeting! Been running. Gotta shower and book it.”

He heads past the Taurus, pauses. “Hey Alice.”

“What did you have on your feet this time?” I ask.

“Toes,” he replies easily, and grins at me, lifting one long foot to put it on the sill of the car, wiggling his toes for emphasis. There’s a jagged open cut near his big toenail. “Well, toes and blood. Cut it on a shell. But I made it all the way to the pier this time. Very Navy Seal, huh? Ran right through the pain, because I am just that full of testosterone.”

I try hard not to laugh, looking away, straight at Samantha, who’s descended from her handstand position, watching us with a very slight smile. Jase, who has a smudge of dirt on his nose, is frowning over something to do with the windshield wipers. Or something.

“Clean that up,” I say to Tim. “And put something on it to keep it clean. Toes are seriously prone to infection because the bacteria can get trapped in your shoes.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Tim says, then, seeming to notice him for the first time, “Hey, Brad.”

“Yo bro, do you mind?” Brad asks. “We’re talking here.”

Tim backs away, raising his hands in exactly the same gesture he used in the rain the other night. This flicker of – something – licks up my spine.

As he’s climbing the steps, Andy comes over and calls, “Tim! You’re a guy, right?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Can I ask you a question I can’t ask my brothers?”

“No,” Jase calls.

“Uh – Andy – sorry, I really have to get to a meeting,” Tim says, glancing at Jase before the garage apartment door slams behind him.

“What were you saying, Ally-baba?”

Bite the bullet.

“Look, Brad.”

Obediently, Brad looks me in the eye. He’s taken a bite of one of the zillion protein bars overflowing his glove compartment, and he’s chewing, cheeks bulging. Harry and George have started playing Limbo with the water from the hose, Mom’s pulling out the back of Patsy’s swim diaper to check its contents, Jase has jerked his head up quickly and banged it on the hood, so Samantha, who’s come up beside him, is rubbing the spot, saying something under her breath. Andy’s doing a back walkover – without having stretched out enough first.

With the usual chaos and color, my chilly tone is suddenly so off.

Cold, really.

“Your family is a riot,” Brad says. “Crazy as anything, but ya know . . .” He trails off.

More than one boyfriend has said to me that breaking up meant breaking up with my family too, and that was the hardest.

But I have to push on here. No point dragging things out. Maybe I’m hard, the hardest.

Brad swallows, gnaws off another chunk, and says, mouth full, “What is it, Ally?”

“Brad. Here’s the thing.”

Jase winces. “Hey, Sam, can you hold the hood open for me? The prop rod keeps giving out.”

“Let’s all go inside, guys,” Mom says. “Duff, Harry, George – time to wash up and get something to eat. Andy, you too.” Everyone but George, who’s now jumping into the puddles left by the hose, follows. Jase keeps working on his car.

“We’ve come to the end of the road,” I say quickly. “We’ve gone as far as we can go.”

Brad looks puzzled. “It’s a driveway.”

“I mean us. As a couple . . . It’s not working out.”

“What?” Brad says frowning. “That . . . that’s not possible.”

“Can you hand me that Sharpie while still holding the hood?” Jase calls to Sam.

“We always knew it was temporary.” I’ve said these lines so many times. It’s possible that I am a complete bitch.

“We did? Why?” Brad, forehead squinched, says in a faint voice. “What was missing, Ally-baby? We hung out, we made out, we worked out. All the good stuff. I don’t get it.”

His brown eyes are pleading. Jase frowns over something on the inside of the hood. Samantha is also apparently very absorbed in the whole process.

“Brad, we never talked. We didn’t –” laugh. Tears are starting to run down his cheeks. Oh God.

“Talked?” he repeats, sounding confused. “About what?”

This is going nowhere. Wrap it up. I set my hand on his knee, squeeze. “You’re a good guy.”

“Oh, no,” he says, suddenly loud. “Don’t do that. Don’t ‘good guy’ me. I’m better than that. I’m a great guy. I’ve stuck by you. I’ve been there for you.”

He has. He’s put up with my crazy hours, all the homework and housework and babysitting I’ve had to do. On the other hand, I’ve put up with his roommate – the missing link – his CrossFit obsession, the wicked Grandmother of the West, and all those nicknames.

“You have, Brad. Which is what makes this so hard.” My voice is gentle, but it doesn’t make any difference. Now he’s actually sobbing, giant shoulders heaving, tears streaming down his face, his nose running. I flick my gaze to the garage apartment. “Brad . . .” I say helplessly. How can he have felt this deeply without me realizing it?

Now he’s buried his face in his hands. I try to rub his shoulder but he shakes me off. “Just go. Go away, Alice.”

More tears.

“Brad –” I say helplessly. “I feel –”

“You feel nothing,” he says. “You don’t even know how to feel. Get out of my car.”

My feet have barely hit the driveway when he yanks the door shut, then peels out with a screech of tires, zooms down the road, totally unlike himself. He usually drives like a little old lady.

I’m staring after him, biting my thumbnail, which I haven’t done in years. Jase slams the hood closed, wipes his greasy hands on some rag. After the roar of the car fades away, the silence is particularly loud.

“Well . . . that could have gone better,” Jase says. “Don’t you ever get tired of this, Al?”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Samantha asks at nearly the same time.

I shake my head. Should I have known how he felt? Where were the signs? “I didn’t . . .” Wait. Is that the same silver car, idling across the road?

“He’s wrong. About the feelings thing. He was just pissed. Guys are dicks when their pride gets hurt,” Jase offers.

“My fault,” I say absently. “He was never a dick before.”

“Want me to beat him up for you?” he asks. “He’s big, but I could hire henchmen. George would go for it if there was a cool uniform.”

“Tim would help,” adds Samantha.

The stalker car jerks into reverse, then forward, like a replay of Brad. One of Joel’s castoffs? Tim’s drug connection? Whatever. The least of my problems.

Speak of the devil. I turn at the sound of Tim’s feet banging down the garage steps. He’s whistling, head bent, counting change. “I’ll be back around seven, guys, do you wanna –”

The tension in the air is practically solid. He looks back and forth between us. “Alice? Sam? What’d I do?”

After they all leave, I plop down on the steps next to George. He looks at me, head cocked. “He cried.”

Sighing, I tug him onto my lap, resting my chin on the top of his head. His fly-away hair tickles my nose as I inhale his scent – chalk and grass and hose water. “Yup, I know.”

“I’ve never seen someone so big cry like that. It was kind of like when the Cowardly Lion cries.”

It sure was.

Guess that makes me Tin Alice.

Chapter Eleven

Today’s meeting is at the hospital, the same one Mr Garrett is at. I come late, and my AA sponsor, Dominic, scowls at me when I slouch into the chair next to him.

“Unavoidably delayed,” I mutter.

“Avoid it next time,” he mutters back.

This is how Dominic got to be my sponsor: he copped on to me fast. Almost as fast as Mr Garrett, who had the advantage of being my Cub Scout troop leader long ago. It was Mr G. who told me to go to AA, and Mr G. I went with, at first. But some days he couldn’t, was working or doing something with the kids. Those days I would still go, but I would sit – or stand – near the door. Then I’d leave early. Never when Mr Garrett was there, but when he wasn’t, every time. Earlier and earlier. After I did this four or five times, Dominic grabbed me by the side of my T-shirt as he was walking in the door, towed me over to the seat next to him, and pulled me down. We were way in the back of the room, as far from the door as could be. He’s this boxy-shouldered guy, young, huge hands, skinny but strong, deep tan skin with one of those permanent five-o’clock-shadow types. When I started to get up ten minutes before the end of the meeting, he stuck his foot out in front of mine, like he was going to trip me. “What is this, kindergarten?” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. He mouthed, “Later.” The minute the meeting ended I said, “I didn’t know there was assigned seating at these things. You want to see my ID now? You’re an asshole.”

He stared at me, no expression. “No. No. You found me out. Don’t leave early. Asshole.”

No messing around with Dom.

Later I found out other stuff. That he was twenty-two. That he got married right out of SBH because he got his girlfriend pregnant on prom night. “In the car, on the way there,” he always adds. “I didn’t even buy her a corsage.” That his wife left and took the baby when they’d been married a year. That he spent the next six months so smashed, he still doesn’t remember if he went to work or not. That now he’s been clean for three years.

So, here we all are, at the end of the meeting, all holding hands like it really is kindergarten. A few months ago, that would have seemed lame as hell; something you do all the time when you’re little, crossing the street with your mom and all that. But after you’re, say, ten, who does it? But I actually kind of like it, here, sandwiched between Tough Guy Dominic and Mr Smooth Jake, who I formerly knew as Coach Somers, my gym teacher from Hodges. He smiles at me, which trust me, he never did when I was at Hodges on his team. He was more given, back then, to asking me to drop and give him fifty for my lousy attitude. Back then, I thought he was a bitter-ass old guy who didn’t get teenagers. He’s maybe in his late twenties.

Now, as I head out to get coffee with Dominic, Jake tosses me a salute. Feels good.

Dom and I are at Cuppa Joe and Piece-a Pie – sucky coffee, awesome pie – talking about whether he should buy this old junker truck with 100,000 miles on it – when he suddenly looks up, eyebrows raised, then smirks at me. “Some guy hates one of us. My bet’s on you. Because if looks could incinerate, you’d be a smoking pile of ashes.”

“It’s usually the girls I piss off – my money’s on you. Where is he?”

“Riiight, I forgot you were the big Casanova. Third table from the left. I’m pretty sure that one-fingered salute was all yours. He has good aim. If he had a gun –”

“No man detests me like that except my pop.” I pretend to be cracking my neck to get a glimpse of the guy.

Yeah, he looks like he hates my ass, all right. It’s Alice’s Brad.

“Need to go make amends?” Dominic asks. “I’m sure he’d be happy to accept it. If not, he only outweighs you by, maybe ninety to a hundred pounds. Might show some mercy and leave you almost dead instead of a bloody smear on the floor.”

“You seem to like imagining different ways for me to bite it, Dom. Way to be supportive.”

“What did you do, sleep with his girlfriend?”

“Uh – what? No!” My voice goes a little loud on that one. “No,” I repeat more quietly.

“You blushing?” Dominic asks, amused.

“No. So . . . tell me more about this truck thing – how does it, uh, handle?”

Dominic looks down, lips compressing to hide his smile. “Yeah, like that’s what you care about handling.” He sips his coffee. “Speaking of, what happened with the GED thing?”

Turns out that in Connecticut, you can’t apply for a GED unless you’re at least nineteen, or if you get a letter from your school saying you “withdrew.” Not precisely how it went down at Ellery.

I rub my thumb into a glob of cherry pie, lick it off. “Um, yeah. I took care of it. Not exactly sure it was . . . kosher, twelve-step-wise.”

“You didn’t forge anything, did you, Tim? Because –”

“No! I, um, relied on something I sort of maybe shouldn’t have. With the school secretary.”

Dominic cocks an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“My charm.”

Dom snorts. “Had that one fooled too, huh? She should have talked to Smiley over there.”

Christ. Brad’s still glaring at me like I stole his favorite pacifier.

“Ms. Iszkiewicz – she always” – I hunch a little lower in my seat – “thought I was cute or something. She said she’d type up a letter and get the headmaster to sign off on it. Dobson never paid attention to shit he was signing unless it was a donation check.”

“Tim,” Dominic says. “C’mon.”

“Did I cross the line?”

Dom takes another sip of coffee. “What do you think?”

“But if I don’t lie, how can I get what I need?”

“Did you just hear yourself ?” He relaxes back in his chair, watching my face.

I curse.

“I know,” Dom says. “But part of this whole thing is not being a manipulative bastard anymore, remember?”

Brad’s leaving. As he walks by our table, he accidentally on purpose bangs into the back of my chair with his giant thigh.

What, no wedgie? What the hell does Alice get from this douchewit?

Chapter Twelve

Alice’s hands are behind her back, her beat-up purse hanging off her elbow. Green scrubs, circles under her eyes, smells like anti-bacterial gel . . . and she still kicks my pulse into high gear.

“I’ve got something for you,” she says, brushing past me.

“Is it kinky? Does it involve you, me, some body oil?”

She snorts. “In your dreams, junior.”

“Just the really good ones. But we could totally make those a reality.”

“Here.” She holds out what she’s had hidden behind her. A package wrapped in bright blue tissue. She shoves the box at me so fast, I have to snatch at it before it drops to the ground.

“You got me a housewarming present, Alice?”

“Unwrap it already.” She walks over to the sink, full of two days’ worth of dishes. Most with Grape-Nuts laminated to the sides.

I open it to find a box with the Nike swoosh on it.

“If I wear these, does it mean we’re going steady?”

“If you wear these while you’re running, it means you won’t wind up in a cast.”

I examine the sneakers. They’ll fit. Perfectly.

“You know my size?” I check the tiny tag. Yup, thirteens.

“You’ve left your disgusting Sasquatch shoes by our pool often enough. Your feet are like, freaks of nature.”

“You know what they say about large feet.”

“Uh-huh. Big smelly socks. Stop it, Tim. I just thought if you were even remotely interested in being healthy, you should have the right equipment.”

“Trust me, Alice. I have the right equipment.”

She starts to laugh. “Please. You’re like one of those overgrown puppies who can’t stop humping everything.”

My smile fades. But Alice has turned away, hands on hips, to survey the room. “You’re a bigger slob than Brad,” she says. “Impressive.”

This means that she’s been in lame-ass Brad’s room – quick one-two punch to the gut, even though, Christ, of course. I mean, she’s nineteen.

She squints at the apartment some more, walks around. Which is, ya know, embarrassing in the daylight. It was pretty dim when she was last here. In addition to the sink pileup, I have a small mountain of used boxers and shorts in one corner and the sweatpants I slept in last night draped over the couch.

“Hey. Uh . . .” I indicate the box of Grape-Nuts before she can notice the raised toilet seat and wad of wet towels on the floor of the bathroom. “I’d offer you cereal, but I only have one spoon. I know how anal you are about germs.”

“I’m educated about germ transfer. You drink out of the orange juice carton. I’ve seen you. Why do guys do that? Foul.”

“Because when we want things, we want them now. We’re thirsty, we need a drink – we take a drink. Finding a clean glass, washing out a dirty one and all that crap – nah. We’re just basic. We want what we want right this minute . . . or maybe that’s just me.”

“Tim, cut it out. Now. Please.” Her face is as expressionless as her voice. But of course, I keep going.

“Like that old song: Antici-pay-ay-shun is making me way-yay – yait. That could only be written by a chick. Guys hate anticipation. That’s why we all write about satisfaction. Why we never wrap presents. I notice you wrapped mine.”

“I thought it was because you’re all too cheap to buy wrapping paper. Or too clueless to find it in the store.”

“There’s that. But honestly, you go to the trouble of getting someone a present, something you think they’d like – why hide it and make them work for it? It’s coy.”

Alice laughs, shifting aside my sweatpants and dropping down on the couch. “It’s not coy. It . . . it shows you care.” She gathers her hair up in a knot, showing off her long neck.

“The present shows you care. The wrapping paper shows you aren’t as concerned about the environment as you should be. Like showering alone. A needless waste of resources.”

“Are we ever going to have a conversation without you coming onto me, Tim Mason?”

“I doubt it. We want what we want, right? Basic, babe.”

“Please. No ‘babe.’ No ‘chick.’”

“You prefer Allykins? Ally-o? Ally-ums? Noted.”

“Tim. Don’t.” Her voice sounds a little funny. Damn. Is she that sold on Brad?

She roots through her purse, pulls something out. “I have another present for you, actually. I didn’t wrap this one.” Holding up a small clinical-looking square box, she wags it at me without looking at my face.

“Nicotine patches, Alice – seriously?”

“I told you you can’t smoke here.”

“And I told you I’m trying to kick it.”

“I know.” She waves me over, clasping the box between her knees, and flips it open with her other hand. When I plunk down next to her, she slides the rolled-up sleeve of my shirt higher, cool fingers on my skin. “You need to put these on parts of your body that aren’t hairy. Not that you’re very hairy. Only a bit on your chest.” Her fingers freeze for a second before she continues. “Stick it on your shoulder or your back. Or your ribs. But rotate the spot, because the nicotine irritates your skin.”

She’s touching my upper arm, totally professional, like the nurse she’s training to be, and hell if I’m not reacting like she’s unzipping my jeans.

I edge away, scratch the back of my neck, which doesn’t itch, a little dizzy.

She pulls my arm to her stomach, holds it steady, and plasters on the patch. “Change it once a day. Different location. Six to eight weeks.”

“Did you have a secret vice, Alice? You sound so knowledgeable.”

“I read directions. Another thing guys rarely do.” Patting my arm, she flips my sleeve back down, hesitates a second before meeting my eyes. “What you’re doing is tough, Tim. Not drinking, no drugs. Living on your own. Add quitting smoking. I admire you for it.”

I stare at her. “For real?”

“Of course. I’m nineteen and still at home. This is no easy thing” – she reaches out and taps where the patch is under my shirtsleeve – “but you don’t always have to take the hard way. Not when there are easier ways.”

My throat tightens. Of all people I expected to . . . whatever, Alice might be dead last. I swallow. Her green-brown eyes are sincere. I lift my hand a few inches toward her cheek. Then drop it, shove it in my pocket as I stand, jingle the loose coins in there.

Alice inspects me sharply for a sec, school-marm-over-her-glasses-style, then licks her lips and looks away, wiping her palms on her scrubs. She stands up. “What’s it with you and the Grape-Nuts? Besides pizza, it’s almost all I ever see you eat.”

“I like Grape-Nuts.”

“You live on Grape-Nuts. That’s more than liking. It’s obsession.”

“You sure are getting worked up about this.” To keep my dangerous hands occupied, I pour myself a bowl, get milk out of the fridge, sniff at it.

“Well, it isn’t rational.”

Her tone is mad huffy. Why? What’d I miss?

“All this emotion over cereal? What do you care what I eat?”

“You’re all thin and pale, Tim. You look like you’re not sleeping. People worry about you.” She lobs her droopy, too-big purse back over her shoulder. “I should get going. I’m on babysitting call tonight.”

I move between her and the door before I can think. “Okay, Alice. I’ll grant that worrying people has always been a talent of mine. But my family’s pretty much given up. You’re the one who came all the way over here to save my ankles and so on. Are we talking worrying people . . . or are we talking worrying you? ” The words rush out, hover in the air. I’m noticing again how little Alice is, aside from those curves, barely coming up to my shoulders. Five two? Five four?

She yanks her purse onto her shoulder again, looks down. Her cheeks go pink.

“Well?” I ask, because I’ve pushed it this far already.

One finger after another, she ticks things off. “You’re my little brother’s best friend. Though sometimes I have no idea how or why he puts up with you. You’re a minor. You’re a potential, if not an ongoing, disaster. You –” Then she sighs, shuts her eyes. “Listen, I have a long day tomorrow. Three classes, a clinical. When I get through it” – her voice drops to a low mutter, like even she doesn’t want to hear what she’s saying – “could we just meet for dinner? Like a . . . sample date?”

This goes through me like an electric shock.

A date.

With Alice Garrett?

Wait.

A sample date?

“What would we be sampling?”

She looks like she might laugh. Doesn’t. “Not that. I don’t do hookups.”

“I didn’t mean that. I never thought that for a second.”

She gives my shoulder a shove. “Of course not.”

“Okay. But it was like a millisecond, a nanosecond. Then I remembered how much I respected you and that I would never –”

Alice puts her hand, her fingertips, over my mouth. “Tim. Stop talking now.”

I snap my mouth shut.

“We’d be sampling dinner. ”

Then I remember a certain two-hundred-and-fifty-pound boyfriend. Who apparently already hates my ass. “Wait. Is this a setup? Are you trying to get my ass kicked by ol’ Brad?”

She shakes her head quickly, pulling her hand away from my face and burying it in the pocket of her scrubs. Her purse strap falls down again. My hand goes to slip it back up, but then no, I shove it back in my pocket.

Alice hesitates for a second, then: “This has nothing to do with Brad. He wouldn’t mind, anyway.”

“Then he’s even more of a putz than I thought. Hard to believe.”

Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “It’s not like that.”

It’s not? Okay. So that makes me . . .

Dinner.

“Meet me at Gary’s Grill in Barnet. Six thirty. Tomorrow night.”

Barnet is three towns away. Apparently Alice isn’t prepared to be seen in the immediate vicinity with her underage, recovering alcoholic sample date.

I say I’ll meet her there. She nods, gives me a subdued version of her sexy, crooked, smile, then her lips brush my cheek. That Hawaii smell. Oh, Alice.

“See you then.”

I nod, speechless, and shy-Alice morphs back into take-charge-Alice, jabbing a finger at me. “Don’t you dare be late. I hate it when guys pull that, like my time doesn’t matter. Like they’re all casual and time is a relative thing while I’m sitting there with the waiter pitying me.”

“Should we synchronize our watches?”

“Just don’t let me down.”

Chapter Thirteen

Waiting out in front of Hodges, school number one of my three, is bizarre. I’ve been back for Nan’s this-or-that achievement awards, but my neck still starts to itch as I stand there, like I’m stuck in the old uniform, gray flannel pants and stiff white shirt.

Here to pick up Samantha, offered to walk with her to the condo she and her mom moved into a week ago – ol’ Gracie’s brilliant plan to get her away from Jase and the Garretts next door, by relocating crosstown. Out of sight, etc.

She comes out of the big-ass oak doors, down the steps with the stone lions, spots me, waves, then halfway down the path, gets called over by this cluster of girls. They’re laughing and gesturing, and in their matching outfits, long straight hair, prep-clean looks, Hodges could slap ’em right on the cover of the school catalog.

Sam’s not like that, but she blends.

Then I see something else. My sister, walking with her head down, rooting through her bag like she’ll find the Ark of the Covenant in there. She’s so preoccupied, I think she’s gonna crash right into the girls, but she makes a wide, careful path around them. So I get it. She sees them, but doesn’t want them to see her.

Sam does, though, raises one hand, hello. But Nan keeps walking, rummaging away, because that treasure in her bag must and shall be found.

She’s not short, Nan, five seven or so, but from here she looks it.

Text her: You okay?

I think she’s gonna look around and spot me, propped against the magnolia tree only a few yards from the brick pathway, but she doesn’t.

Nan: Why wouldn’t I be?

Chew my lip, try to figure out whether to say I’m right here or not. Nan would be . . . not happy with the Sam pickup – I mean, she knows we’re still friends. But . . .

I settle for: Just checking in.

Nan: That’s out of character.

She’s stopped on the path and is making this phony face like she’s oh so excited about whoever’s texting her. It’s a “for the benefit of others” face.

Me: Yeah, well, I’m all about turning over the new leaf. So . . . you know where I am if you need me, K?

Nan: Who are you and what have you done with my brother?

Me: Ha.

Nan: Look, I’ve got a thing. Gotta go.

Right, the infamous “thing” we all have. Jesus, Nan.

As I’m trying to figure out whether to call her out on it in person, Sam strides up next to me, cups one of her ears, then the other with a few swift taps. “Water in my ear. Forgot my earplugs, and I’m going crazy trying to up my time before tryouts next week. So, you’re actually asking me for advice, Tim? The apocalypse, much?”

Her tone is light, but the look she shoots me isn’t.

“The apocalypse? Come on. I ask for stuff.”

“Tim, I’ve known you since we were five. Cash, yes. Excuses, totally. But not this.”

“Well, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

I haul her bag off her shoulder onto my own, hunting around for Nan, but she’s blended somewhere into the girl herd.

We walk. “It’s left up here.” Sam points to the road up the hill, the summit of Stony Bay, fanciest, richest part of town. “So, this is an actual date you’re going on.”

“Just – just something I’d rather not screw up. So – hit me with your best. Like, for starters, what the hell do I even wear?”

Samantha grins.

“Don’t,” I say. “I know exactly how lame I sound.”

“Start by passing the sniff test,” she says, smelling the air exaggeratedly, like some crazy bloodhound or whatever. “Which that shirt doesn’t, by the way. And” – she smacks me on the shoulder – “if she’s older than you, like you said, no shirts with school insignias. No point in rubbing it in that she’s a cougar.”

“She’s not a cougar. Jesus God.”

We’re a little over one year apart, me and Alice. It’s nothing.

Samantha studies me for a sec, then continues lightly. “Shower. Take her someplace low-key. Listen when she talks. Ask questions but only if you actually care about the answers. Don’t keep trying to interrupt with stories about the last time you got drunk.”

“Believe me, I’m not gonna touch that.”

Besides, Alice has been there. I puked all over her and she took off her shirt, calm as moon-low tide, owning this black lace bra with this tiny red ribbon and . . . it’s the one thing I remember perfectly about that night.

“You’d be surprised at how many guys do.”

Samantha’s shoulders stoop a little as we hit a bend in the road, cut off by huge black iron gates, tacked all over with signs: PRIVATE COMMUNITY, NO TRESPASSING, you are not welcome here. “Here we go, home sweet home as of last week. The code is 1776.”

“Sorry, kid. Should have given you a housewarming present. A casserole, at least.”

“Believe me, nothing could warm this place up. The condo makes our old house look festive. We’re right up by the clubhouse.” She gestures to this low building with a Swiss-chalet-looking roof, surrounded by a golf course spattered with dudes in pastel, knocking away at tiny white balls. It all looks like a retirement village.

“Wow,” I say. I got nothin’ else.

“I know.” Samantha shakes her head. “I haven’t even let Jase see it yet. I mean, did you notice the streets? General Dwight D. Eisenhower Drive, Lady of the Lake Lane, Pettipaug Peak? The names aren’t even consistent! And check out the houses. You could walk into the wrong one and suddenly find yourself living someone else’s life.” She waves her hand at row after row of identical houses.

“What time do all the handsome husbands pop out of their doors with their matching briefcases?”

“Leaving their blond wives to take their Valium, at the same second, elbows bent just so? Not sure. We’ve only been here a week. Give me time. It’s over here, Wolverine Wood Road.”

I squint. “Are there any actual woods? Or wolverines?” The landscape is green and grassy and flat, except for an unnatural-looking lake.

“Right? No, they took down all the trees to build this. I’ll keep you posted on the wolverines. We’re here.” She points past a narrow row of hedges. “By the statue of the non-specified Revolutionary War soldier.”

“Do I need to lay a wreath?” I ask as we head past the scarily smiling iron statue. “Or salute?”

“Why couldn’t we have stayed put?” She sighs.

Samantha knows the obvious answer to that, so all I say is, “Cheer up, kid. College next year. ’

Gracie, Sam’s mom, is out on the porch of Clairemont Cottage, planting some brassy orange flowers in big stone urns. She jolts to her knees when we turn the corner, trowel in hand, then, seeing it’s me with Sam, beams, waves, settles back down on her heels again. For reasons known only to her and God, Grace persists in thinking Jase is the delinquent and I’m the upstanding citizen.

Samantha studies me for a sec, then says, “One more thing. The most important. On this date? Just be, you know, smart and funny and sweet. Like you are.”

“Pretty sure that’s not actually me.”

“It is.” She flips her hair out of its braid, sliding her fingers through to shake it out. “If she’s going on a date with you, she probably thinks so too. Do I know her?”

“Not really.”

“Tim, c’mon.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just a” – I have no idea what it is – “thing.”

Not buying it. All over her face.

But Samantha smiles, tugs her bag off my shoulder, puts her hand in its place. “Two more things, actually – but they’re crucial. Don’t wear that stupid Axe stuff clueless guys think is sexy. It reeks of desperation.”

I fake scribble on an imaginary pad. “Noted.”

“And don’t let her break your heart, okay?”

“Sammy-Sam, I think that’s already a given.”

“I get to ride on the feet!” George squeals.

“Bro. You can’t ride on the wheelchair feet. I’d lose my job,” Brad says, maneuvering Dad out of the hospital room, skillful and grounded in his transporter role. We’re a parade to help move Dad to the rehab part of Maplewood. Joel’s got the duffel full of the clothes we brought so Dad would feel semi-normal. Mom’s arms are bundled full of his books. Andy’s carrying a stack of artwork the little guys made, carefully detached from the Scotch tape on the wall. Duff has the Xbox and the videogames. Harry, the old deck of cards, the pick-up sticks, the dominoes, the old-fashioned games we rediscovered to make time pass.

I have all the paperwork, most of which my parents don’t know about.

It would be Brad they sent to do the transfer, of all the ’porters in all of Maplewood Memorial. He’s ignoring me. I’m ignoring him. This is fun. At least he’s been decent to the kids, even though George keeps giving him sidelong glances, no doubt worried the tears will start again.

I check my watch – plenty of time to do what I need to do, get home, and get ready to go out with Tim, as long as this all goes quickly.

Two and a half hours later – twice as long as it was supposed to take – Dad’s in his room, everything (more or less) sorted out.

Mom leaves with the kids, Joel heads to cop class, I linger. Sticking the pictures up on the wall, stacking the games in piles, making the bare room a little like home. Dad shut his eyes the instant they all left, “just for a moment.” But he immediately dropped off to sleep.

I sit down on the side of the bed. Really, I want to lie down too, put my head on his shoulder. I was up late last night studying, and George had a wake-up-screaming nightmare, something about a supervolcano under Yellowstone Park. After I convinced him it was absolutely nothing to worry about and he finally fell asleep in my lap and I carried him back to bed, I googled it.

There is one.

Looking at my father’s face, worry lines smoothed out, faint smile, his big hands brown against the white hospital sheet, air siphons out of my lungs for an instant. Black spots collect at the corners of my vision.

Deep breath.

Deep breath.

The spots scatter and fade.

On to the next thing, because what else can I do?

I brought a change of clothes for tonight along with me, just in case.

I mean, I’m not dressing up. Not for Tim, for God’s sake. But, I’ve been wearing this black V-neck and skirt all day long, and Harry squeezed his juice box too hard and –

Anyway.

I shower in the bathroom off Dad’s new room, crowded in by the walker, the quad cane, and the commode chair. Tiny hospital-issue soap and body wash and shampoo, because I forgot to bring my own. Hospital towels are rough and tiny, it takes two to dry off, and still my dark blue sundress clings in a few wet patches. No blow dryer, so my hair will dry curly. So be it. When I look in the mirror, I recognize myself again.

There’s a sharp sound from the other room, like air through teeth.

Sweat stands out on his forehead and his face is chalky white.

“Dad?”

“Al,” Dad says gently, “come back a little later, okay?”

“Not happening. What do you need?”

My hand is poised over the call button. He sets his on top of it. “They’ll only dope me up. Not what I want.”

Dad shifts in the bed with a crackle of plastic hospital mattress pad. He sucks his breath in hard, again blows it out. My own breath snags.

“Scale of one to ten,” I say, groping to find the professional in me.

“I’m not your patient, tiger,” Dad says. “Luckily for both of us.”

Without warning, my eyes fill. I don’t cry. I never cry.

Which Dad knows. His hand shoots out, squeezes my shoulder. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You know that.” Now he’s batting at the box of tissues at the side of his bed, which is slightly out of reach, and something about that, my dad, who can do anything, who can fix everything –

“You look gorgeous, Alice,” Dad says. “Hot date?”

“Just a thing,” I say, my face going hot.

He studies me, saying nothing, waiting for information to come to him. Mom and Dad have that one down to an art.

“How’s Tim these days?”

These two questions are not connected. He’s making conversation. Distracting me from calling the nurse and another debate about pain medication. “How Mom and Dad Met” is a family fairy tale – Mom’s told us the story so often, we can all fill in words when she pauses. But there’s a part she leaves out when we’re younger . . . that charming, perceptive Jack Garrett had a dark side back then. He was, as he tells it, “mad at the whole live world” because his mother had died the year before, and his little sister and brother, my aunt Caroline and my uncle Jason, had stayed behind in Virginia with their grandparents, while his father had taken my father, alone, since he was sixteen and old enough to bring in a paycheck, up to Connecticut. Dad had a drinking problem, which got worse until his twenties, when he realized he could go that route, or have a life with Mom, and turned his around.

I have never seen my father drink alcohol. He doesn’t even have soda, although he’ll be the first to tell you that entire coffee plantations are supported by his caffeine habit.

It could go that way for Tim. Or it could go the other way.

“Oh . . . you know. The usual.”

Dad laughs. “That kid has no ‘usual.’”

Out in the hallway again, I rub the back of my neck, close my eyes, flip back my hair. I’m looking forward to Tim – Tim! – like a steaming hot bath after a long, cold day.

Still, I pull Dad’s chart from the plastic holder outside the door, page through it. Standard entry, expected procedure, the usual blah, blah, blah.

But then . . .

Holy.

Holy Mother of God.

Chapter Fourteen

I’m doing pushups as a healthier alternative to a pack of Marlboros, wondering when the hell the magic powers of the nic patch will kick in, when I hear the knock at my door – so faint, it’s not really a knock, more like a scratch or a tap. I’m at that top-of-the-pushup, arms-shaking point, right before I exhale –

Collapse.

Wipe my arm across my sweaty forehead. I’m wearing Ellery gym shorts and a sweaty black polo. Not exactly poised to receive company. But I’ve still got time to get it together for Alice.

Whatever it is we’re sampling on this date, the thought of it has me grinning as I open the door.

But when I do, the face I see is so out of context, it takes me a few seconds.

Big blue eyes, small pointed chin, tidy ponytail. One seat to the left of me in English Writers of the Western World. I used to borrow her perfectly sharpened pencils. Never gave ’em back.

“Tim?” she says, like I might be Tim’s evil twin.

“Hi. Uh . . . Heather.” How I scrounge that name from my subconscious, I have no idea.

“It’s Hester. Can I come in?”

What? I think, at the same time I say, “Sure,” and open the door wider for her. She brushes past me, sits down on the couch, and looks at her shoes. Hester was a Brain and a Good Girl. So we had nothing in common. What’s she doing here? She smoothes down her khaki skirt, readjusts her white shirt. Prep wear. Clothing as birth control, my douchey friends and I used to joke. All those fuckin’ buttons. Little gold hoop earrings, neat part in her brown hair. Shit, is she, like, a Jehovah’s Witness or something? I don’t have time for this. But now she’s weaving her fingers together, studying them. “So, Tim . . . you left Ellery early this year.”

“Yeah, left, as in got booted.”

I look at the clock on the stove right as it flips from 5:58 to 59. Less than half an hour to meet Alice, and it takes fifteen minutes to drive. If you don’t run the lights or speed.

Hester lifts her face and looks at me squarely. “Before that, you went to Ward Akins pool party.”

I did? Geez, I was so messed up back then, worst of my worst. I can hardly remember those last months of school. Little flashes. Ward Akins? Asskite guy on my tennis team. Pool party? Would I have gone to one of those? Who’m I kidding? I would have gone to anyone ’s party.

But also? Who the eff cares what party I did or didn’t go to.

“Uh. Look, can we catch up some other time? Sorry – I mean . . . not to be a dick, but . . . why are you here?”

“Ward is my godmother’s stepson,” Hester says, like family history answers the question. “Even though he’s an abject loser, I went to this party because . . . well, never mind.” Her voice, which is husky, throaty, stalls out for a sec. Then she braids her fingers together even more tightly, swallows. “Big house – very modern, glass windows . . . the pool’s indoors, heated. They have a tiki bar . . . do you remember any of this?”

Not even the tiki bar. “No. Sorry. I got nothing.”

Her face shuffles through a boatload of emotions in, like, seconds – there and gone. Then her features smooth, totally composed. She looks dead on at me, blue eyes crystal clear, focused, narrowing, like she’s aiming a gun. “You don’t have ‘nothing.’ You have a son.”

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