I felt like I had screwed up our conversation somehow. “Well, you should do whatever makes sense for you,” I said, trying to fix it. “Whether that means you finish your degree or get back together with the band. I just feel like if you have that talent, you should go for it. Otherwise you’re suppressing who you really are, and that just seems wrong.”

She smiled slightly, first down at the dirt, and then over her shoulder at me. “Thanks for the words of wisdom,” she said.

I flushed. “Sorry. I mean, I didn’t mean to be condescending.”

“You weren’t. I appreciate it. It’s nice when someone believes in you.”

I felt that warm flush spread down my neck as we looked at each other—as she looked at me. Her eyes bright, focused. Did I imagine the slight color on her cheeks, too?

“Enough about me,” she said, turning back to the flower bed. “Tell me about you. You’re going to college in the fall? What are you going to major in?”

“Yeah, probably either physics or planetary science.”

“Really?” She sounded surprised.

“Why, you don’t think girls can do science?” I teased her.

She laughed. “I never said that.”

“It’s just that people have assumptions, you know? Most boys take one look at me and think there’s no way I could do math, even though I’m Asian. It’s like their two stereotypes get crossed and they don’t know how to deal with me.”

“I’m not a boy,” she said. She sounded amused.

—

After Steph finished the yard work, I put Analemma back in the house and helped her clean up. I hauled the yard-waste bag over to the trash area and carried the watering cans back to the shed, where Steph put away the wheelbarrow and tools.

“You still want to see my grandpa’s notes?” I asked.

She took off the gloves and laid them on the shelf beside some empty pots. “Sure. I have a few minutes.”

“I’m set up in Joan’s old studio. Have you been in it?”

“No.”

I led her up the back path toward the studio and opened the door. “She works in the house now, but she used to work in here.”

Steph followed me into the studio, looking around. “Why’d she move into the house? This space is great.”

“I don’t know. It happened after Grandpa died.”

By now I’d divided Grandpa’s notes into three stacks on the worktable: unsorted, notes, and not-notes. Next to the not-notes stack was Diving into the Wreck, which I’d brought into the studio last time I was in here.

Steph pointed to the book. “Hey, Adrienne Rich. I love her stuff.”

“I haven’t read anything of hers except for this. I like it a lot.”

“My favorite of hers is The Dream of a Common Language. Have you read it?”