She’s not me or Hudson. We’re the ones who have continually proven to need special tending.

“What, Chlo? What?” she asks.

Still it’s not fair for us to see how far we can bend her till she breaks.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and reach out to touch her, but she steps backward. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know you are,” she says, and walks away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Then

Shola: The Littles rocked the ISEE!

Me: YAYYYY!!!!!!!! All test practice with them paid off! You’re Teacher of the Year!

Shola: I’m so relieved. You don’t even know. I haven’t slept in like a week

Me: Watch out Wood Valley! Here come the Littles!

Shola: Don’t jinx it! They still have to get in with scholarships

Me: THEY WILL!

Shola: We need so much admissions mojo right now. I honestly think I’m more worried about them than me

Me: You’re such a better big sister than I am

Shola: Yeah you’re right. I rock

Me: You coming over today?

Shola: I wish. Still have to help my parents. They had so much food leftover they invited everyone over again today for Thanksgiving 2.0

Me: Come on. I’ll pull out the unicorn float

Shola: Don’t tempt me with the unicorn. You know how much I love that thing

Me: You love it more than you love me

Shola: You come in a close second tho. Your dad comes in third

Me: SHOLA

Me: Please come over. Levi’s boarding in Vail. Argh, I’m so mad we didn’t go away this year. I’m soooo bored. I don’t want to have to swim alone

Shola: Tough life you have C

—

“Read a book for once,” Isla says when she comes into the playroom and sees that I’m still playing Xbox. My essay is in, the SAT nightmare is over, my boyfriend (I really, really like that word) is away—I’m allowed to kick back, guilt free.

She flops down on the couch with a giant bag of potato chips—contraband in this house—and opens up a fat novel. “Nerd,” I say.

“Do you think the My Dad, My Pops, and Me reboot is going to get picked up?” Isla asks. She puts her book down, and I see the title, Crime and Punishment. She’s reading my homework for funsies.

“Probably. Why?” I ask. I can’t remember the last time I voluntarily spent a night at home with Isla, but I do that constant math that seems to follow me everywhere these days: only six months left of the two of us living under the same roof, and then probably never again for the rest of our lives, so I pause my game to sit with her.

“Is it wrong that I kind of don’t want it to?”