I click over to Levi’s feed and learn that today is Wood Valley Giving Day. He posts a picture of him and Simon and Axl. In it, all three of them look sweaty and hold nail guns in the air like Charlie’s Angels. It’s supposed to be a day of community service—building houses for low-income families—but looking at Instagram, I can see my classmates are filled with that restless, excited end-of-school year energy and that they’re doing more chatting and selfie-taking than working. I wonder if people are still talking about me, or if they’ve moved on to more important matters. Picking college roommates. Dress-shopping for prom.

It’s a weird feeling—this desire to be forgotten. I’ve spent my whole life wondering about the opposite. If I could find a way to leave behind a mark, to move beyond my own mediocrity. If I could one day be more than simply my famous mother’s daughter.

The doorbell rings, and I freeze. My brain scrolls through worst-case scenarios: A reporter. No, the FBI here to arrest me for real. I pull up Kenny’s number on my cell. I decide if it’s the cops, they’ll at least give me a chance to call my lawyer.

I curse my parents for not having a peephole, switch off the alarm, keep one hand on the panic button. I open the door a tiny crack. No worst-case scenarios, only best. A vision manifested.

Shola.

“You’re here,” I say, my eyes filling with tears. What I think but don’t say, because I realize it’s not fair, is: What took you so long?

“I’m here,” she echoes, and follows me inside.

—

We end up in the kitchen, on the high stools, where we’ve spent countless hours together. This is the first time we don’t know what to say to each other.

“I thought you’d be at Giving Day,” I say, and then mentally kick myself for wasting time. What I want to say and on repeat, forever and ever: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You have to forgive me. And also: Please don’t leave me behind.

“I went, and then, I don’t know, I left. I knew your mom had her thing today, so I thought I might catch you alone,” she says.

“You did,” I say.

“How’s it going?” she asks.