When the green van finally barreled away, tires jumping over the cracked drive, my mother went to her bedroom and slammed the door. I stood there, listening to the kitchen faucet drip in tune with her sobs, before my feet carried me out the front door, down the driveway, and block after block, until I found myself in front of Downtown Books.

I never came here unless I had a gift card. I couldn’t afford to pay the price on a book’s bar code, only on a yellowing discount sticker at a used bookstore. I spent my babysitting money on new school supplies and the occasional hot lunch, instead of my usual cheese and mustard sandwich, never on books from here.

But, that day, I let myself stand there and gaze through the window for as long as I liked. I could stay all night, I thought, watching customers drift around the low shelves like sailboats bobbing on the horizon. I didn’t have to go home to a Dadless but Momful house, didn’t have to clean up the shattered pottery and succulent leaves still scattered across the floor.

My reflection in the bookstore window looked haunted, my bright yellow Harry Potter shirt washing out my pale white skin and blue eyes. My long hair—caught somewhere between blonde and brown—wasn’t helping. I wondered if emotions could suck the color right out of you. I wondered if hatred and bewilderment could make you anemic.

I don’t know how long I would have stood there, outside looking in, if not for Jenna Williams.

The glass door to the bookstore wasn’t even fully open before she poked her head out and said, “You’re Amelia, right? You can’t just stand there. It’s creepy. What are you doing? Come inside if you want to look.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Even in my daze, part of me felt like I should be curtseying or something. Jenna Williams—reigning valedictorian from fifth grade onward, always impeccably dressed, the first of our grade to wear eyeliner, noted tennis enthusiast—was the closest thing to royalty in the freshman class, though she never held court. She had a few girls from the tennis club she hung out with, but nobody ever managed to get closer than arm’s length. It made her all the more appealing, really, than the girls that collected doting admirers and disciples. Jenna was less obtainable. She was never unfriendly, but she was a supernova in a galaxy of new stars and we all knew it, even the teachers.

We had been classmates since kindergarten, but I was surprised she knew my name.

Maybe it was because of the star thing, but I heard myself tell her, “My dad left today.”

She sighed, berry lips bright against her suntanned skin, and said, “Like left left? That sucks. Do you want to talk about it?”