She sticks the mascara brush back in the tube and pulls out one earbud. “Ellie and Eddie went to see the campus with Darcy. They’ll come pick us up later for the aquarium.”

She’s talking. Complete sentences. No snips of sarcasm. She’s smiling. I need to thank Darcy one day.

I need to learn how to do whatever it is she did for Ruth.

My little pile of tattoo sheet and feather and concert program are still undisturbed on Ruth’s shelf. I point to the program. “So is the concert your favorite part of this trip so far?”

“Probably,” she says. “You? Camera still awesome as you hoped?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, trying not to sound like I want to fling my arms around her waist for asking. “It’s almost like the camera itself is better than my skill level, and I just hope I can get good enough for it.”

“Well,” she says. “What I know most about you is that you don’t give up, so I’m sure you’ll get there.” She pops her brow liner back in her bag.

Where’s pixie dust when you need it, because I’ve got everything else required to jump off this loft and float right up into the clouds.

Ruth tilts her ear toward the mirror and leans in. She’s trying to get a close look at her new tattoo. The swelling has gone down a little bit, I can tell.

“What did Mom say about that?”

It comes out before I think about it too much.

Ruth looks over at me with an eyebrow raised, a look somewhere between who cares and none of your business.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says.

I sit up and let my feet dangle over the ledge. “I mean, it kind of does.”

Something new and daring is trilling in my sternum and pushing me on. So often I don’t have the right words for things, and I’m not sure I do now, but in this moment I’ve got to try.

Ruth turns to me and folds her arms across her chest.

“I mean,” I say, stumbling on. “It matters that you did something that made Mom worried. That hurt her.” And me, I think. It matters that you hurt me.

Ruth takes a small step toward me. I’m tempted to pull my dangling legs up into the safety of my loft, but I stay still.

“Are you judging me?” Her words are quiet and dangerous as viper fangs.

“I…” Why am I doing this? It started out as such a perfect morning and now I’m ruining it. Now I’ve started, though, and I can’t stop myself. This is something bigger than me and I need her to understand. “No, I’m not judging. I just … aren’t there ways to … to do the things you want, to be yourself, without ignoring Mom and Dad? Without hurting them?”