Butterflyer moments were used for things like: When I broke my arm last year. When Jude’s parents told her they were getting a divorce. Then when Jude found out she was moving. When I thought I was going to die of loneliness that first week of school without her (or that Macy was going to beat me up).

While I wait for Jude’s response, I get up to close my bedroom door and then I turn on the light in my closet and sit on the floor, pulling all the clothes in around me like patchwork curtains. I imagine Jude, all the way in Utah, doing the same thing: making her way to her own bedroom, pushing the hangers aside, settling in to dispense some biffle advice and comfort.

It’s been four minutes.

“Jude, come on,” I say out loud, like maybe I can telepathically call to her all the way across the five states that currently separate us.

Seven minutes.

I decide to call her instead—maybe she just didn’t see my text come in.

It rings and rings and rings. Until a generic voice-mail robot answers, telling me that Jude is not available. “What!” I say out loud to my shirts and sweaters hanging all around me.

BEEP.

“Jude, hey,” I whisper into the phone. “Listen, it’s a butterflyer over here. Call me as soon as you get this message. Oh, it’s me, your biffle.”

Three more minutes pass before my phone vibrates in my hand and its glow illuminates the darkened closet. But it’s not a phone call from Jude. It’s a text.

All it says is: hi, sry. will call u back later. robin & lark r here right now

It’s not until the numbers on my alarm clock change from 11:22 to 11:23 that I admit the truth: Jude is not going to call me back tonight.

And even though I should be tired, I’ve never been more wide-awake.

“Dewey?” I say out loud.

I close my eyes and listen hard to my thoughts.

Nothing. All I hear are the sounds of the house. Noah’s snoring down the hall. Moms’ TV in their bedroom, the muffled voice of a news anchor. But underneath all of those, I hear the sound of dishes being pulled out of the cupboard.

I make my way downstairs to find that Gramps has a steaming mug set out in his usual spot at the kitchen table. And he’s at the counter, making himself a PB&J sandwich for a midnight snack.

“Hiya, Sass, you’re up late.”

I sit at the kitchen table and sigh. “Mm-hmm.”

“You want half of this?” he asks.

“No thanks,” I murmur. “Not hungry.”

“Why so glum, chum?” He glances over his shoulder and asks, “Math homework gotcha down again?”

“No, it’s not that.”