“They don’t want to know me.”

Mom touched her hand gently. “It’s never good to sit around and wait for someone or something to change your life. That’s why women like Gloria Steinem are burning their bras and marching on Washington.”

“So that I can make friends?”

“So that you know you can be whatever you want to be. Your generation is so lucky. You can be anything you want. But you have to take a risk sometimes. Reach out. One thing I can tell you for sure is this: we only regret what we don’t do in life.”

Kate heard an odd sound in her mom’s voice, a sadness that tinted the word regret. But what could her mother possibly know about the battlefield of junior high popularity? She hadn’t been a teenager in decades. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s true, Kathleen. Someday you’ll see how smart I am.” Her mom smiled and patted her hand. “If you’re like the rest of us, it’ll happen at about the same time you want me to babysit for the first time.”

“What are you talking about?”

Mom laughed at some joke Kate didn’t even get. “I’m glad we had this talk. Now go. Make friends with your new neighbor.”

Yeah. That would happen.

“Wear oven mitts. It’s still hot,” Mom said.

Perfect. The mitts.

Kate went over to the counter and stared down at the red-brown glop of a casserole. Dully, she fitted a sheet of foil across the top, curled the edges down, and then put on the puffy, quilted blue oven mitts her Aunt Georgia had made. At the back door, she slipped her stockinged feet into the fake Earth shoes on the porch and headed down the spongy driveway.

The house across the street was long and low to the ground, a rambler-style in an L shape that faced away from the road. Moss furred the shingled roof. The ivory sides were in need of paint, and the gutters were overflowing with leaves and sticks. Giant rhododendron bushes hid most of the windows, runaway junipers created a green spiky barrier that ran the length of the house. No one had tended to the landscaping in years.

At the front door Kate paused, drawing in a deep breath.

Balancing the casserole in one hand, she pulled off one oven mitt and knocked.

Please let no one be home.

Almost instantly she heard footsteps from inside.

The door swung open to reveal a tall woman dressed in a billowy caftan. An Indian-beaded headband circled her forehead. Two mismatched earrings hung from her ears. There was a strange dullness in her eyes, as if she needed glasses and didn’t have them, but even so, she was pretty in a sharp, brittle kind of way. “Yeah?”

Weird, pulsing music seemed to come from several places at once; though the lights were turned off, several lava lamps burped and bubbled in eerie green and red canisters.

“H-hello,” Kate stammered. “My mom made you guys this casserole.”