“It’s a real page-turner,” she says, smiling back. “And the emotions feel so true. It reminds me how I felt at that age.”

“I told you it was good,” I say.

“You were right,” she says, and I know her eyes are twinkling both because she is really liking the book and because of our secret discovery. When I had my dress fittings at Mrs. Sandler’s house, I finally got up the nerve to ask her about the books.

“Jessie,” I said, because Mrs. Sandler told me to call her that, and I do, because it somehow feels right, “I get that Mr. Sandler loved the Most Likely To … series as much as me, but how come you have so many copies of the same books? Was Mr. Sandler, like, a secret fan club lending library or something?”

I was joking of course, but to my surprise, Jessie got a shifty look on her face and hesitated.

“Something like that,” she mumbled around a pin in her mouth. Then she glanced at the books and took the pin out from between her lips. “Okay, can I swear you to secrecy?”

I nodded. She looked at my mother. My mother nodded too.

“They’re Raphi’s books.”

“Okay,” I said. Of course they’re his books; they’re on his bookshelf. But my mother cocked her head.

“Jessie, are you saying …?” my mother said.

“Yes.” Jessie nodded, a little sparkle now in her tired eyes as she looked at me.

“What?” I said.

“Milla,” Jessie said. “Those are Raphi’s books. He wrote them.”

My eyes widened in shock. He wrote them? Wait, Mr. Sandler … is R. S. Williams?

Jessie laughed, and my mother laughed too. I was too dumbfounded to do more than run over to their bookshelf, pull down one of the many Most Likely To … books, and stare at the front cover in wonder.

Mr. Sandler is R. S. Williams! He was writing young adult novels under a pen name. He was—is—the author of all those books. My favorite books. Mr. Sandler!

Sometimes since finding out, I am even sadder. It is another death, this one of my favorite author. I now know for certain that there won’t be any more books in the series, or by R. S. Williams at all. But other times I am not exactly happy, but grateful, I guess, that at least I, and the world, got these ones.

On that day of the dress fitting though, Jessie gently took the book from my hand and opened it, flipping a few pages at the beginning until she came to what she was looking for. “Have you ever noticed how Raphi dedicated all these books?” she asked me, pointing to the words. They always say this—”

I read the words out loud: “ ‘To my students—for inspiring me with their creativity and always pushing me to choose better.’ ”

“I think he very much had students like you in mind when he wrote this,” Jessie said.