Her voice is different away from school. Less certain. She looks up at me and narrows her eyes. “Why did you bring this to me? After I’ve been so—you know—”

“Mean?” I say, before I can stop myself. Edie stiffens.

“Look, I just thought tomorrow might be kind of hard for you. And this book has gotten me through some, um, hard stuff. I just wanted you to know someone was thinking about you. That someone cared.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “You know about my dad, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “My mom is working for him. Designing his new, um, house.”

Edie sniffles. “I know,” she says sharply. “Your mom is the reason I found out my dad was leaving, actually. I found her business card in my dad’s briefcase. That’s when he told me. And I kind of hated you after that.”

I feel my eyes widen with surprise. All along, I thought this was about that stupid poem. But it was so much bigger than that. “I didn’t know until a couple of days ago,” I reply. “And I won’t tell anyone.”

I’m about to turn to go when Edie speaks again. “You probably don’t believe me, but I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “For the picture and the text and all that. The first time I saw you on the school bus without makeup, I knew I shouldn’t have done it. Because it wasn’t ever really about, you know, your skin. But I didn’t—I couldn’t tell you that.”

“Well, you kind of made my life miserable for a while,” I say. “And nobody deserves to feel like I felt. But I know it sucks, what’s happening with your dad. I know what it’s like to lose someone. Just . . . don’t do it to anyone else, okay?”

Edie nods. There’s another uncomfortable moment of silence.

“Well, I should—” I say just as Edie says, “Thank you for the—”

We both laugh nervously.

“I still don’t get why you’re being so nice to me,” Edie says. “It’s kind of weird, but it— Well, thanks. I actually really like reading, you know.”

“Good,” I reply. “I hope you like it. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Emma.”

Then I turn away. And I have the strongest feeling that somewhere, Gram is really, really proud of me.

49

When I come downstairs the next morning, the kitchen is already filled with wonderful aromas. I have a mug of hot cocoa and toast for breakfast while Mom and Dad bustle around.

“Going to be a cold one today,” Dad says as he chops the rosemary.

“I heard they’re calling for snow,” Mom replies from the sink.

“A white Thanksgiving?” I ask, smearing a little extra butter on my crust and giving it to Boomer, who has been sniffing around the turkey waiting to be stuffed on the counter.