When my alarm goes off on the first morning of school, Boomer lets out a small groan and burrows deeper into the covers as I drag myself out of bed. Today is my first day as a seventh grader. First day at a new school. I should be excited, but all I want to do is stay right here with Boomer.

In the bathroom, I study my face in the mirror. There are dark circles under my eyes. I haven’t been sleeping well the last couple of nights. And is it just my imagination, or are the spots on my elbow getting bigger?

I look away but not before my stomach does a belly flop. At least school will give me something else to think about until my appointment.

Back in Gram’s room, which I have now officially taken over, I glance at the tower of new books sitting on the bureau, but instead I grab The World at the End of the Tunnel and drop it into my terrible pink backpack.

“Emma!” Mom calls. “You’ll be late for your bus!”

“Coming, coming,” I mutter, shooting a last jealous look at Boomer, whose nose is still twitching with dreams.

As I’m passing Gram’s studio, I hesitate. I haven’t been inside since before she died. I don’t want to see the paintings that she was still working on, that she’ll never get to finish now.

I push the door open, though, and instead of looking at the paintings, I search the floor until I find what I’m looking for. The old leather satchel that she used to carry her paint supplies in. The leather is frayed and splattered with paint, but it’s still a million times better than the backpack I already can’t believe I let Mom buy me. Quickly, I dump all my school supplies and books out of the backpack and transfer them into the satchel.

This way, I’ll have a little bit of Gram with me.

I grab one of her old cardigans that’s hanging on the back of the door, too. It’s not cold enough for sweaters yet, but at least the spots on my elbows will be all covered up.

I race down the stairs, brushing past Mom. “Emma! What are you—”

“Sorry, Mom. I’m going to miss the bus!” I say.

“Well, have a good first day, sweetheart,” she replies. I just have time to hear her sigh before I whip through the door.

The bus stop is right outside our house, and I reach it as the school bus is pulling up. Gloria waves from outside the village hall, where she’s weeding the garden beds. “Knock ’em dead, Emma!” she calls out. I shoot her a quick smile, hoping no one on the bus heard.