I am hungry. I couldn’t face the thought of the lunchroom after the Edie thing, so instead I went to the library, ate half my sandwich under the table, and then tried to read. But mostly I thought about the Edie thing. Why hadn’t I closed my stupid notebook?

I sit down and bite into the cookie. Boomer wags his way into the kitchen, and I stroke his head as I eat.

“Tell me something, at least,” Mom says. “Did you make any friends? What about your teachers?”

“I like my English teacher,” I reply. “And that journalist you met, his daughter goes to my school.”

The instant I’ve said it, I realize it was the wrong move.

“Arnold O’Shea?” Mom asks, her eyes widening. “Did you make friends with her?”

“Not exactly,” I mumble, getting up to pour myself a glass of milk.

“Well, I’m sure—”

Mom stops when she sees me glancing at her laptop. For a second, we both freeze. Then she lowers the screen and I look away, and we both pretend we haven’t seen the website she was just looking at.

It’s only then that it occurs to me that Mom has never in my life bought me an entire plate of cookies as a treat. Or to wonder why she has those dark circles under her eyes.

It’s because she’s done the same Google search as me, of course. She’s been on the same website. Seen the same pictures.

She thinks I do have what those people have.

“I’m going to take Boomer for a walk,” I say suddenly, turning from the kitchen before she can reply.

This time, instead of heading for the Spinney, we walk toward the church. The air is ripe and heavy and smells like the end of summer. As soon as we reach the sidewalk, Boomer leaps toward a squirrel, which scampers up a nearby oak tree. Across the street, Ruth stands at her fence, leaning against her cane. She calls me over when she sees me and invites me in for lemonade.

“These old bones aren’t good for much anymore, but they can still squeeze the lemons and stir the sugar,” she says.

“No thanks,” I reply. “We’re on our way to the graveyard.”

“Going to visit your gram, eh?” she crows. “Well, send her my regards. The garden club just isn’t the same anymore. We all still think about those margaritas she would bring.”

She stares wistfully in the direction of the graveyard as the church bells ring, five minutes late, like usual.

“Me, too,” I say. “Except, you know, the margarita part.”