Audrey was wearing shoes. Phoebe was wearing shoes. They spontaneously dematerialized and rematerialized with their arms full: Ros’s lace-ups, Touchstone’s Birkenstocks, my slip-on boots. My knees were weak. My body was numb. I’d thrown a pie at Ros’s head. I’d destroyed the Lily Pad. I’d destroyed the Lily Pad.

“Celia,” Phoebe said gently. “Put on your shoes.”

“You tried to kill me,” said Ros.

“I think that’s a little dramatic,” said Phoebe.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“You could have taken my head off,” said Ros.

“Really not sure that’s the case,” said Phoebe.

“I found a broom!” said Jess. She sounded very far away, even though she was close by.

“I couldn’t—it wasn’t—”

“I’m gonna be sick,” said Touchstone, and threw up over the porch railing.

“Oh,” said Audrey. “Oh, oh, oh.”

A broom was placed in my hand. I’d tried to kill Ros. I’d tried to kill Ros. No, I hadn’t. I loved Ros. Ros was my best friend.

“Celia,” Phoebe said. “Shoes.”

“I honestly didn’t mean to—I’m so sorry—”

“Get out,” said Touchstone, before he retched again. “Celia. Get out.”

“You mean, like, leave?” I said.

He threw up again and shot me a thumbs-up.

“Dude, you can’t just kick her out,” said Ros.

“Andrew, you’re not thinking clearly,” said Audrey.

“It’s my uncle’s house, and she needs to go,” he said.

“Touch, I can help—”

“Just get out,” he said. “Leave.”

Phoebe let me stay the night at her house.

“They’re my best friend. What is wrong with me?”

She held me stiffly in her arms. It was the first hug we ever had, and we’d joke about it later, when hugging became second nature to us—how bad we were at it, how weird it was.

“This will all look better in the morning,” Phoebe said.

But I couldn’t wait that long.

I was home by six a.m. I crept in through the back door on tiptoe like a cat burglar in my own home. In the mudroom, I caught a smell—musty, the faintest hint of mothballs, the dry smell of tennis balls in cans, towels we used to dry off the dogs after they went swimming—and it took me a few seconds to realize it was, in fact, the house. How strange: to not even recognize the smell of your own home.