“But what did you tell her about me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I promise. Only that I was with you all night, talking. They were freaked out—they thought that I was off doing terrible things with boys and drugs, if you can believe that.”

“Okay, but I mean . . . what did you tell them about me?” demanded Jasper. “My situation?”

“I didn’t tell them anything! Just that you’re my friend. They know that we painted the wall of your bedroom. They know that you live in the neighborhood. So now they want to meet you.”

“I think it’s better if they don’t,” said Jasper. “It makes me nervous that they even know my name.”

“Only your first name,” I said. “I still don’t even know your last name.”

“Even so. Jasper’s not a very common name for a girl. I stand out.”

“Yeah, well, it gets worse,” I added. “They also want to talk to your mom.”

Jasper laughed. She was holding her knees in front of her, and she rocked back and forth now. “That would be hilarious,” she said. “If they met her, I don’t think it would help our case.”

“So then, you do have a mom?”

Jasper stopped rocking. She looked at me seriously and sighed. “I was going to tell you the whole story the other night, wasn’t I? Right when you had to go?”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “I spent half of yesterday wondering about that.”

“I don’t know,” said Jasper. “It felt so right to tell you then. It doesn’t feel the same . . . now.” She squinted at me in the sunlight.

“Please?”

Jasper stood up and brushed off the seat of her shorts. “Well, okay,” she said. “But let’s get a snack. This might require some pickles.” She reached down a hand. I clasped it, and she pulled me to standing. “And also . . .”

“Yeah?” I said.

“It’s Cohen.”

“Cohen?”

“My last name,” said Jasper. “Jasper Jenna Cohen. At your service.”

“But Cohen’s a Jewish name,” I said. “You never said you were—”

Jasper held up a finger. “First things first. We require pickles.”

Five minutes later, we were sitting on Jasper’s bed, face-to-face, crisscross applesauce, the pickle jar between us. Despite the involvement of pickles, the moment felt very serious, like we were signing a pact or something. Jasper’s expression was grim.

“How bad can it be?” I asked. “Worse than mine?”

“Different,” said Jasper. “Plenty bad. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. For instance . . .” She took a giant bite of pickle and smacked her lips. “At this very delicious moment, do I look like a child in crisis?”

I just shrugged. I wasn’t sure what the correct answer was. Laughing didn’t feel right.