“No, that was Sam Goodman. I’ll show you what Danny looked like.” I go into my office, come back out with my yearbook from senior year.

“Oh, God,” Diann groans. “I haven’t seen that for so long! I don’t even know where mine is. Can I see?”

I sit beside her, flip through the pictures until we come to Danny Roth. Diann leans in closer, inspects him. “Oh. Yes. Danny Roth.”

“Right.” I look at him again, and even after all this time, he seems so deeply familiar to me. One date.

“He did have nice hair,” Diann says.

“Yeah. I wonder if he has any left.”

She turns to the very front of the book, and I feel a sudden urge to put my hand over the page, to hide the lack of autographs. I think I know what Diann’s yearbook looks like—no room for any more messages, all the space filled by people congratulating her on being herself and congratulating themselves on being her friend, and telling her to “never change.” As though it were a choice. As though one of our greatest lessons isn’t that change is the only constant. The seasons tell us, everything in organic life tells us, that there is no holding on; still, we try to do just that. Sometimes, though, we learn the kind of wisdom that celebrates the open hand. Then we know that letting go of everything is the only way to keep the things that matter most.

“Where are you in here?” Diann asks.

“Class picture and French club,” I say. I feel a blush start, then stop.

She nods.

“You’re everywhere,” I say.

“No I’m not.” She closes the book, and I take it from her, look up her name in the index. “Look at this. Six lines just to list the page numbers!”

I open the album to one of the pages listed. There’s Diann in her strapless white formal for homecoming, Chip at her side. We both stare, and then Diann runs her finger down Chip’s cheek.

“My God,” she says. “He was so beautiful.”

“You were too,” I say quietly. “You were always so beautiful!”

“It was makeup.”

“Right.”

“Well, some of it was makeup. And clothes.” She closes the year-book, looks at me. “You never did wear much makeup, did you?”

“Not much point.”

“That’s not true. A little makeup can do some very good things.”

“For people like you.”

“For anyone!”

“Well.” I pick up the yearbook again, flip through the pages. “Look at Sandy Weller. She got knocked up. I wonder if she’s still married to the guy. He was way older than she was.”

“Would you let me make you up?” Diann asks.

I look at her. Only kindness there. And a mild curiosity.

What the hell. “I might have to get drunk, first,” I tell her.

“I might have to, too.”