“Why the heck was Colette obsessed with this thing?” Frankie asked, her hands on her hips, looking up at the animal crossing. “It’s just a hill with grass on it.”

“It’s an overpass.”

“Duh, but it looks like a normal hill from the side. What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t know,” I said, the fairies having a party on my spine: they’d invited all their friends. I wrapped my arms around my waist. “I’m freaking out.”

“About what?” Frankie asked. “There better not be animal poop up there.”

Without another word, she started up.

I felt sick, standing this close to the overpass that had bugged me all summer. I wanted to run back to the cabin, but I didn’t because I had to know.

Don’t be the wimp you really are, the mean voice said.

“I’m not a wimp,” I said aloud, thinking of standing up to Jackie, of telling Izzy I liked him, of coming here in the first place and letting others see my art. “I’m not a wimp!” I said louder.

Frankie looked over her shoulder at me. “I didn’t say you were.”

Quieter, I said to myself, “I can do this.”

I went after Frankie, who’d already made it to the center of the crossing, the highest point. The overpass was low enough to the ground that it felt like the semitrucks wouldn’t make it under. There was a wire fence, but I still worried that we’d somehow fall. It was terrifying.

Frankie stood like a superhero, watching the oncoming traffic.

“I low-key love this,” she said, adjusting her stance so her feet were wider apart. “If you stand like I am, it’s like the cars are driving under your legs.”

“Don’t fall off!”

“Why would I do that?”

“Just help me look . . .” I turned around and watched the backs of the cars zoom toward town. On the top of the crossing, just like when I’d looked back at it so many times, I saw nothing. It was just like Frankie had said: a grassy hill. There were rocks here and there, some smaller and some . . .

“Frankie! Look!”

The dirt swished as she spun. “Oh,” she said, seeing it, too. “It’s a decorated rock.”

“It’s from Colette,” I said confidently, taking a step toward it.

“Uh, yeah, I don’t think deer use sparkle pink nail polish.” She laughed at her own joke.

The rock was about the size of a shoebox, gray and smooth-looking, with three letters painted on top: T, F, and C.

“That was her favorite color polish,” I said, approaching it like it was going to come alive and scare me. “Why did she leave a decorated rock up here?”