I thought about that. “I don’t forgive her yet, but I don’t hate her.”

“You don’t hate anyone,” Frankie said.

I shrugged with one shoulder, thinking she was right, thinking of what our mom always said, that hating people took too much energy.

Mom and I had talked a lot more over the school year, about stuff like that but other things, too, like what was really going on in my head a lot of the time. She’d made an effort to spend time with just me, and I felt like she understood me better now. Maybe I understood her better, too—well, except about annoying parent stuff like my too-early curfew and screen time limits.

I looked down at my hands and felt proud of myself: my fingernails weren’t long, but they all had white parts above the pink, and the cuticles around them didn’t look like hell.

The medicine I’d been taking had helped, and so had my therapist. She’d taught me how to question my negative thoughts and to challenge that mean voice in my head. She’d taught me that it was like a bully that I had to stand up to. After going head-to-head with Jackie, it’d gotten easier to go head-to-head with myself.

I was meditating.

I was eating a lot of ice cream.

I was hanging out with my sometimes frustrating but always interesting sister, and even making some new friends at school.

I was laughing.

I was spending a lot of time texting and talking to Izzy, who I couldn’t wait to see.

And I was drawing.

“Are you sad you’re not going to Wyoming?” I asked Frankie, pulling hair out of my mouth. I’d cut it to my shoulders and my mom had let me put a streak of blue in the front, which made me feel powerful.

“No way,” Frankie answered. “The crickets keep me up all night! I hate them!”

“I thought you loved them,” I said, distinctly remembering our conversation about that last year.

“I’ve never loved them!” Frankie said, looking at me like I was the craziest person on Earth, stuffing more Tater Tots into her mouth. “You’re the worst listener.”

The crickets weren’t a big deal, but I’d gotten better about talking to Frankie about things that were a big deal to me, calling her on rude comments instead of just letting everything slide because I didn’t want to start drama.

“That wasn’t nice,” I pointed out. “I try hard to be a good listener.”

A ladybug landed on my leg; I watched it walk across my thigh before it took off, carried away on tiny wings. Frankie didn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?” I asked. “I don’t think I’m a bad listener. In fact—”