I didn’t get into all of that with Izzy. Instead, I said, “Colette had done something wrong, and Frankie had gotten mad, and suddenly, they weren’t friends anymore. And I didn’t know what to do because that was my sister and my best friend, so I just didn’t say anything to either of them about it. I wish I had, because maybe it would have changed things.”

Izzy set down his chips and looked at me seriously, listening intently.

“Three months ago, I guess Colette decided to make videos of herself playing dare-or-scare as like a way to apologize to Frankie, since that was all of our thing, but Frankie really loved it the most,” I said. “We don’t know for sure that’s why she did it, since she had an accident doing one of the dares, but that’s what my sister and I think.” I looked down at the grass and said the last part fast. “Colette lost control and rode her bike into a ravine. The police didn’t find her for three days. She died in the hospital.”

“Holy . . .”

“I know.”

We sat there a long time, the summer breeze floating through, birds chirping at each other. I could hear the rest of the campers laughing loudly as they finished their lunches. I stared at a big, fluffy dandelion sticking up taller than the others, perfect for making wishes.

I wish you hadn’t played the game alone.

I wish you weren’t terrible at riding bikes.

I wish you were here.

“Do you want my number?” Izzy interrupted my thoughts. It was an awkward thing to say, and he said it awkwardly. “I mean like it’s almost time to go back in . . . so in case you want to talk more later or just . . . I don’t know. That was weird.”

I couldn’t help it: I laughed. “It was kind of weird,” I agreed. But also nice. I unlocked my phone and handed it to him. “Here.”

Half smiling, he created a new contact for himself, then handed back the phone. I texted him a silly-eyed emoji.

“Now you have mine, too.”

chapter 9

Uncle Bran had done a work meeting from one of the private rooms you can rent in the library, so he was the one who drove me home that day. We walked in the cabin to find Kennedy watching reality TV and eating licorice upside down. Her head was hanging off the muted-plaid couch, the longer part of her hair skimming the floor. The backs of her legs were against the back of the couch, her bare feet straight up in the air.

She looked like one of those ’80s pop singers my mom’s boyfriend liked, with her half-shaven hair, netted tank top, destroyed high-waisted jean shorts, and bracelets going up both wrists.