“You asked if I’m sad—or why I’m not sadder—about Colette,” she explained. I had asked her that . . . two weeks ago. That’s Frankie: she’ll answer a question someone asked a long time ago without any context, like she doesn’t live according to the same concept of time as everyone else. She went on. “I am sad. I miss her all the time. But I put my feelings in a box.”

I thought she was being oddly deep and talking about a box in her brain or something, but then she said, “I stole the shoebox in your closet.”

Of course she meant a literal box. My literal shoebox.

“Did you dump out my hair ties?”

She ignored me. “I write down whatever I’m feeling about Colette and put it in the box. Then I just . . . keep doing life.”

I couldn’t help it: it choked me up. Tears stung my eyes. I sniffed hard to stop them from falling.

“Gabe told me to do it,” Frankie said.

“It’s a really good idea,” I said, jealous that she had someone like Gabe to give her good ideas for dealing with her emotions.

“I’m going to burn the box at the end of the summer.” She laughed. “Gabe didn’t tell me to do that part, but Kai saw some video on Viewer about someone burning stuff they write down to release the past or whatever. Kai’s weird.”

Her expression said she liked Kai’s type of weird.

“Izzy’s weird, too,” I said.

We looked at each other for a few seconds, smiling, acknowledging what we weren’t saying out loud. We both liked boys, and neither of us wanted to talk about it.

“Eggs!” I heard Mom call.

Frankie looked at the door, then back at the screen.

“Send the picture,” Frankie bossed. “Find the man.”

“No to both,” I said.

“Yes.” She hung up before I could reply.

chapter 12

Wednesday of the third week of camp, we met at the rec center instead of the library. It was a field trip day with no art; it was just supposed to be fun.

I walked into the lobby with the hairs standing up on my arms like they had been since we’d driven under the animal bridge. I had no idea why that thing bugged me so much.

I had on a red-and-white-striped one-piece under my red tank top and cutoff shorts, and the suit was riding up. I’d probably grown two inches since the last time I’d worn it. I felt awkward and nervous and generally off.

“You need a wristband,” Jackie said with disdain when she saw me looking around, clueless. She was the only other person in the lobby, and she didn’t have to talk to me, but she did.