It’d been clear from Karly’s worksheet what my “special project” was meant to be. Since we hadn’t been required to turn in the worksheet, I’d been honest—and all of my answers had pointed in the same direction.

Question: Who are you?

Answer: A sad girl

Question: What do you like to do?

Answer: Nothing now

Question: What’s the most significant thing, happy or sad, that’s happened to you in the past year?

Answer: My best friend died

Question: What form of art do you most identify with?

Answer: Drawing

Question: Who inspires you?

Answer: Colette

So, there it was: I needed to draw Colette. Except the problem was that I couldn’t. I couldn’t make my pencil touch the paper. I couldn’t use pictures of her for inspiration. It sounds awful to say, but I didn’t want to look at her.

You’ve hit a new low, not wanting to look at your best friend’s face.

A dust devil formed in the driveway, and watching it spin, I thought I should take a video and send it to Frankie, but I didn’t. Except then, like she’d been listening to my thoughts, she texted.

FRANKIE

M and AM are talking about you right now

TESS

??

MOM AND AUNT MAUREEN

TALKING

ABOUT

U

How do you know?

Kai and I are stealing candy from the cottage

She doesn’t know we’re here

They on speaker

What are they saying?

AM says maybe M should make you come home

That you’re freaking out

Being weird

Maureen said I’m freaking

out???

No but basically

I don’t want to go home

When I typed it, I realized it was the truth. I didn’t want to be anywhere without Colette, but I wanted to be here more than I wanted to be there.

Ok

Bye

Wait, what else are they saying?

Frankie didn’t reply; my phone screen said the message was delivered but not read. I pictured Frankie and Kai leaving the cottage and running out to the beach to eat whatever candy they’d found, Frankie giving Kai a tornado report and him telling her about a new skateboarding trick he’d learned.

I couldn’t make myself draw a picture of Colette—or even look at one. And Frankie didn’t seem changed by her death. I didn’t understand it at all.

Were we really that different?

The huge red truck Uncle Bran had rented turned and bounced up the driveway toward me. When it got close enough, I saw Kennedy was in the passenger seat. Uncle Bran waved as they went by, around to the back of the cabin. I heard the truck stop in the spot between the cabin and the garage.

Heavy truck doors closed loudly; I heard Kennedy laugh at something her dad had said. It made me miss Charles.