Mama never curses at me. I fight back my own tears and run up the steps. Their argument resumes downstairs, but muted, deliberately low-voiced and hiding. I run to their room and grab the phone on their bedside table. I could dial Ezra’s number in my sleep. My fingers fly over the keypad without any thought, but the line is busy. I try again and again, but I can’t get through. After a few minutes, I go to my room and flop onto my bed, not even bothering to wrap my hair or take off my dress.

It feels like I’ve lived a year in the span of a night. I don’t know what’s going on between our parents, but I do know what’s going on between Ezra and me. We are beginning. I kissed my best friend and things will never be the same. Whatever happens between our folks, we have each other. And we’ll always be friends.

In the morning, I wake up to sunlight pouring through my open window. My mouth is cottony, my dress is wrinkled, and I’m still wearing the shoes I thought all night were a little too tight. I kick them off, slide from the bed and find my flip flops. I don’t even bother to change, but dash down the stairs and out the front door.

I come to a halt right on my porch. Mrs. Stern stands in their driveway loading suitcases into the trunk of their car. Ezra is tossing a duffle bag into the back seat when he sees me. He stops, glances at his mother and crosses the yard to meet me. My heart see-saws, happy to see him and scared to see him go.

“Ezra,” Mrs. Stern says firmly. “We need to go.”

He throws her an angry look, ignores her and comes up onto the porch. “Hey,” he says, his voice subdued.

“Hey.” I lick my lips and ask the obvious question. “W-w-where are you g-g-going?”

The harshness leaves his face and he reaches for my hand. “To New York.”

“New York?” I ask, my chest tightening. “But camp’s not for another t-t-two weeks.”

Each summer, Ezra goes to Jewish summer camp near his bubbe. Even though she passed away, he was still planning to go this year.

“We’re going early.” A muscle in his jaw tightens. “Mama says we need to get away. My father’s not coming with us.”

“Why can’t you stay here?” I ask, my voice plaintive, almost begging.

Ezra shrugs, a frown collapsing between his brows again. “They won’t let me.”

“But y-y-you’ll be back, right?” I bite my tongue until tears prick my eyes. I hate how my words won’t come out when I need them most—when it’s most important.