I wonder why Zoe is friends with Syd and Erin. I’ve worked hard to avoid Syd since sixth grade when she made fun of me in the locker room for not wearing (or needing) a bra. And rumor has it that in eighth grade Erin smuggled in a flask of her dad’s vodka when we took our week-long Outdoor School trip and then she made out with one of the counselors. I don’t know if there is any truth to the story, but at the time I was thankful for any gossip that drew attention away from the drama my mom caused. That was the week I learned that leaving Mom on her own, even for a few days, is impossible.

I open a game app on my phone and blow up some pandas, letting Syd and Erin’s conversation fade into the background until I hear them mention something of actual interest to me: Zoe.

“Is it weird, being in the play without Zoe?” Erin asks.

“Totally,” Syd replies. “Elliot had always planned for her to play Fiona, and everybody knows it.”

“It sucks she had to quit,” Erin says. “Is her mom doing any better, do you know? Zoe never talks about it.”

“Cammie says she’s doing well, but you know Cammie. Ever the optimist.”

“Yeah,” Erin says. “But Zoe hasn’t had us over in ages. Actually, it might have been sophomore year, the last time I was there. That doesn’t seem to bode well.”

“That might be more about her brother, though,” Syd says. Her voice drops. “Did you know that he broke her mom’s finger once? Can you imagine? Not being safe with your own brother?”

“Jesus,” Erin says. “They’re about as opposite as two people could possibly be.”

“Right?” Syd says. “Well, it makes sense, since they’re not even related.”

My mind reels. Zoe’s life is apparently nothing like the perfect universe I imagined her in. I don’t know what’s going on with her brother, but the way her friends talk about him is pretty cold. And if her mother is having problems, too . . . That all sounds like a lot.

I pull out my phone as Syd and Erin’s conversation devolves into a discussion about some guy in Erin’s gym class whose abs she wants to bathe with her tongue. All I have is a giant pile of texts from Will, still hammering on at me about Homecoming. I try to think of something to say to Zoe, to maybe let her know someone understands what it’s like to have a messed-up home life, but my heart feels like a hamster doing crack-addled laps in my rib cage. It’s not like I can offer sympathy about her family situation when she hasn’t told me anything about it herself.