“You didn’t keep in touch with any of your high school friends?” I ask. Is it possible that I’d lose track of Cammie, Erin, and Syd someday? They’ve been my world for years; I can’t imagine having no idea what became of them. But when I consider how much I’ve grown apart from them recently, it doesn’t seem impossible that we could keep going in that direction, especially once we’re not even in the same town or state anymore.

“Not really,” she says, tilting her head. “A few college friends, but not high school.” She must be able to tell I’m worrying, because she says, “It’s probably different now. There’s so much social media to keep people connected.”

My mind goes to Sam, who isn’t, as far as I know, on any social media. And maybe I’ve lost her already anyway.

But I miss her. I miss the way I can say anything to her. And I’m so sad about it that I find myself telling my mom what happened, tiptoeing around trying to explain what exactly my friends were making fun of, because it turns out it’s hard to explain Sam, and even harder to explain how we are friends.

She lies on her side, listening, her face making all the right expressions. “Poor girl,” she finally says. “And you apologized?”

“Over and over.”

“In person?”

“No, in text. We mostly talk in text.” I stop short of trying to explain Starworld, which, even if I didn’t feel private and proprietary about it, might be kind of impossible.

“I don’t really think texting is the best medium for an apology,” my mom says. “That probably sounds old-fashioned, but . . .”

“Well, what can I do if she doesn’t want to see me?” I say. “And don’t say call her — that would freak her out completely.”

My mom sits up. “What if you did something nice for her? Something to show you’re thinking about her, and you’re really sorry for what happened?”

I sit up, too. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. I always baked something for your dad when I owed him an apology.”

“Ha, bet that worked like a charm,” I say, smiling. My dad loves sweets.

She grins. “You know it.”

The idea interests me immediately, but then I think about Sam’s wacky lunches and I wonder if I could make this work, if I could figure out a way to do this that won’t challenge her mother’s compulsions. I don’t want to do anything that makes things worse at home for Sam, like sending over asymmetrical cookies in random stacks of unequal numbers or something.