I cover the baking sheet with fresh paper and turn to the bowl of batter, gather some dough, and begin rolling another series of balls.

Sky met Troy in the eighth grade right after the winter break. Troy’s family had just moved to town and a teacher assigned Sky to escort him to his classes since their schedule was the same. “He’s not cute, but he’s nice,” she reported. That night they talked on the phone. By the next month, he was in front of our TV watching 90210; Sky sat next to him on the sofa. Tara sprawled in his lap. I popped popcorn.

“Troy’s my best friend.” Sky’s shirt was cropped, her jeans low, her belly button revealed.

“You look cold.” But I thought, No one, not even a thin girl, looks attractive dressed like that.

“It’s the style, Mom.” She squinched her face to express her exasperation.

“You sure are taking your responsibilities seriously. Introduce him to some guys.”

“I did. We just like hanging out together.” She grinned a quick smile but didn’t change her clothes.

“Why don’t you have a sleepover this Friday? Invite Marissa and Jennifer.”

“Cool.”

In the fall of ninth grade, her backpack slumped over one arm, her glasses sliding down her nose, wisps of hair strategically pulled from her ponytail, she said, “Mom.” When she started like that, I knew she was setting an agenda for a serious conversation.

“What.” I put down the workbook I was reading on health insurance and turned toward her. At that point, I was studying to pass my state test licensure exam. Now I’m licensed in life, health, and long-term care insurance and run my own small agency.

“Troy said he loves me.”

“Loves you?”

“I said, ‘I love you, too.’ And he goes, ‘No, I mean, I love you. Love you like that.’ I had the remote to the TV, so I turned it up.” An invisible remote was in her hand and she hit a button. “I didn’t want to hear him. I just go, ‘I love you, too. You’re my best friend.’ But he says, ‘I want more.’ So I pushed the sound again.” She hits the imaginary button. “I didn’t know what to say. He wants to be my boyfriend. He wants us to go together.”

“Like steady?”

She shrugged and slid the backpack off. “It’ll ruin the friendship. It always does,” she said as though she had worlds of experience.

I wondered if she’d been eavesdropping on my conversations with my girlfriends. “How?”

“Well, our relationship will change. We’ll never be able to go back to being just friends. And our friendship is perfect.” She draped her coat on the back of the dining-room chair. This time I didn’t scowl.

“Not for him,” I pointed out. “It’s not perfect.”

She chewed on the inside of her lip. “I was just beginning to like Ryan.”