Laura didn’t reply, which was fine, because I had lost myself in the memory of watching them from the stands. Dina was on the junior squad and Siena was the co-captain of the advanced squad. She was definitely going to make junior varsity when she got to high school, and I was proud of her. Not because it meant she would be popular or anything like that—at my school the cheerleaders were a mixed bag, cool girls and normal girls and a few totally irritating try-hards—but because she worked so hard and she had real talent.

Laura worked in silence, permitting me to be alone with my thoughts and the tears that began to spill down my cheeks. After a minute, she clucked kindly and moved away to the table of orchids.

When I felt collected enough to join her, I went to her side and started pulling pots toward me.

“Did you play sports?” I asked. I figured she must have some connection to it, if she’d brought it up.

To my surprise, she narrowed her eyes—not pleased by the question but not bothered by it, either. “No,” she said. “I could have, but . . . forces conspired against me.”

I didn’t even know how to begin responding to that.

“I would have been good,” she said, staring steadily at a leathery dead leaf. “I would have been very good. But I never got the chance.”

Then she carried the plant away, and I decided to stop trying to make conversation. I stayed out to re-coil the hose after she went inside, and when I finished, I was filthy, sweaty, and sort of miserable.

The last thing I wanted to see, as I came to the garden entrance, was Barrett sitting on one of the benches, reading. He was lost in the book, and I startled him as I rounded the corner. My appearance seemed to alarm him. I saw the confusion in his eyes as he looked at my dirt-streaked clothes and skin.

“Are you okay?” he asked. As if I looked like this because I’d been in a fistfight or something.

“Of course I am,” I said. “I’m just dirty.”

“Oh,” he said. “Where’s my mom?”

“She went inside.”

He glanced back at the house. “You’re just . . . out here . . . by yourself?”

“What’s wrong with that? Are you afraid I’m going to steal something?”

Instantly, I regretted snarking at him. All I needed was to make him hate me and tell his parents I was unacceptable.

“No,” he said, looking shocked. “That’s not what I meant. Obviously you’re not stealing. But why are you doing all the work yourself?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m a penniless orphan, Barrett,” I said. “I don’t have the luxury of belonging here like you do. So I try to do my part.”