And I have never forgiven her for the third (and last) terrible party of third grade. It was Angus’s birthday party, at a bowling alley uptown—the fancy one, with little menus on the seats, and people who bring your popcorn chicken and brownie bites right to your lane. I know what you are imagining, but I didn’t do one thing wrong at Angus’s party. I wasn’t even there. Because, after Carrie’s Halloween party, Angus’s mother took me off the invitation list. Angus didn’t know until the day after his party, when he asked me why I hadn’t been there.

—

We lucked out for the first half hour, because Angus’s mother was in her room on the phone. She works at home. She’s a writer. We had four big balls of Floo-floo fur lined up on Angus’s rug before she showed up in the doorway.

“Beatrice.” Whenever Angus’s mom sees me, she says, “Beatrice.” No smile. No nickname.

“Hi,” I said. “We’re brushing Floo-floo.”

“I see that.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, Angus.” She didn’t smile at him much, either. “And how are you two?”

“Fine,” Angus mumbled.

“I’m fine, too,” I told her.

“Beatrice, how is your therapy going? Angus says that you and your Miriam are great friends.” She showed me her teeth. I think it was a smile.

Angus looked up. “I never said that, Mom.”

I shrugged. “Miriam is good. We’re friends, I guess….”

She nodded slowly, like I was giving her a secret message that only she could understand, and said, “Well, that is wonderful.”

Floo-floo stretched, reminding us that he was still available for brushing, and I got to it.

“Sorry about that,” Angus said when she left. Angus gets everything. He even got why I shoved him out of that chair at Carrie’s party when we were eight years old. When I apologized to him (with Carrie’s mother’s cold fingers on the back of my neck), he just nodded with a serious face and said, “I hate musical chairs, too.”

I looked at Angus, who was making another ball of Floo-floo fur, and I remembered how hard he had been holding on to that chair.

“Angus,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“You’re my best friend.”

“No kidding.” He smiled and handed me the brush.

“Angus.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s it like to have a sister?” I couldn’t picture Angus and his sister playing Lizette’s halfsies game.

“It’s good. I mean, she’s old. She kind of grew up before me, you know?”

I nodded. Angus’s sister is nine years older than he is. “But what does it feel like?”

He leaned back against his bed. “It’s like—it’s like there’s someone else in my boat. Someone I don’t have to explain things to.”

“Because she knows?”