“What were you talking about with Dr. Thomas?” Mom asked on the way home. “It seems like the minute I leave the room, you have questions. You know you can ask me questions, too, right?”

“Yeah. I know that.”

“Good.” She squeezed my hand. It wasn’t a code. It was just a squeeze.

Before dinner, I did my worrying with my spiral notebook in my lap. I started out just doodling. Then I drew some bats. I wasn’t worried about rabies anymore, but I was wondering if some kind of animal lived inside of me. I pictured Carolyn Shattuck with her hands over her nose and tears in her eyes.

I flipped to the front of my notebook and looked at the list of Things That Will Not Change. I drew an arrow that pointed from number six, We are still a family, but in a different way, to number twenty-three, Jesse is staying.

I thought about Jesse at the colonial breakfast, smiling and waiting for Carolyn’s giggling to stop. I thought about Angus standing up to eat that oyster.

I wrote:

24. Jesse is brave.

25. So is Angus.

And then, underneath my bat doodles, I started writing another letter.

Dear Carolyn,

I’m really, REALLY sorry that I bashed your nose in the lunchroom. You hurt my feelings and made me angry two times this week. You laughed at Jesse during the colonial breakfast. And then today you said I would never have a real sister. That’s a sore spot, because I always wanted one more than anything. I was seeing red. But I shouldn’t have hurt you. I hope your nose is okay.

Also, I forgive you for stabbing me with a pencil in second grade.

Bea

On Monday, I ripped that page out of my green spiral notebook and put my letter facedown on Carolyn’s chair. I felt really weird when she came in and picked it up. After she read it, she shoved my shoulder with one hand and said, “It’s okay. I like your bat pictures.” She didn’t apologize for the things she had done. I still didn’t like her. But I felt a little better anyway. About myself.

(I’m almost thirteen now, and I haven’t bashed anyone, on the nose or anywhere else, since that day in the lunchroom. I think my bashing days are over.)

—

That night, Dad called. “I’m packing up. Angelica’s home from the hospital. And guess what? She’s getting better!”

“She…is?”

“The virus is going away, just like they thought it would. It took longer than usual.”

“Really?”

“Really. In a couple of weeks she’ll be like herself again.”

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Will you tell her I’m sorry?”

“Sure. Why don’t you make her a get-well card? She’d love that.”

Mom hung up the phone for me, smiling. “Great news, right?”

It was great news. I felt good.