“I guess, yeah. He’s not as bad as I thought. He’s pretty cool, actually.”

“And pretty cute, too, yes?” Her eyes crinkle with humor.

My face heats up. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Gram takes pity on me and changes direction. “And Olivia? How is she holding up with her parents separating?”

I unbuckle my seat belt and twist sideways so I’m facing her. I thought about Olivia’s underlying sadness and how her usual happy smile seemed forced. “I don’t know, and I don’t know what to do to help.”

One of Gram’s eyes droops a little like it does when she’s tired. “Just be there for her. Listen. That’s what a good friend does.”

“I’m trying,” I say. “But it feels like I should be doing something more.”

Gram nods. “Jacob said just knowing I was there if he needed to talk was enough.” She pauses and smiles. “I thought after Jacob that I would never have such a good friend again. But I learned in life you make many friends—some better than others, but all of them important.”

“Like Margaret, who taught you to ride horses?”

“Yes.” Gram’s smile slips into a tight line. “She was my first friend in America.”

“How long were you friends?”

“That’s another story,” she says. “And a boring one.”

“I doubt it, Gram. You don’t know how to be boring.” I smile my best smile.

She grabs my chin and pinches it lightly. “You think you will charm me into telling you all my secrets, yes? I suppose you will, my sweet girl.”

“Did you meet her when you first moved here?”

Gram closes her eyes for a second before she answers. “Before I met Margaret, I poured all my thoughts into my journal. It saved me, to be able to write anything I was feeling. Mama would no longer let me speak Russian, so my journal was the only place I could still be Russian.”

I squirm in my seat. The journal that saved her is currently under my mattress.

“Back then Russia and America were enemies,” Gram continues. “Mark told us we should say we were from France. Our passports were French, and my mom taught me how to fake the accent. I met Margaret the first day of school, and she loved that I was French. She made it her job to show me how to be an American girl. She even taught me to wear makeup so my mama couldn’t tell.” Gram waggles her finger at me. “So don’t think I can’t tell when you and Olivia wear mascara.”

I giggle. It’s weird to think of Gram as being my age once.