“What?” I ask. “You don’t like it?”

“I do,” she says slowly, stretching and then settling herself again, restless. (Germ never looks natural sitting still.) Her cheeks go a little pinker. “It’s just…” She looks at me. She scratches the scar on her hand where—at my request—we both cut ourselves when we decided to be blood sisters when we were eight. Her freckles stand out the way they do when she’s feeling awkward.

“Don’t you think we’re getting too old for those kinds of stories?”

I swallow. “What kinds of stories?”

“Well…,” Germ says thoughtfully, “the mom waking up.” Germ looks sheepish. “The happy ending. Fairy tales.”

I look down at the paper, my heart in my throat, because it’s so unexpected. Germ has always loved my stories. Stories are how we met. And what’s the point of writing a story if there isn’t a happy ending?

“It’s just…” Germ flushes, which again makes her freckles stand out. “We’re in sixth grade now. Maybe it’s time to think about real life more. Like, leave some of the kid stuff behind us.”

If anyone else said this to me, I would ignore them, but Germ is my best friend. And she has a point.

Suddenly I find myself studying the two of us—Germ in her eyeliner and the plaid coat she saved all of last year’s Christmas money for; me in my overly large overalls, my too-small T-shirt, my beloved Harry Potter Lumos flashlight hanging around my neck like a bad fashion accessory. I’ve been doing this more and more lately, noticing the ways Germ seems to be getting older while I seem to stay the same.

“Well, I’ll revise it,” I say lightly, closing my notebook. Germ lets her eyes trail off diplomatically, and shrugs, then smiles.

“It’s really clever, though,” she says. “I could never come up with that stuff.”

I knock her knee with mine companionably. This is the way Germ and I rescue each other—we remind each other what we’re good at. Germ, for instance, is the fastest runner in Seaport and can burp extremely loud. I’m very short and quiet, and I’m stubborn and good at making things up.

Now Germ leaps up like a tiger, all athletic energy. “Gotta get home. Mom’s making tacos.” I feel a twinge of envy for Germ’s loud, busy house and for the tacos. “See you at school.”

Reaching the driveway, she hops onto her bike and peddles away at top speed. I watch, sad to see her go, and thinking and thinking about what she said, and the possibility of a choice to make.