I don’t have many friends of my own, and the ones I do have are useless here. I’ve tried a couple of sleepovers with Julie Perkins, and I always eat lunch with Jaq and Gracie. But I can’t imagine us discussing this over chicken tenders in the cafeteria. Besides, it’s summer.

And I am woefully short in the relative department. Only child of an only child. Absentee father. Dead grandfather. My family tree has one branch and two names. Scratch that—one name now.

The sting returns. It sits a little lower this time, like a pill working its way down my esophagus.

I don’t want to face the last remaining name on my family tree, but I can’t see that I have a choice. Frankly, Moony would probably prefer Eric and Damien. But now that the thought has registered, even a magic eraser wouldn’t scrub it out. It’s the right thing. I know that. The same way I know that eating cereal is wrong and that Moony’s arms no longer bend.

I sigh deeply, resigned.

I should know her number by heart, but I don’t.

I have to get up and go to the little writing desk in the hall. That’s where Moony keeps her address book. We got her a cell phone three years ago, and I put all her contacts in it, but she could never figure out how to look anyone up. With Moony, you learn pretty quickly not to push things. She is old-fashioned and prefers it that way. Was old-fashioned, I mean.

It won’t be under G for Gage because she changed it years ago, though I’m still listed as Catia Gage on my birth certificate. And Moony was always Edna C. Gage. But that wasn’t good enough for her.

I flip to the Rs for Rush. Which is perfect for her because she rushes into everything—sex, relationships, jobs, parenting…not parenting.

I find it quickly, since Moony seems to know very few people with R names. She knows very few people period. I pick up the phone receiver and stare at the little glowing buttons. I don’t have to do this, I think. I could not call instead. I could pack a bag and walk out the front door and not tell anyone. I could get in Moony’s car and drive to Connecticut or Portland or anywhere. I could never speak to her again. I could pretend none of this happened.

But in my heart, I know I cannot abandon Moony like that. I can’t let strangers find her. I stare at the phone. I could call someone else. Really. Anyone else. I could call the police. But even that seems wrong. She should know. I should tell her. I don’t have to do this, but I will.