She’s gray with white paws. I bend over to scratch Cupcake between her ears. She purrs louder.

Mom holds a wooden spoon out to me. “Here, taste this.”

It’s a creamy sauce. Lots of garlic. “Yum.”

“Good? I messed it up earlier today, but I think I might’ve gotten it right this time.” Mom’s eyes are wide. She gets like this a lot recently. If I were to draw her, I’d make her part hurricane, stormy winds with lots of frantic energy.

“It’s really good, Mom,” I assure her.

She glances over her shoulder at the clock. “Your dad promised he’d be home today in time for dinner.”

While Mom quit her job, Dad seems to spend as much time as he can at work. I haven’t seen my dad in anything other than a collared shirt, slacks, and a tie since it all happened. If I were to draw Dad, I’d draw him like a cash register, collecting money and slamming shut as fast as he can.

Mom goes back to stirring the various pots and checking whatever’s in the oven. “So tell me about your day?”

What she means is: Reassure me that you’re not turning into someone I need to be worried about.

“It was fine,” I say. Translation: You don’t need to worry about me.

Mom comes back over with another wooden spoon. “Taste this one?”

More garlic. Also delicious. “Yum,” I say again.

“Really?”

My lips twist, my mouth opening and shutting. I want so badly to tell her about my plan, about how I’m going to make everything okay again. But I can’t. Not yet.

I give her the most reassuring smile I can muster. “It really is, Mom.”

Seven

Cora

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Mia asks. She’s leaning against my locker, fingering the ends of her sandy-blond hair. She cut most of it off a week ago—she had some environmental reason for cutting it all off, but I can’t remember it now. There are still patches of sunburn on her white skin, left over from her summer trip to Florida where she refused to wear SPF because it’s bad for the coral. It looks like it might still hurt, too.

“I can’t.” I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder.

“Owen’s going to be there.”

I knit my eyebrows together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know.” Mia shifts, her face reddening. I feel my own cheeks warming, too.

“No, I don’t.”

Mia crosses her arms. “Oh, come on. I thought you’d be excited to know he was choosing us over the music crew.”

Mia calls Owen’s other friends “the music crew.” Only some of them play an instrument, but all of them talk about music so much you’d think it’s the only thing in the world that exists. I listen to the public radio station with Dad, so I know how to talk about classical music and fundraising. That means I’m not exactly the best at conversations with Owen’s other friends. I’m trying to learn, though.