“You girls okay?” Mia’s mom asks. Since Mia cut her hair short, the two of them look even more alike with their matching angled bobs, sharp cheekbones, and wide steely-blue eyes.

“We’re fine,” Mia says, glaring at me to let me know that everything is absolutely not okay.

“I know it was a disappointing result, but you two did well.” Her hand stays planted on Mia’s shoulder. Mia’s mom’s fingers are perfectly manicured and painted with a light pink polish. I don’t know if my mother ever got her nails done.

Those are the type of questions I was once able to ask Mabel. Mabel didn’t know the answers, but she liked to pretend she did. She was the only person who didn’t squirm at the mention of my mother.

Now there’s no one.

I never even ever really missed my mother or the idea of her. It was more like a curiosity. Something to wonder about with my sister. But ever since Mabel died, I’ve found myself missing everything. Even things I never missed before.

Mia keeps giving me a sullen look. She mumbles something, and her mom gives me an almost-apologetic wave goodbye. “We will see you later, Cora. Have a good night.”

Grams is still waiting at the back of the classroom. I grab my backpack and we walk to the car in silence.

As Grams pulls out of Streamwood Middle School’s parking lot, she says, “So are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

I kick my feet against the back of the passenger seat.

“Cora London,” Grams says. “Stop that. You aren’t a toddler.”

I frown, but I stop kicking. Grams isn’t to be messed with.

“Thank you,” she says. I can feel her watching me through the rearview mirror. Grams’s eyes have a weight to them—you always know when they’re on you. “So talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say. We had a bad match.”

“I don’t think that’s what’s on your mind. I saw you quarreling with Mia.”

“Quarreling,” I repeat.

“Fighting. You know.”

“I know what ‘quarreling’ means.”

“I know you do, sassafras. I’m asking you what was going on between the two of you. I saw that mess with my own two eyes.”

“You did, huh?”

“Cora London,” she says again. “Don’t be smart.”

“You know, you’re always telling me all these things not to be. But you never tell me what to be.” I stare out the window. The sky is a deep-purple color. On another night, I might think it looks pretty. Tonight, though, it reminds me of a bruise. I press my finger against the chilly window.

“No one should tell you what to be.”

“Well, I’m tired of hearing what I can’t be.”

“Hm.” She drops it for a few moments, but soon enough, she’s back at it. “So what is Mia so mad about?”

“That I don’t know a lot about amphibians,” I grumble.

“I heard Quinn’s name.”

I sink down into my seat. I wonder why of all the grandmas in the world I got the one with superhero hearing. “Jeez. Spy much?”