And then we can be friends again, of course. But we aren’t friends again yet. Though that seems even harder to explain to Dad than my time-travel plot.

“You deserve stability. You’ve been through so much. Quinn has always been your best friend—”

“You don’t blame any of the McCauleys? Not even Quinn’s dad? The guns . . .” I can’t say the words.

When Mabel first died, Grams and Dad sat me down. They told me they didn’t want me to blame Quinn, but they also didn’t feel comfortable with me going over to Quinn’s house. At least for a little while. I told them they didn’t have to worry about that because Quinn and I were never going to be friends again.

Dad’s face drains of color. “Kiddo, you can’t hold Quinn responsible for her parents.”

“It’s her family,” I argue. “That’s her dad. Parker was her brother.”

Sometimes I worry that my grief is more anger than sadness—that the thing that I’m able to feel the most is this boiling-hot rage. It’s the part that always feels the realest.

I feel like I can do something with it.

The sadness is useless. It’s like wet socks. Anger is like walking through a fire. At least anger forces you to move.

“I can’t forgive any of them,” I say, and push my food away.

“Have you gone over to her house?” Dad asks.

I shake my head. “You told me not to.”

Dad takes a deep breath. “I think for now that’s still best. But I want you and Quinn to stay friends. Your friendship is important.”

“We aren’t really friends again. Not really,” I mumble.

“But I thought you and Quinn were hanging out again?” Dad keeps putting extra emphasis on the words hanging out. It’s clearly a phrase he picked up from Grams.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“You mean it’s complicated?” Dad wriggles his eyebrows at me.

Dad knows I hate when people say It’s complicated. I’ve never understood what that means. To me, it seems like complicated things are only things you haven’t solved yet. A math equation—solve for x. A particularly tough spelling word—make a mnemonic device.

“Complicated,” I repeat, giving him a funny look. “Will you teach me how to say that in Arabic?”

He grins and scratches the top of his head. “Sure thing, kiddo. Let me think about that.”

After a few minutes of watching my dad make his signature thinking face, he says, “Probably the closest and best word would be moaqqad.”

“Moaqqad,” I repeat, and I can hear my pronunciation is a little off, but it’s okay. It’s another Arabic word. I’m getting closer to fifty.

Twenty-Four

Quinn

Dear Parker,

When I first found out what you did, I thought I was going to split in two. I’d never felt pain like that in my life. I thought I would never be able to get out of bed again. I pulled the comforter over my head and wanted to disappear.