I stand there on the stoop and listen to the irregular rhythm of the cars going by on the highway, and every now and then the Jake brake of a truck already stuttering for the ride down the hill. So this is the end of the story. She went back to LA for a second shot at leaving all this trash behind, and there’s nothing I can or should do about it. At least now I know where she is, and I can think of her again, developing her act at the Over Easy.

Grimshaw’s gone. She’s really gone this time. I can feel it. And why wouldn’t she go? Why would anybody come back here? There’s nothing to come back to. So she’s gone. She had her choice, and she made her choice. And this time I don’t have to go get her. I ball up the letter and throw it on top of the trash.

About a week after that, I’m in French 4 Fun, listening to the foreign exchange student attempt to use French to describe his life in Kenya, and Mrs. Kmiec shows up at the door of the classroom and knocks.

“Oui?” Mlle. O’Shea says to her.

“Mrs. Pentz would like to see Serena. She says it’s important.”

Mlle. O’Shea looks at me sadly, her hands clasped in mock disappointment, and asks me what I’ve done now. “Oh, ma fille. Qu’est-ce que t’as fait maintenant?”

“Sais pas, eh, moi?” I shrug, getting up out of my chair.

Mlle. O’Shea laughs and claps. “Très bien fait!” We’ve been watching French films, and I’ve been practicing my gestures in class—the shrugging, the hands, the attitude. It’s almost the end of the period, so I gather up my books and bring them with me. I follow Mrs. Kmiec down the hall, as if I need her to lead the way. We go past the open doors of the classrooms and hear the teachers’ voices droning like bumblebees in the summer, and we go past the miles of empty lockers, down the stairs, around the corner by the vending machines where the portraits of all the past principals of Colchis High hang, all the way to Mr. Van. When I come into her office, Mom is facing the window overlooking the parking lot.

“You should put your portrait up there,” I tell her when I come in. “Next to Mr. Van’s.” She turns around, and her face is puffy and tearstained. She’s twisting her wedding ring around and around. “What’s wrong?”