It was so heartbreakingly optimistic of her dad to put a bulletin board in the room where Annabelle was supposed to be able to stay on weekends but never actually did. As if she’d be there enough to want to tack up mementos and reminders.

Or maybe the bulletin board was a random hand-me-down he took from his friend without thinking about it at all.

Except, no. It hadn’t been the only thing on the wall, she remembered now. There was also a poster of her favorite swimmer, Katie Ledecky, and Dad must have picked that out just for her. Even though he hadn’t decorated the rest of that crummy, too-white apartment, even when things were bad, he’d chosen a poster for her wall and gotten furniture for her room.

He had really cared, even when it didn’t seem like it.

Maybe he’d kept that stuff all this time and brought it to his new place in Boston, hoping someday she’d stay there and stick stuff on the bulletin board and give him a reason to put sheets on the bed.

The door to Mrs. Sloane’s office swung open and Mom came out.

“Come on, Belle,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t make Annabelle thank Mrs. Sloane for her time. She didn’t tell Annabelle to stop biting her bottom lip, even though Annabelle could tell by the sting that she’d chewed the front part raw. She rushed past so fast that Annabelle could feel an extra breeze on top of the air-conditioning, and she didn’t say a word until they made it outside and the real, barely salty breeze hit them.

“Well!” Her voice came out too loud, as if she were wearing earbuds and couldn’t hear herself. “That gives us a lot to talk about. Don’t you think?”

“What did she say to you?” Annabelle asked. “Is she . . . did she say anything about my financial aid?”

“That’s not something you need to think about, Belle.”

Mom said it in the same definite, no-nonsense voice she used on the phone with her event-planning clients.

Absolutely, the party will be perfect even if it rains. I know you’ll love the blue hyacinths even though you wanted pink.

As if just by telling Annabelle she shouldn’t think about the financial aid, Annabelle would stop.

As they headed back toward town, Mia texted to ask where Annabelle was and if everything was okay. It was four, which meant the high school practice was ending and the middle school one was about to start.

Annabelle didn’t want to say anything that would give Mia a reason to frown her sympathy frown again, so she put her phone away without replying.

They drove past a brand-new house—even bigger than the other ones in the neighborhood and new-cedar brown all over. Somebody had torn an old house down and started over instead of adding on to what had been there. She wasn’t sure what would bother her mom more: a house that clashed so completely with everything else on the street like this one did, or a house that clashed with itself—part new and part old—like theirs used to.