“I’ll help,” said Jade, which surprised me.

“Aren’t you going to go floating or something?” I asked her.

“God, do you think I’m incapable of doing anything nice?” snapped Jade. “Besides, it’s too hot to be outside. Even on the water.”

“You better be praying with that language, Jade Marie. But I appreciate the extra set of hands. You in, Abigail? Your dad has to go fix the water heater over at Heron.”

I shrugged. Something about it felt wrong. I went downstairs and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, scrolling through Sophie’s Instagram account while I ate. She’d perfected the selfie. We used to make fun of girls for pictures like that; zoomed-in squares of their face where they were trying to look serious but smile with their eyes. She had on a ton of mascara. Her mom hadn’t even let her wear makeup to school last year.

Laughter.

I glanced upstairs. Mom and Jade were laughing; howling, like they were watching the funniest movie in the world. What could be so hilarious about digging through a treasure trove of all the things we’d lost?

I took the steps to our floor and saw them—Mom and Jade, lying on Blair’s bed, flipping through a photo album. It was chaos around them. There was a pile of tutus haphazardly thrown together in one corner, and papers all over Blair’s desk. Some of her old school workbooks were stacked to the side with a pencil cup she had made in third grade. Everything that had been under her bed was dragged out. A handful of paint swatches was lying on the ground, abandoned. Poor Misty Copeland was folded in half.

“Oh, Abigail,” said Mom, gasping between her giggles. Jade was wiping away tears. “Get in here. This is too much.”

Jade scooted over and I plopped next to her on the bed. Mom held out the album and showed me. The three of us as the Sanderson sisters, making ridiculous faces. Blair even had fake teeth.

“You girls!” said Mom. “That was such a fun year. Even though Jade threw up all of her candy the next morning.”

“Don’t remind me. Show her the one with the newspaper,” said Jade, barely able to speak from laughing. Mom flipped the page, and there was toddler Blair, making a ridiculous face, butt naked, with a newspaper draped over her head.

“That face!” cried Mom. Jade cracked up. They paged through more photos, some I remembered, some I didn’t.

Click. Blair, Jade, and me, in sparkly swimsuits, running through a sprinkler.

Click. Obi as a puppy, licking Blair’s face.

Click. Blair after one of her first recitals, in way too much makeup, sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes. Jade next to her, pulling her nose up like a pig.

Mom and Jade laughed and laughed, but I wanted to scream.

This was just light from stars that had already died.

This Blair—putting newspapers on her head, playing with Obi, being silly—she was gone. Gone in a pile of calories and toe shoes and therapy appointments, of lies and deceit and tears. We see those stars, and we pretend they’re there, but they’re not.