“Not much,” said Sophie simply.

“Come on,” said Lex, tugging on her elbow. “We should go. My mom’s waiting for us at Starbucks.”

“Bye, Abby,” said Sophie.

“Bye,” chirped Lex. They hurried away as if I had some kind of disease they were afraid of catching. I resisted the urge to check my teeth or sniff my armpits. I mean, seriously?

The rest of the trip I was in a bad mood, the kind of mood that hangs over you like a cloud and makes everyone around you grumpy, too. Jade and Mom fought over what kind of pens she needed for school, if she could buy a tank top that was kind of see-through, and whether or not a sixteen-year-old should be drinking coffee. I just picked out the bare minimum amount of notebooks and threw the first pair of jeans I saw into the cart without even trying them on. I felt bad for my mom. One daughter didn’t eat, one daughter argued over everything, and one daughter was a loser freak liar with no friends. She’d played the genetics lottery and lost.

As we drove home, Mom turned on the radio. “Coat of Many Colors” came on, but we didn’t sing along. Not a single word.

14

JUNE, THREE YEARS AGO

Nine years old

Three years and two months before that ill-fated Tarjay trip, Dr. Leo Lacamoire was beginning his summer class at MIT, an in-depth study of gamma-ray bursts. He was deciding on the title of his next book and whether he should have red or white wine at lunch. Those were the concerns of Dr. Leo Lacamoire, PhD, back then.

Blair had just begun Coppélia rehearsals. It was one of her first leading roles. Jade had discovered the art of texting on her shiny new cell phone, falling off the face of the earth. Sophie and Lex were my best friends, and we had just finished fourth grade.

I was lying on the dock with Blair, something that was becoming more and more uncommon. Even then, she was stretching, pulling her toes over her head in a way that didn’t seem human. I was nine years old and wanted to go swimming, not lie there. But my sister had just sprayed something in her hair to give it beach waves or whatever and said she couldn’t go in the water, so I had a book, like always. I’m sorry, but what’s with girls not wanting to get their hair wet? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. It was eighty billion degrees, too hot to sprawl out on a towel.

Where was Jade? Who knew. She was thirteen, a teenager, now, with a gaggle of friends and no time for her sisters. She’d said she might come later, but she probably wouldn’t. She had become tight with some girls from school, and they were clearly a lot more fun than her own family.

“How’s your book?” asked Blair, waving as a boat of fishermen puttered by.