I still stole all her sweatshirts. She still made fun of me for being a nerd. But something was different. I knew she would come to my rescue. She knew I was capable of telling the truth. We no longer felt like two teams; instead, we felt like one, fumbling the ball a lot but trying our hardest to work somehow. The three of us spent more time together again. We went to the library and brought huge stacks of books to the dock. We went to Gooch’s, and Blair gave us a million iced tea refills. We stayed up too late, watching trashy reality TV reruns and laughing at Jade’s impressions. Things had changed, like when you break a vase and glue it back together and can still run your finger over the cracks. But one night while we ate dinner, Blair asked for seconds, and Jade didn’t look at her phone once, and things like that can make a girl feel invincible.

Dad even forgave me for missing the eclipse, our Big Thing that we’d planned for all summer. We went on a long drive to Chicago that fall, just me and him, and I finally told him everything: the telescope, the time capsule, Dr. Leo Lacamoire and our completed mission.

I left out the fact that Blair, Jade, and I had dug it up ages ago. That part didn’t seem like it was only my story to tell.

Dad sat in silence for a few minutes as we drove through the city’s downtown.

“I wish you would have told me,” he said. “I feel like my girls stopped telling me the most important things.” Right as he said that, we drove past the Marriott we’d stayed at while Blair auditioned for the Joffrey. It felt so long ago.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “And I’m really, really sorry I missed the eclipse.”

“I know, Abby,” he said. “It’s okay.”

We wouldn’t have a do-over on that one. Unless you’re Dr. Leo Lacamoire, a total eclipse is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. But we did drive to the planetarium. We peered into the Atwood Sphere, where you can see how the night sky looked over the city in 1913. A snapshot, of how things had been then.

When my cell phone showed a number from New York one day after school, I assumed it was one of those phone calls telling you that you’ve won a tropical vacation or that your car insurance needed updating (I don’t even have my driver’s license, but I somehow got those voice mails once every few months). When I answered it, though, it was so much more.

“Is this Abigail McCourt?” a nice-sounding guy said.

“Yeah,” I answered cautiously. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Brent Browning. My friend Jo asked me to give you a call. She said it was a personal favor to one of her clients.”

“Jo?”

“Joanna Creech?”

Joanna Creech. Power suit lady. Book editor extraordinaire. I could hardly breathe.