“If I was him,” Skylar says, “I wouldn’t be caught dead at the memorial.”

We look at each other, not sure whether to laugh at “be caught dead” or pretend Skylar didn’t say it.

“I didn’t say dead on purpose,” she says. “It just slipped out.”

We laugh a little, more of a nervous giggle than a real laugh.

I wind a twist of hair around my finger. It’s down to my shoulders now but still looking wispy. “What should we do if he does show up?”

Skylar frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Should we say hi and talk to him or what?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not saying anything to him. If I see him, I’ll look the other way.”

“But, Skylar—”

“Look, Abbi, I’m sorry he got fired, but I don’t want to talk to him.”

My poison ivy is almost gone, but if I sit here in the hot sun arguing with Skylar, it’s bound to start itching again. “Okay,” I say. “Okay, but even if you don’t, I feel sad for him. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone to the police. Maybe we just made things worse for him. He didn’t kill her.”

Skylar stares at me. “What he did was wrong, Abbi. He had a wife and a baby. He was a cheater. He ruined Andy’s life. You know how I feel about that.” She turns away. “I gotta go. Mom’s going out, and I promised to fix dinner for the pothead and me.”

Skylar runs into her house. The door shuts with a bang behind her. I want to run after her and shout, Why are you always mad at me? What did I do that you didn’t do? You’ve been my best friend since third grade and I can’t even talk to you!

Instead, I stand on the porch and wait for the door to open and Skylar to come out and say she’s sorry and why don’t I stay for dinner or something.

The door doesn’t open. Skylar doesn’t come out.

I walk home and finish reading To Kill a Mockingbird. Why didn’t I get a father like Atticus? Why didn’t Skylar?

Does anybody really have a father like Atticus? Or a brother like Jem?

14

The Saturday before the memorial for Ms. Sullivan, Mom takes me to the mall to shop for something to wear. Something suitable, she says. All I have are shorts and jeans and T-shirts. Nobody wears dresses or skirts now, I tell her. But Mom doesn’t believe me. Off we go.