“Ms. Sullivan loved the conservancy,” I tell Greg. “She brought our art class here last spring. We sat outside and drew. Plein air, it’s called. She set up her easel and painted the old barn and the field and the hay bales. She was such a good artist.”

A lump swells in my throat, and I turn my head. I don’t want to cry. But I miss her so much.

I miss Skylar too. She should be sitting in the little back seat with me, bumping knees and elbows, sharing everything, even the sad times like this. Essere l’altra metà della mela.

Greg parks his truck in an overflow area on the grass, and we walk toward the crowd of people gathered on a hilltop. I look at the barn and remember Ms. Sullivan standing at her easel, talking to us while she painted. I take Mom’s hand.

I see Nessa and Lindsey with their parents. Nessa’s wearing the skirt she bought at the Gap, and Lindsey has on a dress that makes her look older than Nessa. I wave and they wave back. Erica stands a little apart from her mother, talking to Jonathon’s friend David.

Mom and Greg and I walk around the grounds—like a family, I think. We stop and talk to some of my teachers. I say hello to kids I know, but all of us stay close to our parents, as if we’re in danger.

Before the service begins, I go to the ladies’ room. When I come out, I almost bump into Mr. Boyce.

My heart leaps in my chest and thunders. Blood rushes to my face. I can barely look at him. He can’t be happy to see me.

“Abbi,” he says. “Where’s your other half?”

“Skylar couldn’t come, she had to do something else, I don’t remember what . . .” My voice sort of flutters away, and I clear my throat.

“You look very nice,” Mr. Boyce says. “Grown up, almost.”

I touch one of my earrings. “Mom let me get my ears pierced,” I tell him. “I can wear bigger ones in a couple of weeks, you know, after my ears heal.”

I blush again—why am I talking about earrings? What is wrong with me? Shouldn’t I be telling him I’m sorry I spied on him and Ms. Sullivan, sorry I told the police, sorry I thought you killed Ms. Sullivan, sorry you lost your job and your wife left you. Even though I know these things are not my fault, I’m still so sorry, so very sorry, but I just can’t force the words out of my mouth. It’s like they’re too big to say.