Then it hit me. The purpose of the Adventure had nothing to do with the Albany kids at all. It was a plan to bring her parents back together. A plan as ambitious and outrageous as Marley herself. A plan she made in secret, without the other eyes and ears she’d always had as backup.

It was so crystal clear now, reading it with our group. I found myself imagining the suggestions we would’ve given her. The thoughts helped steady me. Ruby would’ve reminded Marley, “Who you love is never the problem. It’s how you love them that matters.”

Marley’s father did not love her mother like she asked of him.

Still she loved him back.

But Marley was a dreamer. She dreamed of a life where her parents’ fundamental differences could be fixed by a grand adventure down memory lane. She’d been running practice tests on us Albany kids for years. It was time for the real show.

I’d taken her story for her parents and made it a story for our friends, but I, like she, could not find a way to make it work as planned. This was a girl who wrote, Everything is Something, then told Nick, “Nothing’s gonna happen,” knowing full well that even Nothing is Something, because Everything is Something, and oh how the world made no sense at all, and up was always down was always up again, and who could right it? Who could straighten it all out?

Toward the end of the journal, her words became frantic, scattered, sprawling pages and crisscrossing thoughts, jumping from the Albany kids to her parents to her fears for herself. She did not want to be the person she was. She hated all the people who judged her. It came down to a simple truth I’d always known—Marley Bricket hated all the things she could not control. Which was everything but us, her loyal friends: leaders choosing to let her lead. Giving her that power because she needed it most.

She wished, like Ruby read, that she could be as still as Harrison.

As the entry went on, she wished to be as trustworthy as Ruby.

As kind-hearted as Bigs.

As assured as Teeny.

As level-headed as Aidy.

As selfless as Nick.

As cunning as me.

As her writing came to an abrupt end, about thirty empty pages between her words and the back of the journal, the last line read, I wish to stop wishing at all.

She’d split my reality into so many parts, all ground into a fine powder by what seemed to be true. I passed the journal to Aidy and tucked myself into a tight ball, squeezing for relief. For a definite. For anything.