Each July 11, long before the townspeople wandered out of their houses and over to City Hall for the annual memorial, I woke up drowning in Marley. I let myself drift to the bottom, then waited until I was buoyed up by the profound responsibility of everyone else’s belief that I was fine. Mom and Dad and my older sister, Aidy, were always sitting in the kitchen with a full breakfast spread on the table and apprehensive smiles plastered on their faces.

Reading any room became like looking at the weather forecast. Other people wanted me to be solemn but accessible. Sad but not unreachable.

Other people wanted me to be okay.

After Marley died, she showed me how pliable the truth could be. How it molded itself to serve the situation at hand. My family, my classmates, even the people paid to help me cope—they all tried to trick me into thinking her death didn’t affect me because it happened before I’d worn a bra or gotten my period. “It’s a good thing you were just a kid,” they would say sometimes, like my resiliency was all but guaranteed thanks to my age. I would also hear, “She was just a kid,” whispered in serious tones, meant to serve as the perfect excuse for any unseemly behavior from me. As these truths bent, so did I, until I was nothing more than a contortionist, squeezing myself into the box of a life Marley left behind.

I spent hours getting ready for each memorial. Washing my hair and letting it air-dry, covering my head in every product I could find until every brown strand glistened like sugar being caramelized. Pale pink blush tinged my cheeks, and a careful sweep of eyeliner widened my tired eyes. Moisturizer slicked my pale skin, scenting me like cotton candy. I smiled at myself in the mirror until my face hurt, then drove with my family over to City Hall, ready to drink from the punch bowl and eat the sweets left over from the Fourth of July.

To the other residents of Cadence, California, Marley was nothing but an event. A flower to drop outside Mr. Bricket’s front door. An extra thank-you to give to God once a year. A lesson.

To me, she was everything.