“Because it’s the lake, and I’d be responsible for you not drowning.”

“That’s what the lifeguard is for!”

She looks like she might cry. If Micah could see this scene, he would be so disappointed in me. I can just feel him judging me.

Is it really such a big deal to bring her along? What’s the worst that could happen? She could embarrass me. She could tell everyone stories about me. But . . . she wouldn’t do that.

“Fine,” I finally say. “You can come. But you owe me a big favor. Huge.”

She jumps up and down and wraps her arms around my waist. She smells a little funky.

“When was the last time you took a bath?” I ask.

“It’s summer. I don’t need a bath. I just go to the lake!”

“There’s this thing called soap. And another called shampoo.”

“Bad for the environment.”

“But good for not stinking.”

She shrugs. “I don’t care if I stink!”

“Obviously.”

She beams at me even though I’m insulting her.

“Go get your beach stuff and we’ll pack some snacks to bring with us, OK?”

“Yes!”

She races down the hall and stomps up the stairs as she chants, “We! Are! Going! To! The! Beach!”

I wish small stuff like this could make me as happy as that. It’s depressing how, as I get older, things that make me happy seem much harder to get. Like my parents being able to pay the bills. Or me finding a job that would pay enough that I could really help. Or being able to talk with my best friend about how confused I am without having him stop speaking to me.

I wait twenty minutes, then check to see if my suit is dry. Good enough. I get dressed and check my phone again, but there are no new messages from Micah.

I send him a simple message: Leaving for the beach now. Hope to see you there. Sorry about the party.

I don’t wait to see if he reads it. I shove my phone in my back pocket and yell to Ivy to come on down and help me find some food to bring.

We scrounge around in the kitchen, but there’s really nothing to eat other than pasta and mac and cheese in a box. There’s one sleeve of Saltines and an almost-empty jar of peanut butter, so we scrape as much out as we can and make “essence of peanut butter” crackers.

“We should call Mom and tell her there isn’t any food in the house,” Ivy says grumpily.

“I’m sure she knows,” I say. “Let’s not bother her. I’m supposed to get paid today. Maybe when we get home from the beach, my check will be in the mailbox and we can ride bikes to town and get some treats.”

“Really?”