Carmichael has been riding his bike in a circle this whole time, looking down at the pavement, his face mostly hidden by his hair. But when I finish talking, he stops and sets his feet on the ground, looking up at me.

"Well, then you really do need my help. You have something we can stream one of the movies on? Or Netflix?"

I nod.

"Great. We'll watch it, and we'll figure out how you can keep two totally different characters straight, okay?"

"Okay," I say, embarrassed but inexplicably happy. It's a strange kind of relief to have someone be bossy with me-someone who isn't a lawyer, I mean.

He nods again and then pedals away, and I stand there, watching him go, wondering why the hell he's bothering with all this. But then I shake off the thought and get in my car. I can't worry about that. I have to just enjoy having someone to talk to. While it lasts.

"Alex! Where are you?" I shout when I walk in the door. Mom's not home yet, I can tell-no other car in the garage-but there are boy socks all over the first floor. Seriously, I think my brothers have some kind of sock-generating machine in their rooms. And another machine that makes them all dirty and throws them all over the house. Two boys could not possibly produce that many dirty socks and distribute them so widely in the course of just a few days. I'm not as good at math as I used to be, but I know that doesn't add up.

"Tommy?" I call, less certainly. Tommy's been over at his friends' houses a lot lately. I think. He's just never around, as if he's the world's first twelve-year-old emancipated minor. On the one hand, it's good-only one brother to feed and yell at about socks. On the other, I kind of miss him. Because whenever I do see him, Tommy's always really quiet. Like he's not there, even when he is.

I pause for a second, throwing my bag on the floor next to the stairs, and consider my middle sibling. He's been quiet since . . . since he got back from that last camp. Maybe he didn't like it?

I hear laughter from the kitchen, so I kick off my flip-flops next to my bag and make my way back there. There's no actual kitchen door, but you can't see the little nook table from the front hall, so when I get to the kitchen I'm completely unprepared for what I find. Or who I find, more accurately.

At the table, sitting around a big tub of ice cream, are Alex, Tommy, and our dad.

The boys are lit up like it's Christmas morning-which is appropriate, since visits from our father are about as frequent as ones from Santa Claus. Dad's in a suit, as always, and it's kind of wrinkled and messed up, like he's been driving in it all day. He probably has. He lives in Chicago, which is about eight or nine hours away, with his other family. Technically Chicago is pretty drivable to here, especially when he needs to stop for work somewhere in between-in Des Moines or wherever-but the new kids are really young, and somehow Dad just never seems to make it all the way out here to see his old ones.

But then once in a blue moon, these surprise visits. It's been a while, but the guy definitely likes to be Mr. Hey, I Brought Ice Cream. The boys love it, but I know better. Or maybe it's just that I'm not the one he brings the ice cream for.

"Where's your mom?" Those are the first words he says to me. Tommy and Alex are still shoveling Neapolitan into their mouths, oblivious that our dad didn't even say hi to me first.

"Um," I say, not moving any farther into the room. It's like we're two magnets facing each other the wrong way-I feel physically repulsed by him, like even if I tried to move closer, I just couldn't. "It's four thirty on a Friday, so I'm going to take a wild guess and say . . . work?"

"Sara," he says. Sharp, short. In his voice, my name is a knife. But as much as I can't come into the kitchen and sit down with them, I can't leave, either, and he knows I won't. So he goes on. "There's no need for that tone. I came a long way, I'm tired, I'd just like to have one peaceful minute before I have to get back in the car and drive another five hours."

I don't know if I'm supposed to respond to this, or to point out that I wasn't trying to ruin his peaceful minute, or if I'm only here to play substitute punching bag. But Alex, innocent as ever, is already jumping in, saying, "Wait, Dad, you're not leaving yet, are you? You just got here! You have to see my pitching! I'm gonna be as good as Dylan by the time I'm in high school."

Right after he's said it I can tell Alex knows he's made a mistake. Dad's face is a thundercloud. I think my knees might buckle underneath me.

We're all silent for a minute. I don't move, and Dad doesn't look at me, he just stares over toward the sink, fuming. It amazes me that he can be so far away-geographically, emotionally, everything-and still know exactly who Alex is talking about when he says "Dylan." My dad never even met Dylan, never saw one of his games, never talked to me about him. I know he talks to my mom about everything that's been happening, and I know my lawyer's always trying to get both my parents in a room. But Dad doesn't want to talk about it. As far as he's concerned, it's all going to blow over and we can all "move on." That's what he says to my mom when they talk-"Let's just all move on." Like that's not what we all want.

Alex is looking back and forth from my dad's face to mine, trying to figure out what's going on and, more importantly, what's going to happen next. But Tommy seems to know the drill this time-he's practically facedown in his bowl, shoveling ice cream, refusing to even come up for air.

And then, like nothing happened, Dad whips his head back around to his beloved (for the next few hours, at least) youngest son and says, too cheerfully, "So where's your glove? Let's go outside!"

Alex jumps out of his chair and goes galloping upstairs like his life depends on it. Tommy's scraping the bottom of his bowl and Dad says to him, "You sure you got enough there? Need you ready for high school sports a lot sooner than your brother."

Tommy pushes his bowl away and wipes his mouth on his wrist, still not saying anything but giving a little shrug.

"Huh," Dad goes on. "They teach you anything at that camp I sent you to? Cost a fortune, could've been an all-star retreat."

Dad is smiling as he says this part, like it's a joke, but I hear the edge creeping back into his voice. I guess I'm not the only one disappointing our father these days.

Tommy is still looking down at his spoon, and from across the room I can see his jaw clenching. It's the thing he does when he's trying not to cry-and he never cries, he's the toughest kid I know.

Seeing my little brother's moment of weakness breaks the spell I'm under, and I practically lunge through the kitchen door and over to the table, grabbing the empty dessert bowls and opening my mouth to let a stream of nonsense cover up this crappy moment.

"It was a really, like, all-around camp," I say, my words a little too fast and too loud. "You know, boating and horses and hiking and stuff? Tommy got really tan, he said he had fun, didn't you, Tom-Tom? They had campfires and everything. S'mores. Wasn't there a talent show at the end? Didn't you win a ribbon for something?"

Tommy finally looks up at us and says quietly, "For archery. But it was just a finisher ribbon, not a real one."

Dad snorts. "These places with their self-esteem crap."

"Yeah," Tommy says. "It was pretty dumb."

"Well, I'll save my money next year," Dad says. "Get you to a football program."

Tommy hates football, but our dad is the world's biggest Huskers fan, so there's no way either of us is bringing that up.

"Football can be really dangerous," I say. I have no idea why I'm opening this argument-the words just pop out, and immediately I wish I could shut up again. I don't say anything when Dad's talking to me, or about me. But when it comes to the boys I can't keep quiet, even though I should. It's not like we get to see him so often that we have the luxury of fighting.

But Dad's mood has shifted again. "You're a strong guy," he says to Tommy, patting his shoulder. "You can take it."

Tommy doesn't look strong. He looks sad. I'm standing there, still holding the bowls and halfway to the sink, when Alex comes tearing back into the room, holding two baseball gloves.

"I found one of your old ones!" he tells Dad breathlessly.

"Okay, then." Our dad gets up and takes off his wrinkled suit jacket. He rolls up his sleeves and Alex bolts to the back door, sliding it open. He looks like an eager puppy, and Tommy looks like a wounded one, though he's getting up to go outside too.

As they all troop out the door, I wonder what I look like.

The cleaning lady, I guess.

"He's so mean to her," I say, almost to myself. Mel Gibson is yelling at Helena Bonham-Carter-or Hamlet is yelling at Ophelia, I guess-and even though I really only understand the gist of the dialogue, I can tell he's being cruel.

"He's just pushing her away," Carmichael says. He takes a sip of his Coke and then points it at the screen. "He has a lot going on, right? His dad was murdered."

"But she can't help it if she likes him," I say.

Carmichael doesn't respond, and we watch in silence for a while. When Carmichael got here we ordered a pizza. Actually, we talked to my mom and my brothers and ordered two pizzas, but they ate theirs upstairs. My mom didn't even blink when she saw Carmichael's all-black ensemble. I don't know if she saw the tattoos, but she said, "I like your T-shirt," which today has a screen print of John Lennon. He smiled and said, "Thanks," and I noticed Tommy looking at our mom, obviously waiting until we were gone to ask her who the guy on the T-shirt was.

I grab another slice of pizza, willing myself to eat even though it feels wrong to stuff my face in front of a boy. Carmichael already had three slices and this is only my second, but still. Around Dylan I couldn't eat more than a couple of french fries or I'd feel fat and self-conscious.

But this isn't Dylan. This isn't a date. Even if did I spend an hour trying on every tank top in my wardrobe. I finally settled for a pair of shorts and my favorite gray V-neck T-shirt, the one that's so old it'll probably fall apart at the seams the next time I wash it. But it's super soft and it definitely doesn't look like I'm trying too hard.

And Carmichael's not acting like this is a date. He's acting like we're just friends, or at least study partners, and I know that should be good enough for me. I shouldn't be so lonely and desperate.

But still. I put my plate back on the table and wipe my mouth with a napkin. I fuss with my hair a little, wishing I hadn't decided that chin-length was a good choice for summer. I tug at my T-shirt and make sure it's not covered in crumbs.

And then, finally, I just settle back on the couch and watch the movie. For a while I actually relax. But by the time Ophelia is found floating in the river, I'm curled into a tense ball in the corner of the couch, biting my thumbnail, feeling like I might throw up all the pizza.

Carmichael looks over at me and says, "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say, more defensively than I mean to. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason," he says easily. "I just thought, you know. It's kind of tough, watching all this stuff about death and suicide and everything."

I glance at him, but he's still facing the TV. "Is it tough for you?" I ask.

"Yeah, of course."

I don't know what to say.

"I didn't really know Emma," he adds softly. "But it's hard not to think about it. And she seemed like a good kid."

I don't want to talk about this. I jump off the couch, grabbing my empty Coke can. "Do you want more?" I ask. "I'm getting more."

I don't wait for him to answer, I just hurry upstairs. We've been using the basement TV while my brothers are playing Wii in the living room. I keep trying to get my mom to move the console downstairs. She says it's easier to keep an eye on the boys this way, and she's right, but it's loud and obnoxious with them jumping around in there all the time. And it leaves me no choice but to invite a totally random guy from summer school down to my basement, which seems kind of desperate.

But when I reach the top of the stairs, it's actually pretty quiet. Mom and the boys already had dinner, so I guess she went up to her room. Alex is still playing Wii in the living room but Tommy's in the kitchen, sitting at the counter with his DS.

"Hey, bud, what's up?" I ask him, dropping my can into the recycling bin and crossing over to the fridge. We got a bunch of free cans of soda with the pizza because they were out of liter bottles, so there are still a few left. I grab two and slam the door shut, realizing that Tommy still hasn't said anything back.

I sit down next to him at the counter and take a deep breath, steadying my nerves before looking over at his game. He's not playing very enthusiastically, and I know from one look that his score is really low. Kinda matches his mood, I'm guessing.

"You excited about school next week?" I ask more quietly. "Junior high already. You're such a grown-up."

He shrugs, still focused on the little screen.

"Do you have an outfit picked out?" I ask, trying to draw him out.

"Ew, gross," he says. I knew that would get him-picking out clothes is something girls do, according to my brothers. Not manly enough for them.

"Right, I forgot," I say. "Well, are you and Daniel in the same class?" Daniel was his best friend last year, though I'm suddenly pretty sure I haven't seen him in a while. I don't even know if they're still tight-things like that change a lot between elementary school and junior high. And Tommy's been busy with camps half the summer.

Sure enough, Tommy flinches when he hears Daniel's name. "Yeah," he says, but he sounds anything but happy about it.

"Do you guys still hang out?"

Another shrug.

"That's okay, you know," I say, pulling out my well-worn Big Sister Wisdom Card. "I made a lot of new friends in junior high, and only kept a couple people from grade school. Like Brielle-that's when we started being friends. Well, eighth grade. But still. You get older, you meet people more like you, people you have more in common with."

"Brielle isn't like you," Tommy says in a low voice. I'm almost not sure I heard him right, but then he adds, "She's a bitch."

"Tom!" I say, stunned. "That's not a nice thing to say!"

Finally he looks up at me. "But it's true," he says. "She got you in all this trouble. She's the reason nothing's good anymore."

I open my mouth and hesitate, totally lost for words. Usually, Tommy and Alex are the two boys I can always talk to. But I guess this one is growing up, already learning how to stump me, even before he officially starts seventh grade. Suddenly I remember that day in Dylan's car, when he said the same thing. I didn't know what to say then, either. I never thought Brielle was a bitch. I thought she was strong. She stood up to people; she fixed things. Like my life.

Tommy and I look at each other for a long minute, and I think about everything he just said. Finally I ask, "What's not good? I mean, I know things are messed up right now, but it's my mess, right?"

He looks back at his DS, then sets it down on the kitchen counter and puts his hands in his lap. "It's my problem too," he says. His voice is almost a whisper.

I think about yesterday, with our dad, how Tommy wouldn't look any of us in the eye. "Is this about Dad?" I ask, still struggling to understand.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" he yells. "It's not about Dad! God!"

"Okay, okay!" I throw up my hands, trying to call a truce, calm him back down. "I just thought-I mean, you didn't seem that happy to see him."

"Like you were?"

This is true. But I try to not show the boys how I really feel. He's their dad, too, and they don't deserve to hate him. At least, not until they're older. And he's usually good to them, aside from the fact that he's almost never around. Like yesterday, coming over with ice cream and then spending a few hours playing ball with them both before Mom got home. Of course, then he yelled at her for a while and left. Like usual. But the ice cream and game of catch-those were pretty nice, weren't they?

Maybe pretty nice isn't enough for Tommy anymore, like it stopped being enough for me.

"Everyone at camp knew about-you know," Tommy says. "Emma. I tried to tell them that it wasn't your fault, but some of them were saying that you and Brielle and them, like, beat her up, which you didn't, and that you made her . . . you know. Really sad. So no one would believe me. They said I was a bully too. No one would talk to me."

I feel like I can't breathe. I put a hand on Tommy's shoulder and give him a little rub, but inside I feel like I'm dying.

"That's . . . that's really unfair," I say. "You didn't do anything wrong. You've never bullied anyone."

"Neither did you!" he insists. Then he pauses, and looks me right in the eye. "Right?"

In that instant, tears pop into my eyes. It stings like hell and it happens so fast I nearly choke. All I can do to answer Tommy is shrug a little. I keep my hand on his bony little shoulder blade, holding his gaze. His big brown eyes look at me steadily, but even through my tears I can see them change. Like, one instant he trusts me, he's a kid-and then a second later, I'm looking at older eyes, harder ones. He looks so much like our dad. And suddenly it's like our dad's eyes are looking out of Tommy's face now.

He picks up his game and slides off the kitchen stool without a word. I watch him go, and that's when I see that Carmichael is standing in the doorway, looking at me. The tears have started falling now, so I can't see what his eyes look like. Which is good. I don't want to know.

But when I put my head down on the counter and start to sob, I hear Carmichael walk across the kitchen and sit down next to me. After a minute, he puts his hand on my back, just like I did for Tommy.

It doesn't help me any more than I helped my brother.

But it's not nothing, either. It's not nothing.

February.

"SEE, THAT'S HIM over there, warming up." I point, and Alex cranes his neck, as if sitting up straighter will make it easier to see across the indoor field.

"Oh, yeah, I see him," Tommy says. "Do you know all those guys?"

"Not really," I say. Alex is still squirming around, a bundle of excited energy. "Bud, you wanna go get us some sodas from the machine?" I ask him, hoping that'll burn off some of the wiggles. Or just give me a break from them for three minutes, at least.

"Yeah!" He keeps shifting around as I pull a five-dollar bill out of my purse and hand it over.

I expect Tommy to go with him, but his eyes are glued to the field, and the vending machines are within sight, so I can keep an eye on Alex. He sprints away.