"And you've been a strong student since the beginning. Ninety-eighth percentile, officially. Your grades haven't suffered in the wake of the accident, which I find to be . . . amazing." He gestured to a folder on his desk, a red-rimmed label on its tab. Clearly, my File.

I shrugged it off. "I think the teachers are being easy on me." But even if that were true, I was working hard. I didn't know how not to.

David's last postcard, from just the day before, jumped into my head. It was a photo of Daytona Beach, all golden sand and empty sky. He'd drawn a stick figure lying on the beach and an arrow pointing to it next to the word "ME." Nothing else was written on the card except my address.

"I'm sure you started this process . . . previously," he said gently.

I remembered the pile of information packets I'd picked up at a college fair last winter. They'd sat on the coffee table in the den for weeks before my father dropped them in my lap one day while I was watching TV.

"Whaddya think?" he'd said. My dad liked to ask vague questions, soft lobs that left the ball in my court to return however I wanted.

"I like Brown and U Penn," I'd answered. "And Yale, of course."

"Of course."

"And Smith," I had added.

My mother had gone to Smith. That's where she'd met my dad, late one night at a party in her dorm. He'd tagged along with a roommate who was visiting his high school girlfriend there in order to break up with her in person. "If he hadn't decided to dump her," my dad liked to say with a wink when telling me this story, "you would have never been born!"

"Are you looking for something with a good theater program?" asked Mr. Churchwell now, opening my folder and sliding a clean lined sheet of paper into it so he could make notes. "I know you're very active in the Drama Club."

"I don't act. I just do behind-the-scenes stuff. Painting the scenery."

"So . . . are you interested in art?"

I shrugged, and he jotted something down.

"It shouldn't be hard to find a great art department. Have you thought about distance?"

"Distance?"

"Distance from home. Whether or not you want to go away to school, or commute."

Wow, I was just so completely unprepared for this meeting.

"No, I hadn't thought about it," I said.

"If you want to live at home, there are a lot of excellent schools within an hour of where we're sitting right now, especially in the city. Columbia, for instance, or NYU. You do have a support system here."

Stay close. I thought of Nana, making me pancakes every morning. And then I thought of Eve, living at home, with a purpose. Maybe I could have the same kind of purpose.

"But then again," Mr. Churchwell continued, tapping his pencil on my file, "I also think you might consider a . . . change of scenery. A lot of kids who come through my office want a fresh start somewhere."

When I was with Eve, I got by with white lies and omissions, never talking about my family in the present tense. Going away to school would be like diving into a world full of Eves. People who had no idea who I was, or what had happened. It sounded like pure, simple heaven.

Mr. Churchwell must have seen the confusion on my face because he said, "You don't have to make this decision now. Apply to a range of schools at a range of locations. Worry about it later after you know who's accepted you."

Procrastination. That worked. I took a deep breath.

Mr. Churchwell jotted something down in my folder and raised his eyebrows. "Do you have any particular schools in mind?" he asked.

"My dad went to Yale. It was his dream for me to go there too."

"Yale would be a good fit for you," he said, nodding and scribbling a note. "And it's not too far away. You could come home on weekends if you needed to." He paused, looked at me a little sideways. "It's tough to get into, but being a legacy gives you a better shot, for sure. We'll put that at the top of your list."

Then I remembered Eve telling me that once she got her undergraduate degree, she was going to apply to Cornell's vet school. "If you're at all interested in working with animals for a living," she'd said, "that's the place to go to college on the East Coast."

The only other thing I knew about Cornell was that it was cold, but I needed more names on my list.

"I've heard good things about Cornell," I told Mr. Churchwell. Then I rattled off the packets I remembered showing to my dad, and Smith for my mom, and Columbia and NYU because I could commute there. When I was done, Mr. Churchwell looked at the page he'd created in my folder.

"Have you visited any of these schools?" he asked.

"Just Yale, and the ones in the city. My father and I were going to do a bunch of weekend college visits last spring."

Dad had already arranged for the Fridays off from work and started booking hotel rooms.

"Ah yes, of course," said Mr. Churchwell sadly.

"Did I miss the boat on that?"

"No, not necessarily. Most schools offer interviews with local alumni, and you can always visit a campus after you get in to help you decide." He paused, making another note. "So with Yale, I recommend you take advantage of their Early Action application program," he said. "It means if you get your application in by November first, you could be in by mid-December, but it's nonbinding. You can still apply to other schools to keep your options open."

I acted like this was news but the truth was, I knew all about the Early Action thing. Dad had really wanted me to apply early. He loved the level of commitment it implied, and the whole ordeal being over as quickly as possible.

"Early Action sounds like a good idea," I said to Mr. Churchwell.

"You should download the materials and get cracking, especially with Yale, since that deadline is right around the corner," he said. "I think you'll have a strong application."

"Really?" I asked.

"Well, in addition to having great grades and SAT scores, your work with the Tutoring Club and your painting. You'll want to send them pictures of some of your sets. Your job at the vet's office goes a long way. And you're back in your school routine, working hard. In light of what's happened to you, that says a lot about character. It matters."

I thought about this for a moment, wrapping my head around what he meant. "So we should tell colleges about the accident?"

"I think your teachers should mention it in their recommendation letters, of course. But whether or not you write about it yourself, in your essay . . . that's your choice."

"So they might accept me out of pity."

"No. I didn't say that. They might accept you because among many other things, you've shown amazing strength and commitment in the face of adversity."

I considered what was being laid in front of me: The chance to really use my situation to an advantage that others didn't have.

"Think about it," he said, "and let me know."

Chapter Twenty.

Are you sure you don't want to come watch?" asked Meg one day after last period. She and Gavin were going to try out for My Fair Lady, the Drama Club's fall musical.

Meg and Gavin were now a well-established couple. Her first real boyfriend, and he was a good one to have. He wasn't in Andie's crowd but everyone liked him; plus, he had his own car. They had this habit of leaning together against a wall with their hands in each other's back pockets, which I thought was just sickening. Sometimes I pictured myself and Joe standing there with them, doing the same thing, and that made it even harder.

Fortunately, I was scheduled to be at Ashland that day. Meg's face fell when I reminded her, as if she really wanted me to watch her French-kiss in the back row of the school auditorium. I knew she was trying to pull me back into my old activities ever since I'd reduced my hours at the hospital to just two afternoons a week. I needed the time to keep up with cla.s.s work, but I missed the daily rhythm of the hospital, and being surrounded by people who didn't know anything about me. Now when I went, after a day of school and people staring sideways at me, it was almost more of a break than being at home.

Sometimes, when it was slow, I'd take a few minutes to sit on the rabbit bench out front and think of that day with David. Wondering where he was and when I'd hear from him next.

When I got to Ashland, all was chaos. A family had brought in their dog after he'd gotten into a fight. He was pretty beat up and bleeding, and Dr. B had been working on him for an hour. Which meant that the regularly scheduled appointments got delayed, and people were p.i.s.sed. "He just p.o.o.ped in his own carrier!" said a woman with a cat who was howling low and constantly.

"The doctor is handling an emergency at the moment," said Eve calmly. "You're welcome to reschedule, and we'll give you a discount on the office visit fee."

This placated the woman and Eve turned to me, made a face. "He's got to get another doctor in here full-time," she whispered. "There are just too many days like this."

I made myself as useful as I could. Dr. B and Robert got the injured dog stabilized, and we were able to start getting appointments in. After an hour, a man in a paint-covered jumpsuit walked in holding a dirty duffel bag with both hands. I saw Eve stiffen and found myself doing the same thing.

"Can I help you?" she said politely as he stepped up to the desk.

"I hope so. My crew was painting an empty apartment and we found this kitty in a closet. She seems sick or something."

Eve stood up and opened the duffel, peering inside. After a few moments she turned to me. "Get Robert ASAP."

I did what I was told, and Robert swooped in and took the bag as Eve whispered something to him. After he disappeared with it, Eve composed her face again and turned back to the man.

"You don't know where she came from?"

"I called the owner and he said the tenants who just moved out had a cat. Maybe it was theirs?"

Eve bit her lip. "We'll take care of her."

"Will she be okay?" he asked. "I'd . . . I'd take her, but my wife's allergic. . . ."

"I think she's about to give birth, actually." She leaned over and touched the man's arm. "You brought her to the right place." Then, when he didn't move, Eve added, "Do you want your duffel back?"

He shook his head, then looked around the waiting room where three clients sat, having watched the whole exchange, staring at him. He bowed his head quickly to Eve and left.

After the remaining clients had been seen, Eve and I went in to check on the cat. Robert had set her up in a bottom cage and hung a towel over the front of it. Eve pulled the towel up gently and peeked in.

The cat looked up at us, a skinny, coal-black thing with haunting yellow eyes, still on her guard. She looked tired and spent as she nursed a ma.s.s of squirmy newborn kittens. Dr. B came in and Eve dropped the towel back into place. "So we have a new mom?" he asked wearily. "That's what, six weeks of that cage being occupied, until the kittens are weaned and you can place them?"

"I'm out of foster homes," said Eve with a pleading edge to her voice. "What am I supposed to do? Take her to the shelter?"

Dr. B just shrugged. "It's an option."

"She can't go to the shelter. She's already been dumped once, and if you bothered to look at her, you'd see how malnourished she is. They'd all get sick and die there."

Dr. B sighed. "Then you take her."

"My parents will kill me if I bring home any more." Eve was tearing up. She pulled up the towel again, hoping to force something in Dr. B. "Look at how depressed she is. All she wants is her family back."

As soon as Eve said that, I could feel my throat close up and a bolt of something hot and sharp behind my eyes. For the love of G.o.d, I thought, please don't start crying here. And then I saw something in my head. A bright place with a window and a soft bed that sat empty as wasted s.p.a.ce on the planet.

Toby's bedroom.

"I can take her," I said, before I could think of the many reasons not to.

Eve put both hands on my shoulders, smiling wider than I thought her face had room for. "You CAN?"

I just nodded, looking at my palms. "I have room," I said after a few seconds. "I have plenty of room."

"Laurel, how can you do something like this without asking my permission first?" said Nana as we stood in the living room, a cardboard box full of cats at my feet. She was angry, her mouth pursed and her frown lines making cracks in her carefully applied makeup. I'd almost forgotten what that looked like.

"I didn't think you'd mind," I said, shrugging, not looking at her.

"Well, I do mind, but that's beside the point. This is my house too now, and I'm in charge, and if you want to bring in some homeless animals to live in your brother's . . ." She stopped as the word stuck in her throat, and turned away from me, finally spitting out, "Your brother's room . . . we have to talk about it."

"I'm sorry," I said. "Why don't you take your trip upstate, like you've been planning? That way you won't have to deal with it."

"I don't feel like going right now. Don't change the subject, Laurel."

She looked at me, her anger giving way to what seemed like confusion, like she was wishing she had a handbook she could check to figure out what to do in this situation.

"It was just something I needed to do." I thought of the cat's expression, imagined her alone in the empty apartment she knew as her home, wondering what she'd done wrong.

Nana saw that I was about to break down, but held her mouth in a firm line. "I understand that, and I think I understand why. I just wish you'd remember that you're not the only one trying to figure out how to get through."

Now that firm line fell apart, and she reached out to me. "I lost them too, you know," she said shakily.

I stepped into her and felt her arms grow tight around me, her crisp plaid blouse pressing against my chest. It was a place I didn't realize I wanted so badly to be.

Neither of us said anything for a little while. I pictured the kitty in the box, listening to all this, thinking, I'm not sure this is going to be any better than the animal hospital.

Finally Nana took a deep breath, stood back, and said, "Okay, but you feed them, you clean up after them. And you find them homes as soon as you possibly can."

I just nodded, and decided I would call my mama foster cat Lucky.

Chapter Twenty-one.