"We'd like to do something, you know, permanent. Maybe plant a tree at the rec center park," chimed in Hannah, who was wearing one of the craveable dresses she designed and sewed herself.

"Okay," I said, still feeling like a moron. Why couldn't I say something funny or smart? I was always looking for a chance to talk to these girls, and now here I was, mute.

The rec center park. That was a nice spot, near the town pool and tennis courts, where they had Family Fun Night every summer. The year before, Toby and I had almost won the egg toss, but he'd dropped it when there were just three pairs left. I was p.i.s.sed, that evening in late August. I'd never won anything at Family Fun Night and was sick of Mom always packing a picnic from the Taco Bell drive-through instead of preparing sandwiches and salad and cookies like all the other moms did, and making us go home before the fireworks because they gave her a headache.

It wasn't a great memory, but the thought of it still made my throat close up. Fortunately, just then Meg appeared around the corner with a mortified look on her face. She came toward us and said hi to Hannah and Andie, then reached down and helped me up without asking if I needed the hand.

"My mom's here," said Megan, and we said quick good-byes before stumbling away.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" I asked her once we were out of earshot.

"I am so sorry. They cornered me after the test and asked if I knew where you were, and for some reason I told them because I'd just gotten your message, and before I could follow them out, stupid Mrs. c.o.x came over to talk to me about my English paper."

"It's okay," I said. "They were just being nice."

At least, I think that's what it was. If Andie Stokes and Hannah Lindstrom being nice felt like being run over by a steamroller and thinking you should be grateful, then yeah, that was it for sure.

When Mrs. Dill dropped me home, Nana was on the phone with someone. She waved at me as I closed the front door, then turned away. Masher ran in from another room, and I knelt down to bury my fingers in the fur on his back.

"Yes, I understand," she said in what I knew was her "I was raised to be pleasant to everyone" tone. "Well, we appreciate the update, Lieutenant. If there's anything we can do to help, just let us know." She hung up the phone quickly, then turned back around. "Oh! I was hoping to be able to give you a big congratulations hug the second you walked in!"

"Who was that?" I asked. I stood up, and Masher darted from the room, like he knew his job for now was done.

"It was Lieutenant Davis, just filling us in."

"On what?"

"Can we talk about it later? I want to hear about the tests."

"After you tell me what he said."

Nana sighed and looked at the ceiling. "They're trying to determine an official cause of the accident. They need to do that, you know, for their records."

"I know about records."

"Well, they said Mr. Kaufman may have had too much to drink; they tested his blood alcohol level in the hospital that night. It was right on the borderline. But Lieutenant Davis personally thinks there was another car involved. So they're still hoping someone will step forward."

I sat down, remembering what I'd overheard at the funeral, and felt almost glad that the blame on Mr. Kaufman was becoming more official. If I could blame him, I couldn't blame myself. I could hate him, even, and n.o.body would fault me for it.

Not my dad. I knew he always disliked Mr. Kaufman a little, along with the two or three other dads in our neighborhood who made lots of money and bought lots of big, obvious things with it. My parents didn't think I knew but they struggled to support us, and sometimes they didn't quite make it and needed help from Nana.

"But I don't want you to concern yourself with all this accident stuff," said Nana now. "It doesn't affect us."

"Of course it affects us. How can it not affect us?" I asked, not ready to drop it yet.

Now Nana turned from sad to a little fierce, her eyes narrowing.

"We have our own job with grieving and getting on with our lives. I won't let them keep you from being able to do that."

I saw that she had tears in her eyes, and all I wanted was to take them out.

"I'm sorry, Nana," I said. "You're right."

She nodded, then went into the kitchen and came out with a plate of brownies. "I made these to celebrate the SATs."

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Chapter Five.

It rained hard the next day. "p.i.s.sing," as my dad liked to say. It was p.i.s.sing out, drumming a steady, angry rhythm onto the roof of the Volvo and the slate stones of our front terrace. Nana let me stay in bed, watching TV, eating my special SAT brownies. Masher lay on my left, stretched out alongside my body with one front leg across my arm. Elliot and Selina took turns at the foot of the bed.

Once, toward late afternoon, I heard Nana approach my bedroom door. I quickly dropped my head to the side, closed my eyes, and opened my mouth a bit in expert pretended zzz's. I knew this made her happy; one more thing to check off on her mental daily list. Make sure Laurel gets enough sleep.

But then someone knocked on the front door.

I heard Nana open it, and a voice I couldn't place. After a few minutes, curiosity got the better of me, and I wandered out of my room.

David Kaufman was sitting on the bench in our foyer, taking off his boots. He was drenched, and Nana was already in the kitchen making him coffee.

"Hi," I said, and he looked up.

"Hi, Laurel," he said, and it occurred to me that he probably hadn't said my name out loud, to anybody, in years.

He looked bad. Dark circles pressed themselves against the skin under his eyes, which didn't seem as round as they used to be, and he'd broken out. I couldn't help staring at this one really big zit on his nose.

David took off his jacket and reached up to hang it on one of the wall hooks, then noticed that Toby's jean jacket was already there. He paused; when I didn't react, he carefully put his jacket on top of Toby's.

I didn't know what else to say to him. It seemed crazy yet perfectly sensible that he should be in my house at this moment. I could continue with "How are you?" but knew I hated the question myself.

Then I thought of Mr. Kaufman, and the anger rose in me. Keeping my voice steady, trying to make it sound more curious than vengeful, I asked, "What's going on with your dad?"

"They've moved him out of ICU, but there's still no change," he said, rubbing one of his feet where the sock had soaked through. I had a quick flashback of David and me sitting on that bench when we were kids, pulling snow-encrusted mittens and hats away from our limbs and onto the floor.

"He could wake up any day, they say," continued David. "They say my being there might help that happen, so that's why I'm not coming home." This came out all practiced and mechanical, like it was a line he'd been using a lot. He said it like there was no reason why I wouldn't want his dad to be okay.

Nana came out of the kitchen and beckoned us over to the table.

"Is Masher here?" said David. "I came home for some clothes, and my grandfather said you'd taken him."

"Yeah. Mr. Mita wasn't-"

"Thank you," David said, cutting me off. Hearing David's voice in the house must have woken Masher up, because, on cue, he came bursting down the stairs.

David fell to his knees to hug his dog, his face in the thick ring of fur around his neck, and they stayed that way for what seemed like minutes. I put two very large spoonfuls of sugar in my coffee, slowly.

When he finally let go of Masher, he was fighting back tears. Nana handed him a box of Kleenex-she had installed one in every room-and he turned his back to us, cleaning himself up.

"He seems happy. Thank you," said David when he swiveled back around. "Do you mind watching him for a little while longer?"

Something about David's face right then, so fragile and temporary, felt familiar. Had I seen it before on him? Or maybe, on myself? My guard fell, and a voice inside me nudged, David is not his father. You don't have to hate him, too.

"No, I don't mind," I said. "He hogs the covers, but I can deal with that."

David burst out with a little laugh, just a snort really, and smiled a bit. He crawled back into the chair and took his first sip of coffee.

"You've been home all this week? Out of school?" said David.

"Yeah. I'm going back tomorrow." Just saying it made me feel that much more like I would actually do it. "What about you?"

"Nah, I'm failing two of my cla.s.ses anyway. I'm done."

The nerd in me felt alarmed, and I couldn't help saying, "Done? Like, dropping out?"

David just shrugged and looked at me, like he was daring me to ask more, challenging me to try to talk him out of it.

"Well, you're lucky then," was all I said, picking at a thumbnail. "Because you'll miss that whole stupid senior talent show thing."

David snorted again and nodded, and then we went silent. But the air felt a little thinner, a little warmer now. After a few more moments, he slid back down to the floor, and Masher, who'd had his head resting in David's lap, stretched out in front of him.

"I've got some stuff to do, to get ready for tomorrow," I said, getting up and taking two steps toward the stairs. He didn't look up to say good-bye.

"Stay as long as you want, David," said Nana from the kitchen doorway. "Do you want a sandwich?"

I didn't wait to hear his answer, because suddenly being back in my room, without having to make conversation with David Kaufman, was all I wanted in life.

There was a picture of the two of us, David and me, in a family photo alb.u.m somewhere. We're on my front lawn. It's my first day of third grade and his first day of fourth grade. I'm grinning wide while holding a Snoopy lunch box, and he's standing with his hands on his hips, so over the whole thing. I remember us walking to the bus stop and then him moving away from me to talk to Lydia Franco, who was ten and unimaginably streetwise. But on some weekends we went for walks in the woods, and he'd show me the old stone homestead walls that ran through the back of our neighborhood.

We did this until the year David started middle school. Although we waited at the same stop, he took a different bus now, and he had simply stopped talking to me. I think I asked him a question once and he just looked at me, smiled, and turned away. That was it, like someone finally switching off a TV that's been left on too long. If I felt hurt, I never admitted it. Soon, Meg moved to the neighborhood and I had someone, and that was all that mattered.

When I got to my room, Elliot and Selina were both on the bed, giving me these looks.

"Sorry, guys, the dog's not leaving yet," I said, and crawled under the covers.

Chapter Six.

Mr. Churchwell got up from behind his desk to join me on the small, beat-up leather couch in his office, forcing me to inch a little farther toward my end. The cushion made a poosh sound as he settled in, smiling at me. It felt like being on a date with someone's tragically dorky uncle.

"So, you feel okay? Anything you want to talk to me about?" he said.

I had made it here, to school, just like I said I would. Mr. Churchwell had asked me to come in a bit early, before homeroom if I could, to "check in" and "touch base." It hadn't even been two weeks since the accident, but it didn't seem possible that I could be anywhere else.

"I'm glad to be out of the house, actually," I offered. It was true. I had been able to look at people's faces when I walked into the school and down the main hallway toward my locker. Some had smiled at me, and I had smiled back.

"Mmmm, yes. I don't blame you. It's important to resume your usual routine."

"Plus, I was starting to get a little too good at The Price Is Right. Do you believe what a good washer-dryer combo costs these days?"

He donated a short, humoring chuckle. "Well, take it easy today. If you need some time out of the cla.s.sroom, a break or anything, just let your teachers know. They're ready to help."

"You talked to them about me?" I asked.

"Just to tell them you were coming back. And I spoke with Emily Heinz about the Tutoring Club. She says she can take charge of things until you feel like getting involved again."

I'd started the Tutoring Club my freshman year because of Toby. He'd struggled all through elementary school until they figured out he had dyslexia, when he was eight and I was eleven. Somewhere along the line I'd started helping him read and do his homework. He wouldn't let my parents do it; he'd get annoyed with them and they'd fight. But me, he liked working with me. Somehow I found ways to make things click for him, like using his plastic soldiers to form letters on the floor.

Eventually my mom started paying me five bucks an hour to help him, although I would have done it for free. It was the only time we got along.

In ninth grade I wrote a paper about this, and my English teacher asked if I was interested in helping her put together a group of students to tutor other students. It seemed like a golden opportunity to get involved in something I already knew how to do, and Toby would need the Tutoring Club when he got to high school. My dad fought hard to keep him in regular cla.s.ses, even though Mom would have let him go into special ed. "He won't get bullied so much in special ed," she'd say, but my father wanted so badly for him to have the most normal experience possible.

A clear vision of Toby, slowly sounding out words on a page with his brow furrowed in concentration, started to push me off a little cliff in my mind. What was the point of the Tutoring Club now if Toby would never be able to take advantage of it?

"Laurel, are you okay?" said Mr. Churchwell. "Do you want to talk or stay here for a little while?"

No, no, no, you don't, I thought. We were not going to do this now, eight minutes before homeroom.

"I should get going," I said, standing up and slinging my backpack over my shoulder. Mr. Churchwell nodded but stayed where he was.

"Have a great day, Laurel," he said, and with that I was out the door toward homeroom.

Somehow, I made it until the final bell. As I entered each cla.s.sroom, the teacher took me aside and told me a version of the same thing: Don't worry about taking notes, don't worry about needing to excuse yourself for a break. Everybody wants to help. Everybody cares about you.

Then I looked around at the other students filing in, glancing quickly at me and then away, almost embarra.s.sed, like I was standing there naked, and I had a real hard time buying the "Everybody cares about you and wants to help" part. But I accepted the no-note-taking part, no problem. I'd always wondered what it would be like to be one of those kids who blatantly ignored the teacher and did their own thing in cla.s.s. Now I could listen but doodle, knowing I'd get sent home with a copy of the teacher's own notes for my binder.

It was one period, then another, then another, then eating three bites of my turkey sandwich in the far corner of the cafeteria with Meg, then more periods just like the first ones. I listened, and I avoided people's eyes, and I drew trees and flowers and hillside scenes across the straight lines of my notebook.

I found French to be the toughest cla.s.s. Looking at the textbook, I thought of my French homework that night and how I'd been reading through it in the kitchen, clueless about the accident. I couldn't help wondering which page I was on at the moment of impact. Wondering what would have happened if Mrs. Messing hadn't given us so much homework and if I'd decided to go to Freezy's instead.

Deep, deep breaths pushed the panic back down. I was not going to cry at school. It was not an option. I imagined my tear ducts filled with dry desert sand.

Finally, at the end of it all, Meg found me at my locker.

"Are you going to drama?" she asked, knowing I'd forgotten all about it. The spring production of The Crucible was only a week away. Meg had a small part as Mercy Lewis, one of the teenage girls who pretend to be possessed by witchcraft. I was not in the cast. I was a backstage scenery person, no matter how much Meg had begged me to try out this time.