But for another minute he doesn't move. He just stares at me. The hotness returns, only this time it's moving into my head, making everything seem cloudy and remote. My eyes are suddenly heavy.

"You're tired," he says, and his voice is soft again.

"It's been a long day," I say.

"Come on." He reaches out his hand and without thinking I take it. It's warm and dry, and as he leads me deeper into the house, away from the music, into the shadows, I close my eyes and remember how he used to slip his hand in mine and whisper, Don't listen to them. Just keep walking. Keep your head up. Don't listen to them. Just keep walking. Keep your head up. It almost feels like no time has pa.s.sed. It doesn't feel crazy that I'm holding hands with Kent McFuller and I'm letting him lead me somewhere-it feels normal. It almost feels like no time has pa.s.sed. It doesn't feel crazy that I'm holding hands with Kent McFuller and I'm letting him lead me somewhere-it feels normal.

The music fades away altogether. Everything is so quiet. Our feet barely make a sound on the carpets, and each room is a web of shadow and moonlight. The house smells like polished wood and rain and just a little bit like chimney smoke, like someone's recently had a fire. I think, This would be a perfect house to get snowed into. This would be a perfect house to get snowed into.

"This way," Kent says. He pushes open a door-it creaks on its hinges-and I hear him fumbling for a light switch on the wall.

"No," I say.

He hesitates. "No light?"

"No light."

Very slowly he guides me inside the room. Here it's almost completely dark. I can barely make out the outline of his shoulders.

"The bed's over here."

I let him pull me over to him. We're only inches away, and it's like I can feel feel his impression in the darkness, like it's taking on a form around him. We're still holding hands, but now we're face-to-face. I never realized how tall he was: at least four inches taller than I am. There's the strangest amount of warmth coming off him. It's everywhere, radiating outward, making my fingers tingle. his impression in the darkness, like it's taking on a form around him. We're still holding hands, but now we're face-to-face. I never realized how tall he was: at least four inches taller than I am. There's the strangest amount of warmth coming off him. It's everywhere, radiating outward, making my fingers tingle.

"Your skin," I say, barely a whisper. "It's hot."

"It's always this way," he says. Something rustles in the dark and I know he has moved his arm. His fingers hover half an inch from my face, and it's like I can see see them, burning hot and white. He drops his arm, taking the warmth with him. them, burning hot and white. He drops his arm, taking the warmth with him.

And it's the weirdest thing, but standing there with Kent McFuller in a room so pitch-black it could be buried somewhere, I feel the tiniest of tiny things spark inside me, a little flame at the very bottom of my stomach that makes me unafraid.

"There are extra blankets in the closet," he says. His lips are right by my cheek.

"Thank you," I whisper back.

He stays until I've gotten into bed, and then he draws up the blankets around my shoulders like it's normal, like he's been putting me to bed every night of my whole life. Typical Kent McFuller.

FIVE.

You see, I was still looking for answers then. I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.

Not then, but afterward, I started to think about time, and how it keeps moving and draining and flowing forever forward, seconds into minutes into days into years, all of it leading to the same place, a current running forever in one direction. And we're all going and swimming as fast as we can, helping it along.

My point is: maybe you can afford to wait. Maybe for you there's a tomorrow. Maybe for you there's one thousand tomorrows, or three thousand, or ten, so much time you can bathe in it, roll around in it, let it slide like coins through your fingers. So much time you can waste it.

But for some of us there's only today. And the truth is, you never really know.

I wake up gasping, the alarm bringing me out of darkness, as if it has brought me up from the depths of a lake. It is the fifth time I've woken up on February 12, but today I'm relieved. I switch off the alarm and lie in bed, watching the milky white light steal slowly over the walls, waiting for my heartbeat to go back to normal. A swath of sunlight ticks upward over the collage Lindsay made for me. In the bottom she's written in pink glittery ink, Love you 4ever Love you 4ever. Today Lindsay and I are friends again. Today no one's angry at me. Today I didn't kiss Mr. Daimler or sit bawling my eyes out alone at a party.

Well, not totally alone. I imagine the sun filling Kent's house slowly, frothing upward like champagne.

As I lie there I start making a mental list of all the things I'd like to do in my life, as though they're still possible. Most of them are just plain crazy, but I don't think about that, just go on listing and listing like it's as easy as writing up what you need from the grocery store. Fly in a private jet. Eat a fresh-baked croissant from a bakery in Paris. Ride a horse all the way from Connecticut to California but stay in only the best hotel rooms along the way. Some of them are simpler: take Izzy to Goose Point, a place I discovered the first and only time I'd ever tried to run away. Order the Fat Feast at the diner-a bacon cheese-burger, a milk shake, and an entire plate of cheese fries-and eat it without stressing, like I used to do on my birthday every single year. Run around in the rain. Have scrambled eggs in bed.

By the time Izzy slinks into my room and hops up into bed with me, I'm actually feeling calm.

"Mommy says you have to go to school," Izzy says, head-b.u.t.ting my shoulder.

"I'm not going to school."

That's it: that's how it starts. One of the best-and worst-days of my life starts with those five words.

I grab Izzy's stomach and tickle her. She still insists on wearing her old Dora the Explorer Dora the Explorer T-shirt, but it's so small it leaves the big pink stripe of her belly-the only fat on her body-exposed. She squeals with laughter, rolling away from me. T-shirt, but it's so small it leaves the big pink stripe of her belly-the only fat on her body-exposed. She squeals with laughter, rolling away from me.

"Stop it, Sam. I said, Stop it! Stop it!"

Izzy is shrieking and laughing and thrashing around when my mom comes to the door.

"It's six forty-five." She stands in the doorway, keeping both of her feet neatly aligned just behind the flaking red line from all those years ago. "Lindsay will be here any minute."

Izzy slaps my hands away and sits up, her eyes shining. I've never noticed it before, but she really does look like my mom. It makes me sad for a minute. I wish she looked more like me. "Sam was tickling."

"Sam's going to be late. You too, Izzy."

"Sam's not going to school. And I'm not either." Izzy puffs out her chest like she's prepared to do battle over it. Maybe she'll look like me when she's older. Maybe when time starts marching forward again-even if I get swept out with it, like litter on a tide-her cheekbones will get high and she'll have a growth spurt and her hair will turn darker. I like to think it's true. I like to think that later on people will say, Izzy looks just like her sister, Sam. Izzy looks just like her sister, Sam.

They'll say, You remember Sam? She was pretty. You remember Sam? She was pretty. I'm not really sure what else they I'm not really sure what else they could could say: say: She was nice. People liked her. She was missed She was nice. People liked her. She was missed. Maybe none of those things.

I push the thought out of my mind and return to my mental list. A kiss that makes my whole head feel like it's exploding. A slow dance in the middle of an empty room to really great music. A swim in the ocean at midnight, with no clothes on.

My mom rubs her forehead. "Izzy, go get your breakfast. I'm sure it's ready by now."

Izzy scrambles over me. I squeeze the chub of her stomach and get one last squeal out of her before she jumps off the bed and dashes out the door. The one thing that can get Izzy moving that quickly is a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut b.u.t.ter, and I imagine being able to give her a cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut b.u.t.ter every single day for the rest of her life, filling a whole house with them.

When Izzy's gone my mom looks at me, hard. "What's this about, Sam? You feel sick?"

"Not exactly." One thing that is not on my wish list is to spend even one second in a doctor's office.

"What, then? There must be something. I thought Cupid Day was one of your favorites."

"It is. Or, I mean, it was." I sit up on my elbows. "I don't know, it's kind of stupid, if you think about it."

She raises her eyebrows.

I start rattling on, not really thinking about what I want to say before I say it, but afterward I realize it's true. "The whole point is just to show other people how many friends you have. But everybody knows knows how many friends everybody else has. And it's not like you actually how many friends everybody else has. And it's not like you actually get get more friends this way or, I don't know, get closer to the friends you do have." more friends this way or, I don't know, get closer to the friends you do have."

My mom smiles a tiny bit, one side of her mouth c.o.c.king upward. "Well, you're lucky to have very good friends, and to know it. I'm sure the roses are very meaningful to some people."

"I'm just saying, the whole thing is kind of sleazy."

"This doesn't sound like the Samantha Kingston I know."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm changing." I don't mean those words either, until I hear them. Then I think that they might be true, and I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe there's still a chance for me, after all. Maybe I have have to change. to change.

My mom stares at me with this expression on her face like I'm a recipe she can't quite master. "Did something happen, Sam? Something with your friends?"

Today I'm not so annoyed at her for asking. Today it strikes me as kind of funny, actually. I so wish that the only thing bothering me was a fight with Lindsay, or something dumb Ally said.

"It's not my friends." I grasp for something that'll make her cave. "It's...it's Rob."

My mom wrinkles her brow. "Did you have a fight?"

I slump a little farther down into the bed, hoping it makes me look depressed. "He...he dumped me." In some ways it's not a lie. Not like he broke up with me, exactly, but like maybe we weren't ever serious serious serious in the way I believed for so long. Is it even possible to go out with someone seriously who doesn't really know you? serious in the way I believed for so long. Is it even possible to go out with someone seriously who doesn't really know you?

It works even better than I expected. My mom brings her hand up to her chest. "Oh, sweetie. What happened?"

"We just wanted different things, I guess." I fiddle with the edge of my comforter, thinking of all those nights alone with him in the bas.e.m.e.nt, bathed in blue light, feeling sheltered from the whole world. It's not so much of a stretch to look upset when I think about that, and my bottom lip starts to tremble. "I don't think he ever really liked me. Not really really really really." This is the most honest thing I've said to my mother in years, and I suddenly feel very exposed. I have a flashback then of standing in front of her when I was five or six and having to strip naked while she checked me all over for deer ticks. I shove down farther into the covers, balling up my fists until my nails dig into my palms.

Then the craziest thing in the world happens. My mom steps straight over the flaking red line and strides over to the bed, like it's no big deal. I'm so surprised I don't even protest as she bends over me and plants a kiss on my forehead.

"I'm so sorry, Sam." She smoothes my forehead with her thumb. "Of course you can stay home."

I expected more of an argument and I'm left speechless.

"Do you want me to stay home with you?" she asks.

"No." I try to give her a smile. "I'll be fine. Really."

"I want to stay home with Sam!" Izzy has come to the door again, this time halfway dressed for school. She's in a yellow-and-pink phase-not a flattering combination, but it's kind of hard to explain color palettes to an eight-year-old-and has pulled on a mustard yellow dress over a pair of pink tights. She's also wearing big, scrunchie yellow socks. She looks like some kind of tropical flower. A part of me is tempted to freak out at my mom for letting Izzy wear whatever she wants. The other kids must must make fun of her. make fun of her.

Then again, I guess Izzy doesn't care. That's another thing that strikes me as funny: that my eight-year-old sister is braver than I am. She's probably braver than most of the people at Thomas Jefferson. I wonder if that will ever change, if it will get beaten out of her.

Izzy's eyes are enormous and she clasps her hands together like she's praying. "Please?"

My mom sighs, exasperated. "Absolutely not, Izzy. There's nothing wrong with you."

"I'm feeling sick," Izzy says. This is made slightly unbelievable by the fact that she's hopping and pirouetting from foot to foot as she says it, but Izzy's never been a great liar.

"Did you eat your breakfast yet?" My mom crosses her arms and makes her "strict parent" face.

Izzy bobs her head. "I think I have food poisoning." She doubles over, grabs her stomach, then immediately straightens up and begins hopping again. I can't help it; a little giggle escapes.

"Come on, Mom," I say. "Let her stay home."

"Sam, please don't encourage her." My mom turns to me, shaking her head, but I can tell she's wavering.

"She's in third grade," I say. "It's not like they actually learn anything."

"Yes we do!" Izzy crows, then claps her hand over her mouth when I give her a look. My little sister: apparently not a champion negotiator, either. She shakes her head and quickly stutters. "I mean, we don't do that much."

My mom lowers her voice. "You know she'll be bugging you all day, right? Wouldn't you rather be alone?"

I know she's expecting me to say yes. For years that's been the buzzword of the house: Sam just wants to be left alone alone. Want some dinner? I'll bring it up to my room. I'll bring it up to my room. Where you headed? Where you headed? Just want to be alone. Just want to be alone. Can I come in? Can I come in? Just leave me alone. Stay out of my room. Don't talk to me when I'm on the phone. Don't talk to me when I'm listening to music. Alone, alone, alone. Just leave me alone. Stay out of my room. Don't talk to me when I'm on the phone. Don't talk to me when I'm listening to music. Alone, alone, alone.

Things change after you die, though-I guess because dying is about the loneliest thing you can do.

"I don't mind," I say, and I mean it. My mom throws up her hands and says, "Whatever," but even before it's out of her mouth, Izzy's charging through my room and has belly flopped on top of me, throwing her arms around my neck and screeching, "Can we watch TV? Can we make mac and cheese?" She smells like coconut as usual, and I remember when she was so small we could fit her in the sink to give her a bath, and she would sit there laughing and smiling and splashing like the best place in the world to be was in a 12" 18" square of porcelain, like the sink was the biggest ocean in the world.

My mom gives me a look that says, You asked for it You asked for it.

I smile over Izzy's shoulder and shrug.

And it's as easy as that.

INTO THE WOODS.

It's weird how much people change. For example, when I was a kid I loved all of these things-like horses and the Fat Feast and Goose Point-and over time all of them just fell away, one after another, replaced by friends and IMing and cell phones and boys and clothes. It's kind of sad, if you think about it. Like there's no continuity in people at all. Like something ruptures when you hit twelve, or thirteen, or whatever the age is when you're no longer a kid but a "young adult," and after that you're a totally different person. Maybe even a less happy person. Maybe even a worse one.

Here's how I first discovered Goose Point: one time before Izzy was born my parents refused to buy me this little purple bike with a pink flowered basket on it and a bell. I don't remember why-maybe I already had a bike-but I flipped out and decided to run away. Here are the basic two rules of running away successfully: 1. Go somewhere you know.

2. Go somewhere n.o.body else knows.

I didn't know these two rules then, obviously, and I think my goal was the opposite: to go somewhere I didn't know and then be discovered by my parents, who would feel so bad they'd agree to buy me whatever I wanted, including the bike (and maybe a pony).

It was May, and warm. Every day the light lasted longer and longer. One afternoon I packed my favorite duffel bag and snuck out the back door. (I remember thinking I was smart for avoiding the front yard, where my father was doing yard work.) I also remember exactly what I packed: a flashlight; a sweatshirt; a bathing suit; an entire package of Oreos; a copy of my favorite book, Matilda Matilda; and an enormous fake pearl-and-gold necklace my mom had given me to wear on Halloween that year. I didn't know where I was going, so I just went straight, over the deck and down the stairs and across the backyard, into the woods that separated our property from our neighbor's. I followed the woods for a while, feeling really sorry for myself and half hoping that some hugely rich person would spot me and take pity on me and adopt me and buy me a whole garage full of purple bicycles.

But then after a while, I got kind of into it, the way kids do. The sun was hazy and gold. All the leaves looked like they were haloed in light, and there were tiny birds darting everywhere, and layers and layers of velvet-green moss under my feet. All of the houses dropped away. I was deep deep in the woods, and imagined I was the only person who'd ever come this far. I imagined I would live there forever, sleeping on a bed of moss, wearing flowers in my hair and living in harmony with the bears and foxes and unicorns. I came to a stream and had to cross it. I climbed an enormous, high hill, as big as a mountain. in the woods, and imagined I was the only person who'd ever come this far. I imagined I would live there forever, sleeping on a bed of moss, wearing flowers in my hair and living in harmony with the bears and foxes and unicorns. I came to a stream and had to cross it. I climbed an enormous, high hill, as big as a mountain.

At the top of the hill was the biggest rock I'd ever seen. It curved upward and out from the hillside like the potbellied hull of a ship, but it had a top as flat as a table. I don't remember much about that first trip other than eating Oreos, one after another, and feeling like I owned that whole portion of the woods. I also remember that when I came home, my stomach cramping from all the cookies, I was disappointed my parents hadn't been more worried about me. I was positive I'd stayed away for hours and hours and hours, but the clock showed I'd been gone less than forty minutes. I decided then that the rock was special: that time didn't move there.

I went there a lot that summer, whenever I needed to escape, and the summer after that. One time I was lying stretched out on top of the rock, staring at the sky all pink and purple like the stretch taffy at carnivals, and I saw hundreds of geese migrating, a perfect V. A single feather floated down through the air and landed directly next to my hand. I christened the place Goose Point, and for years kept the feather in a small, decorative box wedged into one of the stone ridges running along its underbelly. Then one day the box was gone. I figured it had been blown away during a storm, and searched through the leaves and undergrowth for hours and, when I couldn't find it, cried.

Even after I quit horseback riding, I climbed up to Goose Point sometimes, though I went less and less. I went there one time in sixth grade after all the boys in gym cla.s.s rated my b.u.t.t as "too square." I went there when I wasn't invited to Lexa Hill's sleepover birthday party, even though we'd been partners in science cla.s.s and spent four months giggling over how cute Jon Lippincott was. Each time I came back home, less time had pa.s.sed than I expected. Each time, I still told myself, though I knew it was stupid, that Goose Point was special.