Then one day Lindsay Edgecombe came into Tara Flute's kitchen when I was standing there and put her face to mine and whispered, "Do you want to see something?" and in that moment my life changed forever. Since that day I'd never once been back.

Maybe that's why I decide to take Izzy there, even though it's absolutely freezing outside. I want to see if it's still the same at all, or if I am. It's important to me, for some reason. And besides, of all the things on my mental checklist, it's the easiest. It's not like a private jet's just going to park itself outside my house. And skinny-dipping now will get me arrested or give me pneumonia or both.

So I guess this is the next best thing. And I guess that's when it starts to hit me: the whole point is, you do what you can.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Izzy's bobbing next to me, wrapped in so many layers she looks like the abominable snowman. As usual she has insisted on accessorizing, and is wearing pink-and-black leopard-spotted earm.u.f.fs and two different scarves.

"This is the right way," I say, even though at first I was positive we were in the wrong place. Everything is so small small. The stream-a thin, frozen black trickle of water, and cobwebbed all over with ice-is no wider than a single step. The hill beyond it slopes gently upward, even though in my memory it's always been a mountain.

But the worst part is the new construction. Someone bought the land back here, and there are two houses in different stages of completion. One of them is just a skeleton, rising out of the ground, all bleached wood and splinters and spikes, like a shipwreck washed up onto land. The other one is nearly finished. It's enormous and blank-looking, like Ally's house, and it squats there on the hill like it's staring at us. It takes me a while to realize why: there are no blinds on any of the windows yet.

I feel heavy with disappointment. Coming here was obviously a bad idea, and I'm reminded of something my English teacher, Mrs. Harbor, once said during one of her random tangents. She said that the reason you can never go home again-we were studying a list of famous quotes and discussing their meaning, and that was one of them, by Thomas Wolfe, "You can't go home again"-isn't necessarily that places places change, but that change, but that people people do. So nothing ever looks the same. do. So nothing ever looks the same.

I'm about to suggest we turn around, but Izzy has already leaped across the stream and is scampering up the hill.

"Come on!" she yells back over her shoulder. And then, when she's only another fifty feet from the top, "I'll race you!"

At least Goose Point is as big as I remember it. Izzy hoists herself up onto the flat top, and I climb up after her, my fingers already numb in my gloves. The surface of the rock is covered with brittle, frozen leaves and a layer of frost. There's enough room for both of us to stretch out, but Izzy and I huddle close together so we'll stay warm.

"So what do you think?" I say. "You think it's a good hiding place?"

"The best." Izzy tilts her head back to look at me. "You really think time goes slower here?"

I shrug. "I used to think that when I was little." I look around. I hate how you can see houses from here now. It used to feel so remote, so secret. "It used to be a lot different. A lot better. There weren't any houses, for one. So you really felt like you were in the middle of nowhere."

"But this way if you have to pee, you can go and knock on someone's door and just ask." She lisps all of her s s's: thith thith, thomeone thomeone, jutht jutht, athk. athk.

I laugh. "Yeah, I guess so." We sit for a second in silence. "Izzy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do-do the other kids ever make fun of you? For how you talk?"

I feel her stiffen underneath her layers and layers. "Sometimes."

"So why don't you do something about it?" I say. "You could learn to talk differently, you know."

"But this is my voice voice." She says it quietly but with insistence. "How would you be able to tell when I was talking?"

This is such a weird Izzy-answer I can't think of a response to it, so I just reach forward and squeeze her. There are so many things I want to tell her, so many things she doesn't know: like how I remember when she first came home from the hospital, a big pink blob with a perma-smile, and she used to fall asleep while grabbing on to my pointer finger; how I used to give her piggyback rides up and down the beach on Cape Cod, and she would tug on my ponytail to direct me one way or the other; how soft and furry her head was when she was first born; that the first time you kiss someone you'll be nervous, and it will be weird, and it won't be as good as you want it to be, and that's okay; how you should only fall in love with people who will fall in love with you back. But before I can get any of it out, she's scrambling away from me on her hands and knees, squealing.

"Look, Sam!" She slides up close to the edge and pries at something wedged in a fissure of rock. She turns around on her knees, holding it out triumphantly: a feather, pale white, edged with gray, damp with frost.

I feel like my heart is breaking in that second because I know I'll never be able to tell her any of the things I need to. I don't even know where to begin. Instead I take the feather from her and zip it into one of the pockets of my North Face jacket. "I'll keep it safe," I say. Then I lie back on the freezing stone and stare up at the sky, which is just beginning to darken as the storm moves in. "We should go home soon, Izzy. It's going to rain."

"Soon." She lies down next to me, putting her head in the crook of my shoulder.

"Are you warm enough?"

"I'm okay."

It's actually not so cold once we're huddled next to each other, and I unzip my jacket a little at the neck. Izzy rolls over on one elbow and reaches out, tugging on my gold bird necklace.

"How come Grandma didn't give me anything?" she says. This is an old routine.

"You weren't alive yet, birdbrain."

Izzy keeps on tugging. "It's pretty."

"It's mine."

"Was Grandma nice?" This is also part of the routine.

"Yeah, she was nice." I don't remember much about her either, actually-she died when I was seven-except the motion of her hands through my hair when she brushed it, and the way she always sang show tunes, no matter what she was doing. She used to bake enormous orange-chocolate m.u.f.fins, too, and she always made mine the biggest. "You would have liked her."

Izzy blows air out between her lips. "I wish n.o.body ever died," she says.

I feel an ache in my throat, but I manage to smile. Two conflicting desires go through me at the same time, each as sharp as a razorblade: I want to see you grow up I want to see you grow up and and Don't ever change. Don't ever change. I put my hand on the top of her head. "It would get pretty crowded, Fizz," I say. I put my hand on the top of her head. "It would get pretty crowded, Fizz," I say.

"I'd move into the ocean," Izzy says matter-of-factly.

"I used to lie here like this all summer long," I tell her. "I'd come up here and just stare at the sky."

She rolls over on her back so she's staring up as well. "Bet this view hasn't changed much, has it?"

What she says is so simple I almost laugh. She's right, of course. "No. This looks exactly the same."

I suppose that's the secret, if you're ever wishing for things to go back to the way they were. You just have to look up.

THROUGH THE DARK.

I check my phone when I get home: three new text messages. Lindsay, Elody, and Ally have each texted me the exact same thing: Cupid Day <3 u="" cupid="" day=""><3 u.="" they="" were="" probably="" together="" when="" they="" sent="" it.="" that's="" a="" thing="" we="" sometimes="" do,="" type="" up="" and="" send="" the="" exact="" same="" messages="" at="" exactly="" the="" same="" time.="" it's="" stupid,="" but="" it="" makes="" me="" smile.="" i="" don't="" reply,="" though.="" in="" the="" morning="" i="" sent="" lindsay="" a="" text="" letting="" her="" know="" she="" should="" go="" to="" school="" without="" me,="" but="" even="" though="" we're="" not="" fighting="" today,="" i="" felt="" weird="" tacking="" our="" usual="" "xxo"="" at="" the="" end.="" somewhere-in="" some="" alternate="" time="" or="" place="" or="" life="" or="" something-i'm="" still="" mad="" at="" her="" and="" she's="" mad="" at="">

It amazes me how easy it is for things to change, how easy it is to start off down the same road you always take and wind up somewhere new. Just one false step, one pause, one detour, and you end up with new friends or a bad reputation or a boyfriend or a breakup. It's never occurred to me before; I've never been able to see it. And it makes me feel, weirdly, like maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.

Maybe Lindsay and I are best friends and we hate each other, both. Maybe I'm only one math cla.s.s away from being a s.l.u.t like Anna Cartullo. Maybe I am like her, deep down. Maybe we all are: just one lunch period away from eating alone in the bathroom. I wonder if it's ever really possible to know the truth about someone else, or if the best we can do is just stumble into each other, heads down, hoping to avoid collision. I think of Lindsay in the bathroom of Rosalita's, and wonder how many people are clutching secrets like little fists, like rocks sitting in the pits of their stomachs. All of them, maybe.

The fourth text is from Rob and it just says, R u sick? R u sick? I delete it and then shut off my phone. I delete it and then shut off my phone.

Izzy and I spend the rest of the afternoon watching old DVDs, mostly old Disney and Pixar movies we both love, like The Little Mermaid The Little Mermaid and and Finding Nemo Finding Nemo. We make popcorn with extra b.u.t.ter and Tabasco sauce, the way my dad always makes it, and hunker down in the den with all the lights off while the sky outside grows darker and the trees start to whip around in the wind. When my mom comes home we pet.i.tion her for a Formaggio Friday-we used to go to the same Italian restaurant every Friday night and that's what we called it, because the restaurant (which had checked red-and-white plastic tablecloths and an accordion player and fake plastic roses on the tables) was so cheesy-and she says she'll think about it, which means we're going.

It's been forever since I've been at home on a weekend night, and when my dad comes home and sees Izzy and me piled on the couch, he staggers through the door, clutching at his heart like he's having a heart attack.

"Is it a hallucination?" he says, setting down his briefcase. "Could it be? Samantha Kingston? Home? On a Friday?"

I roll my eyes. "I don't know. Did you do a lot of acid in the sixties? Could be a flashback."

"I was two years old in 1960. I came too late for the party." He leans down and pecks me on the head. I pull away out of habit. "And I'm not even going to ask ask how you know about acid flashbacks." how you know about acid flashbacks."

"What's an acid flashback?" Izzy crows.

"Nothing," my dad and I say at the same time, and he smiles at me.

We do end up going to Formaggio's (official name: Luigi's Italian Home Kitchen), which actually isn't Formaggio's (or Luigi's) anymore and hasn't been for years. Five years ago a sushi restaurant moved in and replaced all of the fake art-deco tiles and gla.s.s lanterns with sleek metal tables and a long oak bar. It doesn't matter, though. It will always be Formaggio's to me.

The restaurant is super crowded, but we get one of the best tables, right next to the big tanks of exotic fish that sit next to the windows. As usual my dad makes a bad joke about how much he loves see see-food restaurants, and my mother tells him to stick to architecture and leave comedy to the professionals. At dinner my mom's extra nice to me because she thinks I'm going through breakup trauma, and Izzy and I order half the menu and wind up full on edamame and shrimp shumai and tempura and seaweed salad before the meal even comes. My dad has two beers and gets tipsy and entertains us with stories about crazy clients, and my mom keeps telling me to order whatever I want, and Izzy puts a napkin over her head and pretends to be a pilgrim tasting California rolls for the first time.

Up until then it's a good day-one of the best. Close to perfect, really, even though nothing special happened at all. I guess I've probably had a lot of days like this, but somehow they're never the ones you remember. That seems wrong to me now. I think of lying in Ally's house in the dark and wondering whether I've ever had a day worth reliving. It seems to me like living this one again and again wouldn't be so bad, and I imagine that's what I'll do-just go on like this, over and over, until time winds completely down, until the universe stops.

Just before we get our dessert, a big group of freshmen and soph.o.m.ores I recognize from Jefferson come filing in. A few of them are still wearing JV swim jackets. They must have had a late meet. They seem so young, hair sc.r.a.ped away from their faces, ponytails, no makeup-totally different from the way they look when they show up to our parties, when it looks like they've just spent an hour and a half getting freebies at the MAC counter. A couple of them catch me staring and drop their eyes.

"Green tea and red bean ice cream." The waitress sets down a big bowl and four spoons in front of us. Izzy goes to town on the red bean.

My dad groans and puts a hand on his stomach. "I don't know how you can still be hungry."

"Growing girl." Izzy opens her mouth, showing off the ice cream mushed on her tongue.

"Gross, Izzy." I pick up my spoon and scoop a little bit from the green-tea side.

"Sykes! Hey! Sykes!"

I whip around at the sound of her name. One of the swim-team girls is half standing out of her chair, waving. I scan the restaurant, looking for Juliet, but there's only one person at the door. She's thin and pale and very blond, and she's standing and shaking her shoulders to get the rain off her jacket. It takes me a second to recognize her, but as she turns a complete circle, looking for her friends, I do: the Cupid from math cla.s.s-the angel who delivered my roses.

When she sees the rest of her teammates, she raises her hand briefly and gives a quick flutter of her fingers. Then she starts threading her way over to them, and as she moves past our table, I catch a glimpse of her neon-blue-and-orange swim jacket and it's like the whole room goes still and only those five letters remain, lit up like signs.

SYKES.

Juliet's little sister.

"Earth to Sammy." Izzy is poking me with the b.u.t.t end of her spoon. "Your ice cream's getting melty."

"Not hungry anymore." I put my spoon down and push away from the table.

"Where are you going?" Mom reaches out and puts her hand on my wrist, but I barely feel it.

"Five minutes." And then I'm walking over to the swim-team table, the whole time staring at the pale girl and her heart-shaped face. I can't believe I didn't see the resemblance before. They've got the same wide-s.p.a.ced blue eyes, the same translucent skin and pale lips. Then again, until recently I've never really looked at Juliet, even though I must have seen her ten thousand times.

The swim-team girls have gotten their menus, and they're laughing and swatting each other. I distinctly hear one of them say Rob's name-probably saying how cute he looks in his lacrosse jersey (I should know; I used to say it all the time). I've never cared less about anything. When I'm about four feet away from the table one of them spots me and instantly the whole table goes silent. The girl who was talking about Rob goes the color of the menu she's holding.

Little Sykes is squeezed in at the very end of the table. I walk directly up to her.

"Hey." Now that I'm standing here I'm not exactly sure why I came over. The funniest part about it is that I'm I'm the one who's nervous. "What's your name?" the one who's nervous. "What's your name?"

"Um...did I do something?" Her voice is actually trembling. The rest of the girls aren't helping. They're looking at me like they expect at any second I'm going to lunge forward and swallow her head or something.

"No, no. I just..." I give her a small smile. Now that I see it, the resemblance between her and Juliet unnerves me. "You have an older sister, right?"

Her mouth tightens into a thin line, and her eyes go cloudy, like she's putting up a wall. I don't blame her. She probably thinks I'm going to pick on her for having a freak for a big sister. It must happen a lot.

But she tilts up her chin and stares at me straight in the eye. It kind of reminds me of something Izzy would do. Sam's not going to school, and I'm not going either. Sam's not going to school, and I'm not going either. "Yeah. Juliet Sykes." Then she waits patiently, waits for me to start laughing. "Yeah. Juliet Sykes." Then she waits patiently, waits for me to start laughing.

Her eyes are so steady I look down. "Yeah. I, um, know Juliet."

"You do?" She raises her eyebrows.

"Well, kind of." All the girls are staring at me now. I have a feeling they're having a hard time keeping their jaws from dropping open. "She's-she's kind of my lab partner."

I figure this is a safe bet. Science is mandatory, and everybody gets a.s.signed lab partners.

Juliet's sister's face relaxes a little bit. "Juliet's really good at bio. I mean, she's really good at school." She lets herself smile. "I'm Marian."

"Hey." Marian is a good name for her: a pure name, somehow. My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my jeans. "I'm Sam."

Marian drops her eyes and says shyly, "I know who you are."

Two arms circle around my waist. Izzy has come up behind me. The point of her chin pokes me in the side.

"Ice cream's almost gone," she says. "You sure you don't want any?"

Marian smiles at Izzy. "What's your name?"

"Elizabeth," Izzy says proudly, then sags a little. "But everybody calls me Izzy."

"When I was little everybody called me Mary." Marian makes a face. "But now everybody calls me Marian."

"I don't mind Izzy that much," Izzy says, chewing on her lip like she's just decided it.

Marian looks up at me. "You have a little sister too, huh?"

Suddenly I can't stand to look at her. I can't stand to think about what will happen later. I know know: the stillness of the house, the gunshot.

And then...what? Will she be the first one down the stairs? Will that final image of her sister be the one that lasts, that wipes out whatever other memories she's stored up over the years?

I go into a panic, trying to think what kind of memories Izzy has of me-will have of me.

"Come on, Izzy. Let's let the girls eat." My voice is trembling, but I don't think anyone notices. I pat Izzy on the head and she gallops back toward our table.

The girls at the table are getting more confident now. Smiles are sprouting up, and they're all looking at me in awe, like they can't believe how nice I'm being, like I've given them a present. I hate it. They should hate me. If they knew what kind of person I was, they would hate me, I'm sure of it.

I don't know why Kent pops into my head right then, but he does. He would hate me too if he knew everything. The realization makes me strangely upset.

"Tell Juliet not to do it," I blurt out, and then can't believe I've said it.

Marian wrinkles her forehead. "Do what?"