"What us?" I ask, but I'm whispering; no one hears me.

"It's all right, Mr. Wharton, I'm sure Sara just needs a little more time to figure out exactly what she wants to say," Natalie says smoothly. "It's not the official allocution statement, of course. We should go over that while we're all here-shall we get started?"

She gets up again from the table and grabs a bunch of file folders from her desk. Dad's still looking at me, his lips pursed angrily, I can tell. I don't have to look back to know he's annoyed, waiting for something else to yell at me about.

But I haven't finished the statement. I wish I had; it's like the worst possible homework assignment that I just can't get done. I think about the notepad Teresa gave me, stuffed under my bed. I'd finally given up on trying to write the thing longhand. Now there's just a bunch of words in a document on my laptop at home. Words that don't fix anything, don't change anything, don't say anything. Don't fix what happened, what went so completely wrong.

Natalie comes back to the table and smiles at me. "Why don't you go in the conference room and work on the letter while I talk to your parents?"

"I need my laptop," I say.

Mom rolls her eyes. "No, you don't," she says wearily.

Natalie's already handing me a legal pad, and my dad slaps a pen on the table in front of me, hard.

"Okay," I say, but I barely whisper it. I pick up the pen, wondering what it would be like if he'd just handed it to me.

I pick up the notepad, too. Everyone's giving me blank pads of paper these days.

"There's a room across the hall, you know the one," Natalie says. "It should be empty."

I sit there for a second, not moving yet. "Can't I . . ." I stop.

"What is it?" Natalie doesn't seem impatient, not like my mom and dad, who are sitting like their chairs are on fire, all jumpy and weird. Like they would leap right out of them and into a courtroom this instant, if it meant this would all just be over.

"Can't someone else write something, and I could just read it?" I ask, finally. "Like, you? Couldn't you just tell me what to say?"

"It's still optional-" Natalie starts, but Dad interrupts her.

"Absolutely not!" he practically shouts. "You owe everyone an apology, young lady, and you're going to make it yourself!"

I stare at him. Mom and Natalie are looking at him too, watching his chest rise and fall with fast, angry breaths.

"I'm sick of this whining!" he goes on, his face getting flushed. "You and your friends and your-your pranks-and now a girl is dead, and you've avoided a trial and jail time by this much-"

"She wasn't going to jail-" my mom says quietly, but Dad doesn't seem to hear her.

"Take responsibility, young lady!" he shouts at me. "It's time to grow up! Can't you see that you've been acting like a child?"

Natalie is holding up a hand, trying to get him to calm down-he's leaning out of his chair now, over the table, like he wants to hit me or, I don't know, throw the table across the room or something. And before I know it I've shoved back, out of my chair, stumbling a little bit but hanging on to the pen and paper.

"You're acting like a child!" I yell at him. "You don't know anything! You're never here! Neither of you! You act like you know what happened, you act like you know who I am or what I did. But you don't!"

I hate that tears are coming down my face now, and I furiously try to wipe them away, but the stupid pen and notepad are in my hands, so I have to wipe with the backs of my wrists and it doesn't work at all. Mom and Dad are staring at me, and Natalie is too, though I can't really see their expressions. Everything is blurry from the tears. The stupid, childish, irresponsible tears.

But then I see Dad sit back in his chair and throw his hands up. "I can't work with this," he says, still angry. "This is ridiculous. Can't you make her behave?" he asks my mom. Or maybe he's asking Natalie. But they don't answer him.

I manage to take a big, shuddering breath. For some reason, I feel a little calmer. I'm not shrieking when I speak again. And I look right at my dad's face. He doesn't scare me anymore.

"Maybe I am a child, Dad," I say. "Did you ever think of that? Maybe I'd know how to grow up if anyone had ever taught me."

For once, he doesn't have anything to say to that. And even if he does, I'm out the door before he can.

I'm thinking This is the last time I'll visit Therapist Teresa when I flop down on her couch. But it doesn't take long to find out I'm wrong about this last time.

"I've already recommended you keep coming to see me as part of your probation period," she says, twirling her pen in her hand. "Or another therapist, if you'd rather, but I'd like to keep seeing you if you're happy with the work we've been doing." She's wearing a silver ring on almost every finger, and her scarf today is a blinding swirl of oranges, reds, and yellows. I wonder if I'll wear scarves like that when I'm, what, forty or fifty years old? Is it a requirement?

"Okay," I say to her. "I don't know what we're going to talk about, but sure."

"Oh, I think we both know that there's more to talk about in high school than any other time in your life," she says with a little laugh.

"I don't do anything, though. Especially not now. I don't even have any friends." I feel a blush creep up to my cheeks at the thought of Carmichael, but I don't want to tell Teresa about that right now.

She gives me one of her looks, one of those long, studying stares. "Sara, you do realize how much adult responsibility you've taken on?"

I think of what Dad said to me at Natalie's office and laugh, short and bitterly.

"No, really," Teresa says.

I nod, not laughing anymore, not wanting to explain why what she's said seems ironic right now. "You mean, like, my brothers and everything?" I say. "That's not really so much. I just drive them places." I'm still wearing my sweatshirt, and now that my parents aren't around I can tuck my knees up under it. Mom would yell at me for stretching out the material, and Dad for putting my shoes on Teresa's couch. But I know she doesn't care about the couch. And the hoodie sort of pulls my knees up so I'm kind of balancing on my butt, anyway, and not really touching anything.

"Your brothers, yes, that's a lot," Teresa says. "But your relationships with your peers, too. Your friendship with Brielle. Your sexual relationship with Dylan. These are very intense situations."

"I don't-I mean . . . everyone has sex," I stutter, embarrassed.

"Not everyone does in high school."

I snort. "Well, they're supposed to."

She tilts her head. "I know it's hard to see it now," she says softly, "but this is a lot to take on, to process. You have very adult feelings, but everything you're experiencing is for the first time. There's a tremendous weight on all of it." She holds up the hand holding her pen and turns it palm up, pulsing it up and down, as if she's holding something heavy, weighing it. "These are complicated feelings, complex relationships, for women even in their twenties and thirties. Even older."

I'm tipping a little to the side, and I have to pull my legs down, out of my sweatshirt, sitting like a normal person. Like an adult. Who has complicated feelings and relationships.

"If that's true," I tell Teresa, "then everyone at school needs a therapist."

I'm joking, but she doesn't laugh, or even smile. She just shrugs one shoulder and says, "Maybe so. But you're here now. Let's talk about you."

My stomach lurches. "I haven't finished the letter, if that's what you mean."

She tilts her head to the other side. "Why did you think I was talking about that?"

My eyes practically roll themselves at this-of course we're back to Twenty Questions.

"Because it's Saturday?" I say. "And I just went to see the lawyer with my parents, and I'm supposed to be ready to go to court on Tuesday?"

"And you're not ready?" Teresa asks.

"No," I say with a sigh. "I don't think I'll ever be ready."

I drive home the long way. The very long way. Somehow I end up in Emma and Tyler's neighborhood, which is only on the way to my house if you're trying not to get to my house anytime soon. But it's as if my car just goes where it wants now, like how it still seems to be able to find Dylan's SUV. Well, used to.

I turn onto Emma and Tyler's block and immediately have to slam on the brakes. TV reporters, with their network-logo-antenna-topped vans, are lined up along the curb. I couldn't drive past if I wanted to. It's not like we're such a big town that we have so many TV stations or something-but it looks like maybe there are some national ones here too. Great.

Only a couple of them seem to be actually set up; it's not like there's anything going on right now. Emma's house sits, as always, at the top of its sloping lawn, the line of columns across the front looking austere and dignified. This neighborhood is old enough that the trees are big and stately, too, and the leaves are all starting to turn and fall. It's a pretty scene, I think, and then I figure: That's what the news is going to say. "What a pretty place. You'd never think something like this could happen here."

Creeps.

There's a driveway to my left that isn't blocked, so I pull into it and turn the car around. I head for home, for real this time.

"Hey. You look nice."

I stare at Carmichael. "So do you. Your shirt has a . . . a collar."

Carmichael looks down at his dress shirt. "I clean up pretty good," he says modestly.

I can't help but smile. Because it's true-it's just a navy button-down, nothing earth-shattering. But it's not a black T-shirt. And it looks terrific on him, with his clean, combed hair and a nice pair of dark jeans. The evening sun is all glowy behind him, and I realize this is probably the first time a boy has come to my front door to pick me up on a Saturday night. This just wasn't Dylan's style at all. I never would have thought it was Carmichael's style either, but he is full of surprises.

I look down at my own outfit, a merino sweater and jeans. Normally this ensemble would make me twice as dressed up as Carmichael, but now I'm not sure. "Should I change? I should go change," I say, backing into the house.

"Nah," he says, but I'm already on the stairs.

"Be right back!" I call, hurrying to my room. I have a skirt here somewhere, and a cuter pair of shoes, and . . .

And for the first time ever, I get to do that thing of walking down the stairs while a boy waits at the bottom, looking up at me. It's not the prom or anything, but I'll take it. He's even talking to my mom, and they both smile when they see me. Like it's just a normal night, like I'm allowed to be this regular girl.

It's fully dark outside by the time Carmichael turns us onto Harney Street, scanning the rows of cars for somewhere to park. We're downtown, and there's a big weekend crowd I've never really seen before. Actually, the last time I was here was- "Hey, um, we're not going to the diner, are we?" I ask him quickly.

"No, why, you want to?" he asks. I shake my head, but his eyes are still on the sides of the street. "It's not really worth getting dressed up for," he adds.

"I want to go-wherever we're going."

He turns at the corner and, magically, someone is just pulling out. "Excellent," he says, either about the parking space or what I've said, I'm not sure. Both, maybe.

This part of the city has been kept the way it's been since the 1800s, with cobblestone streets and old brick warehouse buildings still standing. Inside them are little boutiques, shops, and fancy restaurants. When Carmichael leads me to one of the nicer Italian ones, Vermicelli, I get another small wave of nausea. This is too nice. It's too much. I don't deserve this. My parents used to go here sometimes, for special occasions-I've never even been inside. This is the kind of place I would've gone before prom with Dylan. If that had, like, been able to happen.

And now, Carmichael is holding the door open, and here I am. The ceilings are tall and dark; the brick walls have candles set in sconces here and there, and the back wall is open to the kitchen with a big wood-burning stove. It's like the cellar in an old castle or something. Romantic.

"This okay?" Carmichael asks.

"Yeah, of course," I say.

The hostess puts us at a tiny table near the back, close enough that we can watch the kitchen, and hands us menus the size of poster boards. I look at Carmichael, tempted to make a joke about how huge they are, but he's just studying his seriously. So I do too, and by the time our waitress comes, I've found the cheapest pasta so I can order that.

We don't talk about Emma, or the trial, or anything, really. I ask Carmichael questions about stuff, trying to keep my promise to get to know him better. He tells me about the BMX competition he has the next weekend. And his older sister, who goes to college in Denver. And he asks me about my brothers, about where I might apply to college. We're in a different world, a parallel universe.

By the time the waitress asks if we want dessert and Carmichael says no, I feel comfortable enough to say, "Why, you think I'm getting fat?"

"Obviously not, no, I wasn't-" Carmichael shakes his head, and I realize my little joke has thrown him, made him flustered. But then he finally lets out a small laugh and says, "We're going somewhere else for dessert."

It's gotten colder outside, and when Carmichael takes my hand leaving the restaurant, for a second it almost feels like he's just trying to keep me warm. It works-a shot of heat races through my whole body, up my neck and into my cheeks. He walks us toward a popular ice cream place, one where they hand-mix whatever candy you want into your soft-serve, and keeps talking about nothing, like nothing unusual is happening. I love every minute of it. I love being someone, something usual. I love that tonight feels so special but so normal at the same time.

But when we reach the door to the ice cream parlor, I pull Carmichael past it, on toward the park that lines the edge of the marketplace. There are lots of people out, and most of the benches are taken, but we find one and sit down.

"I've had a really nice time," I tell him.

"Yeah," he says. "Sorry it's too cold for ice cream."

"That's not it. I just . . . I mean, thank you for all of this. But you don't . . . you don't know . . ." I stop. We're still holding hands, and I can't look down, can't acknowledge my fingers wrapped in his. But I can't look him in the face, either.

"I do know," he says softly, but I'm shaking my head. I can feel tears coming but I take a deep breath, swallow them back down. I want to just say this.

"I just want you to know-I just, if this is the beginning of something, and I don't know if it is, but I should just tell you-I did so many horrible things," I say in a rush. "I hurt so many people. I still think what Emma did . . . I think it was really selfish. I don't understand why I have to take the blame for something I never wanted to happen."

Silence hangs between us. Our bench sits at the top of a little hill, overlooking the sidewalk that follows along a creek. A few people, on dates like ours, walk by, stroll over the footbridges, stare at the city lights reflected in the water. Above us the sky has turned a clear, deep black, the stars just visible beyond the glow of downtown. A few blocks north of us there's a skate park, and I can just barely hear the sounds of wheels on the pavement, rolling, then up, that break in the noise, that moment of held breath before they come crashing back down, rolling forward again or stuttering to a stop.

Finally a tear escapes, falling fast and landing on my sweater sleeve. Then another. Carmichael is still silent but I keep going.

"I've been talking about her, about everything we said to her, for so long," I go on. My chest is tight and I try to breathe in again, but I can only take little gasps of air. "And I'm trying to figure out how to . . . how to apologize. I have to say something in court, or at least I have to try. At least they're letting me talk. But how do you apologize for this? I know what I did, I know it was bad, some of it was really bad. But how am I supposed to fix anything now? What do I-" But I have to stop talking again because the tears are coming faster, so hot on my face it feels like they're burning me.

Carmichael picks up my hand and holds it against his lips. The rush of feeling distracts me and I feel myself calming down, breathing more evenly. The crying slows. He covers my fingers with his other hand and holds it there, in the air, like an offering.

"I don't know what to tell you," he says, finally. "I don't know if anything you say now is supposed to fix anything. But I don't think it can hurt, either. You have a chance. I think Emma-" He pauses. "She didn't give herself another chance, you know? Maybe she didn't think she deserved one. Maybe she thought it wasn't possible."

He stares at the water, then up at the sky, my hand still in his hands.

"Does that make sense?" he asks, almost a whisper.

I don't say anything for a second, a minute, a year.

"Yeah," I say. "It does."

March.

"YO, IT'S D, do that thing."

"Hey, Dylan, it's me-it's Sara. Sorry, I sent you a couple texts, I was just wondering . . . Um, you must be busy, but if you get a sec, can you call me back? Thanks. Uh, okay. Bye."

I hit the End button and sit back on the kitchen stool, staring at my phone. Dylan wasn't at his house. He hasn't answered my texts. He's not answering his cell.

The pit of dread in my stomach just gets bigger and bigger. It's the Grand Canyon right now. Things are not good.

I wander around the house, wishing I could drive Tommy and Alex somewhere. Or fight with my mom. Anything to get my mind off of this-this whole stupid weekend. Where is Dylan? Is he breaking up with Emma? Does he know about Tyler?