I frown at him, but he frowns right back.

"And anyway," he adds, "you're freaking me out too. Now close the computer!"

Slowly, reluctantly, I lower the screen.

"What's freaking you guys out?"

We both look up and see Tommy coming in, making a beeline for the bowl of chips beside us on the table. He pulls out a chair and plops down casually, but as always, his eyes are fixed on Carmichael. Now we'll never get anything done, but that's okay.

"College essays," Carmichael tells him. "You're supposed to write something really meaningful, something that tells them what an amazing person you are and what you've been doing your whole life. Your sister here keeps looking up these crazy, extreme examples online."

Tommy chomps loudly on another chip and glances at the closed laptop in front of me. "Yeah? Like what?"

"Like there was this guy who BASE jumped into the Grand Canyon and got stranded and made a movie about it," I say, but at the same time, Carmichael goes, "Like we need to think about our own essays!" and glares at me.

"So it's like a test? Before you even go to school?" Tommy asks.

"Exactly," I say.

"That doesn't seem fair," Tommy says.

"Exactly," I repeat.

"But it's not really that big a deal," Carmichael insists. "And see, they give you a couple of different topics and you can choose one . . ." He pushes the application form he printed out across the table and Tommy studies it.

"It's a pretty big deal when you haven't done anything," I say. "I mean, I just went to school. I wasn't even captain of the basketball team or something."

Both of them give me this weird look. "Basketball?" Tommy says, and they crack up, like this is the funniest thing they've ever heard.

"What? You know what I mean!" I lay my head down on the closed computer and moan.

"Here's the one you should do," Tommy says, pointing at the paper. "'Write a letter to someone you can't talk to about how he or she has changed your life.'"

I lean over to see where he's pointing. "Why that one?" I ask.

"I don't know, it sounds cool. You could do, like, Kurt Cobain or Darth Vader."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Those are your examples? What have you been reading?" I turn to Carmichael and say, "Is this your influence?"

He lifts his hands defensively and goes, "I don't know what either of you are talking about."

"I'm in seventh grade," Tommy huffs. "I know who Kurt Cobain is, jeez."

Carmichael lifts himself out of his seat, leaning over the table to read the question. "It says the person had to be alive at some point, though, so I think Darth Vader is out."

"That's too bad," I say. "He had such an impact on my love of light sabers."

Tommy shrugs, unoffended. "That's the one I'd do," he says.

"And you'd write to Kurt Cobain?" Carmichael asks.

"Maybe," he says. "Or, like, maybe, I don't know . . ." He gives me kind of a sideways glance and shrugs again. "Maybe, like, Emma Putnam."

My stomach does a little flip. But just a little one. I stare at my little brother for a second, and I can see he's holding his breath, a little scared of what I might say.

"Well," I say, "I kind of already did write a letter to Emma."

Tommy looks back at the table in front of him and shrugs. "I just mean, you know-"

"Wait," I say. "That actually gives me an idea."

He looks back up. "An idea for the essay?"

"Well, no-I mean, maybe, yeah, I think I have someone I could write to. But what if-" I pull the laptop back to my side of the table and open it, starting a new Google search. "I've just been thinking a lot about, like, what if there was something I could do that might actually help Emma? Or not Emma, exactly, but people-people in a similar situation?"

I bite my lip and look at my brother and Carmichael, suddenly self-conscious. I haven't said this out loud before, and they're both studying me pretty closely, waiting for what I'm going to say next. I'm not really sure yet, but it's true-we were in court a month ago, and afterward the papers all printed our statements and I made the mistake of reading the articles online . . . and the comments. People were not happy at all. Apparently making plea agreements wasn't punishment enough, and I guess no matter how sorry I am, people still hate me.

I know I can't be sorry enough. But I can't go back in time, either. Mom says I have my whole life ahead of me, and that I deserve a chance to make something of it. Technically I think she's right, but some days my "whole life" feels too long. That's a long time to feel like it's too late to fix the past.

But maybe I don't have to just hide, just wait for people to change their minds or give me a second chance. Maybe I don't even have to apologize to everyone or explain myself. Maybe I can try to do something good.

"What if I started a website where people could write to people, like this essay, people they might not be able to talk to in real life? Does that sound dumb?" I ask Tommy.

"No," he says. "What kind of site?"

"I mean, maybe someone's gone but you want to apologize to them, or you just have something you need to say," I go on. Tommy nods. "Or maybe someone who's still around, but you're too embarrassed to talk to them in person."

"Like the opposite of Facebook," he says.

Carmichael laughs, and so do I.

"Right," I say. "You'd say nice things. But anonymously, maybe. If you wanted to."

It feels kind of cheesy, but the idea makes me excited. Maybe there are other people like me, people who said all the wrong things and just want a chance to apologize, or to try to apologize. Or just to say something-but maybe it's too late for them.

Even when it's not too late, sometimes it's really hard to admit that you've been bad to someone. That you've said bad things. Been a bully.

"Then what about your essay?" Tommy asks.

"I have an idea for that, too," I tell him. "Don't worry."

At the front of the house, the garage door starts rumbling open. Tommy jumps up; the sound means our mom is home with Alex, and he wants to get to the video games first. Alone at the table again, Carmichael and I look at each other.

"I was thinking maybe I'd write to Brielle," I say quietly.

Carmichael reaches across the table, past the application form and the laptop, and holds my hand. "Is she really not coming back to school?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"And you miss her."

I look down at our hands. Carmichael's is covered in dark ink, doodles from being bored in class that haven't worn off. But they're proof that he goes to class now. He doesn't skip. He won't be in summer school-he'll graduate, with me. He'll go to UNL with me too, maybe. Hopefully.

"I did," I say. "This summer and everything-I missed her a lot. It's like . . . sometimes it's like it was Brielle who died, you know?" I hold my breath. It feels like a terrible thing to even say, to even think. But now that I've said it I realize it's true, that's how I feel.

We're allowed to talk to each other now, but we don't. It took me all summer and half of the fall to notice that I feel better when I'm not around Brielle Greggs. I was someone with her, I guess-I was popular, or close enough to it. But I was toxic. We were toxic. We hated on everyone. I don't think she even liked Dylan. She gave everyone a mean nickname-everyone was a loser if they weren't someone she needed or wanted to be with right then. Even toward the end of last year, she only wanted to hang out with Noelle, and she barely even talked to me except when we were going after Emma.

I thought I needed Brielle. It was definitely better to be her friend than her enemy. Because those were the only two choices.

And since that day in court, she hasn't even texted me. So I figure, maybe it's for the best that it's over.

But still. She was my friend for a long time. I know she's lonely, deep down. I know she needs people. I know she lashes out because that's what she does. I know her pretty well, actually, and I do miss her. But I can't talk to her anymore.

I'm still looking down at the table, at the line where the laptop intersects the grain of the wood, but I can feel Carmichael's eyes on me. His hand on mine. Mom and Alex are banging into the house now, and Carmichael gives my hand one last squeeze before letting go and sitting back in his chair again.

"Hello?" Mom calls. She comes into the kitchen and sees us, sees Tommy in the den with the TV on. "Oh, good, everyone's here," she says. "We're having tacos! You know what that means!"

I groan, but I get up and help her unload the groceries she's carrying. Tacos means I'm cooking-because they require practically no cooking at all. Mom's actually making good on her promise to spend more family time, though I gotta say, spending every Saturday night learning to steam broccoli or not burn rice is already getting a little old. But tacos are easy, at least. And you can put lots of cheese on them.

Mom smiles at me, tossing some avocados on the counter. She smiles more now, I think. Maybe we all do.

"Can I help?" Carmichael asks. "I can make guacamole."

"Excellent!" says Mom. "Yes, I will get you a knife and a bowl, and let's see . . . "

I open the package of hamburger and get out a skillet. In a minute the kitchen is filling up with the smell of the meat. Mom is asking Carmichael about his essay, and he tells her he's writing about a BMX race where he took a really bad fall but finished anyway. She tells him it sounds perfect. Tommy comes back in and washes the lettuce, I think just so he can spend more time around Carmichael. I cut up a tomato and line up bowls on the counter: tomato, lettuce, salsa, shredded cheese, black olives.

In my head, though, I'm thinking about my letter.

Dear Brielle, What were we so mad about?

Was I a terrible friend?

Were you?

Dear Brielle, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Finally Alex feels left out enough to come in and set the table. I hand him the liter of soda Mom's letting us have-only because it's Saturday-and he gleefully starts shaking it up. "Hey!" Tommy and I yell at the same time. Alex is still grinning, but he stops. He puts the bottle on the table and comes back for the bowls of taco toppings, transferring them two at a time.

"Can I put peanut butter on mine?" he asks.

"Gross," Tommy declares.

"You don't know," Alex says. "Maybe it's good! You never tried it."

"I do know," Tommy tells him. "It's gross."

"Okay, guys, let's sit down," Mom says. She pours herself a glass of wine and lifts it, smiling at me. "You'll drive them to the ER when they get sick on peanut butter tacos, right?"

"Yep," I say. "You can drink the whole bottle if you want. I got this."

Tommy rolls his eyes, embarrassed, but by then we're all fighting over the shredded cheese and the olives, overstuffing our taco shells, making loud crunching noises as we start to eat.

For a minute I just look around the table. It's not, like, the perfect American family or anything, I know that. It's not what I thought I'd be doing on a Saturday night my senior year. It's pretty boring, definitely.

But I take a deep breath and smile. I take another breath. And another.

I just keep breathing.

Dear Brielle,

You were a good friend to me. You taught me how to be tough. You taught me to stick up for myself. You thought I was pretty, that I deserved a boyfriend and friends and parties and cute clothes. You made me laugh.

But I wasn't a good friend to you. I didn't know how to help you. I didn't know how to stop all the stuff we did to Emma. I should have said it was wrong. It felt wrong, but it felt good, too, to be angry and hateful and mean. But maybe there could've been another way. There must've been another way.

I miss you. I wish we hadn't grown apart. I wish you were at school. But wherever you are, I hope you're happy. I think I might be happy. I'm working on it, anyway.

Stay strong.

Love, Sara.

Dear Emma,

I'll spend the rest of my life being sorry. But I'll also be more careful. I won't assume that everyone is strong. I won't assume I know everything about someone just by how they act. I'll try to remember, so that maybe someday I'll feel like I deserve your forgiveness.

Wherever you are, I hope you're happy. And feeling stronger.

Love, Sara.

Acknowledgments.

SO MANY PEOPLE helped me through the process of writing this book, and I will be forever grateful. Thanks especially to Rebecca Mazur, Erica Jensen, Devi Pillai, and Abby McAden for being amazing friends and career counselors for many, many years. To my fellow writers in PSCWW, thank you for the much-needed deadlines and the excellent notes.