"I'm so behind," she says, and then looks over at me. She's wearing her old jeans from elementary school, now too small, and one of Dusty's jerseys, which hangs down nearly to her knees. "I think they'll still graduate me if I just take the final tests. When did we get to polynomials?"

For a second, I think I've lost my mind, or she has.

But then something clicks and shutters in me, and everything big and momentousa"I shove it all aside. I feel like she wants me to, and suddenly I want it too.

"Oh, I don't know," I say, and I sink down onto her bed, trying to make it like any day, any day Evie missed school on account of the flu, a stomachache.

"It's hard to concentrate," she says, rubbing the eraser tip back and forth on her lower lip. "They gave me these pills."

"Does it hurt?" I say, my eyes on her neck, the faint yellow smudges there, like she'd run a highlighter across her throat.

She twirls the pencil. "Nothing hurts," she says, and there's a wince in her eyes and I want to stop it, I want to keep us going.

"You look good," I say. "For a feeb."

She grins and I grin back. I can feel myself relaxing, I can feel time itself swiveling back.

"I bet you can eat whatever you want," I say. "And watch TV all night."

She nods, smiling. "Everyone's afraid to say boo," she says. "And no ch.o.r.es, no practice, no nothing. Like I got mono."

"Give me a kiss, then," I say, reaching out with my foot to kick her leg, "so I can lie around all day too."

She looks at me, and everything changes. Her knuckles go white around the pencil.

"I feel like I want to die," she says. "I want to die."

We're lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

The crickets are so loud, like they're in the room with us, but I can tell she's glad to hear them.

"You'll sleep over," she says, and I say yes.

She slips her hand in mine, our fingers braided tight.

I keep waiting for her to tell me.

I wait and I wait.

But she just lies there, breath uneven, legs jerking, and says nothing.

I wake up very early, but Evie's already gone.

I have that split second of sureness that she's gone forever.

Then, lying there, looking up at her mobile, the familiar water crack in the ceiling corner, I start to feel like I've dreamed myself into Evie, that she's gone because I'm here, and if I look in the mirror, I'll see her stony face.

But then I hear the churning of water, and the din of feminine voices. Tugging on my shorts, I make my way down the hall.

Through the flush of steam from the half-open bathroom door, I see Mrs. Verver with kitchen gloves on, brown slicked, the Clairol box torn open on the floor.

Evie's on her knees, curled over the bathtub, that pale hair covering her face, like a thatch of birch bark.

I stand there, so quiet, one palm on the wall, and watch as, water rushing from the tub spout, Mrs. Verver, on her knees now too, plastic bottle in hand, sluices the brown dye into Evie's hair. Evie's hands covering her face, her eyes, Mrs. Verver curls herself behind Evie, pressed against her back.

Mrs. Verver's body is shuddering and I can't see her face, hidden by Evie's wet wall of hair, but I know she is crying. She is holding Evie's back, her browned gloves splayed, and crying.

The water gurgling endlessly, I see Evie turn her head, and she looks at me, she does.

She looks at me and I see her face, and all the weariness there. The weariness of someone who's lived a century or more in a few weeks, who's seen everything and has already stopped being surprised by any of it.

Evie's face, it's filled with words, and I see what it's saying: Make her stop. Make her stop. Why won't she stop?

Twenty.

We spend the whole day together, Evie and I. I put her hair in long braids. The color is brown, but it's not really Evie's brown, and the texture is still funny, soft and pilly like doll's hair. But with the braids in, she looks more like Evie and she starts to feel like Evie.

Mr. Verver takes us to the pool. He keeps saying how he's not supposed to, that he's supposed to take Evie back to the therapist, but that we need some rest, some funa"don't we? We nod, both of us, in unison.

He can't stop talking in the car, and Evie smiles at him, even shows him her teeth. It's almost like he can't believe it's her, the way his head keeps darting over to look at her, to check on her. She's smiling so much it starts to hurt my face. I know that smile, it's the school portrait smile, the team photo smile. And I know Mr. Verver must see that too.

He says he'd rather we didn't go through the women's bathhouse to get to the pool. That he'd rather we just skip the shower, even though it's against the rules.

It's just as well. Enough people are looking already, out by the pool. Not everyone, I'm sure. They can't all know Evie, recognize her from among the other girls there, cocoa b.u.t.ter slicked. But it feels like they do.

We don't care, though. We float on our rafts, our hair filled with chlorine, our skin sweating it. My face presses against the plastic, cool water gathering in small puddles where my head dips into the raft. Reaching behind, I stretch my green shiny one-piece farther over my bottom, skin clammy beneath my suit.

I look over at Evie, whose eyes are hidden behind large zebra-frame sungla.s.ses. Her lips are slightly parted. Her white two-piece glares. She's lying on her stomach and floating, floating. I can't tell if she's looking at me, or is asleep, or is just thinking.

My eyes flutter, time and again, to Mr. Verver, who sits on a pool chair and never takes his eyes off us, not even to look at the newspaper in his hand.

He watches us and I bet he thinks we're talking. I bet he thinks Evie's telling me things. But Evie tells me nothing.

I want to let her know it's okay. That she can tell me anything and I'll understand. But it's the kind of thing, if you say it, it no longer seems true.

It's only an hour and we have to leave. Mr. Verver is on the pay phone by the bathhouse and he keeps saying, "I know, I know. We're leaving now. I justa"I justa""

Mom, Evie mouths at me.

She asks Mr. Verver if we can shower in the bathhouse first. He looks at her a long time and I know he wants to say no, but he says yes.

In the showers, we stand under one of the communal spouts and frothy shampoo skates over our bathing suits and collects in our jelly sandals.

We still have our sungla.s.ses on because we like how we look in them, we like how everything looks, tinted pink.

We stand there quietly and let the water run across us. Evie sighs, looking down at her feet, down at the brownish swirl at her feet, some of the dye still slipping off.

She's looking down, staring so hard into the drain at our feet. She has those sungla.s.ses on, so I can't guess what she's thinking.

In the car on the way home, we're in the backseat and Mr. Verver's talking again, like before. Talking about summer plans and neighbors who are painting their house salmon pink and field hockey tryouts. He can't stop.

It starts to hurt to listen.

Then, suddenly, Evie leans forward, sungla.s.ses still on, and presses her chin next to his headrest, nestling against his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Dad," she says, her voice scratchy and rushed. "I'm sorry."

"Evie, Ia"" he says, startled. He tries to turn and look at her, but the light changes and cars honk and the car surges forward.

"I'm sorry," she keeps saying, and did you ever know what someone meant even if you couldn't explain it, even name it?

"Evie," he says thickly, reaching his hand back to touch her, and the car feels so small. My hand over my mouth, I turn my head away, press it against the back window and, this time, try not to hear.

Will you stay again tonight, Lizzie?" Evie asks. "Will you?"

And I say I will. My mother, on the phone, says, "Okay, just one more night."

But I think, how will I ever say no?

I think, I will stay and stay and stay until she tells me everything. And she has to.

The feeling at night, with the windows all shut, the air-conditioning rumbling, the clicking from the motion detectors every time you pa.s.s them, it feels like we are in a high tower, armored and moated and immaculate.

The alarm company people had been there all day, installing a system, drilling holes in the walls, running tests with beeps and sirens and lights.

Dusty is still at the grandparents'. I want to ask Evie about it, ask her what she thinks, in the old way we always speculated about Dusty, rendering delirious guesses. But it seems like I can't. I think maybe Evie feels the crackling anger from Dusty, and it might hurt, a lot.

Evie stares out the window, her fingers pressed on the gla.s.s, the shiny new security emblem stuck there.

I wonder what she thinks.

I have this idea in my head of her thinking this: As if an alarm could stop him. As if anything could, that love so strong. If he wants me back, nothing will stop it.

But it's all a guess. She turns and faces me, a sphinx.

Tucked close in bed that night, I trace letters on her back like we used to do when we were kids. Somehow we feel like kids again, small enough to fold ourselves into soft pockets.

First, S-U-M-M-E-R.

Then, A-L-E-X, the boy at school Evie used to love in sixth grade, the one with the bottle-opener belt buckle.

Then I trace the S, the H, the A, and I feel her breath draw in tight when I draw the W.

"No," she whispers. "Lizzie, no."

"You can tell me anything," I say. It's something I never said to her before. But now that I have to, it seems like a lie.

I look at the window, think of Mr. Shaw out there. Wonder about all the nights he stood out there even while I was here, laughing with Evie, tickling her ribs, talking about boys, untangling her hair, her hands in my hair, braiding tightly. Mr. Shaw. Oh, Evie, just tell me. Tell me so I can tell you. So I can show you I understand.

"Evie, I know he loves you," I say, the words rushing from me helplessly. "He loves you."

"But he thinks I'm different now, doesn't he?" she says, tapping her fingers on my open palm.

I stop for a second, puzzled, and then I realize she thought I was talking about Mr. Verver.

"No," I fumble. "He doesn't think you're different. He's so happy. He was so lost without you. He just wants to know you're okay."

I hear myself and I know what I sound like. A spy. An informant. I guess I am. I want to deliver her to her father all over again. It twists in me. But I wouldn't, I tell myself, tell him anything she wouldn't want me to. Anything I wouldn't want him to hear.

"Are you thinking about Mr. Shaw out there?" I ask, trying again.

It's a crazy thing to say, but I say it.

"No," Evie says, her body stiffening so fast it startles me. "Why would you say that?"

"I don't know," I say. "I'm sorry."

"He's not coming back, Lizzie," she says so quickly. I swear I can hear her teeth chatter. "He's not coming back. Why would you ever say that? He's not."

"Okay," I say, hurried, "okay." I put my fingers on her arm, and it's goosefleshed.

"Lizzie," she says, shaking her head. "I wish I could explain."

"Don't worry," I say, but there's a quiver under my skin now. It's something in her face, all her features jumping, her eyes like two pinpoints.

I lay my hands on her, I try to lay them on her like when I was very little, my mother pulling me into her lap, hand in my hair.

"It's all over," I say, "Everything's going to be like before."

There's a love so big it can break you, that's what she is saying to me, even if she can't say it and I can't make the words come.

How do boys matter in the face of his colossal love, like a pressure on the heart?

How do boys with their loud hallway taunts and their jockstraps and greasy foreheads, legs sprawling under desks, how do they matter one bit? They are big bulging Adam's apples and pitching voices and they tug at their pockets and punch one another in the hallway and put ice cubes down your collar and shove their hands up your shirt, and what could any of that possibly mean in the face of the big, bone-breaking, chest-bursting love from this man whose heart cannot hold itself together? Whose heart batters itself for you every night?

Isn't that what she's saying to me?

It has to be. I feel it. She must feel it too.

She's asleep at last, but I'm not, and I can hear Mr. Verver down in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I can hear faintly, through the vents, the tinny sound from the record player.