Yes, this is the plan. I stop at the water, watching a ferry chug off. I imagine being on it, sandwiched between my mom and dad. All of us so happy, back where I belong. With my family. With my life on track.

I fight the urge to immediately tell the girls. I don’t want to upset them, or let them try to convince me to stay, or at least to finish out the year. I feel the sort of peace that comes from any good decision. It’s the right thing to do.

When I get home, I decide to start packing. No time like the present! I feel like I’ve got so many more clothes than when I came here. I’m not sure how; I don’t remember ever going shopping.

I pack all my summer stuff first, the things I came with. Then I make a few trips down to the basement and out to the garage to get the stuff I left behind the first time. Like my old Nancy Drew books and the photo albums. I sing while I do it, all the Christmas carols that Mr. Mayurnik taught us in chorus.

I feel so so so good. I’ve never felt better.

Aunt Bette doesn’t ask me what I’m doing. She watches me, quiet, from the living room. The rest of the house is a mess, a complete mess, but I can get started on that later. We’re both going to have to pitch in if we want to have this place cleaned up before Mom and Dad come.

Aunt Bette gets a call after dinner, and I can tell right away that it upsets her.

“What is it?” I say.

She sinks into a kitchen chair. “One of the galleries where I sell my paintings is closing down. They want me to come pick up my work tonight.” She glances at the clock and rubs her temples. “Now, actually.”

“Gee. Nice of them to give you a heads-up.” I say it sarcastically, with a mean laugh. But Aunt Bette doesn’t even crack a smile. “I’ll go with you,” I tell her. “You might need help carrying stuff.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, Mary, I don’t—”

“It’s no trouble. I’m finished with my homework.” That’s a lie, but whatever. How long would this take? As weird as things have been between us lately, I’m still worried about her. She might need me. She doesn’t have friends like I do, to have her back.

Anyway, there’s something about this that feels like good timing. Hopefully, Aunt Bette will leave Jar Island with my parents and me. And now that this gallery isn’t showing her work anymore, well . . . what reason does she have to stay? She could get a fresh start somewhere else, like me.

I meet Aunt Bette in her Volvo. I was thinking she’d change into a pair of pants and a nice sweater, but she’s still in her housecoat. And her hair is wild. I don’t think she’s combed it today. And maybe not yesterday either.

Her hands are trembling. We’re driving kind of fast, taking the turns too sharp.

“You’re nervous.”

She glances at me out of the side of her eyes. “Mary. Please. Do not say a word, okay? Not to me, not to the owner. I want to get in and out of there as fast as I can.”

“Okay. Sure. You won’t even know I’m there. Promise.” Hopefully, I won’t have to say anything. But if I need to, I’m not going to hesitate.

The gallery is down in T-Town, at the end of a small stretch of businesses. There are about half as many stores here as there are on Main Street in Middlebury, and none of them are as nice. Of all the parts of Jar Island, T-Town probably gets the least amount of tourists. It’s more a place for the locals. So I’m not surprised the gallery went under.

The gallery is a white building on a corner. It has a big window in front, and across the bottom of the glass, in gold-stencil, it reads art in the jar, lowercase letters because I guess that’s the thing? A temporary wall is directly behind the window. I figure that’s where they hung the best paintings. It’s bare now, pockmarked with nail holes.

The front door is propped open. I can see a ladder inside, a bunch of drop cloths, open cans of paint. There’s a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor in the center, her hair tied back in a black scarf. She’s thumbing through some papers inside a cardboard box.

Aunt Bette turns off the car and takes a few deep breaths. She walks in. I watch her from the car. The woman doesn’t smile; she doesn’t even seem to say hello to Aunt Bette. She just points toward the back.

I get a twinge in my gut. A not-good feeling. I decide to walk in.

“I’m here to help my aunt,” I say as I come through the door, but the woman doesn’t acknowledge me. I step past her and head toward what looks like the main gallery space to my left.

Only this gallery isn’t one big room. It’s a lot of small rooms. I’m trying to figure out where Aunt Bette went to, and I end up getting turned around. I’m about to step through another doorway, when I realize I’m back at the main entrance.

“She looks like a witch!” a girl whispers. And then two people laugh.

I crane my neck around the door frame. Sitting with the woman is Rennie Holtz.

Oh my gosh. This is the gallery that Rennie’s mom owns.

“Like a homeless witch! I wonder if she got here by broom.”

Her mom lets out a laugh that sounds like a goose honking. “Quiet, Ren.”

Then Aunt Bette comes into the room. She’s got her arms full of her paintings. She’s about to scurry out when Rennie’s mom stands up. “Um, Bette? I wondered if I might give you some unsolicited advice.”

Aunt Bette doesn’t answer her right away. She walks toward the door and peeks outside at her car. I guess she’s looking for me. And when she doesn’t see me, her eyes dart around the gallery. I duck out of sight.

“Bette?” Rennie’s mom says again. I hear Rennie snicker.

“Yes. Yes. Sorry.”

I edge my head around the corner again.

“I had a lot of trouble with your new work. To be frank, it was making some people uncomfortable. I’m not saying it isn’t intriguing. It is. But I don’t think that kind of darkness is what most buyers are looking for.” My eyes narrow on the canvases in Aunt Bette’s hands. They are all muddy, dark, haunting. Slashes of blacks and grays. Nothing like her old paintings. It looks like the stuff of a madwoman. Painting hasn’t brought her back to the real world; it’s drowned her further in darkness. “You should go back to those darling lighthouses and seascapes.”

Aunt Bette’s face hangs. “I don’t paint to sell. I paint my world. And this is what it’s like now.” She turns to leave.

Rennie’s mom mutters, “She’s gone off the deep end.”

“Cuckoo!” Rennie says. And they both crack up laughing.

I am about to flame.

I look around the room. I want to do something to make them stop. I narrow my eyes on the open paint cans on the floor and will them to tip. Tip tip tip tip. They start to shake.

“Mary!”

Aunt Bette shouts from the front door. Rennie and her mother look wide-eyed.

I rush out past them and follow her to the Volvo.

“I told you not to come inside!” Aunt Bette is furious. “What’s the matter with you?” Her hands squeeze the steering wheel so hard the skin turns white.

“They were calling you crazy. They were saying you’re a witch, that you’ve lost your mind.”

I expect her to get mad, to defend herself. Instead Aunt Bette stays silent and rolls up her window tight, sealing us both inside. I burst out, “Why do you let people treat you that way? You’re not a doormat! Have some self-respect!”

“I’m not like you, Mary. I don’t want to be like you.”

It stings, to hear her say this. I’ve always looked up to my aunt. I’ve always thought she was the coolest lady, someone I’d want to be like someday. I don’t even recognize her anymore. I fold my arms and turn toward the window. If Aunt Bette doesn’t want my help, that’s all the more reason for me to go. “I’ve decided it’s time for me to go back home. Right after New Year’s.” I can’t help but throw in a dig. “And then I’ll be out of your hair forever.”

I wait to see if Aunt Bette will say anything. If she’ll take back the mean things she just said. But if anything, she looks relieved.

This is what Aunt Bette wants. Me out of her life.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

It’s twelve fifteen on Monday and I’ve been dreading this exact moment since I woke up this morning. The lunch table.

I would love to sail right past and sit with Kat and Mary, but Mary doesn’t even have the same lunch as me, and Kat never eats in the cafeteria. And the main reason I have to sit at our lunch table is because if I don’t face them today, I’ll never be able to sit at the table again. That’s my table, and Ash and Alex and PJ, they’re my friends too. I will go in with my head held high, nose in the air. Untouchable. Rennie and Reeve can’t hurt me because they can’t touch me.

This is what I tell myself as I walk into the cafeteria. Thank God Ash is with me. She and Derek got back together sometime over the weekend, so she’s even more bubbly than usual. I’m wearing my best I-couldn’t-care-less-about-you outfit—that high-waisted bandage skirt Kat bought me, plus a silky black blouse with lipstick print that I tucked in, plus sheer black stockings and suede platform booties.

Mercifully, Rennie and Reeve aren’t sitting down yet. Maybe they won’t show. I eat the Cobb salad my mom packed for me and listen to Ash chatter about how romantic Derek was when he asked her to get back together. “He showed up at my house with flowers, and he would not take no for an answer, Lil,” she says, sighing happily.

“What kind of flowers?” I ask. My heart’s not in it, but I’m at least trying.

“Pink carnations!”

That he probably got from the gas station on the way to her house.

“So sweet,” I say. Then Ash spots Derek in line for food and she runs over to him.

I see Rennie and Reeve heading toward the table; Rennie’s got her arm linked in Reeve’s. Even in heels she only comes up to his elbow.

I keep focused on my salad, and I don’t look up when they sit down. I just dip each individual lettuce piece into my honeymustard dressing with my fork. If I keep at it, I won’t have to look up for all of lunch.

Then Alex comes walking over. I wonder if he and Reeve are still mad at each other or if they made up already, the way boys do. Or maybe he hates me too now, for the thing with the pizzas and for holding Reeve’s hand in front of him. I hold my breath as he sets his tray down and sits in the seat across from me. “You look nice,” he says, taking off his cable-knit sweater.

I smile at him gratefully. “Thanks, Lindy.” Thank you so much.

At the other end of the table, Rennie’s practically sitting in Reeve’s lap. She’s whispering and cooing to him, and he puts his arm around her.

I keep concentrating on cutting my lettuce into tiny pieces and dipping each one into the dressing.

Derek plops down with a tray full of french fries and says, “Yo! Did you guys hear about how Mr. Dunlevy got a DUI over the weekend?”

“Yeah, I heard,” Rennie says. “Coach Christy was pissed. I mean, he gets paid extra to teach us driver’s ed.”

I take another bite of salad. Chew. Chew. Chew.

“Lil, weren’t you and Reeve in driver’s ed with him last year?” Alex asks. “Did he ever smell like booze?”

I shrug. Reeve shrugs too. Neither of us says anything.

“Huh,” Alex says, and there’s this slight edge in his voice. He’s looking at me, and then he jerks his thumb in Reeve’s direction. “You were so chummy-chummy at your party on Friday. And now you can barely stand to look at each other. What gives?”

I almost choke on the piece of hard-boiled egg in my mouth. It tastes like dust.

Lazily, Reeve says, “Lil and I remembered that we don’t actually like each other,” and Rennie smiles a cat-that-ate-thecanary smile, which makes me see red.

Across the table, Reeve’s and my eyes lock for a second, and it’s like the rest of the cafeteria goes silent; it’s only us looking at each other. And then it’s over. Reeve shakes his head and chuckles. Like he couldn’t care less.

After lunch, I’m walking to my next class when a sophomore girl comes running up to me with a thick manila envelope.

“Lillia, you don’t know me but . . . I was hoping you could give these to Rennie for me. She said she wanted them right away, but it took me a while to get my friends to print them out for me. I haven’t seen her yet today, and I don’t want her to think I’m slacking.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, and take the envelope. It’s heavy.

“Thank you!”

I quickly duck into the bathroom and open it. It’s stuffed full of pictures from homecoming. Sophomores arm in arm posing, sophomores on the dance floor. Sophomores shooting the homecoming court from the gym floor.

Yeah, Rennie’s on yearbook committee, but only to make sure no bad pictures get in of her. What would she care about these pictures of other people? You can see Rennie’s sparkly silver dress in a few of the shots, see us all in the background, but mostly we’re just blurry.

I shove the envelope through the slats in her locker door, not even caring if some of them rip.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

It’s Wednesday afternoon, last period, and I’m standing in the parking lot in front of Reeve’s truck, concentrating with all my might.

But it’s hard, because I’m so happy. Seeing Reeve these past few days walking around school, pretending like he doesn’t care when I know the truth because I can see right through him. He’s miserable, and I’m loving every second of it.