It was freshly poured wet concrete. He left the craziest skid mark.

I gasped.

“Damn it, Reeve!”

I turned around, and there was Reeve’s dad, red in the face. He stepped into the room, big boot prints on the concrete. I guess he didn’t care about ruining it, since Reeve had already taken care of that. He picked Reeve up by the back of his shirt, like cats do to their babies. Only he wasn’t gentle. He looked like he was going to kill Reeve. And Reeve looked scared. His whole face changed.

My voice came out in a squeak. “I—It’s my—”

It was my fault, I’d pushed him, but Reeve didn’t let me say it.

“Sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

Mom and Nadia came up then, and they gasped too.

Reeve’s dad, seeing them, set Reeve down. “We’ll fix this right up—no charge, of course.” He glared down at Reeve. “Get in the truck. Now,” he said through gritted teeth.

I felt so bad. Mom put me and Nadia in the car. As we drove away, I saw Reeve sitting in the bed of his dad’s truck, like he’d been told. He didn’t look scared anymore.

He grinned at me.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Christmas morning, my plan was to wake up early and make pancakes for everybody. But I stay up late watching A Christmas Story with Pat the night before, so I end up oversleeping. It’s after ten by the time I finally get out of bed.

I put my grubby terry-cloth robe on over my T-shirt and trudge over to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee, and I’m surprised to see Dad and Pat at the kitchen table. Pat’s got his head bent over a bowl of leftover soup, and Dad’s drinking coffee. “Merry Christmas, DeBrassios,” I say, my voice scratchy from sleep. “I was going to get up early and make pancakes, but—”

“But you’re a lazy little shit?” Pat finishes, slurping his soup. I grin and pour myself a cup of coffee. “Like my big brudder.” I take my coffee into the family room and turn on the Christmas tree lights. It’s bare under the tree. We already did presents last night, as is the DeBrassio tradition. I got my dad a new fishing pole I’d been saving up for, and I got Pat a vintage Italian motocross decal off the Internet from some guy. My dad gave me a hundred-dollar-bill, and Pat said he’d give me my gift later. Like hell. Pat’s all about rain-checking gifts.

I turn on the TV, and it’s A Christmas Story again. It’s the end of the movie, where they’re at the Chinese restaurant and the waiters are singing “Deck the Halls” and they can’t say their l’s. It’s racist as shit, but it’s still a good movie.

Then Dad and Pat come in, and Dad says, “Katherine, I think there might be one more gift for you under the tree.”

“Get your eyes checked, old man!” I tell him, pointing to the bare rug.

“Pat!” Dad barks. “You were supposed to put it under the tree this morning.”

“Chill out, chill out,” Pat says, and he goes to his room and comes back with a box wrapped in Santa Claus paper. He hands it to me. “Here.”

I look from Dad to Pat. “What is this?”

Dad’s grinning. “Open it.”

I tear into it—it’s a new laptop. My jaw drops. “No way.”

“It’s for college, Katherine.”

There’s a huge lump in my throat and tears are pricking my eyelids. “How—how did you even afford this?”

“I finished that canoe last week,” Dad says, beaming at me proudly. “And Pat helped.”

I stare at Pat, who is standing against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. “For real?”

“Yeah, dude. I worked my ass off to kick in on this, so you better not fail out of Oberlin.” Pat shakes his finger at me.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my arm. “I haven’t even been accepted yet.” I should tell them about the whole earlydecision beat-down I suffered, but I don’t have the heart.

“You’re getting in,” Pat says.

“Even if I do get in, it’s so far away. . . . Maybe I’d be better off going to school somewhere nearby, so I could still come home and help out around here.”

“No way,” Dad barks. “You’re out of here as soon as you graduate. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

I can barely see him through my tears. “Thanks a lot.”

Pat leans forward and says, “Dad and I can fend for ourselves. Your ass is going to Oberlin. You’re gonna get straight As, and then you’re gonna get rich at some fancy job, and when you do, you’re gonna send lots of dough home to us.”

I laugh. “You’re still gonna be living at home in five years? Loser.” Then I stand up, and on shaky legs I hug them both.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Christmas day passes in a blur. We go to church in the morning like always; then we come back, and my dad makes a Korean rice-cake soup and my mom bakes frozen cinnamon rolls she ordered from Neiman Marcus. We eat them as we open presents. I get a new laptop and a mintand-lavender cashmere sweater and new riding boots and little things like my favorite perfume and the sugarplum face cream from New York.

I should be happy, because I love presents and I’m getting everything I asked for and more. Nadia is squealing over every one of her gifts, hugging our mom and dad each time she opens something, taking her time getting through her pile so she can make it last longer. I can barely muster up smiles and thankyous. I’m the worst daughter ever.

My parents definitely notice. They keep shooting each other concerned looks. At one point my mom sits next to me on the chaise and puts the back of her hand to my forehead to check if I have a fever.

I didn’t think it would be this bad. That I’d hurt this much over something that was supposed to be fake.

When all the presents have been opened, Mom gives a nod to my dad, and he steps out of the room. When he comes back, he has two huge boxes in his arms. Nadia jumps up and tries to take one of them, but Dad says, “These are both for Lillia.”

I open them. It’s a brand-new luggage set from Tumi, both hard shell in gleaming white. One large roller bag, one smaller roller that will fit in the overhead.

“For college,” my dad announces. “Wellesey has some amazing study-abroad programs, you know.”

I don’t even have the energy to say anything back to that. That I’m still not totally sold on Wellesey. I just nod and click the suitcase latch open and closed a few times.

“Your father picked the set out himself,” Mom says. “He figured you’d like the white.” She rests her hand on my knee and gives it a hard squeeze.

I automatically look to my dad. “I love it.”

“Merry Christmas, princess,” he says.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

It’s finally New Year’s Eve, and my family will be here soon. I expected them earlier, but the weather must have delayed them. Snow is coming tonight, a few inches. And the wind is howling. But it’s fine, because there was a lot to do. Aunt Bette’s been cooking up a storm and I’ve been finishing packing. Also, trying to get the house looking at least somewhat presentable, because if my mom saw the place in the state it’s been in, she’d whip out her rubber gloves and peroxide and clean all night. I don’t want her to do that. I want her and my dad to enjoy the meal, and then I’ll give them the good news—I’m coming back with them. I’m leaving Jar Island.

I go upstairs to shower and get ready. I want to look beautiful and mature when they see me again for the first time. I’ve been through so much since I’ve been back; I want them to see that, see how I’ve grown. They mean well, but they’ve always babied me so much. When I go back with them, I want them to treat me like a teenager and not a kid.

I take my time in the shower, steaming up the bathroom and shaving my legs. Then I do my hair and makeup. I paint my lips ruby red and put my wet hair in a bun so it will dry wavy. I put on a dress I found in my closet—it’s white with gold bangles and beads and a drop waist. Downstairs, I hear my mom and Aunt Bette come inside the house, and I scramble around for the gold slingbacks I found in the back of my closet.

I step into the shoes and I hurry down the stairs to greet my parents. I stop short when I hear Aunt Bette say, “I don’t know how to tell Mary about Jim.”

Jim’s my dad. “Bette . . . please stop it,” my mother says, and her voice sounds pained. “Stop talking about her.”

I freeze.

“I’m sorry.” Aunt Bette says something I don’t quite catch, and then, “She’s going to be angry, Erica.”

Angry over what? What’s going on? Did they have a fight? Did they get separated in the time that I’ve been gone—is that why they haven’t been back to visit? I can feel the heat and the panic rising up inside me. The picture frames on the staircase walls start to shake, and I have to tell myself to calm down, just calm down.

Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown.

“What’s that noise?” my mom asks.

“It’s Mary,” Aunt Bette says. “I told you. She’s ready to go home.”

I hear my mom say, “Bette, please. Please stop torturing me like this.”

I’m still standing on the stairs, stuck in place. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Suddenly I’m afraid to go down there.

“You need help, Bette,” my mom says, and she sounds like she’s crying. “I’m taking you away from here. This house is making you sick.”

“No no, I’m fine, Erica,” Aunt Bette says desperately. “She wants to leave! She wants to leave with you! I’ll be better when she’s gone!”

“This house is in shambles, and you’re—you’re not well,” my mom chokes out. “You can’t stay here any longer.”

Aunt Bette backs up. “You can’t go without Mary. She’s going to be upset. She’s going to hurt someone.”

“We’re leaving. Now.” Mom has the door open. I stare at it and force it closed. She’s shocked as the knob flies out of her hand. The door bangs shut, and the dead bolt clicks.

Aunt Bette cries, “Mary! Stop! You’re going to scare her!”

Ignoring her, I run to my bed and grab my suitcase and go flying down the stairs and out the door. “Mommy! I’m coming with you! Don’t leave without me!”

But then I hear the back door opening. I go to my window and see my mom with her arm around Aunt Bette, trying to walk her to the rental car. They’re leaving? Without me?

I race back downstairs and out to the car.

My mom is sobbing. She doesn’t even look at me. “Bette, please, please, get in the car.”

I run up to her. “Mommy!” I scream. I’m howling now, and the shutters on the house are opening and closing, faster and faster. I can’t stop it; I can’t control myself.

“Oh my God!” my mom screams, and she jerks the passenger-side door open and pushes Aunt Bette inside. She runs to the other side of the car and gets in, and I go to her; I pound on the window so hard the glass starts to crack.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” I cry. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I want to go home!”

“I’m sorry,” she weeps. “I’m so sorry. I can’t stay.” Her hands shake as she starts the car, puts it in reverse, and drives away.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

I wasn’t going to go to the party. Kat kept texting me, telling me to come and that she and Mary would protect me from Rennie tonight. But then this afternoon I got a text from Rennie herself. It said, New Year, new start? Come tonight. Then she sent me a picture of her hand holding a cherry Blow Pop. Her manicure looked awesome. It was all pale pink glitter, like sparkly cotton candy.

So I’m going. At this point, what do I have to lose? I don’t want to be the only one in the whole school missing out. My sister will be there. Even Kat and Mary are going. What else am I supposed to do? Go to dinner with my parents?

A few months ago it would have been Rennie and me getting ready for this party together. We’d be blasting Madonna and fighting for the mirror, going back and forth over a crimson-red lip versus a brick-red lip. Instead it was me by myself. No Nadia, because she got ready with all the freshman girls at Janelle’s house. Just me.

I found the dress at a vintage store online. I was worried it wouldn’t fit, because sizes were different back then, but when it came, it was perfect. It’s emerald-green silk, tissue thin, with a drop waist and a low V-neck and a back that dips low in an X that looks like cobwebs, delicate and fine.

I put my hair in my mom’s rollers and then I styled it in a bob. It kept falling out, so I stuck a bunch of pins in it. Dark red lipstick was the final touch.

When I walked down the stairs, my dad came out of his office to hug me and tell me how beautiful I looked. And also to tell me to remember my special curfew for the night, two a.m. and not a minute later. He told me not to drive home, to take a taxi or to call and he’d come get me. “The streets aren’t safe on New Year’s Eve,” he said. “Too many people driving drunk.” I rolled my eyes and kept saying, “Yes, Daddy. Sure, Daddy.”

At a stoplight, I text Ash to see if she’s there so I don’t have to walk in alone. She texts back and says she’s already inside. I text Alex too, only he doesn’t text me back right away. We haven’t talked much since his holiday party, since I told him that I kissed Reeve. Things were already weird between them, and I can’t help but think that that probably made things even worse. I don’t know if they’ll ever be friends again.