Skye's doesn't have enough time.
That's the short version.
The long version starts with her mother dying and ends with a visit to her probation officer, and there's not enough time in the world (known universe) to tell that.
Rosalind calls her reckless.
"This is getting ridiculous."
"It's summer, Rosy. Let her have her fun." her dad says.
(Of course, his definition of fun doesn't include copious amounts of Hemingway and insomnia.)
Days blur into nights where the neon of streetlights fades into stardust and silver, and Skye's saying her mother's name over and over again at one in the morning, saying her name on street corners and in shadowed alleyways. It's always there, hidden somewhere like an ache in her chest, a thorn in her throat.
She carries secrets around with her like the memory of a seaside framed in glass.
Like the name of a flower that opens only once in its life.