Mom drops me off at SHS on Monday morning. The weekend in Vermont has done us a world of good. We left Friday tense and uncomfortable, but by Saturday morning were laughing and racing down the slopes with my cousins. I didn't want it to end. I didn't want to come back to Stoneybrook. I think it was tempting even for Mom, to stay in Vermont forever, hidden away in that cabin in the middle of nowhere. A true fresh start.

But that's not reality.

"Got all your books?" Mom asks. She tugs absent-mindedly on the collar of her ivory turtleneck sweater. She's worn a turtleneck since Friday to cover the bruises Mrs. Prezzioso left on her neck.

"Yep," I reply, checking my bag.

I unlatch my belt, but don't make a move to leave the car. I must sit there too long because Mom glances at the clock on the dash, then at me. "Stacey...I have to be at the store in New Hope by eight-thirty," she informs me.

"All right," I sigh, grudgingly, opening the door and climbing out. I lean back in. "Another fantastic day at Stoneybrook High, another fabulous day in the life of Stacey McGill."

Mom smiles, wanly. "Think positive thoughts," she advises.

I shut the car door and watch her drive away. It's strange because I feel a tug of sadness, like a sense of loss. Mom seems like my only true ally these days. And now I am alone to face the day virtually friendless. I jam my hands into the pockets of my white parka and start across the parking lot, slow and reluctant, like a criminal walking the path to execution. I see Grace by her Corvette, leaning against it, casually flipping her hair and giggling with Mari Drabek and Katie Shea. I let my eyes linger a bit too long, feel another ache of loss, then continue on my way.

"Wait! Stacey!" someone calls.

I stop so quickly and unexpectedly that Cary Retlin nearly hits me with his Ford Fiesta. He lays on the horn and makes a rude gesture. I jump back and turn around. Grace is jogging across the parking lot, red hair flying, messenger bag beating against her thigh. She skids to a stop in front of me.

"I tried calling you last night," she tells me.

"We didn't get home until late," I reply, readjusting my book bag strap.

"I should have gone with you," she says, a bit sadly. She flips her red hair over the shoulder of her tan coat. She doesn't look as self-assured as she intends. "Look, now, Stacey..." she begins. "I'm sorry I got so angry with you. I was wrong. I can admit it. I just...I was hurt, you know? But I thought about it a lot this weekend and you were right. It's not the kind of thing you tell about your mother. I understand why you wanted to keep it a secret."

I gape at Grace, rather stupidly. I never expected her to apologize without prodding and serious arm bending. I thought I'd end up the one apologizing to her. "Oh," I manage to say, which only makes me feel dumber.

Grace isn't bothered. "I haven't really had a best friend since Cokie. You and Mary Anne had each other for a long time, and then Emily and Julie. I guess it was wrong to think I could just step in. Maybe you're not ready for a new best friend,"

"Maybe I'm not,"

Grace smiles and shifts her messenger bag to her other shoulder. "I still don't think I'm judgmental at all," she says and it's actually nice to hear that snotty tone in her voice. "I'm all about forgiveness. I am surprised in your mom though, and it is disappointing, but well, all mistakes can be forgiven. I guess."

"Yes, I suppose so," I agree. I don't give Grace enough credit. Despite all her faults, she is a good friend. At least she can say, "I'm sorry, let's move on."

"I'm sorry, too," I tell her. "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."

Grace shrugs. "I know you didn't mean to. I'm sorry I missed out on Vermont. Was it fun?"

I can't help smiling. "It was wonderful! The best weekend I've had in a long time. When we left, Mom and Uncle Lou were talking about another ski trip over New Year's. You can come then. How was your weekend?"

Grace shrugs again. "Julie and I had to work on a project for government," She rolls her eyes. "We were at her house. Rachel tried to get me to re-enact your mom and Mrs. Prezzioso's fight with her. I wouldn't. Julie thought it was hilarious, of course." Grace pauses and sighs. "I guess Julie's known the secret for awhile. Don't worry, I'm not mad. You weren't the one who told her. I'm not even mad that apparently Lauren Hoffman, of all people, knew before me." Grace sighs again, dramatically, but I know she's telling the truth. She's not really angry anymore.

A bell rings shrilly in the distance. I glance at my watch. "Oh no! I still have to stop at my locker!" I exclaim. Mrs. Dowery has become even more unforgiving of my lateness than usual.

"I'll walk you," Grace volunteers.

"I can't be late...again,"

"We'll walk fast,"

Grace and I hurry toward the building, taking long strides, united.

I spot Julie in the hot lunch line during fifth period lunch, holding an empty tray. My lunch is in my book bag, but I'm dying to know if she's kept her promise. I rush over and push my way into line behind her. I receive a few dirty looks, but no one says anything.

"Hey Julie,"

"Hi Stace," Julie greets me with a brief smile, then turns away to lean across the counter. "Gross," she gasps, picking up a plate of mashed potatoes and turkey gravy. "I'm going to kill Paul. He stole my sack lunch this morning,"

I skip the turkey gravy and push my tray on. "Good weekend?" I ask.

"Yeah," Julie replies, turning back to me momentarily, smiling. I notice she's wearing a red Kenny Rogers t-shirt. I'd forgotten. She was going to his concert with the Bernsteins Saturday night. "I heard your mom got beat down by Mr. Prezzioso's ex. Too bad I wasn't there. I'd totally have had your mom's back. How's your butt?"

The girl in front of Julie turns and gives us a weird look, but I ignore it. "Bruised, thanks to your sister," I say.

"Don't blame her. I heard you got knocked down three times. Pretty sad, if you ask me,"

"Sorry, I don't do a lot of street fighting,"

"I thought you were from New York,"

This is getting us nowhere. "Have you spoken to the Bernsteins?" I ask, point blank.

Julie's bent down, closely examining the green beans. "The wheels are in motion," she replies.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demand. I think it means she hasn't done anything at all.

"I talked to Rachel about it - "

"Rachel? I don't remember Rachel being part of the plan!"

Julie remains unflustered. "Rachel's a nursing student,"

"Specializing in geriatric care," I snap.

"I don't understand her fascination with old people either," Julie says, finally deciding to pass on the green beans. "But she knows a lot. And so do my parents. About drugs and stuff. The sixties, you know. There's a certain approach to take with the Bernsteins. This weekend wasn't the right time. My parents agree."

I watch Julie slide two banana puddings onto her tray. I guess the Sterns would know. They are the Bernsteins best friends. And they're adults. That's what I've wanted, isn't it? For an adult to step in and take control.

"I told you, I'll take care of it," Julie tells me, handing her money to the cashier.

I nod. "All right, Julie. Thank you," I hand my empty tray to the cashier and duck out of the line. Grace, Erica, and Lauren are already seated at our usual table. Erica's gesturing wildly and talking a mile a minute. Grace appears slightly annoyed.

"Stacey!" Erica shrieks when I pull out my chair. She jumps up and lifts her sweatshirt. Underneath, she's wearing a Skeeball tank top - with Skyllo's picture on it!

I can't help myself. I shriek, too. "You really went to the concert!" I exclaim.

"You almost came, too!" says Lauren. "We were coming to Vermont to kidnap you! But Mrs. Blumberg found out and stopped us." She shoots Erica a withering look, like it's all Erica's fault.

"It was a stupid plan anyway. Here, Stace, we got you a shirt, too," Erica unzips her backpack and starts pulling out papers and trash. "Hm. I guess I left it in my locker."

"That's okay. Tell me about the concert!"

"Well, we almost got arrested," says Lauren.

Grace snorts, as if that's exactly what she expected to happen.

"It was fantastic though!" insists Erica. "Right up until we almost got arrested. And afterward, it was worth it! We were waiting in the ally after the concert, by the back door. There was a ton of people and photographers and it was insane. We waited over an hour, then finally the band came out - "

"And Erica completely lost her head and threw herself on Skyllo," Lauren finishes.

I gasp. "She did not!"

Erica nods. "I couldn't help myself. One second, I was screaming with everyone else and the next, I was flying through the air. I touched Skyllo, Stacey. I touched him. He smells like menthol," Erica sighs, dreamily.

Lauren rolls her eyes. "While she was restrained, I talked the bodyguards out of calling the cops."

"Ever the politician," scoffs Grace.

"Wow," is all I can say. Part of me is sad I missed all the excitement and the chance to be so near Skyllo. However, had Erica gotten us arrested, Mom would have locked me in my room until graduation.

Lauren pops open her grape soda and takes a sip. "Too bad you couldn't come, Stacey. And too bad you weren't here on Friday. Someone super glued action figures to the hood of Price Irving's car!"

I choke on my apple slice. "What!" I exclaim. Where does Lauren come up with these bizarre ideas?

"That was you?" Grace hisses, leaning forward. "Are you the one who filled his mailbox with nacho cheese last week?"

I scrunch up my face at Lauren. She filled his mailbox with cheese?

"What? Are you going to rat me out?" Lauren demands in a challenging tone.

Grace grunts and takes a vicious bite out of her celery stick.

After lunch, Grace and I walk upstairs to her locker. I watch as she unloads the contents of her messenger bag and puts the books and binders away neatly, lined up by height. "Grace...when you were at Julie's this weekend, did she say anything about Emily?" I ask.

"About Emily? No,"

I didn't think so. I shrug, slightly, to indicate it doesn't matter, my question had no importance.

Grace shuts her locker and turns to me with an odd expression. "It's weird of you to mention Emily. She came over to my house on Sunday. I don't know the last time she was at my house. It was so random. She just showed up,"

I attempt to not appear too interested. "Really? What did she want? How did she look?"

Grace shrugs. "I don't know. She looked like Emily. Except I think she's been sick. That's unlucky since it's the holidays. Isn't today the first day of Hanukkah? Did you get her a gift?"

"But what did she want?"

Grace looks a bit offended. "To hang out with me, of course. She helped me wrap my Christmas gifts. But this is what's weird. She went upstairs to use the bathroom and was gone a long time, so I went to see if she was all right. I caught her coming out of my parents' room. She said she liked their bathroom better than mine. Isn't that weird?"

"Yes, that is weird," I agree. A weight drops in my stomach. What would Emily be doing in the Blumes' bathroom? Grace seems to brush it off, changing the subject to the Winter Ball, which is this Saturday. I try to listen, but I'm thinking about Emily, and I think about her all through sixth period, and then all through seventh while staring at her as she makes neat notes in her Statistics binder.

It's strange that I spent so much time thinking about Emily today because that's exactly who calls me after school. She hasn't called me in a very long time. It's a surprise to hear her voice.

"Can you come over?" she asks me. Her voice sounds brittle, like it might break in the air. "I need someone to talk to."

"What about Julie?" I retort. As much as I want to help Emily, I can't hide the hint of meanness in my voice. I am not perfect.

Emily breathes into the phone. "Julie doesn't want to hear it," she finally says.

"All right. I'm coming,"

I leave the warmth of my home and pedal down the street toward Rosedale Road. I don't think I'll ever get my car back. That punishment will go on forever. I'll probably have to ride my bike to my college graduation.

The Bernsteins' cleaning lady lets me in the front door. She directs me upstairs to Emily's bedroom. The door is ajar. I push it open. Emily's sitting at her desk, hands resting listlessly in her lap, staring down at them. I knock lightly, not sure if she's noticed me.

Emily glances up. Her face is still drawn and pale. Those circles may be permanently engraved beneath her eyes. "Stacey," she says and nothing more.

I enter the room, unzipping my parka. I toss it on the bed, then I'm not sure what to do. Should I sit down? Emily doesn't seem interested in giving me directions, not like the old Emily would. I gaze around the room. It's the same room I've been in a hundred times. It does not betray the new Emily, gives no indication of who she has become.

There's a large picture frame on the floor by the window, turned the wrong way, so the picture leans against the wall. I've never noticed it before. "What's that?" I ask, pointing to it.

Emily's eyes follow my finger. "Oh, that," she says, hollowly. "Julie gave it to me for my birthday."

"Why is it turned wrong?"

"Because I hate it,"

"Oh," I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. When did we get like this? When did me and all my friends get like this? "So...you need to talk?"

Emily slides open her desk drawer and pulls out a piece of folded white paper. She flicks it nonchalantly into the air. It flips once, then flutters safely onto the bed. I pick it up, carefully, and unfold it. It's a typed letter on Georgetown letterhead. There's a sinking in my stomach.

I read aloud, "Dear Miss Bernstein...the Committee on Admissions regrets to inform you...Oh, Emily," I gasp. I check the date on the letter. December second. Today is the eighteenth. "Oh, Emily...when did you get this?"

"Almost two weeks ago,"

"Oh, Emily," I breathe, staring at the letter. "Why didn't you say anything? What did your parents say?"

"They don't know,"

My jaw drops. "They don't know? You haven't told them?"

Emily shakes her head, slowly, like it requires much effort. "They'll be so upset. So disappointed. We never thought I wouldn't get in."

"You have to tell them sometime. They know when early-admissions are mailed,"

Emily looks down at her hands. "They...they think I got in. I made a fake letter,"

I look up from the rejection letter, stunned. "You what!"

"I thought it would buy me some time. They wanted it so badly. I just gave them what they wanted. I thought that in the spring, when the regular admissions letters arrive, I could say I changed my mind, that I don't want to go to Georgetown anymore," Emily's face sort of crumples, pitifully. "But Stacey! I'm not going to get in anywhere! If Georgetown doesn't want me, no school will want me! I won't get into Wellesley or Amherst or Northwestern. I bet I couldn't even get into Stoneybrook U!" Emily collapses in tears, bending her head low, maybe in hopes that I won't see. "I am such a failure, Stacey. A failure! I could have worked so much harder. I just didn't try! If only I'd been better, Stacey!"

The self-centered part of me wants to tell Emily she's being silly, that we can't get everything we want. Life doesn't end over a single rejection letter. I push that part of myself away, quickly, burying it deep within me where it belongs.

"Emily, Emily," I say, attempting to imitate the clear, smooth voice my mother uses on me when I am upset. "Emily, it isn't your fault. You did your best and you were better than most. You'll get into all those other schools. What's so special about Georgetown? This letter just shows what morons they are not letting you in. Northwestern is so much nicer. Mary Anne and I applied there. Maybe we'll both go!" I add some fake cheer at the end, but it isn't very convincing.

Emily shakes her head. She's holding herself tight now, rocking back and forth in her chair. "I'm not going to college," she chokes out. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life right here in Stoneybrook. Maybe Mr. Stern can help me get a job at the post office! No, you have to take a test. I probably wouldn't pass it. Is Bellair's hiring? Maybe I'm at least qualified to sell underwear!"

"Emily!" I say, sternly. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you're going to college. You will not spend your life selling underwear at Bellair's. And so what if you do? You'll be the smartest, cleverest underwear saleswoman in Connecticut. You don't need Georgetown to tell you whether you're smart or worthy."

Emily stops rocking and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. She looks so defeated. My eyes well with tears, but I fight them back. Where has Emily Bernstein gone? Where is my wonderful, thoughtful friend?

"You need to talk to your parents tonight. Talk to them for real. No lies, no half-truths. You need to tell them everything, Emily," I give her a pointed look, but she doesn't notice. She's staring at her hands. "I can stay with you. We can tell them together. Would that make it easier?"

Emily shakes her head. "No, I should do it alone. You know my mom has a short fuse. You shouldn't have to see that." Emily reaches out and takes the letter from me. She folds it neatly and returns it to the desk drawer.

"Your parents aren't going to yell, Emily. They love you. They'll be concerned,"

"No, they'll be disappointed and that's a lot worse,"

I check the clock on Emily's wall. It's nearly four. "I'll wait with you until they get home," I offer.

"No, that's okay," Emily replies, standing up. "I think I'll take a nap. I'm so exhausted, Stacey." Emily sits down on the edge of her bed.

I nod. "All right, Emily. I'll call tonight to check on you," I walk around toward the door, but stop beside Emily. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight. I feel her spine beneath her blouse. I might break her. She hugs me back, weakly. It's funny, after everything, all her changes, Emily still smells the same. Like gardenias.

Downstairs, it looks like the cleaning lady has already left. I lock the door behind me. I walk my bike down to the sidewalk, then look up at Emily's bedroom. The light is off. I jump on my bike and pedal down the street to Julie's house. I ring the bell and wait.

Paul answers. "She's not here," he informs me without a greeting.

"Where is she?"

"No idea. Something about Hanukkah,"

"Are your parents home?"

"No, they're at work. Rachel's here,"

"Well, I don't need Rachel," I reply, testily. "Would you please tell Julie, or your parents, that Emily's telling her parents tonight? Someone should check on her in awhile. They'll know what I mean."

"Good because you sound nutty to me,"

"Thanks, Paul," I retort, sarcastically. I turn and jog back down the driveway to my bike. Emily and Julie's street is closer to downtown Stoneybrook than to my house. I decide to ride to Bellair's. I can pick up my paycheck, then catch a ride home with Mom. Maybe she'll want to pick up chinese for dinner. Maybe I'll tell her about Emily.

Mom's swamped at work. Her desk is barely visible beneath the piles of order forms, invoices, and catalogues. Getting ready for summer, she tells me. She's not ready to leave at five. It's almost six when she finally switches off her computer, sighs, and announces it's time to go home. I am more than ready to leave. I've spent nearly two hours laying on the floor working on homework. It's been very uncomfortable.

Mom and I walk across the street to Uncle Ed's after I assure her that Julie isn't working, even though I've assured her a hundred times that Julie doesn't actually prepare the food. I phoned in the order from Mom's office, so the food is waiting when we walk in. Then it's back across the street to the Bellair's parking lot, where Mom's station wagon is in its reserved spot.

I shove my bike into the trunk, then hop into the front seat with Mom. The car smells delicious. I inhale deeply, the lovely scent of lemon chicken and chow mein.

"Turn on the heater, Stace," Mom instructs, as she backs out of her parking spot. We roll slowly toward the exit, but just as Mom's about to pull out onto Essex, an ambulance flies by at a breakneck speed, its lights blazing in the night. "Always pull over for ambulances, Stacey. Just think how you'd feel if they were rushing to your loved one."

I nod, but am more interested in searching the bag for the fried shrimp. When the ambulance lights are no longer visible, Mom decides its safe to pull out into the street. We're approaching Main Street when a dark Buick cuts us off. Mom slams hard on the brakes.

"Marian Bernstein! That woman!" she shrieks and leans hard on the horn.

Something cold and heavy sinks in my stomach.

"Oh my God."