JENNIE

Saturday

The next morning when I come downstairs, Lalisa Manoban is sitting at the dining-room table with my parents. Her red cap is hooked on the back of her chair and she's drinking orange juice, an empty plate in front of her. Her lip is split and there's a bruise on her cheek.

"You look better without the glasses," she says.

"What are you doing here?" I stare at her, at my parents.

"I'm eating breakfast. The most important meal of the day. But the real reason I came is that I wanted to explain about yesterday. I told your parents it was my idea and that you didn't want to cut class. How you were only trying to keep me from getting in trouble by talking me into going back." Manoban helps herself to more fruit and another waffle.

My dad says, "We also discussed some ground rules for this project of yours."

"So I can still work on it?"

"Lalisa and I have an understanding, don't we?" Dad serves me a waffle and passes my plate down.

"Yes, sir." Manoban winks at me.

My dad fixes her with a look. "An understanding not to be taken lightly."

Manoban composes herself. "No, sir."

Mom says, "We told her we're putting our trust in her. We appreciate that she's gotten you back in the car again. We want you to have fun, within reason. Just be safe, and go to class."

"Okay." I feel like I'm in a daze. "Thank you."

My father turns to Manoban. "We'll need your phone number and contact info for your parents."

"Whatever you need, sir."

"Is your father the Manoban of Manoban Storage?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ted Manoban, former hockey player?"

"That's the one. But we haven't spoken in years. He left when I was ten."

I'm staring at her as my mom says, "I'm so sorry."

"At the end of the day, we're better off without him, but thank you." She gives my mom a sad and wounded smile, and unlike the story she's telling her, the smile is real. "My mother works at Broome Real Estate and Bookmarks. She isn't home much, but if you have a pen, I'll give you her number."

I'm the one who brings her the pen and the paper, setting it down beside her, trying to catch her eye, but her dark head is bent over the notepad and she's writing in straight block letters: Linda Manoban, followed by all her numbers, work, home, and cell, and then Lalisa Manoban, followed by her own cell. The letters and numbers are neat and careful, like they were drawn by a child expecting to be graded. As I hand the paper to my dad, I want to say, That's another lie. That's not even her real handwriting. There is nothing about this girl that is neat and careful.

My mom smiles at my dad, and it's a smile that means "time to lighten up." She says to Manoban, "So what are your college plans?"

And the conversation turns chatty. When she asks Manoban if she's thought about what she wants to do beyond college, as in with her life, I pay attention because I actually don't know the answer.

"It changes every day. I'm sure you've read For Whom the Bell Tolls."

Mom answers yes for both of them.

"Well, Robert Jordan knows he's going to die. 'There is only now,' he says, 'and if now is only two days, then two days is your life and everything in it will be in proportion.' None of us knows how long we have, maybe another month, maybe another fifty years—I like living as if I only have that two days." I'm watching my parents as Manoban talks. She is speaking matter-of-factly but quietly, and I know this is out of respect for the dead, for Jisoo, who didn't have very long.

My dad takes a drink of coffee and leans back, getting comfortable. "The early Hindus believed in living life to the fullest. Instead of aspiring to immortality, they aspired to living a healthy, full life.…" He wraps up a good fifteen minutes later, with their earliest concept of the afterlife, which is that the dead reunite with Mother Nature to continue on earth in another form. He quotes an ancient Vedic hymn: " 'May your eye go to the Sun, To the wind your soul …' "

" 'Or go to the waters if it suits thee there,' " Manoban finishes.

My dad's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, and I can see him trying to figure this kid out.

Manoban says, "I kind of have this thing about water."

My father stands, reaches for the waffles, and drops two onto Manoban's plate. Inwardly, I let out a sigh of relief. Mom asks about our

"Wander Indiana" project, and for the rest of breakfast, Manoban and I talk about some of the places we've been so far, and some of the places we're planning to go. By the time we're done eating, my parents have become "Call me James" and "Call me Sheryl," instead of Mr. and Mrs. Kim. I half expect us to sit there all day with them, but then Manoban turns to me, brown eyes dancing. "Jendeuki, time's a-wastin'. We need to get this show on the road."

Outside, I say, "Why did you do that? Lie to my parents?"

She smooths the hair out of her eyes and pulls on the red cap.

"Because it's not a lie if it's how you feel."

"What does that mean? Even your handwriting was lying." For some reason, this makes me maddest. If she's not real with them, maybe she's not real with me. I want to say, What else is a lie?

She leans on the open passenger door, the sun behind her so I can't see her face. "Sometimes, Jendeuki, things feel true to us even if they're not."