“Why would I hate him?” I ask, focusing my guilt-ridden gaze on the sidewalk, as we head toward home.

“Uh, because you ran off and never returned? I’m serious, Echo, you should’ve seen him. He just sat there with your lunch right in front of him, wondering if he should save it, eat it, toss it, or what.”

She’s staring at me, I can feel it. But since Abby’s in the middle, that means I’ll have to go through her if I want to confirm it. And I feel really uncomfortable talking about all of this, partly because it makes me feel weird, inept, and embarrassed, but also because I know Abby likes Parker too. She has for years. She just won’t admit it.

But Abby’s totally on to me, and she’s not about to let me off easy. “Don’t be going all AWOL on my account. So what if I think he’s cute. I think a lot of guys are cute. And it’s not like I was all attached or anything,” she says, kicking a rock out of her path and shrugging like she really doesn’t care. “So if you really like him, then just go for it, Echo. Don’t hold back because of me.”

“Do you like him?” Jenay asks, her eyes growing hopeful and wide as she waits for a definite answer.

Only the thing is, I don’t have a definite answer. Because I’m not really sure how I feel. Though I do know there’s a “right” answer, one that will make her happy, and hopefully put an end to all of this. So I take a deep breath and say, “Totally. I mean, why wouldn’t I? He’s cute, and sweet, and smart. And it’s not like there’s anything wrong with him, right?”

The second that’s out, Abby starts cracking up. I mean full body bent over laughing, while Jenay just rolls her eyes and shakes her head and goes, “That’s it? You like him because there’s nothing wrong with him? You like him because he has no obvious defects? Jeez Echo, that’s real romantic stuff. I mean, you’re just head over heels then, aren’t you?”

“No, I just…” I gaze back down at the ground, wondering who I’m trying to convince more, me or her. “I like him,” I finally say. “Okay? Happy now? He’s really nice, and a really good kisser too.” I peek at both of them, feeling relieved when I see Jenay smile, hoping that means she believes me.

“Then it’s settled. He can ask you to homecoming and you won’t say no?” Jenay asks, her voice full of hope. “Cause it would be really fun if we could double date, don’t you think?”

I nod at Jenay and then gaze at Abby. But she’s no longer looking at me. She’s busy staring straight ahead.

Eleven

Two days before the dance, I tell my mom I need a dress. Though of course Jenay had already bought hers, like the day after my party. And Parker, just naturally assuming I’d already gotten mine too, kept quizzing me about the color so his mom could order a matching corsage.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hadn’t bothered to even think about a dress, much less go look for one. So I lied and said I was torn between a black one and a white one, so any old flowers should do.

“It would’ve been nice if you could’ve given me just a little more notice,” my mom says, shaking her head as she trolls through the racks, trying to find something pretty and affordable that won’t make me look like a slut.

I just stand there, amazed by the show of emotion. It’s been so long since she’s expressed sadness, annoyance, or anything stronger than zombie-like calm.

“Zoë and I always used to make a day of it. We’d buy the dress, have lunch, and then go looking for a bag, jewelry, and shoes. But this, this two days’ notice.” She shakes her head again, this time pursing her lips. “What if we need alterations? Did you ever consider that?” She looks at me, eyes clearly alarmed at the thought. Well, as alarmed as those happy pills allow.

But I just shrug. I mean, even though it’s nice to see her thawing out of her usual, icy numbness, I really don’t appreciate having to compete with Zoë. Especially when I’m so clearly the loser. I mean, I may be the good, obedient, straight-A daughter, but Zoë was the exciting one. Zoë was the fun one. Zoë was the glamorous one. Zoë was the kind of daughter you actually miss.

“Well, I guess if it’s too long, I’ll just get higher heels or something,” I finally say, determined to ignore that last slight of hers and get through the rest of the day unscathed.

But she just ignores that, presses a handful of dresses into my arms, and goes, “Here. It’s a start. Now where the heck is that salesgirl?”

If you were going to categorize my mom, you’d obviously choose words like “organized,” “controlling,” and “type-A personality.” But that doesn’t mean she can’t be relaxed, compassionate, or fun. Though in the last year, it’s like she’s been riding an emotional roller coaster, and it’s been kind of hard to adjust to all of the surprising twists and turns.

I mean, everything started off all fine and well. One of her papers finally got published and she was actually awarded tenure, which is like a really big deal. But then the whole Zoë thing happened, and she headed straight into this rapid descent, her tears and depression building at an alarming speed until one day, after an extended couch-sitting, food-avoiding, sleep-depriving crying jag, she reached for that bottle of doctor-prescribed happy pills, and ever since it’s been miles of flat track, allowing for a safe but boring ride.

But that little show of annoyance back there in the store, when she compared me to Zoë and got all upset? Well, that’s something she’s never actually done before. And I wonder if it signals another drop ahead, one that I won’t realize until it’s too late.

“Well, under the conditions, I’d say that went much better than I anticipated,” she says, carefully placing her linen napkin across the lap of her jeans, but not those high-rise, tapered-ankle, multipleated “mom jeans” (thank God), but still, dark blue and no-nonsense. “And you’ve got quite the figure, young lady. Who knew?” She raises her thin, arched eyebrows and cracks a brief smile.

“Yeah, quite the stick figure,” I say, gazing down at my nearly concave chest, wondering if it will ever progress.

“Don’t kid yourself. You’ve got your great-aunt Eleanor’s figure.” She nods, her short, brown, wash-and-wear hair barely moving. “And she was a model for Saks.”

I think about Zoë, and how she always wanted to be a model, and I wonder if my mom ever said that to her.

“So tell me about this young man.” She leans forward, taking a sip of iced tea.

I gaze down at my lap, knowing she’s only trying to connect, and wishing I felt more comfortable talking about things like this. “Well, I’ve known him forever, but we never really hung out until now, and I don’t know, his best friend asked Jenay, and so, he asked me.” I shrug, using my straw to move the lemon wedge and block of ice that’s impeding my progress to the good stuff below.

“Do you like him?” she asks, as though we always engage in these heart-to-heart girl talks, as though nothing’s changed, like we’re just picking up right where we left off. And it’s been so long since she even tried, that it makes me want to give the right answer, the one that will keep it going, the one that will keep her feeling this way.

But I also don’t want to lie. So instead, I just nod.

“Well, your father and I are looking forward to meeting him. And I’m so glad we went with that cobalt blue dress, aren’t you? I was thinking maybe a silver purse and shoes? What are your thoughts?”

I reach for my menu and pretend to read it. “Urn, I guess something cute and dressy, that I can actually walk in without falling over.” I shrug.

“I know just the place.” She nods.

The whole time Jenay’s stepmom is taking our picture, all I can think about is Abby. And how she’s missing. And how she should be standing right here beside us, overdressed, overexcited, and anxious to take part in her first limo, first dance, and first date too. But even though Jenay tried her best to set her up, Abby wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Insisting she had a “family thing” that’d been planned for months, and that she’d “completely forgotten all about.”

But I know better. I know Abby’s just romantic enough to want a date who asked her for real, and stubborn enough to insist on that, or not go at all.

“Okay, everyone, just lean in, a little bit closer. Echo, move your hair out of your eyes so I can see your beautiful face,” Jenay’s stepmom says, the fingers on her free hand directing us toward the center, while she holds the tiny digital camera with the other. “Perfect. Hold it…great. One more. Okay, I’ll e-mail copies to all of your parents.” She leans against Jenay’s dad and smiles. “Oops! There goes Landon! I knew it wouldn’t last. Okay, have fun everyone, and girls, you look gorgeous!”

She hugs Jenay and me, careful not to mess up our hair, then runs upstairs to the nursery in her bare feet, snug jeans, and tight pink T-shirt, with her stream of blond hair trailing behind her, making her look more like Jenay’s hip older sister than her father’s second wife.

“Okay, the limo’s outside waiting. So everyone, be good, have fun, and stay out of trouble,” her dad says, delivering the exact same speech my dad gave, just half an hour before.

One by one we crawl into the back of the limo, sliding across the long, leather seat. The second the door is closed and the driver pulls away from the curb, Jenay leans her head back, heaves a dramatic sigh, and goes, “Thank God that’s over.”

Chess grabs her hand and smiles. “What do you mean? Your mom’s really nice, and your dad seems cool too.” He shrugs.