Praiseforwewereliars

“You’regoingtowanttorememberthetitle.Liarsdetailsthesummersofagirlwhoharborsadarksecret,anddeliversasatisfyingbutshockingtwistending.”

—BreiaBrissey,EntertainmentWeekly

*“[A]searingstory…Atthecenterofitisagirlwholearnsthehardestwayofallwhatfamilymeans,andwhatitmeanstolosetheonethatreallymatteredtoyou.”

—PublishersWeekly,Starred

*“Surprising, thrilling, and beautifully executed in spare, precise, and lyrical prose. Lockhart spins a tragic familydrama,therootsofwhichgobackgenerations.Andtheending?Shhhh.Nottelling.(Butit’sadoozy.)…Thisispoisedtobebig.”

—Booklist,Starred

“Ahauntingtaleabouthowfamilieslivewithintheirownmythologies.Sad,wonderful,andreal.”

—ScottWesterfeld,authorofUgliesandLeviathan

“Spectacular.”

—LaurenMyracle,authorofShine,TheInfiniteMomentofUs,andTTYL

“Ahaunting,brilliant,beautifulbook.ThisisE.Lockhartathermind-blowingbest.”

—SarahMlynowski,authorofDon’tEvenThinkAboutItandGimmeaCall

“Dark,gripping,heartrending,andterrifyinglysmart,thisbookgrabsyoufromthefirstpage—andwillneverletgo.”

—RobinWasserman,authorofTheWakingDark

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.

Textcopyright©2014byE.LockhartJacketphotograph©2014GettyImages/kang-ggMapandfamilytreeartcopyright©2014byAbigailDoker

Allrightsreserved.PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyDelacortePress,animprintofRandomHouseChildren’sBooks,adivisionofRandomHouseLLC,aPenguinRandomHouseCompany,NewYork.

DelacortePressisaregisteredtrademarkandthecolophonisatrademarkofRandomHouseLLC.

VisitusontheWeb!randomhouse.com/teens

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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataWewereliars/E.Lockhart.—Firstedition.pagescmSummary:Spendingthesummersonherfamily’sprivateislandoffthecoastofMassachusettswithhercousinsandaspecialboynamedGat,teenagedCadencestrugglestorememberwhathappenedduringherfifteenthsummer.ISBN978-0-385-74126-2(hardback)—ISBN978-0-375-98994-0(librarybinding)—ISBN978-0-375-98440-2(ebook)—ISBN978-0-385-39009-5(intl.tr.pbk.)[1.Friendship—Fiction.2.Love—Fiction.3.Families—Fiction.4.Amnesia—Fiction.5.Wealth—Fiction.]I.Title.PZ7.L79757We2014[Fic]—dc23201342127

RandomHouseChildren’sBookssupportstheFirstAmendmentandcelebratestherighttoread.

v3.1

ForDaniel

Contents

CoverTitlePageCopyrightDedicationMapFamilyTree

PartOne:WelcomeChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15

PartTwo:VermontChapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22

PartThree:SummerSeventeenChapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31

Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42Chapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46Chapter47Chapter48Chapter49Chapter50Chapter51Chapter52Chapter53Chapter54Chapter55Chapter56Chapter57

PartFour:Look,aFireChapter58Chapter59Chapter60Chapter61Chapter62Chapter63Chapter64Chapter65Chapter66Chapter67Chapter68Chapter69Chapter70Chapter71Chapter72Chapter73Chapter74Chapter75Chapter76Chapter77Chapter78Chapter79

PartFive:TruthChapter80Chapter81Chapter82Chapter83Chapter84Chapter85Chapter86Chapter87

AcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorOtherBooksbyThisAuthor

1

WELCOMETOTHEbeautifulSinclairfamily.Nooneisacriminal.Nooneisanaddict.Nooneisafailure.TheSinclairsareathletic,tall,andhandsome.Weareold-moneyDemocrats.Oursmilesarewide,ourchinssquare,andourtennisservesaggressive.Itdoesn’tmatter ifdivorceshredsthemusclesofourheartssothattheywillhardlybeatwithoutastruggle.Itdoesn’tmatteriftrust-fundmoneyisrunningout;ifcreditcardbillsgounpaid on the kitchen counter. It doesn’t matter if there’s a cluster of pill bottles on thebedsidetable.Itdoesn’tmatterifoneofusisdesperately,desperatelyinlove.Somuchinlovethatequallydesperatemeasuresmustbetaken.WeareSinclairs.Nooneisneedy.Nooneiswrong.Welive,atleastinthesummertime,onaprivateislandoffthecoastofMassachusetts.Perhapsthatisallyouneedtoknow.

2

MYFULLNAMEisCadenceSinclairEastman.IliveinBurlington,Vermont,withMummyandthreedogs.Iamnearlyeighteen.Iownawell-usedlibrarycardandnotmuchelse,thoughitistrueIliveinagrandhousefullofexpensive,uselessobjects.Iusedtobeblond,butnowmyhairisblack.Iusedtobestrong,butnowIamweak.Iusedtobepretty,butnowIlooksick.ItistrueIsuffermigrainessincemyaccident.ItistrueIdonotsufferfools.I likeatwistofmeaning.Yousee?Suffermigraines.Donotsuffer fools.Thewordmeansalmostthesameasitdidintheprevioussentence,butnotquite.Suffer.Youcouldsayitmeansendure,butthat’snotexactlyright.

MYSTORYSTARTSbeforetheaccident.JuneofthesummerIwasfifteen,myfatherranoffwithsomewomanhelovedmorethanus.Dadwas amiddling-successful professor ofmilitaryhistory. Back then I adoredhim.Heworetweedjackets.Hewasgaunt.Hedrankmilkytea.Hewasfondofboardgamesandletmewin,fondofboatsandtaughtmetokayak,fondofbicycles,books,andartmuseums.Hewasneverfondofdogs,anditwasasignofhowmuchhelovedmymotherthatheletourgoldenretrieverssleeponthesofasandwalkedthemthreemileseverymorning.Hewasneverfondofmygrandparents,either,anditwasasignofhowmuchhelovedbothmeandMummy that he spent every summer in Windemere House on Beechwood Island, writingarticlesonwarsfoughtlongagoandputtingonasmilefortherelativesateverymeal.ThatJune,summerfifteen,Dadannouncedhewasleavinganddepartedtwodayslater.Hetoldmymotherhewasn’taSinclair,andcouldn’ttrytobeone,anylonger.Hecouldn’tsmile,couldn’tlie,couldn’tbepartofthatbeautifulfamilyinthosebeautifulhouses.Couldn’t.Couldn’t.Wouldn’t.Hehadhiredmovingvansalready.He’drentedahouse,too.MyfatherputalastsuitcaseintothebackseatoftheMercedes(hewasleavingMummywithonlytheSaab),andstartedtheengine.Thenhepulledoutahandgunandshotmeinthechest.IwasstandingonthelawnandIfell.Thebulletholeopenedwideandmyheart rolledoutofmyribcageanddown intoaflowerbed.Bloodgushedrhythmicallyfrommyopenwound,thenfrommyeyes,myears,mymouth.It tasted likesaltand failure.Thebrightredshameofbeingunlovedsoakedthegrass in

frontofourhouse,thebricksofthepath,thestepstotheporch.Myheartspasmedamongthepeonieslikeatrout.Mummysnapped.Shesaidtogetholdofmyself.Benormal,now,shesaid.Rightnow,shesaid.Becauseyouare.Becauseyoucanbe.Don’tcauseascene,shetoldme.Breatheandsitup.Ididwhatsheasked.ShewasallIhadleft.Mummy and I tilted our square chins high as Dad drove down the hill. Then we wentindoorsandtrashedthegiftshe’dgivenus:jewelry,clothes,books,anything.Inthedaysthatfollowed,wegotridofthecouchandarmchairsmyparentshadboughttogether.Tossedtheweddingchina,thesilver,thephotographs.We purchased new furniture. Hired a decorator. Placed an order for Tiffany silverware.Spentadaywalkingthroughartgalleriesandboughtpaintingstocovertheemptyspacesonourwalls.WeaskedGranddad’slawyerstosecureMummy’sassets.ThenwepackedourbagsandwenttoBeechwoodIsland.

3

PENNY,CARRIE,ANDBessarethedaughtersofTipperandHarrisSinclair.Harriscameintohismoneyattwenty-oneafterHarvardandgrewthefortunedoingbusinessIneverbotheredtounderstand.He inheritedhousesand land.Hemade intelligentdecisionsabout thestockmarket.HemarriedTipperandkeptherinthekitchenandthegarden.Heputherondisplayinpearlsandonsailboats.Sheseemedtoenjoyit.Granddad’sonlyfailurewasthatheneverhadason,butnomatter.TheSinclairdaughtersweresunburntandblessed.Tall,merry,andrich, thosegirlswere likeprincesses ina fairytale. Theywere known throughout Boston,Harvard Yard, andMartha’s Vineyard for theircashmerecardigansandgrandparties.Theyweremadeforlegends.MadeforprincesandIvyLeagueschools,ivorystatuesandmajestichouses.Granddad and Tipper loved the girls so, they couldn’t say whom they loved best. FirstCarrie,thenPenny,thenBess,thenCarrieagain.Thereweresplashyweddingswithsalmonandharpists,thenbrightblondgrandchildrenandfunnyblonddogs.NoonecouldeverhavebeenprouderoftheirbeautifulAmericangirlsthanTipperandHarriswere,backthen.Theybuilt threenewhouseson their craggyprivate islandandgave themeachaname:WindemereforPenny,RedGateforCarrie,andCuddledownforBess.IamtheeldestSinclairgrandchild.Heiresstotheisland,thefortune,andtheexpectations.Well,probably.

4

ME,JOHNNY,MIRREN,andGat.Gat,Mirren,Johnny,andme.ThefamilycallsusfourtheLiars,andprobablywedeserveit.Weareallnearlythesameage,andweallhavebirthdaysinthefall.Mostyearsontheisland,we’vebeentrouble.GatstartedcomingtoBeechwoodtheyearwewereeight.Summereight,wecalledit.Beforethat,Mirren,Johnny,andIweren’tLiars.Wewerenothingbutcousins,andJohnnywasapainbecausehedidn’tlikeplayingwithgirls.Johnny,heisbounce,effort,andsnark.BackthenhewouldhangourBarbiesbythenecksorshootuswithgunsmadeofLego.Mirren,sheissugar,curiosity,andrain.BackthenshespentlongafternoonswithTaftandthetwins,splashingatthebigbeach,whileIdrewpicturesongraphpaperandreadinthehammockontheClairmonthouseporch.ThenGatcametospendthesummerswithus.AuntCarrie’shusbandleftherwhenshewaspregnantwithJohnny’sbrother,Will.Idon’tknowwhathappened.Thefamilyneverspeaksofit.Bysummereight,WillwasababyandCarriehadtakenupwithEdalready.ThisEd,hewasanartdealerandheadoredthekids.Thatwasallwe’dheardabouthimwhen Carrie announced she was bringing him to Beechwood, along with Johnny and thebaby.Theywerethelasttoarrivethatsummer,andmostofuswereonthedockwaitingfortheboattopullin.GranddadliftedmeupsoIcouldwaveatJohnny,whowaswearinganorangelifevestandshoutingovertheprow.GrannyTipperstoodnexttous.Sheturnedawayfromtheboatforamoment,reachedinherpocket,andbroughtoutawhitepeppermint.Unwrappeditandtuckeditintomymouth.Asshelookedbackattheboat,Gran’sfacechanged.Isquintedtoseewhatshesaw.CarriesteppedoffwithWillonherhip.Hewasinababy’syellowlifevest,andwasreallynomorethanashockofwhite-blondhairstickingupoverit.Acheerwentupatthesightofhim.Thatvest,whichwehadallwornasbabies.Thehair.Howwonderfulthatthislittleboywedidn’tknowyetwassoobviouslyaSinclair.Johnny leaptoff theboat and threwhisownveston thedock.First thing,he ranup toMirren and kicked her. Then he kicked me. Kicked the twins. Walked over to ourgrandparentsandstoodupstraight.“Goodtoseeyou,GrannyandGranddad.Ilookforwardtoahappysummer.”Tipperhuggedhim.“Yourmothertoldyoutosaythat,didn’tshe?”“Yes,”saidJohnny.“AndI’mtosay,nicetoseeyouagain.”“Goodboy.”“CanIgonow?”Tipperkissedhisfreckledcheek.“Goon,then.”Ed followed Johnny, having stopped to help the staff unload the luggage from themotorboat.Hewastallandslim.Hisskinwasverydark:Indianheritage,we’dlaterlearn.He

wore black-framed glasses andwas dressed in dapper city clothes: a linen suit and stripedshirt.Thepantswerewrinkledfromtraveling.Granddadsetmedown.Granny Tipper’s mouth made a straight line. Then she showed all her teeth and wentforward.“YoumustbeEd.Whatalovelysurprise.”Heshookhands.“Didn’tCarrietellyouwewerecoming?”“Ofcourseshedid.”Edlookedaroundatourwhite,whitefamily.TurnedtoCarrie.“Where’sGat?”Theycalled forhim,andheclimbed from the insideof theboat, takingoffhis lifevest,lookingdowntoundothebuckles.“Mother, Dad,” said Carrie, “we brought Ed’s nephew to play with Johnny. This is GatPatil.”GranddadreachedoutandpattedGat’shead.“Hello,youngman.”“Hello.”“His father passed on, just this year,” explained Carrie. “He and Johnny are the best offriends.It’sabighelptoEd’ssisterifwetakehimforafewweeks.And,Gat?You’llgettohavecookoutsandgoswimminglikewetalkedabout.Okay?”ButGatdidn’tanswer.Hewaslookingatme.Hisnosewasdramatic,hismouth sweet.Skindeepbrown,hairblackandwaving.Bodywiredwithenergy.Gatseemedspring-loaded.Likehewassearchingforsomething.Hewascontemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. I could have looked at himforever.Oureyeslocked.Iturnedandranaway.Gat followed. I could hear his feet behind me on the wooden walkways that cross theisland.Ikeptrunning.Hekeptfollowing.JohnnychasedGat.AndMirrenchasedJohnny.The adults remained talking on the dock, circling politely around Ed, cooing over babyWill.Thelittlesdidwhateverlittlesdo.WefourstoppedrunningatthetinybeachdownbyCuddledownHouse.It’sasmallstretchofsandwithhighrocksoneitherside.Nooneuseditmuch,backthen.Thebigbeachhadsoftersandandlessseaweed.Mirrentookoffhershoesandtherestofusfollowed.Wetossedstonesintothewater.Wejustexisted.Iwroteournamesinthesand.Cadence,Mirren,Johnny,andGat.Gat,Johnny,Mirren,andCadence.Thatwasthebeginningofus.

***

JOHNNYBEGGEDTOhaveGatstaylonger.Hegotwhathewanted.

Thenextyearhebeggedtohavehimcomefortheentiresummer.Gatcame.Johnnywasthefirstgrandson.MygrandparentsalmostneversaidnotoJohnny.

5

SUMMER FOURTEEN, GAT and I took out the small motorboat alone. It was just afterbreakfast.BessmadeMirrenplaytenniswiththetwinsandTaft.Johnnyhadstartedrunningthat year andwas doing loops around the perimeter path.Gat foundme in theClairmontkitchenandasked,didIwanttotaketheboatout?“Notreally.”Iwantedtogobacktobedwithabook.“Please?”Gatalmostneversaidplease.“Takeitoutyourself.”“Ican’tborrowit,”hesaid.“Idon’tfeelright.”“Ofcourseyoucanborrowit.”“Notwithoutoneofyou.”Hewasbeingridiculous.“Wheredoyouwanttogo?”Iasked.“Ijustwanttogetoff-island.SometimesIcan’tstandithere.”Icouldn’timagine,then,whatitwashecouldn’tstand,butIsaidallright.Wemotoredoutto sea in wind jackets and bathing suits. After a bit, Gat cut the engine. We sat eatingpistachiosandbreathingsaltair.Thesunlightshoneonthewater.“Let’sgoin,”Isaid.Gat jumped and I followed, but the water was so much colder than off the beach, itsnatchedourbreath.Thesunwentbehindacloud.Welaughedpanickylaughsandshoutedthat itwas thestupidest idea toget in thewater.Whathadwebeenthinking?Thereweresharksoffthecoast,everybodyknewthat.Don’t talkabout sharks,God!Wescrambledandpushedeachother, struggling tobe thefirstoneuptheladderatthebackoftheboat.Afteraminute,Gatleanedbackandletmegofirst.“Notbecauseyou’reagirlbutbecauseI’magoodperson,”hetoldme.“Thanks.”Istuckoutmytongue.“Butwhenasharkbitesmylegsoff,promisetowriteaspeechabouthowawesomeIwas.”“Done,”Isaid.“GatwickMatthewPatilmadeadeliciousmeal.”It seemedhysterically funny to be so cold.Wedidn’t have towels.Wehuddled togetherunder a fleece blanketwe found under the seats, our bare shoulders touching each other.Coldfeet,ontopofoneanother.“This is only so we don’t get hypothermia,” said Gat. “Don’t think I find you pretty oranything.”“Iknowyoudon’t.”“You’rehoggingtheblanket.”“Sorry.”Apause.Gatsaid,“Idofindyoupretty,Cady.Ididn’tmeanthatthewayitcameout.Infact,whendidyougetsopretty?It’sdistracting.”“Ilookthesameasalways.”

“Youchangedovertheschoolyear.It’sputtingmeoffmygame.”“Youhaveagame?”Henoddedsolemnly.“ThatisthedumbestthingIeverheard.Whatisyourgame?”“Nothingpenetratesmyarmor.Hadn’tyounoticed?”Thatmademelaugh.“No.”“Damn.Ithoughtitwasworking.”Wechangedthesubject.TalkedaboutbringingthelittlestoEdgartowntoseeamovieintheafternoon,aboutsharksandwhethertheyreallyatepeople,aboutPlantsVersusZombies.Thenwedrovebacktotheisland.Notlongafterthat,Gatstartedlendingmehisbooksandfindingmeatthetinybeachintheearlyevenings.He’dsearchmeoutwhen Iwas lyingon theWindemere lawnwith thegoldens.Westartedwalkingtogetheronthepaththatcirclestheisland,Gatinfrontandmebehind.We’dtalkaboutbooksorinventimaginaryworlds.Sometimeswe’dendupwalkingseveraltimesaroundtheedgebeforewegothungryorbored.Beachroseslinedthepath,deeppink.Theirsmellwasfaintandsweet.Oneday I looked atGat, lying in theClairmonthammockwith a book, andhe seemed,well,likehewasmine.Likehewasmyparticularperson.Igotinthehammocknexttohim,silently.Itookthepenoutofhishand—healwaysreadwithapen—andwroteGatonthebackofhisleft,andCadenceonthebackofhisright.Hetookthepenfromme.WroteGatonthebackofmyleft,andCadenceonthebackofmyright.Iamnottalkingaboutfate.Idon’tbelieveindestinyorsoulmatesorthesupernatural.Ijustmeanweunderstoodeachother.Alltheway.Butwewereonlyfourteen. Ihadneverkissedaboy, thoughIwouldkissafewthenextschoolyear,andsomehowwedidn’tlabelitlove.

6

SUMMERFIFTEENIarrivedaweeklaterthantheothers.Dadhadleftus,andMummyandIhadallthatshoppingtodo,consultingthedecoratorandeverything.JohnnyandMirrenmetusatthedock,pinkinthecheeksandfullofsummerplans.Theywerestagingafamilytennistournamentandhadbookmarkedicecreamrecipes.Wewouldgosailing,buildbonfires.Thelittlesswarmedandyelledlikealways.Theauntssmiledchillysmiles.Afterthebustleofarrival,everyonewenttoClairmontforcocktailhour.IwenttoRedGate,lookingforGat.RedGateisamuchsmallerhousethanClairmont,butitstillhasfourbedroomsuptop.It’swhereJohnny,Gat,andWilllivedwithAuntCarrie—plusEd,whenhewasthere,whichwasn’toften.Iwalkedtothekitchendoorandlookedthroughthescreen.Gatdidn’tseemeatfirst.Hewas standing at the counter wearing a worn gray T-shirt and jeans. His shoulders werebroaderthanIremembered.Heuntiedadriedflowerfromwhereithungupsidedownonaribboninthewindowoverthe sink. The flower was a beach rose, pink and loosely constructed, the kind that growsalongtheBeechwoodperimeter.Gat,myGat.Hehadpickedmearosefromourfavoritewalkingplace.Hehadhungittodryandwaitedformetoarriveontheislandsohecouldgiveittome.Ihadkissedanunimportantboyorthreebynow.Ihadlostmydad.IhadcomeheretothisislandfromahouseoftearsandfalsehoodandIsawGat,andIsawthatroseinhishand,andinthatonemoment,withthesunlightfromthewindowshininginonhim,theapplesonthekitchencounter,thesmellofwoodandoceanintheair,Ididcallitlove.Itwaslove,andithitmesohardIleanedagainstthescreendoorthatstillstoodbetweenus, just tostayvertical. Iwantedtotouchhimlikehewasabunny,akitten,somethingsospecialandsoftyourfingertipscan’tleaveitalone.Theuniversewasgoodbecausehewasinit.Ilovedtheholeinhisjeansandthedirtonhisbarefeetandthescabonhiselbowandthescarthatlacedthroughoneeyebrow.Gat,myGat.As I stoodthere,staring,heput therose inanenvelope.Hesearchedforapen,bangingdrawersopenandshut,foundoneinhisownpocket,andwrote.Ididn’t realizehewaswritinganaddressuntilhepulledarollofstamps fromakitchendrawer.Gatstampedtheenvelope.Wroteareturnaddress.Itwasn’tforme.I lefttheRedGatedoorbeforehesawmeandrandowntotheperimeter.Iwatchedthe

darkeningsky,alone.Itorealltherosesoffasinglesadbushandthrewthem,oneaftertheother,intotheangrysea.

7

JOHNNY TOLD ME about the New York girlfriend that evening. Her name was Raquel.Johnnyhadevenmether.He lives inNewYork, likeGatdoes,butdowntownwithCarrieandEd,whileGatlivesuptownwithhismom.JohnnysaidRaquelwasamoderndancerandworeblackclothes.Mirren’s brother, Taft, told me Raquel had sent Gat a package of homemade brownies.LibertyandBonnietoldmeGathadpicturesofheronhisphone.Gatdidn’tmentionheratall,buthehadtroublemeetingmyeyes.That first night, I cried and bitmy fingers and drankwine I snuck from the Clairmontpantry.Ispunviolentlyintothesky,ragingandbangingstarsfromtheirmoorings,swirlingandvomiting.Ihitmyfist intothewallof theshower. Iwashedoff theshameandanger incold,coldwater.ThenIshiveredinmybedliketheabandoneddogthatIwas,myskinshakingovermybones.Thenextmorning,andeverydaythereafter,Iactednormal.Itiltedmysquarechinhigh.Wesailedandmadebonfires.Iwonthetennistournament.Wemadevatsoficecreamandlayinthesun.Onenight,thefourofusateapicnicdownonthetinybeach.Steamedclams,potatoes,andsweetcorn.Thestaffmadeit.Ididn’tknowtheirnames.JohnnyandMirrencarriedthefooddowninmetalroastingpans.Weatearoundtheflamesofourbonfire,drippingbutterontothesand.ThenGatmadetriple-deckers’moresforallofus.Ilookedathishandsinthefirelight,slidingmarshmallowsontoalongstick.Whereoncehe’dhadournameswritten,nowhehad taken towriting the titlesofbookshewanted toread.Thatnight,ontheleft:Beingand.Ontheright:Nothingness.Ihadwritingonmyhands,too.AquotationIliked.Ontheleft:Livein.Ontheright:today.“WanttoknowwhatI’mthinkingabout?”Gatasked.“Yes,”Isaid.“No,”saidJohnny.“I’mwonderinghowwecansayyourgranddadownsthisisland.Notlegallybutactually.”“Pleasedon’tgetstartedontheevilsofthePilgrims,”moanedJohnny.“No. I’m asking, how can we say land belongs to anyone?” Gat waved at the sand, theocean,thesky.Mirrenshrugged.“Peoplebuyandselllandallthetime.”“Can’twetalkaboutsexormurder?”askedJohnny.Gatignoredhim.“Maybelandshouldn’tbelongtopeopleatall.Ormaybethereshouldbelimitsonwhattheycanown.”Heleanedforward.“WhenIwenttoIndiathiswinter,onthatvolunteer trip, we were building toilets. Building them because people there, in this onevillage,didn’thavethem.”“WeallknowyouwenttoIndia,”saidJohnny.“Youtolduslikeforty-seventimes.”

Here is something I loveaboutGat:he is soenthusiastic, sorelentlessly interested in theworld,thathehastroubleimaginingthepossibilitythatotherpeoplewillbeboredbywhathe’ssaying.Evenwhentheytellhimoutright.Butalso,hedoesn’tliketoletusoffeasy.Hewantstomakeusthink—evenwhenwedon’tfeellikethinking.Hepokedastick into theembers.“I’msayingweshould talkabout it.Noteveryonehasprivateislands.Somepeopleworkonthem.Someworkinfactories.Somedon’thavework.Somedon’thavefood.”“Stoptalking,now,”saidMirren.“Stoptalking,forever,”saidJohnny.“We have awarped view of humanity on Beechwood,” Gat said. “I don’t think you seethat.”“Shutup,”Isaid.“I’llgiveyoumorechocolateifyoushutup.”AndGatdidshutup,buthisfacecontorted.Hestoodabruptly,pickeduparockfromthesand,and threw itwithallhis force.Hepulledoffhis sweatshirtandkickedoffhis shoes.Thenhewalkedintotheseainhisjeans.Angry.I watched the muscles of his shoulders in the moonlight, the spray kicking up as hesplashedin.HedoveandIthought:IfIdon’tfollowhimnow,thatgirlRaquel’sgothim.IfIdon’tfollowhimnow,he’llgoaway.FromtheLiars,fromtheisland,fromourfamily,fromme.IthrewoffmysweaterandfollowedGatintotheseainmydress.Icrashedintothewater,swimmingouttowherehelayonhisback.Hiswethairwasslickedoffhisface,showingthethinscarthroughoneeyebrow.Ireachedforhisarm.“Gat.”Hestartled.Stoodinthewaist-highsea.“Sorry,”Iwhispered.“Idon’ttellyoutoshutup,Cady,”hesaid.“Idon’teversaythattoyou.”“Iknow.”Hewassilent.“Pleasedon’tshutup,”Isaid.I felthiseyesgoovermybody inmywetdress. “I talk toomuch,”he said. “Ipoliticizeeverything.”“Ilikeitwhenyoutalk,”Isaid,becauseitwastrue.WhenIstoppedtolisten,Ididlikeit.“It’sthateverythingmakesme…”Hepaused.“Thingsaremessedupintheworld,that’sall.”“Yeah.”“MaybeIshould”—Gattookmyhands,turnedthemovertolookatthewordswrittenonthebacks—“Ishouldlivefortodayandnotbeagitatingallthetime.”Myhandwasinhiswethand.Ishivered.Hisarmswerebareandwet.Weusedtoholdhandsallthetime,buthehadn’ttouchedmeallsummer.“It’sgoodthatyoulookattheworldthewayyoudo,”Itoldhim.Gatletgoofmeandleanedbackintothewater.“Johnnywantsmetoshutup.I’mboringyouandMirren.”

Ilookedathisprofile.Hewasn’tjustGat.Hewascontemplationandenthusiasm.Ambitionandstrongcoffee.Allthatwasthere,inthelidsofhisbrowneyes,hissmoothskin,hislowerlippushedout.Therewascoiledenergyinside.“I’lltellyouasecret,”Iwhispered.“What?”Ireachedoutandtouchedhisarmagain.Hedidn’tpullaway.“WhenwesayShutup,Gat,

thatisn’twhatwemeanatall.”“No?”“Whatwemeanis,weloveyou.Youremindusthatwe’reselfishbastards.You’renotone

ofus,thatway.”Hedroppedhiseyes.Smiled.“Isthatwhatyoumean,Cady?”“Yes,”Itoldhim.Iletmyfingerstraildownhisfloating,outstretchedarm.“Ican’tbelieveyouareinthatwater!”Johnnywasstandingankle-deepintheocean,his

jeansrolledup.“It’stheArctic.Mytoesarefreezingoff.”“It’sniceonceyougetin,”Gatcalledback.“Seriously?”“Don’tbeweak!”yelledGat.“Bemanlyandgetinthestupidwater.”Johnnylaughedandchargedin.Mirrenfollowed.Anditwas—exquisite.Thenightloomingaboveus.Thehumoftheocean.Thebarkofgulls.

8

THATNIGHTIhadtroublesleeping.Aftermidnight,hecalledmyname.Ilookedoutmywindow.GatwaslyingonhisbackonthewoodenwalkwaythatleadstoWindemere.Thegoldenretrieverswerelyingnearhim,allfive:Bosh,Grendel,Poppy,PrincePhilip,andFatima.Theirtailsthumpedgently.Themoonlightmadethemalllookblue.“Comedown,”hecalled.Idid.Mummy’slightwasout.Therestoftheislandwasdark.Wewerealone,exceptforallthedogs.“Scoot,” I told him. Thewalkwaywasn’twide.When I lay downnext to him, our armstouched,minebareandhisinanolive-greenhuntingjacket.Welookedatthesky.Somanystars,itseemedlikeacelebration,agrand,illicitpartythegalaxywasholdingafterthehumanshadbeenputtobed.IwasgladGatdidn’t try tosoundknowledgeableaboutconstellationsor saystupidstuffaboutwishingonstars.ButIdidn’tknowwhattomakeofhissilence,either.“CanIholdyourhand?”heasked.Iputmineinhis.“Theuniverseisseemingreallyhugerightnow,”hetoldme.“Ineedsomethingtoholdonto.”“I’mhere.”Histhumbrubbedthecenterofmypalm.Allmynervesconcentratedthere,alivetoeverymovementofhisskinonmine.“IamnotsureI’magoodperson,”hesaidafterawhile.“I’mnotsureIam,either,”Isaid.“I’mwingingit.”“Yeah.”Gatwassilentforamoment.“DoyoubelieveinGod?”“Halfway.” I tried to think about it seriously. I knew Gat wouldn’t settle for a flippantanswer.“Whenthingsarebad,I’llprayorimaginesomeonewatchingoverme,listening.Likethefirstfewdaysaftermydadleft,IthoughtaboutGod.Forprotection.Buttherestofthetime,I’mtrudgingalonginmyeverydaylife.It’snotevenslightlyspiritual.”“Idon’tbelieveanymore,”Gatsaid.“ThattriptoIndia,thepoverty.NoGodIcanimaginewouldletthathappen.ThenIcamehomeandstartednoticingitonthestreetsofNewYork.Peoplesickandstarvinginoneoftherichestnationsintheworld.Ijust—Ican’tthinkthatanyone’swatchingoverthosepeople.Whichmeansnooneiswatchingoverme,either.”“Thatdoesn’tmakeyouabadperson.”“Mymotherbelieves.ShewasraisedBuddhistbutgoestoMethodistchurchnow.She’snotveryhappywithme.”Gathardlyevertalkedabouthismother.“Youcan’tbelievejustbecauseshetellsyouto,”Isaid.“No.Thequestionis:howtobeagoodpersonifIdon’tbelieveanymore.”Westaredatthesky.ThedogswentintoWindemereviathedogflap.

“You’recold,”Gatsaid.“Letmegiveyoumyjacket.”Iwasn’tcoldbutIsatup.Hesatup,too.Unbuttonedhisolivehuntingjacketandshruggeditoff.Handedittome.Itwaswarmfromhisbody.Muchtoowideacrosstheshoulders.Hisarmswerebarenow.IwantedtokisshimtherewhileIwaswearinghishuntingjacket.ButIdidn’t.MaybehelovedRaquel.Thosephotosonhisphone.Thatdriedbeachroseinanenvelope.

9

AT BREAKFAST THE nextmorning,Mummy askedme to go through Dad’s things in theWindemereatticandtakewhatIwanted.Shewouldgetridoftherest.Windemereisgabledandangular.Twoofthefivebedroomshaveslantedroofs,andit’stheonlyhouseontheislandwithafullattic.There’sabigporchandamodernkitchen,updatedwithmarble countertops that look a little out of place.The roomsare airy and filledwithdogs.Gatand Iclimbedup to theatticwithglassbottlesof iced teaandsaton the floor.Theroomsmelledlikewood.Asquareoflightglowedthroughfromthewindow.Wehadbeenintheatticbefore.Also,wehadneverbeenintheatticbefore.ThebookswereDad’svacationreading.Allsportsmemoirs,cozymysteries,androckstartell-allsbyoldpeopleI’dneverheardof.Gatwasn’treallylooking.Hewassortingthebooksbycolor.Aredpile,ablue,brown,white,yellow.“Don’tyouwantanythingtoread?”Iasked.“Maybe.”“HowaboutFirstBaseandWayBeyond?”Gatlaughed.Shookhishead.Straightenedhisbluepile.“RockOnwithMyBadSelf?HerooftheDanceFloor?”Hewaslaughingagain.Thenserious.“Cadence?”“What?”“Shutup.”Iletmyselflookathimalongtime.Everycurveofhisfacewasfamiliar,andalso,Ihadneverseenhimbefore.Gatsmiled.Shining.Bashful.Hegottohisknees,kickingoverhiscolorfulbookpilesintheprocess.Hereachedoutandstrokedmyhair.“Iloveyou,Cady.Imeanit.”Ileanedinandkissedhim.Hetouchedmyface.Ranhishanddownmyneckandalongmycollarbone.Thelightfromtheatticwindowshonedownonus.Ourkisswaselectricandsoft,andtentativeandcertain,terrifyingandexactlyright.IfelttheloverushfrommetoGatandfromGattome.Wewerewarmandshivering,andyoungandancient,andalive.Iwasthinking,It’strue.Wealreadyloveeachother.Wealreadydo.

10

GRANDDADWALKEDINonus.Gatsprangup.Steppedawkwardlyonthecolor-sortedbooksthathadspilledacrossthefloor.“Iaminterrupting,”Granddadsaid.“No,sir.”“Yes,Imostcertainlyam.”“Sorryaboutthedust,”Isaid.Awkward.“PennythoughttheremightbesomethingI’dliketoread.”Granddadpulledanoldwickerchairtothecenteroftheroomandsatdown,bendingoverthebooks.Gatremainedstanding.Hehadtobendhisheadbeneaththeattic’sslantedroof.“Watchyourself,youngman,”saidGranddad,sharpandsudden.“Pardonme?”“Yourhead.Youcouldgethurt.”“You’reright,”saidGat.“You’reright,Icouldgethurt.”“Sowatchyourself,”Granddadrepeated.Gatturnedandwentdownthestairswithoutanotherword.GranddadandIsatinsilenceforamoment.“Helikestoread,”Isaideventually.“IthoughthemightwantsomeofDad’sbooks.”“You are very dear to me, Cady,” said Granddad, patting my shoulder. “My firstgrandchild.”“Iloveyou,too,Granddad.”“RememberhowItookyoutoabaseballgame?Youwereonlyfour.”“Sure.”“YouhadneverhadCrackerJack,”saidGranddad.“Iknow.Youboughttwoboxes.”“Ihadtoputyouonmylapsoyoucouldsee.Yourememberthat,Cady?”Idid.“Tellme.”IknewthekindofanswerGranddadwantedmetogive. Itwasa requesthemadequiteoften.HelovedretellingkeymomentsinSinclairfamilyhistory,enlargingtheirimportance.Hewasalwaysaskingwhatsomethingmeanttoyou,andyouweresupposedtocomebackwithdetails.Images.Maybealessonlearned.Usually,Iadoredtellingthesestoriesandhearingthemtold.ThelegendarySinclairs,whatfunwe’dhad,howbeautifulwewere.Butthatday,Ididn’twantto.“It was your first baseball game,” Granddad prompted. “Afterward I bought you a redplasticbat.YoupracticedyourswingonthelawnoftheBostonhouse.”DidGranddadknowwhathe’dinterrupted?Wouldhecareifhedidknow?WhenwouldIseeGatagain?WouldhebreakupwithRaquel?Whatwouldhappenbetweenus?

“YouwantedtomakeCrackerJackathome,”Granddadwenton,thoughheknewIknewthe story. “AndPennyhelpedyoumake it. But you criedwhen thereweren’t any red andwhiteboxestoputitin.Doyourememberthat?”“Yes,Granddad,” I said,giving in.“Youwentall thewaybackto theballpark thatsamedayandboughttwomoreboxesofCrackerJack.Youatethemonthedrivehome,justsoyoucouldgivemetheboxes.Iremember.”Satisfied,hestoodupandwelefttheattictogether.Granddadwasshakygoingdownstairs,soheputhishandonmyshoulder.

IFOUNDGATontheperimeterpathandrantowherehestood,lookingoutatthewater.Thewindwascominghardandmyhairflewinmyeyes.WhenIkissedhim,hislipsweresalty.

11

GRANNYTIPPERDIEDofheartfailureeightmonthsbeforesummerfifteenonBeechwood.Shewasastunningwoman,evenwhenshewasold.Whitehair,pinkcheeks;tallandangular.She’s the one who made Mummy love dogs so much. She always had at least two andsometimesfourgoldenretrieverswhenhergirlswerelittle,allthewayuntilshedied.Shewasquicktojudgeandplayedfavorites,butshewasalsowarm.IfyougotupearlyonBeechwood,backwhenweweresmall,youcouldgotoClairmontandwakeGran.She’dhavemuffinbattersittinginthefridge,andwouldpouritintotinsandletyoueatasmanywarmmuffinsasyouwanted,beforetherestoftheislandwokeup.She’dtakeusberrypickingandhelpusmakepieorsomethingshecalledaslumpthatwe’deatthatnight.OneofhercharityprojectswasabenefitpartyeachyearfortheFarmInstituteonMartha’sVineyard.Weallusedtogo.Itwasoutdoors,inbeautifulwhitetents.Thelittleswouldrunaroundwearingpartyclothesandnoshoes.Johnny,Mirren,Gat,andIsnuckglassesofwineand felt giddyand silly.GrandancedwithJohnnyand thenmydad, thenwithGranddad,holdingtheedgeofherskirtwithonehand.IusedtohaveaphotographofGranfromoneofthosebenefitparties.Sheworeaneveninggownandheldapiglet.SummerfifteenonBeechwood,GrannyTipperwasgone.Clairmontfeltempty.Thehouseisathree-storygrayVictorian.Thereisaturretuptopandawraparoundporch.Inside, it is fulloforiginalNewYorker cartoons, family photos, embroideredpillows, smallstatues, ivory paperweights, taxidermied fish on plaques. Everywhere, everywhere, arebeautifulobjectscollectedbyTipperandGranddad.Onthelawnisanenormouspicnictable,big enough to seat sixteen, and a ways off from that, a tire swing hangs from amassivemaple.Granusedtobustleinthekitchenandplanoutings.Shemadequiltsinhercraftroom,andthehumof the sewingmachine couldbeheard throughout thedownstairs. Shebossed thegroundskeepersinhergardeningglovesandbluejeans.Nowthehousewasquiet.Nocookbooksleftopenonthecounter,noclassicalmusiconthekitchensoundsystem.ButitwasstillGran’sfavoritesoapinallthesoapdishes.Thosewereherplantsgrowinginthegarden.Herwoodenspoons,herclothnapkins.One day, when no one else was around, I went into the craft room at the back of theground floor. I touched Gran’s collection of fabrics, the shiny bright buttons, the coloredthreads.Myheadandshouldersmelted first, followedbymyhipsandknees.Before long Iwasapuddle,soakingintotheprettycottonprints.Idrenchedthequiltsheneverfinished,rustedthemetalpartsofhersewingmachine.Iwaspureliquidloss,then,foranhourortwo.Mygrandmother,mygrandmother.Gone forever, though I could smellherChanelperfumeonthefabrics.Mummyfoundme.Shemademeactnormal.BecauseIwas.BecauseIcould.Shetoldmetobreatheandsitup.AndIdidwhatsheasked.Again.

MummywasworriedaboutGranddad.HewasshakyonhisfeetwithGrangone,holdingontochairsandtablestokeephisbalance.Hewastheheadofthefamily.Shedidn’twanthimdestabilized.Shewantedhimtoknowhischildrenandgrandchildrenwerestillaroundhim,strongandmerryasever.Itwasimportant,shesaid;itwaskind;itwasbest.Don’tcausedistress, she said. Don’t remind people of a loss. “Do you understand, Cady? Silence is aprotectivecoatingoverpain.”Iunderstood,andImanagedtoeraseGrannyTipperfromconversation,thesamewayIhaderasedmy father.Not happily, but thoroughly. Atmealswith the aunts, on the boatwithGranddad, even alone withMummy—I behaved as if those two critical people had neverexisted.TherestoftheSinclairsdidthesame.Whenwewerealltogether,peoplekepttheirsmiles wide. We had done the same when Bess left Uncle Brody, the same when UncleWilliamleftCarrie,thesamewhenGran’sdogPeppermilldiedofcancer.Gatnevergotit,though.He’dmentionmyfatherquitealot,actually.DadhadfoundGatboth a decent chess opponent and awilling audience for his boring stories aboutmilitaryhistory, so they’d spent some time together. “Rememberwhen your father caught that bigcrabinabucket?”Gatwouldsay.OrtoMummy:“LastyearSamtoldmethere’safly-fishingkitintheboathouse;doyouknowwhereitis?”Dinnerconversationstoppedsharplywhenhe’dmentionGran.OnceGatsaid,“Imissthewayshe’dstandatthefootofthetableandserveoutdessert,don’tyou?ItwassoTipper.”JohnnyhadtostarttalkingloudlyaboutWimbledonuntilthedismayfadedfromourfaces.EverytimeGatsaidthesethings,socasualandtruthful,sooblivious—myveinsopened.Mywristssplit.Ibleddownmypalms.Iwentlight-headed.I’dstaggerfromthetableorcollapseinquietshamefulagony,hopingnooneinthefamilywouldnotice.EspeciallynotMummy.Gatalmostalwayssaw,though.Whenblooddrippedonmybarefeetorpouredoverthebook Iwasreading,hewaskind.Hewrappedmywrists insoftwhitegauzeandaskedmequestionsaboutwhathadhappened.HeaskedaboutDadandaboutGran—asiftalkingaboutsomethingcouldmakeitbetter.Asifwoundsneededattention.Hewasastrangerinourfamily,evenafterallthoseyears.

WHEN IWASN’Tbleeding,andwhenMirrenandJohnnywere snorkelingorwrangling thelittles,orwheneveryonelayoncoucheswatchingmoviesontheClairmontflat-screen,GatandIhidaway.Wesatonthetireswingatmidnight,ourarmsandlegswrappedaroundeachother, lipswarmagainstcoolnightskin. In themorningswe’dsneak laughingdownto theClairmontbasement,whichwaslinedwithwinebottlesandencyclopedias.Therewekissedandmarveledatoneanother’s existence, feeling secret and lucky. Somedayshewrotemenotesandleftthemwithsmallpresentsundermypillow.

Someoneoncewrotethatanovelshoulddeliveraseriesofsmallastonishments.Igetthesamethingspendinganhourwithyou.Also,hereisagreentoothbrushtiedinaribbon.Itexpressesmyfeelingsinadequately.

Betterthanchocolate,beingwithyoulastnight.Sillyme,Ithoughtthatnothingwasbetterthanchocolate.Inaprofound,symbolicgesture,IamgivingyouthisbarofVosgesIgotwhenweallwenttoEdgartown.Youcaneatit,or

justsitnexttoitandfeelsuperior.

I didn’twrite back, but I drewGat silly crayon drawings of the two of us. Stick figureswavingfrominfrontoftheColosseum,theEiffelTower,ontopofamountain,onthebackofadragon.Hestuckthemupoverhisbed.Hetouchedmewheneverhecould.Beneaththetableatdinner,inthekitchenthemoment

itwasempty.Covertly,hilariously,behindGranddad’sbackwhilehedrovethemotorboat.Ifelt no barrier between us. As long as no one was looking, I ran my fingers along Gat’scheekbones,downhisback.Ireachedforhishand,pressedmythumbagainsthiswrist,andfeltthebloodgoingthroughhisveins.

12

ONENIGHT,LATEJulyofsummerfifteen,Iwentswimmingatthetinybeach.Alone.WherewereGat,Johnny,andMirren?Idon’treallyknow.We had been playing a lot of Scrabble at RedGate. Theywere probably there.Or theycould have been at Clairmont, listening to the aunts argue and eating beach plum jamonwatercrackers.Inanycase, Iwent into thewaterwearingacamisole,bra,andunderwear.Apparently Iwalkeddowntothebeachwearingnothingmore.Weneverfoundanyofmyclothesonthesand.Notowel,either.Why?Again,Idon’treallyknow.Imust have swum out far. There are big rocks in off the shore, craggy and black; theyalwayslookvillainousinthedarkoftheevening.Imusthavehadmyfaceinthewaterandthenhitmyheadononeoftheserocks.LikeIsaid,Idon’tknow.Irememberonlythis:Iplungeddownintothisocean,downtorockyrockybottom,andIcouldseethebaseofBeechwoodIslandandmyarmsandlegsfeltnumbbutmyfingerswerecold.SlicesofseaweedwentpastasIfell.Mummy foundme on the sand, curled into a ball and half underwater. Iwas shiveringuncontrollably.Adultswrappedmeinblankets.TheytriedtogetmewarmatCuddledown.Theyfedmeteaandgavemeclothes,butwhenIdidn’ttalkorstopshivering,theybroughtme to a hospital onMartha’sVineyard,where I stayed for several days as the doctors rantests.Hypothermia,respiratoryproblems,andmostlikelysomekindofheadinjury,thoughthebrainscansturnedupnothing.Mummy stayed by my side, got a hotel room. I remember the sad, gray faces of AuntCarrie,AuntBess,andGranddad.Iremembermylungsfeltfullofsomething,longafterthedoctorsjudgedthemclear.IrememberIfeltlikeI’dnevergetwarmagain,evenwhentheytoldmemybodytemperaturewasnormal.Myhandshurt.Myfeethurt.Mummy took me home to Vermont to recuperate. I lay in bed in the dark and feltdesperatelysorryformyself.BecauseIwassick,andevenmorebecauseGatnevercalled.Hedidn’twrite,either.Weren’tweinlove?Weren’twe?IwrotetoJohnny,twoorthreestupid,lovesickemailsaskinghimtofindoutaboutGat.Johnnyhadthegoodsensetoignorethem.WeareSinclairs,afterall,andSinclairsdonotbehavelikeIwasbehaving.Istoppedwritinganddeletedalltheemailsfrommysentmailfolder.Theywereweakandstupid.

Thebottomlineis,GatbailedwhenIgothurt.Thebottomlineis,itwasonlyasummerfling.Thebottomlineis,hemighthavelovedRaquel.Welivedtoofarapart,anyway.Ourfamiliesweretooclose,anyway.Inevergotanexplanation.Ijustknowheleftme.

13

WELCOMETOMYskull.Atruckisrollingoverthebonesofmyneckandhead.Thevertebraebreak,thebrainspopandooze.Athousandflashlightsshineinmyeyes.Theworldtilts.Ithrowup.Iblackout.Thishappensallthetime.It’snothingbutanordinaryday.Thepain startedsixweeksaftermyaccident.Nobodywascertainwhether the twowererelated,buttherewasnodenyingthevomitingandweightlossandgeneralhorror.MummytookmeforMRIsandCTscans.Needles,machines.Moreneedles,moremachines.Theytestedmeforbraintumors,meningitis,younameit.Torelievethepaintheyprescribedthisdrugandthatdrugandanotherdrug,becausethefirstonedidn’tworkandthesecondonedidn’twork,either.Theygavemeprescriptionafterprescriptionwithoutevenknowingwhatwaswrong.Justtryingtoquellthepain.Cadence,saidthedoctors,don’ttaketoomuch.Cadence,saidthedoctors,watchforsignsofaddiction.Andstill,Cadence,besuretotakeyourmeds.There were somany appointments I can’t even remember them. Eventually the doctorscame through with a diagnosis. Cadence Sinclair Eastman: post-traumatic headaches, alsoknownasPTHA.Migraineheadachescausedbytraumaticbraininjury.I’llbefine,theytellme.Iwon’tdie.It’lljusthurtalot.

14

AFTERAYEARinColorado,Dadwantedtoseemeagain.Infact,heinsistedontakingmetoItaly,France,Germany,Spain,andScotland—aten-weektripbeginninginmid-June,whichmeantIwouldn’tgotoBeechwoodatall,summersixteen.“Thetripisgrandtiming,”saidMummybrightlyasshepackedmysuitcase.“Why?”Ilayonthefloorofmybedroomandletherdothework.Myheadhurt.“Granddad’sredoingClairmont.”Sherolledsocksintoballs.“Itoldyouthatamilliontimesalready.”Ididn’tremember.“Howcome?”“Someideaofhis.He’sspendingthesummerinWindemere.”“Withyouwaitingonhim?”Mummynodded.“Hecan’tstaywithBessorCarrie.Andyouknowhetakeslookingafter.Anyway.You’llgetawonderfuleducationinEurope.”“I’drathergotoBeechwood.”“No,youwouldn’t,”shesaid,firm.

IN EUROPE, I vomited into small buckets and brushed my teeth repeatedly with chalkyBritish toothpaste. I layproneon thebathroomfloorsof severalmuseums, feeling thecoldtileunderneathmycheekasmybrainliquefiedandseepedoutmyear,bubbling.Migrainesleftmy blood spreading across unfamiliar hotel sheets, dripping on the floors, oozing intocarpets,soakingthroughleftovercroissantsandItalianlacecookies.IcouldhearDadcallingme,butIneveranswereduntilmymedicinetookeffect.ImissedtheLiarsthatsummer.Weneverkeptintouchovertheschoolyear.Notmuch,anyway,thoughwe’dtriedwhenwewereyounger.We’d text,or tageachother in summerphotos,especially inSeptember,butwe’dinevitablyfadeoutafteramonthorso.Somehow,Beechwood’smagicnevercarriedover into our everyday lives. We didn’t want to hear about school friends and clubs andsportsteams.Instead,weknewouraffectionwouldrevivewhenwesawoneanotheronthedockthefollowingJune,saltsprayintheair,palesunglintingoffthewater.Buttheyearaftermyaccident,Imisseddaysandevenweeksofschool.Ifailedmyclasses,and the principal informed me I would have to repeat junior year. I stopped soccer andtennis.Icouldn’tbabysit.Icouldn’tdrive.ThefriendsI’dhadweakenedintoacquaintances.ItextedMirrenafewtimes.CalledandlefthermessagesthatlaterIwasashamedof,theyweresolonelyandneedy.IcalledJohnny,too,buthisvoicemailwasfull.Idecidednottocallagain.Ididn’twanttokeepsayingthingsthatmademefeelweak.When Dad tookme to Europe, I knew the Liars were on-island. Granddad hasn’t wiredBeechwood and cell phones don’t get reception there, so I beganwriting emails. Differentfrommypitiful voicemessages, thesewere charming,darlingnotes fromapersonwithoutheadaches.

Mostly.

Mirren!WavingatyoufromBarcelona,wheremyfatheratesnailsinbroth.Ourhotelhasgoldeverything.Evensaltshakers.Itisgloriouslyvile.Writeandtellmehowthelittlesaremisbehavingandwhereyouareapplyingtocollegeandwhetheryouhavefound

truelove./Cadence

•••

Johnny!

BonjourfromParis,wheremyfatherateafrog.IsawtheWingedVictory.Phenomenalbody.Noarms.Missyouguys.HowisGat?

/Cadence

•••

Mirren!

Hello fromacastle inScotland,wheremy fatherateahaggis.That is,my fatherate theheart, liver,and lungsofasheepmixedwithoatmealandboiledinasheepstomach.So,youknow,heisthesortofpersonwhoeatshearts.

/Cadence

•••

Johnny!

IaminBerlin,wheremyfatherateabloodsausage.Snorkelforme.Eatblueberrypie.Playtennis.Buildabonfire.Thenreportback.Iamdesperatelyboredandwilldevise

creativepunishmentsifyoudonotcomply./Cadence

IWASN’T ENTIRELY surprised they didn’t answer. Besides the fact that to get online youhavetogototheVineyard,Beechwoodisverymuchitsownworld.Onceyouarethere,therestoftheuniverseseemsnothingbutanunpleasantdream.Europemightnotevenexist.

15

WELCOME,ONCEAGAIN,tothebeautifulSinclairfamily.Webelieveinoutdoorexercise.Webelievethattimeheals.Webelieve,althoughwewillnot saysoexplicitly, inprescriptiondrugsand thecocktailhour.Wedonotdiscussourproblems inrestaurants.Wedonotbelieve indisplaysofdistress.Ourupperlipsarestiff,anditispossiblepeoplearecuriousaboutusbecausewedonotshowthemourhearts.Itispossiblethatweenjoythewaypeoplearecuriousaboutus.Here in Burlington, it’s just me,Mummy, and the dogs now.We haven’t the weight ofGranddadinBostonortheimpactofthewholefamilyonBeechwood,butIknowhowpeopleseeusnonetheless.MummyandIaretwoofakind,inthebighousewiththeporchatthetopofthehill.Thewillowymotherandthesicklydaughter.Wearehighofcheekbone,broadofshoulder.Wesmileandshowourteethwhenwerunerrandsintown.Thesicklydaughterdoesn’ttalkmuch.Peoplewhoknowheratschooltendtokeepaway.Theydidn’tknowherwellbeforeshegotsickanyway.Shewasquieteventhen.Nowshemissesschoolhalfthetime.Whenshe’sthere,herpaleskinandwateryeyesmakeherlookglamorouslytragic,likealiteraryheroinewastingfromconsumption.Sometimesshefallsdownatschool,crying.Shefrightenstheotherstudents.Eventhekindestonesaretiredofwalkinghertothenurse’soffice.Still,shehasanauraofmysterythatstopsherfrombeingteasedorsingledoutfortypicalhighschoolunpleasantness.HermotherisaSinclair.Ofcourse,Ifeelnosenseofmyownmysteryeatingacanofchickensouplateatnight,orlying in the fluorescent light of the school nurse’s office. It is hardly glamorous the wayMummyandIquarrelnowthatDadisgone.Iwaketofindherstandinginmybedroomdoorway,staring.“Don’thover.”“Iloveyou.I’mtakingcareofyou,”shesays,herhandonherheart.“Well,stopit.”IfIcouldshutmydooronher,Iwould.ButIcannotstandup.Often I find notes lying around that appear to be records ofwhat foods I’ve eaten on aparticularday:Toastandjam,butonly1/2;appleandpopcorn;saladwithraisins;chocolatebar;pasta.Hydration?Protein?Toomuchgingerale.ItisnotglamorousthatIcan’tdriveacar.ItisnotmysterioustobehomeonaSaturdaynight,readinganovelinapileofsmellygoldenretrievers.However,Iamnotimmunetothefeeling of being viewed as a mystery, as a Sinclair, as part of a privileged clan of specialpeople,andaspartofamagical,importantnarrative,justbecauseIampartofthisclan.Mymotherisnotimmunetoit,either.Thisiswhowehavebeenbroughtuptobe.Sinclairs.Sinclairs.

16

WHENIWASeight,Dadgavemeastackoffairy-talebooksforChristmas.Theycamewithcoloredcovers:TheYellowFairyBook,TheBlueFairyBook,TheCrimson,TheGreen,TheGray,TheBrown,andTheOrange.Insideweretalesfromallovertheworld,variationsonvariationsoffamiliarstories.Readthemandyouhearechoesofonestoryinsideanother,thenechoesofanotherinsidethat.Somanyhavethesamepremise:onceuponatime,therewerethree.Threeofsomething:threepigs,threebears,threebrothers,threesoldiers,threebillygoats.Threeprincesses.SinceIgotbackfromEurope,Ihavebeenwritingsomeofmyown.Variations.Ihavetimeonmyhands,soletmetellyouastory.Avariation,Iamsaying,ofastoryyouhaveheardbefore.

ONCEUPONAtimetherewasakingwhohadthreebeautifuldaughters.Ashegrewold,hebegantowonderwhichshouldinherit thekingdom,sincenonehadmarriedandhehadnoheir.Thekingdecidedtoaskhisdaughterstodemonstratetheirloveforhim.Totheeldestprincesshesaid,“Tellmehowyouloveme.”Shelovedhimasmuchasallthetreasureinthekingdom.Tothemiddleprincesshesaid,“Tellmehowyouloveme.”Shelovedhimwiththestrengthofiron.Totheyoungestprincesshesaid,“Tellmehowyouloveme.”Thisyoungestprincessthoughtforalongtimebeforeanswering.Finallyshesaidshelovedhimasmeatlovessalt.“Thenyoudonotlovemeatall,”thekingsaid.Hethrewhisdaughterfromthecastleandhadthebridgedrawnupbehindhersothatshecouldnotreturn.Now,thisyoungestprincessgoesintotheforestwithnotsomuchasacoatoraloafofbread.Shewandersthroughahardwinter,takingshelterbeneathtrees.Shearrivesataninnandgetshiredasassistant to the cook.As the days andweeks go by, the princess learns theways of the kitchen.Eventuallyshesurpassesheremployerinskillandherfoodisknownthroughouttheland.Yearspass,andtheeldestprincesscomestobemarried.Forthefestivities,thecookfromtheinnmakestheweddingmeal.Finallyalargeroastpigisserved.It istheking’sfavoritedish,butthistimeithasbeencookedwithnosalt.Thekingtastesit.Tastesitagain.

“Whowoulddaretoservesuchanill-cookedroastatthefuturequeen’swedding?”hecries.Theprincess-cookappearsbeforeherfather,butsheissochangedhedoesnotrecognizeher.“Iwould not serve you salt, Your Majesty,” she explains. “For did you not exile your youngestdaughterforsayingthatitwasofvalue?”Atherwords,thekingrealizesthatnotonlyisshehisdaughter—sheis,infact,thedaughterwholoveshimbest.Andwhatthen?Theeldestdaughterand themiddle sisterhavebeen livingwith thekingall this time.Onehasbeeninfavoroneweek,theotherthenext.Theyhavebeendrivenapartbytheirfather’sconstantcomparisons.Nowtheyoungesthasreturned,thekingyanksthekingdomfromhiseldest,whohasjustbeenmarried.Sheisnottobequeenafterall.Theeldersistersrage.At first, the youngest basks in fatherly love. Before long, however, she realizes the king isdementedandpower-mad.Sheistobequeen,butsheisalsostucktendingtoacrazyoldtyrantfortherestofherdays.Shewillnotleavehim,nomatterhowsickhebecomes.Doesshestaybecausesheloveshimasmeatlovessalt?Ordoesshestaybecausehehasnowpromisedherthekingdom?Itishardforhertotellthedifference.

17

THEFALLAFTERtheEuropeantrip,Istartedaproject.Igiveawaysomethingofmineeveryday.ImailedMirren an oldBarbiewith extra-long hair, oneweused to fight overwhenwewerekids.ImailedJohnnyastripedscarfIusedtowearalot.Johnnylikesstripes.For the old people inmy family—Mummy, the aunties, Granddad—the accumulation ofbeautifulobjectsisalifegoal.Whoeverdieswiththemoststuffwins.Winswhat?iswhatI’dliketoknow.Iusedtobeapersonwholikedprettythings.LikeMummydoes,likealltheSinclairsdo.Butthat’snotmeanymore.Mummy has our Burlington house filled with silver and crystal, coffee-table books andcashmereblankets.Thickrugscovereveryfloor,andpaintingsfromseverallocalartistsshepatronizes lineourwalls. She likes antique chinaanddisplays it in thedining room.She’sreplacedtheperfectlydrivableSaabwithaBMW.Notoneofthesesymbolsofprosperityandtastehasanyuseatall.“Beauty is a validuse,”Mummyargues. “It creates a senseofplace, a senseofpersonalhistory.Pleasure,even,Cadence.Haveyoueverheardofpleasure?”ButIthinkshe’slying,tomeandtoherself,aboutwhysheownstheseobjects.ThejoltofanewpurchasemakesMummyfeelpowerful, ifonly foramoment. I thinkthere isstatus tohavingahousefullofprettythings,tobuyingexpensivepaintingsofseashellsfromherartyfriendsandspoonsfromTiffany’s.AntiquesandOrientalrugstellpeoplethatmymothermaybe a dog breederwho dropped out of BrynMawr, but she’s got power—because she’s gotmoney.

GIVEAWAY:MYBEDpillow.IcarryitwhileIrunerrands.Thereisagirlleaningagainstthewalloutsidethelibrary.Shehasacardboardcupbyheranklesforsparechange.SheisnotmucholderthanIam.“Doyouwantthispillow?”Iask.“Iwashedthepillowcase.”Shetakesitandsitsonit.Mybedisuncomfortablethatnight,butit’sforthebest.

GIVEAWAY:PAPERBACKCOPYofKingLearIreadforschoolsophomoreyear,foundunderthebed.Donatedtothepubliclibrary.Idon’tneedtoreaditagain.

GIVEAWAY: A PHOTO of Granny Tipper at the Farm Institute party, wearing an evening

dressandholdingapiglet.IstopbyGoodwillonmywayhome.“Heythere,Cadence,”saysPattibehindthecounter.“Justdroppingoff?”“ThiswasmyGran.”“Shewasabeautifullady,”saysPatti,peering.“Yousureyoudon’twanttotakethephotoout?Youcoulddonatejusttheframe.”“I’msure.”Granisdead.Havingapictureofherwon’tchangeanything.

“DIDYOUGO byGoodwill again?”Mummyaskswhen I get home. She is slicing peacheswithaspecialfruitknife.“Yeah.”“Whatdidyougetridof?”“JustanoldpictureofGran.”“Withthepiglet?”Hermouthtwitches.“Oh,Cady.”“Itwasminetogiveaway.”Mummysighs.“Yougiveawayoneofthedogsandyouwillneverheartheendofit.”I squatdown todogheight.Bosh,Grendel,andPoppygreetmewith soft, indoorwoofs.They’reourfamilydogs,portlyandwell-behaved.Purebredgoldens.Poppyhadseverallittersformymother’sbusiness,but thepuppiesand theotherbreedingdogs livewithMummy’spartneratafarmoutsideBurlington.“Iwouldnever,”Isay.IwhisperhowIlovethemintotheirsoftdoggyears.

18

IF I GOOGLE traumatic brain injury, most websites tell me selective amnesia is aconsequence.When there’s damage to thebrain, it’s notuncommon for apatient to forgetstuff.Shewillbeunabletopiecetogetheracoherentstoryofthetrauma.ButIdon’twantpeopletoknowI’mlikethis.Stilllikethis,afteralltheappointmentsandscansandmedicines.Idon’twanttobelabeledwithadisability.Idon’twantmoredrugs.Idon’twantdoctorsorconcernedteachers.Godknows,I’vehadenoughdoctors.WhatIremember,fromthesummeroftheaccident:FallinginlovewithGatattheRedGatekitchendoor.HisbeachroseforRaquelandmywine-soakednight,spinninginanger.Actingnormal.Makingicecream.Playingtennis.Thetriple-deckers’moresandGat’sangerwhenwetoldhimtoshutup.Nightswimming.KissingGatintheattic.HearingtheCrackerJackstoryandhelpingGranddaddownthestairs.Thetireswing,thebasement,theperimeter.GatandIinoneanother’sarms.Gatseeingmebleed.Askingmequestions.Dressingmywounds.Idon’tremembermuchelse.I can see Mirren’s hand, her chipped gold nail polish, holding a jug of gas for themotorboats.Mummy,herfacetight,asking,“Theblackpearls?”Johnny’sfeet,runningdownthestairsfromClairmonttotheboathouse.Granddad,holdingontoatree,hisfacelitbytheglowofabonfire.AndallfourofusLiars,laughingsohardwefeltdizzyandsick.Butwhatwassofunny?Whatwasitandwherewerewe?Idonotknow.IusedtoaskMummywhenIdidn’tremembertherestofsummerfifteen.Myforgetfulnessfrightened me. I’d suggest stopping my meds, or trying new meds, or seeing a differentphysician. I’d beg to knowwhat I’d forgotten. Then one day in late fall—the fall I spentundergoing tests fordeath-sentence illnesses—Mummybegantocry.“Youaskmeoverandover.YouneverrememberwhatIsay.”“I’msorry.”Shepouredherselfaglassofwineasshetalked.“Youbeganaskingmethedayyouwokein thehospital. ‘Whathappened?Whathappened?’ I toldyou the truth,Cadence, I alwaysdid,andyou’drepeatitbacktome.Butthenextdayyou’daskagain.”“I’msorry,”Isaidagain.“Youstillaskmealmosteveryday.”Itistrue,Ihavenomemoryofmyaccident.Idon’trememberwhathappenedbeforeandafter. I don’t remember my doctor’s visits. I knew they must have happened, because of

coursetheyhappened—andhereIamwithadiagnosisandmedications—butnearlyallmymedicaltreatmentisablank.I looked at Mummy. At her infuriatingly concerned face, her leaking eyes, the tipsyslacknessofhermouth.“Youhavetostopasking,”shesaid.“Thedoctorsthinkit’sbetterifyourememberonyourown,anyway.”Imadeher tellmeone last time,and Iwrotedownheranswers so I could lookbackatthemwhen Iwanted to.That’swhy I can tell youabout thenight-swimmingaccident, therocks,thehypothermia,respiratorydifficulty,andtheunconfirmedtraumaticbraininjury.Ineveraskedheranythingagain.There’salotIdon’tunderstand,butthiswayshestaysprettysober.

19

DADPLANSTOtakemetoAustraliaandNewZealandforthewholeofsummerseventeen.Idon’twanttogo.I want to return to Beechwood. I want to see Mirren and lie in the sun, planning ourfutures.IwanttoarguewithJohnnyandgosnorkelingandmakeicecream.Iwanttobuildbonfiresontheshoreofthetinybeach.IwanttopileinthehammockontheClairmontporchandbetheLiarsonceagain,ifit’spossible.Iwanttoremembermyaccident.IwanttoknowwhyGatdisappeared.Idon’tknowwhyhewasn’twithme,swimming.Idon’tknowwhyIwent to the tinybeachalone.WhyI swaminmyunderwearand leftnoclothesonthesand.AndwhyhebailedwhenIgothurt.Iwonderifhelovedme.IwonderifhelovedRaquel.DadandIaresupposedtoleaveforAustraliainfivedays.Ishouldneverhaveagreedtogo.Imakemyselfwretched,sobbing.ItellMummyIdon’tneedtoseetheworld.Ineedtoseefamily.ImissGranddad.No.I’llbesickifItraveltoAustralia.Myheadacheswillexplode,Ishouldn’tgetonaplane.Ishouldn’teatstrangefood.Ishouldn’tbejet-lagged.Whatifwelosemymedication?Stoparguing.Thetripispaidfor.Iwalkthedogsintheearlymorning.Iloadthedishwasherandlaterunloadit.Iputonadress and rubblusher intomy cheeks. I eat everythingonmyplate. I letMummyputherarmsaroundmeandstrokemyhair.ItellherIwanttospendthesummerwithher,notDad.Please.Thenextday,GranddadcomestoBurlingtontostayintheguestroom.He’sbeenontheislandsincemid-Mayandhastotakeaboat,acar,andaplanetogethere.Hehasn’tcometovisitussincebeforeGrannyTipperdied.MummypickshimupattheairportwhileIstayhomeandsetthetableforsupper.She’spickeduproastchickenandsidedishesatagourmetshopintown.GranddadhaslostweightsinceIsawhimlast.Hiswhitehairstandsoutinpuffsaroundhisears,tufty;helookslikeababybird.Hisskinisbaggyonhisframe,andhehasapotbelliedslump that’s not how I remember him. He always seemed invincible, with firm, broadshouldersandlotsofteeth.Granddadisthesortofpersonwhohasmottos.“Don’ttakenoforananswer,”healwayssaystous.And“Nevertakeaseatinthebackoftheroom.Winnerssitupfront.”We Liars used to roll our eyes at these pronouncements—“Be decisive; no one likes awaffler”;“Nevercomplain,neverexplain”—butwestillsawhimasfullofwisdomongrown-uptopics.Granddadiswearingmadrasshortsandloafers.Hislegsarespindlyold-manlegs.Hepatsmybackanddemandsascotchandsoda.

WeeatandhetalksaboutsomefriendsofhisinBoston.ThenewkitcheninhisBeechwoodhouse. Nothing important. Afterward, Mummy cleans up while I show him the backyardgarden.Theeveningsunisstillout.Granddadpicksapeonyandhandsittome.“Formyfirstgrandchild.”“Don’tpicktheflowers,okay?”“Pennywon’tmind.”“Yes,shewill.”“Cadencewas the first,” he says, looking up at the sky, not intomy eyes. “I rememberwhenshecametovisitusinBoston.Shewasdressedinapinkrompersuitandherhairstuckupstraightoffherhead.Johnnywasn’tborntillthreeweekslater.”“I’mrighthere,Granddad.”“Cadencewasthefirst,anditdidn’tmatterthatshewasagirl.Iwouldgivehereverything.Justlikeagrandson.Icarriedherinmyarmsanddanced.Shewasthefutureofourfamily.”Inod.“WecouldseeshewasaSinclair.Shehadthathair,butitwasn’tonlythat.Itwasthechin,thetinyhands.Weknewshe’dbetall.AllofusweretalluntilBessmarriedthatshortfellow,andCarriemadethesamemistake.”“YoumeanBrodyandWilliam.”“Good riddance, eh?” Granddad smiles. “All our people were tall. Did you know mymother’ssideofthefamilycameoverontheMayflower?TomakethislifeinAmerica.”Iknowit’snotimportantifourpeoplecameoverontheMayflower.It’snotimportanttobetall.Orblond.ThatiswhyIdyedmyhair:Idon’twanttobetheeldest.Heiresstotheisland,thefortune,andtheexpectations.Butthenagain,perhapsIdo.Granddadhashadtoomuchtodrinkafteralongtravelday.“Shallwegoinside?”Iask.“Youwanttositdown?”Hepicksasecondpeonyandhandsittome.“Forforgiveness,mydear.”Ipathimonhishunchedback.“Don’tpickanymore,okay?”Granddadbendsdownandtouchessomewhitetulips.“Seriously,don’t,”Isay.Hepicksathirdpeony,sharply,defiantly.Handsittome.“YouaremyCadence.Thefirst.”“Yes.”“Whathappenedtoyourhair?”“Icoloredit.”“Ididn’trecognizeyou.”“That’sokay.”Granddadpointstothepeonies,nowall inmyhand.“Threeflowers foryou.Youshouldhavethree.”Helookspitiful.Helookspowerful.Ilovehim,butIamnotsureIlikehim.Itakehishandandleadhiminside.

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ONCEUPONAtime,therewasakingwhohadthreebeautifuldaughters.Helovedeachofthemdearly.Oneday,whentheyoungladieswereofagetobemarried,aterrible,three-headeddragonlaidsiegetothekingdom,burningvillageswithfierybreath.Itspoiledcropsandburnedchurches.Itkilledbabies,oldpeople,andeveryoneinbetween.The king promised a princess’s hand in marriage to whoever slayed the dragon. Heroes andwarriorscameinsuitsofarmor,ridingbravehorsesandbearingswordsandarrows.Onebyone,thesemenwereslaughteredandeaten.Finally the king reasoned that a maiden might melt the dragon’s heart and succeed wherewarriorshadfailed.Hesenthiseldestdaughtertobegthedragonformercy,butthedragonlistenedtonotawordofherpleas.Itswallowedherwhole.Thenthekingsenthisseconddaughtertobegthedragonformercy,butthedragondidthesame.Swallowedherbeforeshecouldgetawordout.Thekingthensenthisyoungestdaughtertobegthedragonformercy,andshewassolovelyandcleverthathewassureshewouldsucceedwheretheothershadperished.Noindeed.Thedragonsimplyateher.Thekingwasleftachingwithregret.Hewasnowaloneintheworld.Now,letmeaskyouthis.Whokilledthegirls?Thedragon?Ortheirfather?

AFTERGRANDDADLEAVESthenextday,MummycallsDadandcancelstheAustraliatrip.Thereisyelling.Thereisnegotiation.EventuallytheydecideIwillgotoBeechwoodforfourweeksofthesummer,thenvisitDadat his home in Colorado, where I’ve never been. He insists. He will not lose the wholesummerwithmeortherewillbelawyersinvolved.Mummyringstheaunts.Shehaslong,privateconversationswiththemontheporchofourhouse. I can’thearanythingexcepta fewphrases:Cadence is so fragile,needs lotsof rest.Only four weeks, not the whole summer. Nothing should disturb her, the healing is verygradual.Also,pinotgrigio,Sancerre,maybesomeRiesling;definitelynochardonnay.

21

MYROOMISnearlyemptynow.Therearesheetsandacomforteronmybed.Alaptoponmydesk,afewpens.Achair.I own a couple pairs of jeans and shorts. I have T-shirts and flannel shirts, somewarmsweaters;abathingsuit,apairofsneakers,apairofCrocs,andapairofboots.Twodressesandsomeheels.Warmcoat,huntingjacket,andcanvasduffel.Theshelvesarebare.Nopictures,noposters.Nooldtoys.

GIVEAWAY:ATRAVELtoothbrushkitMummyboughtmeyesterday.I alreadyhavea toothbrush. Idon’t knowwhy shewouldbuymeanother.Thatwomanbuysthingsjusttobuythings.It’sdisgusting.Iwalkovertothelibraryandfindthegirlwhotookmypillow.She’sstillleaningagainsttheoutsidewall.Isetthetoothbrushkitinhercup.

GIVEAWAY: GAT’S OLIVE hunting jacket. The one I wore that night we held hands andlookedatthestarsandtalkedaboutGod.Ineverreturnedit.Ishouldhavegivenitawayfirstofeverything.Iknowthat.ButIcouldn’tmakemyself.ItwasallIhadleftofhim.Butthatwasweakandfoolish.Gatdoesn’tloveme.Idon’tlovehim,either,andmaybeIneverdid.I’llseehimdayaftertomorrowandIdon’tlovehimandIdon’twanthisjacket.

22

THE PHONE RINGS at ten the night before we leave for Beechwood. Mummy is in theshower.Ipickup.Heavybreathing.Thenalaugh.“Whoisthis?”“Cady?”It’sakid,Irealize.“Yes.”“ThisisTaft.”Mirren’sbrother.Hehasnomanners.“Howcomeyou’reawake?”“Isittrueyou’readrugaddict?”Taftasksme.“No.”“Areyousure?”“You’recallingtoaskifI’madrugaddict?”Ihaven’ttalkedtoTaftsincemyaccident.“We’reonBeechwood,”hesays.“Wegotherethismorning.”Iamgladhe’schangingthesubject.Imakemyvoicebright.“We’recomingtomorrow.Isitnice?Didyougoswimmingyet?”“No.”“Didyougoonthetireswing?”“No,”saysTaft.“Areyousureyou’renotadrugaddict?”“Wheredidyouevengetthatidea?”“Bonnie.ShesaysIshouldwatchoutforyou.”“Don’tlistentoBonnie,”Isay.“ListentoMirren.”“That’s what I’m talking about. But Bonnie’s the only one who believes me aboutCuddledown,”hesays.“AndIwantedtocallyou.Onlynot ifyou’readrugaddictbecausedrugaddictsdon’tknowwhat’sgoingon.”“I’mnotadrugaddict,youpipsqueak,”Isay.ThoughpossiblyIamlying.“Cuddledownishaunted,”saysTaft.“CanIcomeandsleepwithyouatWindemere?”IlikeTaft.Ido.He’sslightlybonkersandcoveredwithfrecklesandMirrenloveshimwaymorethanshelovesthetwins.“It’snothaunted.Thewindjustblowsthroughthehouse,”Isay.“ItblowsthroughWindemere,too.Thewindowsrattle.”“Itistoo,haunted,”Taftsays.“Mummydoesn’tbelievemeandneitherdoesLiberty.”When he was younger he was always the kid who thought there were monsters in thecloset.Laterhewasconvincedtherewasaseamonsterunderthedock.“AskMirrentohelpyou,”Itellhim.“She’llreadyouabedtimestoryorsingtoyou.”“Youthinkso?”“Shewill. Andwhen I get there I’ll take you tubing and snorkeling and it’ll be a grandsummer,Taft.”“Okay,”hesays.“Don’tbescaredofstupidoldCuddledown,”Itellhim.“Showitwho’sbossandI’llseeyoutomorrow.”

Hehangsupwithoutsayinggoodbye.

23

INWOODSHOLE,theporttown,MummyandIletthegoldensoutofthecaranddragourbagsdowntowhereAuntCarrieisstandingonthedock.CarriegivesMummyalonghugbeforeshehelpsusloadourbagsandthedogsintothebigmotorboat.“You’remorebeautifulthanever,”shesays.“AndthankGodyou’rehere.”“Oh,quiet,”saysMummy.“Iknowyou’vebeensick,”Carriesaystome.Sheisthetallestofmyaunts,andtheeldestSinclairdaughter.Hersweaterislongandcashmere.Thelinesonthesidesofhermoutharedeep.She’swearingsomeancientjadejewelrythatbelongedtoGran.“NothingwrongwithmethataPercocetandacoupleslugsofvodkadoesn’tcure,”Isay.Carrie laughs, butMummy leans in and says, “She’s not taking Percocet. She’s taking anonaddictivemedicinethedoctorprescribes.”Itisn’ttrue.Thenonaddictivemedicinesdidn’twork.“Shelookstoothin,”saysCarrie.“It’sallthevodka,”Isay.“Itfillsmeup.”“Shecan’teatmuchwhenshe’shurting,”saysMummy.“Thepainmakeshernauseated.”“Bessmadethatblueberrypieyoulike,”AuntCarrietellsme.ShegivesMummyanotherhug.“Youguysaresohuggyallofasudden,”Isay.“Youneverusedtobehuggy.”AuntCarriehugsme,too.Shesmellsofexpensive,lemonyperfume.Ihaven’tseenherinalongtime.Thedriveoutoftheharboriscoldandsparkly.IsitatthebackoftheboatwhileMummystandsnexttoAuntCarriebehindthewheel.Itrailmyhandinthewater.Itspraysthearmofmyduffelcoat,soakingthecanvas.IwillseeGatsoon.Gat,myGat,whoisnotmyGat.Thehouses.Thelittles,theaunts,theLiars.Iwillhearthesoundofseagulls,tasteslumpsandpieandhomemadeicecream.I’llhearthepongoftennisballs,thebarkofgoldens,theechoofmybreathinasnorkel.We’llmakebonfiresthatwillsmellofashes.WillIstillbeathome?Beforelong,Beechwoodisaheadofus,thefamiliaroutlinelooming.ThefirsthouseIseeisWindemerewithitsmultitudeofpeakedroofs.ThatroomonthefarrightisMummy’s;thereareherpalebluecurtains.Myownwindowlookstotheinsideoftheisland.CarriesteerstheboataroundthetipandIcanseeCuddledownthereatthelowestpointoftheland,withitschubby,boxlikestructure.Abitty,sandycove—thetinybeach—istuckedinatthebottomofalongwoodenstaircase.Theviewchangesaswecircletotheeasternsideoftheisland.Ican’tseemuchofRedGateamongthetrees,butIglimpseitsredtrim.Thenthebigbeach,accessedbyanotherwoodenstaircase.

Clairmontsitsatthehighestpoint,withwaterviewsinthreedirections.Icranemynecktolook for its friendly turret—but it isn’t there.The trees thatused to shade thebig, slopingyard—they’regone,too.InsteadoftheVictoriansix-bedroomwiththewraparoundporchandthe farmhouse kitchen, instead of the house where Granddad spent every summer sinceforever,Iseeasleekmodernbuildingperchedonarockyhill.There’saJapanesegardenononeside,barerockontheother.Thehouseisglassandiron.Cold.Carrie cuts the enginedown,whichmakes it easier to talk. “That’sNewClairmont,” shesays.“Itwasjustashelllastyear.Ineverimaginedhewouldn’thavealawn,”saysMummy.“Waittillyouseetheinside.Thewallsarebare,andwhenwegothereyesterday,hehadnothinginthefridgebutsomeapplesandawedgeofHavarti.”“SincewhendoesheevenlikeHavarti?”asksMummy.“Havartiisn’tevenagoodcheese.”“Hedoesn’tknowhowtoshop.GinnyandLucille, that’s thenewcook,onlydowhathetellsthemtodo.He’sbeeneatingcheesetoast.ButImadeahugelistandtheywenttotheEdgartownmarket.Wehaveenoughforafewdaysnow.”Mummyshivers.“It’sgoodwe’rehere.”Istareatthenewbuildingwhiletheauntstalk.IknewGranddadrenovated,ofcourse.HeandMummytalkedabout thenewkitchenwhenhevisited justa fewdaysago.The fridgeandtheextrafreezer,thewarmingdrawerandspiceracks.Ididn’trealizehe’dtornthehousedown.Thatthelawnwasgone.Andthetrees,especiallythehugeoldmaplewiththetireswingbeneathit.Thattreemusthavebeenahundredyearsold.Awave surges up, dark blue, leaping from the sea like awhale. It arches overme. Themuscles ofmy neck spasm,my throat catches. I fold beneath theweight of it. The bloodrushestomyhead.Iamdrowning.Itallseemssosad,sounbearablysadforasecond,tothinkofthelovelyoldmaplewiththeswing.Wenever told the treehowmuchwe loved it.Wenevergave it aname,neverdidanythingforit.Itcouldhavelivedsomuchlonger.Iamso,socold.“Cadence?”Mummyisleaningoverme.Ireachandclutchherhand.“Benormalnow,”shewhispers.“Rightnow.”“What?”“Becauseyouare.Becauseyoucanbe.”Okay.Okay.Itwasjustatree.JustatreewithatireswingthatIlovedalot.“Don’tcauseascene,”whispersMummy.“Breatheandsitup.”IdowhatsheasksassoonasIamable,justasIhavealwaysdone.AuntCarrieprovidesdistraction,speakingbrightly.“Thenewgardenisnice,whenyougetused to it,” she says. “There’s a seating area for cocktail hour. Taft andWill are findingspecialrocks.”SheturnstheboattowardtheshoreandsuddenlyIcanseemyLiarswaiting,notonthedockbutbytheweatheredwoodenfencethatrunsalongtheperimeterpath.Mirren stands with her feet on the lower half of the barrier, waving joyfully, her hair

whippinginthewind.Mirren.Sheissugar.Sheiscuriosityandrain.Johnnyjumpsupanddown,everynowandthendoingacartwheel.Johnny.Heisbounce.Heiseffortandsnark.Gat,myGat,onceuponatimemyGat—hehascomeouttoseeme,too.Hestandsback

fromtheslatsofthefence,ontherockyhillthatnowleadstoClairmont.He’sdoingpretendsemaphore,wavinghisarmsinornatepatternsasifI’msupposedtounderstandsomekindofsecretcode.Heiscontemplationandenthusiasm.Ambitionandstrongcoffee.Welcomehome,theyaresaying.Welcomehome.

24

THE LIARS DON’T come to the dock when we pull in, and neither do Aunt Bess andGranddad.Instead,itisonlythelittles:WillandTaft,LibertyandBonnie.Theboys,bothten,kickoneanotherandwrestlearound.Taftrunsoverandgrabsmyarm.Ipickhimupandspinhim.He is surprisingly light, likehis freckledbody ismadeofbirdparts.“Youfeelingbetter?”Iask.“Wehaveicecreambarsinthefreezer!”heyells.“Threedifferentkinds!”“Seriously,Taft.Youwereamessonthephonelastnight.”“Wasnot.”“Weretoo.”“Mirrenreadmeastory.ThenIwenttosleep.Nobigwhup.”I ruffle his honeyhair. “It’s just a house. Lots of houses seem scary at night, but in themorning,they’refriendlyagain.”“We’renotstayingatCuddledownanyway,”Taftsays.“WemovedtoNewClairmontwithGranddadnow.”“Youdid?”“Wehavetobeorderlythereandnotactlikeidiots.Wetookourstuffalready.AndWillcaughtthreejellyfishatthebigbeachandalsoadeadcrab.Willyoucomeseethem?”“Sure.”“Hehasthecrabinhispocket,butthejelliesareinabucketofwater,”saysTaft,andrunsoff.

MUMMYANDIwalkacrosstheislandtoWindemere,ashortdistanceonawoodenwalkway.Thetwinshelpwithoursuitcases.GranddadandAuntBessareinthekitchen.Therearewild-flowersinvasesonthecounter,andBess scrubsacleansinkwithaBrillopadwhileGranddadreads theMartha’s VineyardTimes.Bess is softer thanher sisters, andblonder,but still the samemold. She’swearingwhitejeansandanavybluecottontopwithdiamondjewelry.ShetakesoffrubberglovesandthenkissesMummyandhugsmetoolongandtoohard,likesheistryingtohugsomedeepandsecretmessage.Shesmellsofbleachandwine.Granddad standsupbutdoesn’t cross the roomuntilBess isdonehugging. “Hello there,Mirren,”hesaysjovially.“Grandtoseeyou.”“He’sdoingthatalot,”CarriesaystomeandMummy.“CallingpeopleMirrenwhoaren’tMirren.”“Iknowshe’snotMirren,”Granddadsays.Theadults talkamongst themselves,andIamleftwiththetwins.They lookawkwardinCrocsandsummerdresses.Theymustbealmostfourteennow.TheyhaveMirren’sstronglegsandblueeyesbuttheirfacesarepinched.“Yourhairisblack,”saysBonnie.“Youlooklikeadeadvampire.”

“Bonnie!”Libertysmacksher.“Imean,that’sredundantbecauseallvampiresaredead,”saysBonnie.“Buttheyhavethecirclesundertheireyesandthewhiteskin,likeyoudo.”“BenicetoCady,”whispersLiberty.“Momtoldus.”“Iambeingnice,”saysBonnie.“Alotofvampiresareextremelysexy.That’sadocumentedfact.”“I toldyou Ididn’twantyou talkingaboutcreepydeadstuff this summer,”saysLiberty.“Youwere bad enough last night.” She turns tome. “Bonnie’s obsessedwith dead things.She’sreadingbooksaboutthemallthetimeandthenshecan’tsleep.It’sannoyingwhenyousharearoom.”Libertysaysallthiswithouteverlookingmeintheeye.“IwastalkingaboutCady’shair,”saysBonnie.“Youdon’thavetotellhershelooksdead.”“It’sokay,”ItellBonnie.“Idon’tactuallycarewhatyouthink,soit’sperfectlyokay.”

25

EVERYONE HEADS TO New Clairmont, leaving me and Mummy alone at Windemere tounpack.IditchmybagandlookfortheLiars.Suddenlytheyareonmelikepuppies.Mirrengrabsmeandspinsme.JohnnygrabsMirren,Gat grabs Johnny,we are all grabbing each other and jumping. Thenwe are apart again,goingintoCuddledown.MirrenchattersabouthowgladsheisthatBessandthelittleswilllivewithGranddadthissummer. He needs somebody with him now. Plus Bess with her obsessive cleaning isimpossible to be around. Plus again and even more important, we Liars will haveCuddledowntoourselves.Gatsaysheisgoingtomakehotteaandhotteaishisnewvice.Johnnycallshimapretentiousassface.WefollowGatintothekitchen.Heputswaterontoboil.It is a whirlwind, all of them talking over each other, arguing happily, exactly like oldtimes.Gathasn’tquitelookedatme,though.Ican’tstoplookingathim.Heissobeautiful.SoGat.Iknowthearcofhislowerlip,thestrengthinhisshoulders.Thewayhehalftuckshisshirtintohisjeans,thewayhisshoesareworndownattheheel,thewayhetouchesthatscaronhiseyebrowwithoutrealizinghe’sdoingit.Iamsoangry.Andsohappytoseehim.Probablyhehasmovedon,likeanywell-adjustedpersonwould.Gathasn’tspentthelasttwoyearsinashellofheadachepainandself-pity.He’sbeengoingaroundwithNewYorkCitygirls inballet flats, takingthemtoChinese foodandout toseebands. Ifhe’snotwithRaquel,he’sprobablygotagirloreventhreeathome.“Yourhair’snew,”Johnnysaystome.“Yeah.”“Youlookpretty,though,”saysMirrensweetly.“She’ssotall,”saysGat,busyinghimselfwithboxesoftea,jasmineandEnglishBreakfastandsoon.“Youdidn’tusedtobethattall,didyou,Cady?”“It’s called growing,” I say. “Don’t hold me responsible.” Two summers ago, Gat wasseveralinchestallerthanI.Nowweareabouteven.“I’mallforgrowing,”saysGat,hiseyesstillnotonmyface.“Justdon’tgettallerthanme.”Isheflirting?Heis.“Johnnyalwaysletsmebetallest,”Gatgoeson.“Nevermakesanissueofit.”“LikeIhaveachoice,”groansJohnny.“She’sstillourCady,”saysMirrenloyally.“Weprobablylookdifferenttoher,too.”Buttheydon’t.Theylookthesame.GatinaworngreenT-shirtfromtwosummersago.Hisreadysmile,hiswayofleaningforward,hisdramaticnose.Johnny broad-shouldered, in jeans and a pink plaid button-down so old its edges arefrayed;nailsbitten,haircropped.

Mirren, like a pre-Raphaelite painting, that square Sinclair chin. Her long, thick hair ispiledontopofherheadandshe’swearingabikinitopandshorts.Itisreassuring.Ilovethemso.Willitmattertothem,thewayIcan’tholdontoevenbasicfactssurroundingmyaccident?I’ve lostsomuchofwhatwedidtogethersummerfifteen. Iwonder if theauntshavebeentalkingaboutme.Idon’twantthemtolookatmelikeI’msick.Orlikemymindisn’tworking.“Tell about college,” says Johnny.He is sitting on the kitchen counter. “Where are yougoing?”“Nowhere,yet.”ThistruthIcan’tavoid.Iamsurprisedtheydon’tknowitalready.“What?”“Why?”“Ididn’tgraduate.Imissedtoomuchschoolaftertheaccident.”“Oh,barf!”yellsJohnny.“Thatishorrible.Youcan’tdosummerschool?”“Notandcomehere.Besides,I’lldobetterifIapplywithallmycourseworkdone.”“Whatareyougoingtostudy?”asksGat.“Let’stalkaboutsomethingelse.”“Butwewanttoknow,”saysMirren.“Wealldo.”“Seriously,”Isay.“Somethingelse.How’syourlovelife,Johnny?”“Barfagain.”Iraisemyeyebrows.“Whenyou’reashandsomeasIam,thecourseneverrunssmooth,”hequips.“IhaveaboyfriendnamedDrakeLoggerhead,”saysMirren.“He’sgoingtoPomonalikeIam.Wehavehadsexualintercoursequiteanumberoftimes,butalwayswithprotection.Hebringsmeyellowroseseveryweekandhasnicemuscles.”Johnnyspitsouthistea.GatandIlaugh.“DrakeLoggerhead?”Johnnyasks.“Yes,”saysMirren.“What’ssofunny?”“Nothing.”Johnnyshakeshishead.“We’ve been going out five months,” says Mirren. “He’s spending the summer doingOutwardBound,sohe’llhaveevenmoremuscleswhenIseehimnext!”“You’vegottobekidding,”Gatsays.“Justalittle,”saysMirren.“ButIlovehim.”Isqueezeherhand.Iamhappyshehassomeonetobeinlovewith.“I’mgoingtoaskyouaboutthesexualintercourselater,”Iwarnher.“Whentheboysaren’there,”shesays.“I’lltellyouall.”Weleaveourteacupsandwalkdowntothetinybeach.Takeourshoesoffandwiggleourtoesinthesand.Therearetiny,sharpshells.“I’m not going to supper at New Clairmont,” saysMirren decisively. “And no breakfast,either.Notthisyear.”“Whynot?”Iask.“Ican’ttakeit,”shesays.“Theaunts.Thelittles.Granddad.He’slosthismind,youknow.”Inod.“It’s too much togetherness. I just want to be happy with you guys, down here,” says

Mirren.“I’mnothangingaroundinthatcoldnewhouse.Thosepeoplearefinewithoutme.”“Same,”saysJohnny.“Same,”saysGat.IrealizetheydiscussedthisideabeforeIarrived.

26

MIRRENANDJOHNNYgointhewaterwithsnorkelsandfins.Theykickaroundlookingforlobsters.Probablythereareonlyjellyfishandtinycrabs,butevenwiththoseslimpickingswehavesnorkeledatthetinybeach,always.Gatsitswithmeonabatikblanket.Wewatchtheothersinsilence.Idon’tknowhowtotalktohim.Ilovehim.He’sbeenanass.Ishouldn’tlovehim.I’mstupidforstilllovinghim.Ihavetoforgetaboutit.Maybehe still thinks I ampretty. Evenwithmyhair and thehollowsbeneathmyeyes.Maybe.ThemusclesofhisbackshiftbeneathhisT-shirt.Thecurveofhisneck,thesoftarchofhisear.Alittlebrownmoleonthesideofhisneck.Themoonsofhisfingernails.Idrinkhimupaftersolongapart.“Don’tlookatmytrollfeet,”saysGatsuddenly.“What?”“They’rehideous.Atrollsnuckintomyroomatnight,tookmynormalfeetforhimself,andleftmewith his thuggish troll feet.”Gat tucks his feet under a towel so I can’t see them.“Nowyouknowthetruth.”Iamrelievedwearetalkingaboutnothingimportant.“Wearshoes.”“I’mnotwearingshoesonthebeach.”Hewiggleshisfeetoutfrombeneaththetowel.Theylookfine.“Ihavetoactlikeeverything’sokayuntilIcanfindthattroll.ThenI’llkillhimtodeathandgetmynormalfeetback.Haveyougotweapons?”“No.”“Comeon.”“Um.There’safirepokerinWindemere.”“Allright.Assoonasweseethattroll,we’llkillhimtodeathwithyourfirepoker.”“Ifyouinsist.”Iliebackontheblanketandputmyarmovermyeyes.Wearesilentforamoment.“Trollsarenocturnal,”Iadd.“Cady?”Gatwhispers.Iturnmyfacetolookinhiseyes.“Yeah?”“IthoughtImightneverseeyouagain.”“What?”Heissoclosewecouldkiss.“I thought Imight never see you again.After everything that happened, thenwhenyouweren’therelastsummer.”Whydidn’tyouwriteme?Iwanttosay.Whydidn’tyoucall,allthistime?Hetouchesmyface.“I’msogladyou’rehere,”hesays.“I’msogladIgotthechance.”Idon’tknowwhatisbetweenus.Ireallydon’t.Heissuchanass.“Givemeyourhand,”Gatsays.

IamnotsureIwantto.ButthenofcourseIdowantto.Hisskiniswarmandsandy.Weintertwineourfingersandcloseoureyesagainstthesun.Wejustliethere.Holdinghands.Herubsmypalmwithhisthumblikehedidtwosummersagobeneaththestars.AndImelt.

27

MYROOMATWindemere iswood-paneled,with cream paint. There’s a green patchworkquiltonthebed.Thecarpetisoneofthoseragrugsyouseeincountryinns.Youwere here two summers ago, I tellmyself. In this room, every night. In this room,everymorning.Presumablyyouwerereading,playinggamesontheiPad,choosingclothes.Whatdoyouremember?Nothing.Tastefulbotanicprintslinethewallsofmyroom,plussomeartImade:awatercolorofthemaplethatusedtoloomovertheClairmontlawn,andtwocrayondrawings:oneofGrannyTipper and her dogs, Prince Philip and Fatima; the other ofmy father. I drag thewickerlaundrybasketfromthecloset,takedownallthepictures,andloadthemintothebasket.There’sabookshelflinedwithpaperbacks,teenbooksandfantasyIwasintoreadingafewyears back. Kids’ stories I read a hundred times. I pull them down and stack them in thehallway.“You’regivingaway thebooks?You lovebooks,”Mummy says. She’s comingoutofherroomwearingfreshclothesforsupper.Lipstick.“WecangivethemtooneoftheVineyardlibraries,”Isay.“OrtoGoodwill.”Mummybendsoverandflipsthroughthepaperbacks.“WereadCharmedLifetogether,doyouremember?”Inod.“Andthisone,too.TheLivesofChristopherChant.Thatwastheyearyouwereeight.Youwantedtoreadeverythingbutyouweren’tagoodenoughreaderyet,soIreadtoyouandGatforhoursandhours.”“WhataboutJohnnyandMirren?”“Theycouldn’tsitstill,”saysMummy.“Don’tyouwanttokeepthese?”She reaches out and touchesmy cheek. I pull back. “I want the things to find a betterhome,”Itellher.“Iwashopingyouwouldfeeldifferentwhenwecamebacktotheisland,isall.”“YougotridofallDad’sstuff.Youboughtanewcouch,newdishes,newjewelry.”“Cady.”“There’snothinginourwholehousethatsaysheeverlivedwithus,exceptme.WhyareyouallowedtoerasemyfatherandI’mnotallowedto—”“Eraseyourself?”Mummysays.“Otherpeoplemightusethese,”Isnap,pointingatthestacksofbooks.“Peoplewhohaveactualneeds.Don’tyouthinkofdoinggoodintheworld?”Atthatmoment,Poppy,Bosh,andGrendelhurtleupstairsandclogthehallwaywherewearestanding,snarflingourhands,flappingtheirhairytailsatourknees.MummyandIaresilent.Finallyshesays,“It’sallrightforyoutomoonaroundatthetinybeach,orwhateveryou

didthisafternoon.It’sallrightforyoutogiveawayyourbooksifyoufeelthatstrongly.ButIexpectyouatClairmont forsupper inanhourwithasmileonyour face forGranddad.Noarguments.Noexcuses.Youunderstandme?”Inod.

28

APADISleftfromseveralsummersagowhenGatandIgotobsessedwithgraphpaper.Wemadedrawingafterdrawingonitbyfillinginthetinysquareswithcoloredpenciltomakepixelatedportraits.Ifindapenandwritedownallmymemoriesofsummerfifteen.Thes’mores,theswim.Theattic,theinterruption.Mirren’shand,herchippedgoldnailpolish,holdingajugofgasforthemotorboats.Mummy,herfacetight,asking,“Theblackpearls?”Johnny’sfeet,runningdownthestairsfromClairmonttotheboathouse.Granddad,holdingontoatree,hisfacelitbytheglowofabonfire.AndallfourofusLiars,laughingsohardwefeltdizzyandsick.Imakeaseparatepagefortheaccidentitself.WhatMummy’stoldmeandwhatIguess.Imust have gone swimmingon the tinybeach alone. I hitmyheadon a rock. Imust havestruggled back to shore. Aunt Bess and Mummy gave me tea. I was diagnosed withhypothermia,respiratoryproblems,andabraininjurythatnevershowedonthescans.Itackthepagestothewallabovemybed.Iaddstickynoteswithquestions.WhydidIgointothewateraloneatnight?Whereweremyclothes?Did I really have a head injury from the swim, or did something else happen? Couldsomeonehavehitmeearlier?WasIthevictimofsomecrime?AndwhathappenedbetweenmeandGat?Didweargue?DidIwronghim?DidhestoplovingmeandgobacktoRaquel?IresolvethateverythingIlearninthenextfourweekswillgoabovemyWindemerebed.Iwillsleepbeneaththenotesandstudythemeverymorning.Maybeapicturewillemergefromthepixels.

A WITCH HAS been standing there behind me for some time, waiting for a moment ofweakness.Sheholdsanivorystatueofagoose.Itisintricatelycarved.Iturnandadmireitonlyforamomentbeforesheswingsitwithshockingforce. Itconnects,crushingaholeinmy forehead. I can feelmy bone come loose. Thewitch swings the statue again and hitsabovemyrightear,smashingmyskull.Blowafterblowshelands,untiltinyflakesofbonelitterthebedandminglewithchippedbitsofheronce-beautifulgoose.Ifindmypillsandturnoffthelight.“Cadence?”Mummycallsfromthehallway.“SupperisonatNewClairmont.”Ican’tgo.Ican’t.Iwon’t.Mummypromisescoffeetohelpmestayawakewhilethedrugsareinmysystem.Shesayshowlongit’sbeensincetheauntshaveseenme,howthelittlesaremycousins,too,afterall.Ihavefamilyobligations.Icanonlyfeelthebreakinmyskullandthepainwingingthroughmybrain.Everything

elseisafadedbackdroptothat.Finallysheleaveswithoutme.

29

DEEPINTHEnight,thehouserattles—justthethingTaftwasscaredofoveratCuddledown.Allthehousesheredoit.They’reold,andtheislandisbuffetedbywindsoffthesea.Itrytogobacktosleep.No.Igodownstairsandontotheporch.Myheadfeelsokaynow.Aunt Carrie is on thewalkway, heading away fromme in her nightgown and a pair ofshearlingboots.She looksskinny,with thebonesofherchestexposedandhercheekboneshollow.SheturnsontothewoodenwalkwaythatleadstoRedGate.I sit, staringafterher.Breathing thenightairand listening to thewaves.A fewminuteslatershecomesupthepathfromCuddledownagain.“Cady,”shesays,stoppingandcrossingherarmsoverherchest.“Youfeelingbetter?”“SorryImissedsupper,”Isay.“Ihadaheadache.”“Therewillbesupperseverynight,allsummer.”“Can’tyousleep?”“Oh,youknow.”Carriescratchesherneck.“Ican’tsleepwithoutEd.Isn’tthatsilly?”“No.”“Istartwandering.It’sgoodexercise.HaveyouseenJohnny?”“Notinthemiddleofthenight.”“He’supwhenI’mup,sometimes.Doyouseehim?”“Youcouldlookifhislightison.”“Willhassuchbadnightmares,”Carriesays.“HewakesupscreamingandthenIcan’tgobacktosleep.”Ishiverinmysweatshirt.“Doyouwantaflashlight?”Iask.“There’soneinsidethedoor.”“Oh,no.Ilikethedark.”Shetrudgesonceagainupthehill.

30

MUMMY IS IN the New Clairmont kitchen with Granddad. I see them through the glassslidingdoors.“You’reupearly,”shesayswhenIcomein.“Feelingbetter?”Granddadiswearingaplaidbathrobe.Mummyisinasundressdecoratedwithsmallpinklobsters.She ismakingespresso.“Doyouwantscones?Thecookmadebacon, too.They’rebothinthewarmingdrawer.”Shewalksacrossthekitchenandletsthedogsintothehouse.Bosh,Grendel,andPoppywagtheirtailsanddrool.Mummybendsandwipestheirpawswithawetcloth,thenabsentmindedlyswipesthefloorwheretheirmuddypawprintswere.Theysitstupidly,sweetly.“Where’sFatima?”Iask.“Where’sPrincePhilip?”“They’regone,”saysMummy.“What?”“Benicetoher,”saysGranddad.Heturnstome.“Theypassedonawhileback.”“Bothofthem?”Granddadnods.“I’msorry.”Isitnexttohimatthetable.“Didtheysuffer?”“Notforlong.”Mummybringsaplateofraspberrysconesandoneofbacontothetable.Itakeasconeandspread butter and honey on it. “She used to be a little blond girl. A Sinclair through andthrough,”GranddadcomplainstoMummy.“Wetalkedaboutmyhairwhenyoucametovisit,” Iremindhim.“Idon’texpectyoutolikeit.Grandfathersneverlikehairdye.”“You’retheparent.YoushouldmakeMirrenchangeherhairbackhowitwas,”Granddadsays tomymother. “What happened to the little blond girlswho used to run around thisplace?”Mummysighs.“Wegrewup,Dad,”shesays.“Wegrewup.”

31

GIVEAWAYS:CHILDHOODART,botanicprints.Igetmy laundrybasket fromWindemereandhead toCuddledown.Mirrenmeetsmeontheporch,skippingaround.“It’ssoamazingtobeontheisland!”shesays.“Ican’tbelieveI’mhereagain!”“Youwereherelastsummer.”“Itwasn’tthesame.Nosummeridylllikeweusedtohave.TheyweredoingconstructiononNewClairmont.EveryonewasactingmiserableandIkeptlookingforyoubutyounevercame.”“ItoldyouIwasgoingtoEurope.”“Oh,Iknow.”“Iwroteyoualot,”Isay.Itcomesoutreproachful.“Ihateemail!”saysMirren.“Ireadthemall,butyoucan’tbemadatmefornotanswering.Itfeelslikehomework,typingandstaringatthestupidphoneorthecomputer.”“DidyougetthedollIsentyou?”Mirren puts her arms around me. “I missed you so much. You can’t even believe howmuch.”“IsentyouthatBarbie.Theonewiththelonghairweusedtofightover.”“PrincessButterscotch?”“Yeah.”“IwascrazyaboutPrincessButterscotch.”“Youhitmewithheronce.”“Youdeservedit!”Mirrenjumpsaroundhappily.“IssheatWindemere?”“What?No.Isentherinthemail,”Isay.“Overthewinter.”Mirrenlooksatme,herbrowsfurrowed.“Inevergother,Cadence.”“Someone signed for the package.What did yourmom do, shove it in a closet withoutopeningit?”I’mjoking,butMirrennods.“Maybe.She’scompulsive.Like,shescrubsherhandsoverandover.MakesTaft and the twinsdo it, too.Cleans like there’s a specialplace inheaven forpeoplewithspotlesskitchenfloors.Alsoshedrinkstoomuch.”“Mummydoes,too.”Mirrennods.“Ican’tstandtowatch.”“DidImissanythingatsupperlastnight?”“Ididn’tgo.”MirrenheadsontothewoodenwalkwaythatleadsfromCuddledowntothetinybeach.Ifollow.“ItoldyouIwasn’tgoingthissummer.Whydidn’tyoucomeoverhere?”“Igotsick.”“Weallknowaboutyourmigraines,”saysMirren.“Theauntshavebeentalking.”Iflinch.“Don’tfeelsorryforme,okay?Notever.Itmakesmyskincrawl.”“Didn’tyoutakeyourpillslastnight?”“Theyknockedmeout.”

We have reached the tiny beach. Both of us go barefoot across the damp sand. Mirrentouchestheshellofalong-deadcrab.Iwanttotellherthatmymemoryishacked,thatIhaveatraumaticbraininjury.Iwanttoask her everything that happened summer fifteen, make her tell me the stories Mummydoesn’twanttotalkaboutordoesn’tknow.ButthereisMirren,sobright.Idon’twanthertofeelmorepityformethanshealreadydoes.Also,Iamstillmadabouttheemailsshedidn’tanswer—andthelossofthestupidBarbie,thoughI’msureit’snotherfault.“AreJohnnyandGatatRedGateordidtheysleepatCuddledown?”Iask.“Cuddledown.God,they’reslobs.It’slikelivingwithgoblins.”“MakethemmovebacktoRedGate,then.”“Noway,”laughsMirren.“Andyou—nomoreWindemere,okay?You’llmoveinwithus?”Ishakemyhead.“Mummysaysno.Iaskedherthismorning.”“Comeon,shehastoletyou!”“She’sallovermesinceIgotsick.”“Butthat’snearlytwoyears.”“Yeah.Shewatchesmesleep.PlusshelecturedmeaboutbondingwithGranddadandthelittles.Ihavetoconnectwiththefamily.Putonasmile.”“That’s such bullshit.” Mirren shows me a handful of tiny purple rocks she’s collected.“Here.”“No,thanks.”Idon’twantanythingIdon’tneed.“Please take them,” saysMirren. “I rememberhowyouused toalways search forpurplerockswhenwewerelittle.”Sheholdsherhandouttome,palmup.“IwanttomakeupforPrincessButterscotch.”There are tears inher eyes. “And the emails,” she adds. “Iwant togiveyousomething,Cady.”“Okay,then,”Isay.IcupmyhandsandletMirrenpourtherocksintomypalms.Istoretheminthefrontpocketofmyhoodie.“Iloveyou!”sheshouts.Thensheturnsandcallsouttothesea.“IlovemycousinCadenceSinclairEastman!”“Overdoingitmuch?”ItisJohnny,paddingdownthestepswithbarefeet,dressedinoldflannel pajamas with a ticking stripe. He’s wearing wraparound sunglasses and whitesunblockdownhisnoselikealifeguard.Mirren’s face falls, but onlymomentarily. “I am expressingmy feelings, Johnny. That iswhatbeingaliving,breathinghumanbeingisallabout.Hello?”“Okay, living,breathinghumanbeing,”he says,biffingher lightlyon the shoulder. “Butthere’snoneedtodoitsoloudlyatthecrackofdawn.Wehavethewholesummerinfrontofus.”Shesticksoutherbottomlip.“Cady’sonlyherefourweeks.”“Ican’tgetuglywithyouthisearly,”saysJohnny.“Ihaven’thadmypretentiousteayet.”Hebendsandlooksinthelaundrybasketatmyfeet.“What’sinhere?”“Botanicprints.Andsomeofmyoldart.”“Howcome?”JohnnysitsonarockandIsettlenexttohim.“I amgiving awaymy things,” I say. “Since September.Remember I sent you the stripyscarf?”

“Oh,yeah.”Itellaboutgivingthethingstopeoplewhocanusethem,findingtherighthomesforthem.

ItalkaboutcharityandquestioningMummy’smaterialism.IwantJohnnyandMirrentounderstandme.Iamnotsomeonetopity,withanunstable

mind and weird pain syndromes. I am taking charge of my life. I live according to myprinciples.Itakeactionandmakesacrifices.“Youdon’t,Idunno,wanttoownstuff?”Johnnyasksme.“Likewhat?”“Oh,Iwantstuffallthetime,”saysJohnny,throwinghisarmswide.“Acar.Videogames.

Expensive wool coats. I like watches, they’re so old-school. I want real art for my walls,paintingsbyfamouspeopleIcouldneverowninamillionyears.FancycakesIseeinbakerywindows.Sweaters,scarves.Woolyitemswithstripes,generally.”“Or you could want beautiful drawings you made when you were a kid,” says Mirren,

kneelingbythelaundrybasket.“Sentimentalstuff.”ShepicksupthecrayondrawingofGranwiththegoldens.“Look,thisoneisFatimaandthisoneisPrincePhilip.”“Youcantell?”“Ofcourse.Fatimahadthatchubbynoseandwideface.”“God,Mirren.You’resuchamushball,”Johnnysays.

32

GATCALLSMYnameas Iamheadingup thewalkway toNewClairmont. I turnandhe’srunningatme,wearingbluepajamapantsandnoshirt.Gat.MyGat.IshegoingtobemyGat?He stops in frontofme,breathinghard.Hishair sticksup,bedhead.Themusclesofhisabdomenrippleandheseemsmuchmorenakedthanhewouldinaswimsuit.“Johnnysaidyouweredownatthetinybeach,”hepants.“Ilookedforyoutherefirst.”“Didyoujustwakeup?”Herubsthebackofhisneck.Looksdownatwhathe’swearing.“Kindof.Iwantedtocatchyou.”“Howcome?”“Let’sgototheperimeter.”Weheadthereandwalkthewaywedidaschildren,Gatinfrontandmebehind.Wecrestalowhill,thencurvebackbehindthestaffbuildingtowheretheVineyardharborcomesintoviewneartheboathouse.GatturnssosuddenlyInearlyrunintohim,andbeforeIcanstepbackhisarmsarearoundme.Hepullsmetohischestandburieshisfaceinmyneck.Iwrapmybarearmsaroundhistorso,theinsidesofmywristsagainsthisspine.Heiswarm.“Ididn’tgettohugyouyesterday,”Gatwhispers.“Everyonehuggedyoubutme.”Touchinghimisfamiliarandunfamiliar.Wehavebeenherebefore.Alsowehaveneverbeenherebefore.Foramoment,orforminutes,forhours,possibly,Iamsimplyhappy,herewithGat’sbodybeneathmyhands.Thesoundofthewavesandhisbreathinmyear.Gladthathewantstobenearme.“Doyourememberwhenwecamedownheretogether?”heasksintomyneck.“Thetimewewentoutonthatflatrock?”Istepaway.BecauseIdon’tremember.Ihatemyfuckinghacked-upmind,howsickIamallthetime,howdamagedI’vebecome.IhatethatI’velostmylooksandfailedschoolandquitsportsandamcrueltomymother.IhatehowIstillwanthimaftertwoyears.MaybeGatwantstobewithme.Maybe.Butmorelikelyhe’sjustlookingformetotellhimhedidnothingwrongwhenhe leftme twosummersago.He’d likeme to tellhim I’mnotmad.Thathe’sagreatguy.ButhowcanIforgivehimwhenIdon’tevenknowexactlywhathe’sdonetome?“No,”Ianswer.“Itmusthaveslippedmymind.”“Wewere—YouandI,we—Itwasanimportantmoment.”

“Whatever,”Isay.“Idon’trememberit.Andobviouslynothingthathappenedbetweenuswasparticularlyimportantinthelongrun,wasit?”Helooksathishands.“Okay.Sorry.Thatwasextremelysuboptimalofmejustnow.Areyouangry?”“Ofcourse I’mangry,” I say.“Twoyearsofdisappearance.Nevercallingandnotwritingbackandmakingeverythingworsebynotdealing.Nowyou’reall,Ooh,IthoughtI’dneverseeyou again, and holding my hand and Everyone hugs you but me and half-naked perimeterwalking.It’sseverelysuboptimal,Gat.Ifthat’sthewordyouwanttouse.”Hisfacefalls.“Itsoundsawfulwhenyouputitthatway.”“Yeah,well,that’showIseeit.”Herubshishandonhishair.“I’mhandlingeverythingbadly,”hesays.“WhatwouldyousayifIaskedyoutostartover?”“God,Gat.”“What?”“Justask.Don’taskwhatI’dsayifyoudidask.”“Okay, I’m asking. Canwe start over? Please, Cady? Let’s start over after lunch. It’ll beawesome.I’llmakeamusingremarksandyou’lllaugh.We’llgotrollhunting.We’llbehappytoseeeachother.You’llthinkI’mgreat,Ipromise.”“That’sabigpromise.”“Okay,maybenotgreat,butatleastIwon’tbesuboptimal.”“Why say suboptimal?Whynot saywhatyou reallyare?Thoughtlessandconfusingandmanipulative?”“God.”Gatjumpsupanddowninagitation.“Cadence!Ireallyneedtojuststartover.Thisisgoingfromsuboptimaldowntototalcrap.”Hejumpsandkickshislegsoutlikeanangrylittleboy.Thejumpingmakesmesmile.“Okay,”Itellhim.“Startover.Afterlunch.”“Allright,”hesays,andstopsjumping.“Afterlunch.”Westareateachotherforamoment.“I’mgoingtorunawaynow,”saysGat.“Don’ttakeitpersonally.”“Okay.”“It’sbetterforthestartingoverifIrun.Becausewalkingwilljustbeawkward.”“Isaidokay.”“Okay,then.”Andheruns.

33

IGOTOlunchatNewClairmontanhourlater.IknowMummywillnottoleratemyabsenceafterImissedsupperlastnight.Granddadgivesmeatourofthehousewhilethecooksetsoutfoodandtheauntscorralthelittles.It’sasharpplace.Shiningwoodfloors,hugewindows,everythinglowtotheground.Thehalls of Clairmont used to be decorated floor to ceiling with black-and-white familyphotographs, paintings of dogs, bookshelves, and Granddad’s collection of New Yorkercartoons.NewClairmont’shallsareglassononesideandblankontheother.Granddadopensthedoorstothefourguestbedroomsupstairs.Allarefurnishedonlywithbeds and low,widedressers. Thewindowshavewhite shades that let some light shine in.Therearenopatternsonthebedspreads;theyaresimple,tastefulshadesofblueorbrown.The littles’ rooms have some life. Taft has a Bakugan arena on the floor, a soccer ball,booksaboutwizardsandorphans.LibertyandBonniebroughtmagazinesandanMP3player.TheyhavestacksofBonnie’sbooksonghosthunters,psychics,anddangerousangels.Theirdresserisclutteredwithmakeupandperfumebottles.Tennisracquetsinthecorner.Granddad’sbedroomis larger thantheothersandhasthebestview.Hetakesmeinandshowsmethebathroom,whichhashandlesintheshower.Old-personhandles,sohewon’tfalldown.“WhereareyourNewYorkercartoons?”Iask.“Thedecoratormadedecisions.”“Whataboutthepillows?”“Thewhat?”“Youhadallthosepillows.Withembroidereddogs.”Heshakeshishead.“Didyoukeepthefish?”“What, the swordfish and all that?” We walk down the staircase to the ground floor.Granddad moves slowly and I am behind him. “I started over with this house,” he sayssimply.“Thatoldlifeisgone.”Heopensthedoortohisstudy.It’sassevereastherestofthehouse.Alaptopsitsinthecenterofalargedesk.AlargewindowlooksoutovertheJapanesegarden.Achair.Awallofshelves,completelyempty.Itfeelscleanandopen,butitisn’tspartan,becauseeverythingisopulent.GranddadismorelikeMummythanlikeme.He’serasedhisoldlifebyspendingmoneyonareplacementone.“Where’stheyoungman?”asksGranddadsuddenly.Hisfacetakesonavacantlook.“Johnny?”Heshakeshishead.“No,no.”“Gat?”“Yes,theyoungman.”Heclutchesthedeskforamoment,asiffeelingfaint.“Granddad,areyouokay?”“Oh,fine.”

“GatisatCuddledownwithMirrenandJohnny,”Itellhim.“TherewasabookIpromisedhim.”“Mostofyourbooksaren’there.”“Stoptellingmewhat’snothere!”Granddadyells,suddenlyforceful.“Youokay?”ItisAuntCarrie,standinginthedoorofthestudy.“I’mallright,”hesays.CarriegivesmealookandtakesGranddad’sarm.“Comeon.Lunchisready.”“Didyougetbacktosleep?”Iaskmyauntasweheadtowardthekitchen.“Lastnight,wasJohnnyup?”“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout,”shesays.

34

GRANDDAD’SCOOKDOES theshoppingandprepsthemeals,buttheauntiesplanall themenus. Today we have cold roast chicken, tomato-basil salad, Camembert, baguettes, andstrawberry lemonade in the dining room. Liberty shows me pictures of cute boys in amagazine.Thensheshowsmepicturesofclothesinanothermagazine.BonniereadsabookcalledCollectiveApparitions: Fact and Fiction. Taft andWillwantme to take them tubing—drivethesmallmotorboatwhiletheyfloatbehinditinaninnertube.MummysaysI’mnotallowedtodrivetheboatonmeds.AuntCarriesaysthatdoesn’tmatter,becausenowayisWillgoingtubing.AuntBesssayssheagrees,soTaftbetternoteventhinkaboutaskingher.LibertyandBonnieaskiftheycangotubing.“YoualwaysletMirrengo,”saysLiberty.“Youknowit’strue.”Willspillshislemonadeandsoaksabaguette.Granddad’slapgetswet.TaftgetsholdofthewetbaguetteandhitsWillwithit.MummywipesthemesswhileBessrunsupstairstobringGranddadcleantrousers.Carriescoldstheboys.Whenthemealisover,TaftandWillduckintothelivingroomtoavoidhelpingwiththecleanup.TheyjumplikelunaticsonGranddad’snewleathercouch.Ifollow.Willisruntyandpink,likeJohnny.Hairalmostwhite.Taftistallerandverythin,goldenandfreckled,with longdark lashesandamouthfullofbraces.“So,youtwo,” I say.“Howwaslastsummer?”“DoyouknowhowtogetanashdragoninDragonVale?”asksWill.“Iknowhowtogetascorchdragon,”saysTaft.“Youcanusethescorchdragontogettheashdragon,”saysWill.Ugh.Ten-year-olds.“Comeon.Lastsummer,”Isay.“Tellme.Didyouplaytennis?”“Sure,”saysWill.“Didyougoswimming?”“Yeah,”saysTaft.“DidyougoboatingwithGatandJohnny?”Theybothstopjumping.“No.”“DidGatsayanythingaboutme?”“I’mnotsupposedtotalkaboutyouendingupinthewaterandeverything,”saysWill.“IpromisedAuntPennyIwouldn’t.”“Whynot?”Iask.“It’llmakeyourheadachesworseandwehavetoleavethesubjectalone.”Taftnods.“Shesaid ifwemakeyourheadachesworseshe’ll stringusupbyourtoenailsandtakeawaytheiPads.We’resupposedtoactcheerfulandnotbeidiots.”“Thisisn’taboutmyaccident,”Isay.“ThisisaboutthesummerwhenIwenttoEurope.”“Cady?”Tafttouchesmyshoulder.“Bonniesawpillsinyourbedroom.”

Willbacksawayandsitsonthefararmofthesofa.“Bonniewentthroughmystuff?”“AndLiberty.”“God.”“You told me you weren’t a drug addict, but you have pills on your dresser.” Taft ispetulant.“Tellthemtostayoutofmyroom,”Isay.“Ifyou’readrugaddict,”saysTaft,“thereissomethingyouneedtoknow.”“What?”“Drugsarenotyourfriend.”Taftlooksserious.“Drugsarenotyourfriendandalsopeopleshouldbeyourfriends.”“Oh,myGod.Wouldyoujusttellmewhatyoudidlastsummer,pipsqueak?”Willsays,“TaftandIwanttoplayAngryBirds.Wedon’twanttotalktoyouanymore.”“Whatever,”Isay.“Goandbefree.”IstepontotheporchandwatchtheboysastheyrundownthepathtoRedGate.

35

ALLTHEWINDOWSinCuddledownareopenwhenIcomedownafterlunch.GatisputtingmusicontheancientCDplayer.Myoldcrayonartisontherefrigeratorwithmagnets:Dadon top, Gran and the goldens on the bottom.My painting is taped to one of the kitchencupboards.Aladderandabigboxofgiftwrapstandinthecenterofthegreatroom.Mirrenpushes an armchair across the floor. “I never liked thewaymymother kept thisplace,”sheexplains.I helpGat and Johnnymove the furniture around untilMirren is happy.We take downBess’s landscapewatercolors and roll up her rugs.We pillage the littles’ bedrooms for funobjects.Whenwe are done, the great room is decoratedwith piggy banks and patchworkquilts,stacksofchildren’sbooks,alampshapedlikeanowl.Thicksparklingribbonsfromthegift-wrapboxcrisscrosstheceiling.“Won’tBessbemadyou’reredecorating?”Iask.“Ipromiseyoushe’snotsettingfootinCuddledownfortherestofthesummer.She’sbeentryingtogetoutofthisplaceforyears.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Oh,”saysMirrenlightly,“youknow.Natternatter,leastfavoritedaughter,natternatter,thekitchenissuchcrap.Whywon’tGranddadremodelit?Etcetera.”“Didsheaskhim?”Johnnystaresatmeoddly.“Youdon’tremember?”“Hermemory ismessed up, Johnny!” yellsMirren. “She doesn’t remember like half oursummerfifteen.”“Shedoesn’t?”Johnnysays.“Ithought—”“No,no,shutuprightnow,”Mirrenbarks.“DidyounotlistentowhatItoldyou?”“When?”Helooksperplexed.“Theothernight,”saysMirren.“ItoldyouwhatAuntPennysaid.”“Chill,”saysJohnny,throwingapillowather.“This is important! How can you not pay attention to this stuff?”Mirren looks like shemightcry.“I’msorry,all right?”Johnnysays.“Gat,didyouknowaboutCadencenotremembering,like,mostofthesummerfifteen?”“Iknew,”hesays.“See?”saysMirren.“Gatwaslistening.”Myfaceishot.Iamlookingatthefloor.Noonespeaksforaminute.“It’snormaltolosesomememorywhenyouhityourheadreallyhard,”Isayfinally.“Didmymotherexplain?”Johnnylaughsnervously.“I’msurprisedMummytoldyou,”Igoon.“Shehatestalkingaboutit.”“Shesaidyou’resupposedtotakeiteasyandrememberthingsinyourowntime.Alltheauntiesknow,”saysMirren.“Granddadknows.Thelittles.Thestaff.EverysinglepersonontheislandknowsbutJohnny,apparently.”

“Iknew,”saysJohnny.“Ijustdidn’tknowthewholepicture.”“Don’tbefeeble,”saysMirren.“Nowisreallynotthetime.”“It’sokay,”IsaytoJohnny.“You’renotfeeble.Youmerelyhadasuboptimalmoment.I’msureyou’llbeoptimalfromnowon.”“I’malwaysoptimal,”saysJohnny.“JustnotthekindofoptimalMirrenwantsmetobe.”GatsmileswhenIsaythewordsuboptimalandpatsmyshoulder.Wehavestartedover.

36

WE PLAY TENNIS. Johnny and I win, but not because I’m any good anymore. He’s anexcellent athlete, and Mirren is more inclined to hit the ball and then do happy dances,withoutcaringwhetherit’sreturning.Gatkeepslaughingather,whichmakeshimmiss.“HowwasEurope?”asksGataswewalkbacktoCuddledown.“Myfatheratesquidink.”“Whatelse?”Wereachtheyardandtosstheracquetsontheporch.Stretchourselvesoutonthegrass.“Honestly,Ican’ttellyouthatmuch,”Isay.“KnowwhatIdidwhilemydadwenttotheColosseum?”“What?”“I laywithmyfacepressed intothetileof thehotelbathroom.Staredat thebaseof theblueItaliantoilet.”“Thetoiletwasblue?”Johnnyasks,sittingup.“OnlyyouwouldgetmoreexcitedoverabluetoiletthanthesightsofRome,”moansGat.“Cadence,”saysMirren.“What?”“Nevermind.”“What?”“Yousaydon’tfeelsorryforyou,butthenyoutellastoryaboutthebaseofthetoilet,”sheblurts.“It’sseriouslypitiful.Whatarewesupposedtosay?”“Also,goingtoRomemakesusjealous,”saysGat.“NoneofushasbeentoRome.”“Iwant to go to Rome!” says Johnny, lying back down. “I want to see the blue Italiantoiletssobad!”“IwanttoseetheBathsofCaracalla,”saysGat.“Andeateveryflavorofgelatotheymake.”“Sogo,”Isay.“It’shardlythatsimple.”“Okay,butyouwillgo,”Isay.“Incollegeoraftercollege.”Gatsighs.“I’mjustsaying,youwenttoRome.”“Iwishyoucouldhavebeenthere,”Itellhim.

37

“WEREYOUONthetenniscourt?”Mummyasksme.“Iheardballs.”“Justmessingaround.”“Youhaven’tplayedinsolong.That’swonderful.”“Myserveisoff.”“I’m so happy you’re taking it up again. If youwant to hitwithme tomorrow, say theword.”She is delusional. I am not taking up tennis again just because I played one singleafternoon,andinnocapacitydoIeverwanttohitwithMummy.ShewillwearatennisskirtandpraisemeandcautionmeandhoverovermeuntilI’munkindtoher.“We’llsee,”Isay.“Iprobablystrainedmyshoulder.”Supper is outside in the Japanese garden.Wewatch the eight o’clock sunset, in groupsaroundthesmalltables.TaftandWillgrabporkchopsofftheplatterandeatthemwiththeirhands.“Youtwoareanimals,”saysLiberty,wrinklinghernose.“Andyourpointis?”saysTaft.“There’sathingcalledafork,”saysLiberty.“There’sathingcalledyourface,”saysTaft.Johnny,Gat,andMirrengettoeatatCuddledownbecausetheyaren’tinvalids.Andtheirmothersaren’tcontrolling.Mummydoesn’tevenletmesitwiththeadults.Shemakesmesitataseparatetablewithmycousins.They’re all laughing and sniping at each other, talking with their mouths full. I stoplisteningtowhattheyaresaying.Instead,IlookacrosstoMummy,Carrie,andBess,clusteredaroundGranddad.

THERE’SANIGHTIremembernow.Itmusthavebeenabouttwoweeksbeforemyaccident.Early July.Wewere all sitting at the long tableon theClairmont lawn.Citronella candlesburnedontheporch.Thelittleshadfinishedtheirburgersandweredoingcartwheelsonthegrass. The rest of us were eating grilled swordfishwith basil sauce. There was a salad ofyellowtomatoesandacasseroleofzucchiniwithacrustofParmesancheese.Gatpressedhislegagainstmineunderthetable.Ifeltlight-headedwithhappiness.The aunts toyedwith their food, silent and formalwith one another beneath the littles’shouts. Granddad leaned back, folding his hands over his abdomen. “You think I shouldrenovatetheBostonhouse?”heasked.Asilencefollowed.“No,Dad.”Besswasthefirsttospeak.“Welovethathouse.”“Youalwayscomplainaboutdraftsinthelivingroom,”saidGranddad.Besslookedaroundathersisters.“Idon’t.”“Youdon’tlikethedécor,”saidGranddad.“That’strue.”Mummy’svoicewascritical.

“Ithinkit’stimeless,”saidCarrie.“Icoulduseyouradvice,youknow,”GranddadsaidtoBess.“Wouldyoucomeoverandlookatitcarefully?Tellmewhatyouthink?”“I…”Heleanedin.“Icouldsellit,too,youknow.”WeallknewAuntBesswantedtheBostonhouse.AlltheauntswantedtheBostonhouse.Itwasafour-million-dollarhouse,andtheygrewupinit.ButBesswastheonlyonewholivednearby,andtheonlyonewithenoughkidstofillthebedrooms.“Dad,”Carriesaidsharply.“Youcan’tsellit.”“IcandowhatIwant,”saidGranddad,spearingthelasttomatoonhisplateandpoppingitinhismouth.“Youlikethehouseasitis,then,Bess?Ordoyouwanttoseeitremodeled?Noonelikesawaffler.”“I’dlovetohelpwithwhateveryouwanttochange,Dad.”“Oh,please,” snappedMummy. “Onlyyesterdayyouwere sayinghowbusy you are andnowyou’rehelpingremodeltheBostonhouse?”“Heaskedforourhelp,”saidBess.“Heaskedforyourhelp.Youcuttingusout,Dad?”Mummywasdrunk.Granddadlaughed.“Penny,relax.”“I’llrelaxwhentheestateissettled.”“You’remakinguscrazy,”Carriemuttered.“Whatwasthat?Don’tmumble.”“Weallloveyou,Dad,”saidCarrie,loudly.“Iknowit’sbeenhardthisyear.”“Ifyou’regoingcrazyit’syourowndamnchoice,”saidGranddad.“Pullyourselftogether.Ican’tleavetheestatetocrazypeople.”

LOOK AT THE aunties now, summer seventeen. Here in the Japanese garden of NewClairmont, Mummy has her arm around Bess, who reaches out to slice Carrie a piece ofraspberrytart.It’sabeautifulnight,andweareindeedabeautifulfamily.Idonotknowwhatchanged.

38

“TAFT HAS A motto,” I tell Mirren. It is midnight. We Liars are playing Scrabble in theCuddledowngreatroom.MykneeistouchingGat’sthigh,thoughIamnotsurehenotices.Theboardisnearlyfull.Mybrainistired.Ihavebadletters.Mirrenrearrangeshertilesdistractedly.“Tafthaswhat?”“Amotto,”Isay.“Youknow,likeGranddadhas?Noonelikesawaffler?”“Nevertakeaseatinthebackoftheroom,”intonesMirren.“Nevercomplain,neverexplain,”saysGat.“That’sfromDisraeli,Ithink.”“Oh,helovesthatone,”saysMirren.“Anddon’ttakenoforananswer,”Iadd.“Goodlord,Cady!”shoutsJohnny.“Willyoujustbuildawordandlettherestofusgetonwithit?”“Don’tyellather,Johnny,”saysMirren.“Sorry,” says Johnny. “Will you pretty please with brown sugar and cinnamon make afuckingScrabbleword?”MykneeistouchingGat’sthigh.Ireallycan’tthink.Imakeashort,lameword.Johnnyplayshistiles.“Drugsarenotyourfriend,”Iannounce.“That’sTaft’smotto.”“Getout,”laughsMirren.“Wheredidhecomeupwiththat?”“Maybehehaddrugeducationatschool.PlusthetwinssnoopedinmyroomandtoldhimIhadadresserfullofpills,sohewantedtomakesureI’mnotanaddict.”“God,”saidMirren.“BonnieandLibertyaredisasters.Ithinkthey’rekleptomaniacsnow.”“Really?”“Theytookmymom’ssleepingpillsandalsoherdiamondhoops.Ihavenoideawheretheythinkthey’llwearthoseearringswhereshewouldn’tseethem.Also,theyaretwopeopleandit’sonlyonepair.”“Didyoucallthemonit?”“I triedwithBonnie.But they’re beyondmyhelp,”Mirren says. She rearrangesher tilesagain.“I like the ideaofamotto,”shegoeson.“I thinkan inspirationalquotecangetyouthroughhardtimes.”“Likewhat?”asksGat.Mirrenpauses.Thenshesays:“Bealittlekinderthanyouhaveto.”Weareallsilencedbythat.Itseemsimpossibletoarguewith.ThenJohnnysays,“Nevereatanythingbiggerthanyourass.”“Youatesomethingbiggerthanyourass?”Iask.Henods,solemn.“Okay,Gat,”saysMirren.“What’syours?”“Don’thaveone.”“Comeon.”

“Okay,maybe.”Gatlooksdownathisfingernails.“Donotacceptanevilyoucanchange.”“Iagreewiththat,”Isay.BecauseIdo.“Idon’t,”saysMirren.“Whynot?”“There’sverylittleyoucanchange.Youneedtoaccepttheworldasitis.”“Nottrue,”saysGat.“Isn’titbettertobearelaxed,peacefulperson?”Mirrenasks.“No.”Gatisdecisive.“Itisbettertofightevil.”“Don’teatyellowsnow,”saysJohnny.“That’sanothergoodmotto.”“Alwaysdowhatyouareafraidtodo,”Isay.“That’smine.”“Oh,please.Whothehellsaysthat?”barksMirren.“Emerson,”Ianswer.“Ithink.”Ireachforapenandwriteitonthebacksofmyhands.Left:Alwaysdowhat.Right:youareafraidtodo.Thehandwritingisskewedontheright.“Emersonissoboring,”saysJohnny.Hegrabsthepenfrommeandwritesonhisownlefthand:NOYELLOWSNOW.“There,”hesays,holdingtheresultupfordisplay.“Thatshouldhelp.”“Cady, I’m serious. We should not always do what we are afraid to do,” says Mirrenheatedly.“Wenevershould.”“Whynot?”“Youcoulddie.Youcouldgethurt.Ifyouareterrified,there’sprobablyagoodreason.Youshouldtrustyourimpulses.”“Sowhat’syourphilosophy,then?”Johnnyasksher.“Beagiantchickenhead?”“Yes,”saysMirren.“ThatandthekindnessthingIsaidbefore.”

39

IFOLLOWGATwhenhegoesupstairs.Ichaseafterhimdownthelonghall,grabhishandandpullhislipstomine.ItiswhatIamafraidtodo,andIdoit.Hekissesmeback.His fingers twine inmineand I’mdizzyandhe’sholdingmeupandeverythingisclearandeverythingisgrand,again.Ourkissturnstheworldtodust.Thereisonlyusandnothingelsematters.ThenGatpullsaway.“Ishouldn’tdothis.”“Whynot?”Hishandstillholdsmine.“It’snotthatIdon’twantto,it’s—”“Ithoughtwestartedover.Isn’tthisthestartingover?”“I’mamess.”Gatstepsbackandleansagainstthewall.“Thisissuchaclichéconversation.Idon’tknowwhatelsetosay.”“Explain.”Apause.Andthen:“Youdon’tknowme.”“Explain,”Isayagain.Gatputshisheadinhishands.Westandthere,bothleaningagainstthewallinthedark.“Okay.Here’spartofit,”hefinallywhispers.“You’venevermetmymom.You’veneverbeentomyapartment.”That’strue.I’veneverseenGatanywherebutBeechwood.“Youfeellikeyouknowme,Cady,butyouonlyknowthemewhocomeshere,”hesays.“It’s—it’sjustnotthewholepicture.Youdon’tknowmybedroomwiththewindowontotheairshaft,mymom’s curry, the guys from school, thewaywe celebrate holidays. You onlyknowthemeonthisisland,whereeveryone’srichexceptmeandthestaff.Whereeveryone’swhiteexceptme,Ginny,andPaulo.”“WhoareGinnyandPaulo?”Gathitshisfistintohispalm.“Ginnyisthehousekeeper.Pauloisthegardener.Youdon’tknowtheirnamesandthey’veworkedheresummeraftersummer.That’spartofmypoint.”Myfaceheatswithshame.“I’msorry.”“Butdoyouevenwanttoseethewholepicture?”Gatasks.“Couldyouevenunderstandit?”“Youwon’tknowunlessyoutryme,”Isay.“Ihaven’theardfromyouinforever.”“YouknowwhatIamtoyourgrandfather?WhatI’vealwaysbeen?”“What?”“Heathcliff.InWutheringHeights.Haveyoureadit?”Ishakemyhead.“Heathcliff is a gypsy boy taken in and raised by this pristine family, the Earnshaws.Heathclifffallsinlovewiththegirl,Catherine.Sheloveshim,too—butshealsothinkshe’sdirt,becauseofhisbackground.Andtherestofthefamilyagrees.”“That’snothowIfeel.”

“There’snothingHeathcliffcaneverdotomaketheseEarnshawsthinkhe’sgoodenough.Andhetries.Hegoesaway,educateshimself,becomesagentleman.Still,theythinkhe’sananimal.”“And?”“Then, because the book is a tragedy, Heathcliff becomes what they think of him, youknow?Hebecomesabrute.Theevilinhimcomesout.”“Ihearditwasaromance.”Gatshakeshishead.“Thosepeopleareawfultoeachother.”“You’resayingGranddadthinksyou’reHeathcliff?”“I promise you, he does,” says Gat. “A brute beneath a pleasant surface, betraying hiskindnessinlettingmecometohisshelteredislandeveryyear—I’vebetrayedhimbyseducinghisCatherine,hisCadence.Andmypenanceistobecomethemonsterhealwayssawinme.”Iamsilent.Gatissilent.Ireachoutandtouchhim.Justthefeelofhisforearmbeneaththethincottonofhisshirtmakesmeachetokisshimagain.“Youknowwhat’sterrifying?”Gatsays,notlookingatme.“What’sterrifyingishe’sturnedouttoberight.”“No,hehasn’t.”“Oh,yes,hehas.”“Gat,wait.”Buthehasgoneintohisroomandshutthedoor.Iamaloneinthedarkhallway.

40

ONCEUPONA time, therewasakingwhohad threebeautifuldaughters.The girls grewupaslovelyasthedaywaslong.Theymadegrandmarriages,too,butthearrivalofthefirstgrandchildbrought disappointment. The youngest princess produced a daughter so very, very tiny that hermother took to keeping her in a pocket,where the girlwent unnoticed. Eventually, normal-sizedgrandchildren arrived, and the king and queen forgot the existence of the tiny princess almostcompletely.When the too-small princess grew older, she passed most of her days and nights hardly everleavinghertinybed.Therewasverylittlereasonforhertogetup,sosolitarywasshe.Oneday,sheventuredtothepalacelibraryandwasdelightedtofindwhatgoodcompanybookscouldbe.Shebegangoingthereoften.Onemorning,assheread,amouseappearedonthetable.Hestooduprightandworeasmallvelvetjacket.Hiswhiskerswerecleanandhisfurwasbrown.“Youread justas I do,” he said, “walking back and forth across the pages.”He stepped forward andmadealowbow.Themousecharmedthetinyprincesswithstoriesofhisadventures.Hetoldheroftrollswhostealpeople’sfeetandgodswhoabandonthepoor.Heaskedquestionsabouttheuniverseandsearchedcontinuallyforanswers.Hethoughtwoundsneededattention.Inturn,theprincesstoldthemousefairy tales, drew him pixelated portraits, andmade him little crayon drawings. She laughed andarguedwithhim.Shefeltawakeforthefirsttimeinherlife.Itwasnotlongbeforetheylovedeachotherdearly.Whenshepresentedhersuitortoherfamily,however,theprincessmetwithdifficulty.“Heisonlyamouse!” cried theking indisdain,while thequeen screamedand ran from the throne room infear. Indeed, theentirekingdom,fromroyaltytoservants,viewedthemousesuitorwithsuspicionanddiscomfort.“Heisunnatural,”peoplesaidofhim.“Ananimalmasqueradingasaperson.”Thetinyprincessdidnothesitate.Sheandthemouseleftthepalaceandtraveledfar,faraway.Inaforeignlandtheyweremarried,madeahomeforthemselves,filleditwithbooksandchocolate,andlivedhappilyeverafter.Ifyouwanttolivewherepeoplearenotafraidofmice,youmustgiveuplivinginpalaces.

41

AGIANTWIELDSarustysaw.Hegloatsandhumsasheworks,slicingthroughmyforeheadandintothemindbehindit.Ihavelessthanfourweekstofindoutthetruth.GranddadcallsmeMirren.Thetwinsarestealingsleepingpillsanddiamondearrings.MummyarguedwiththeauntsovertheBostonhouse.BesshatesCuddledown.Carrieroamstheislandatnight.Willhasbaddreams.GatisHeathcliff.GatthinksIdonotknowhim.Andmaybeheisright.Itakepills.Drinkwater.Theroomisdark.Mummystandsinthedoorway,watchingme.Idonotspeaktoher.Iaminbedfortwodays.Everynowandthenthesharppainwanestoanache.Then,ifIam alone, I sit up and write on the cluster of notes abovemy bed. Questions more thananswers.ThemorningI feelbetter,GranddadcomesovertoWindemereearly.He’swearingwhitelinenpantsandabluesportjacket.IaminshortsandaT-shirt,throwingballsforthedogsintheyard.MummyisalreadyupatNewClairmont.“I’mheadingtoEdgartown,”Granddadsays,scratchingBosh’sears.“Youwanttocome?Ifyoudon’tmindanoldman’scompany.”“Idon’tknow,”Ijoke.“I’msobusywiththesespit-coveredtennisballs.Couldbeallday.”“I’lltakeyoutothebookstore,Cady.BuyyoupresentslikeIusedto.”“Howaboutfudge?”Granddadlaughs.“Sure,fudge.”“DidMummyputyouuptothis?”“No.”Hescratcheshistuftywhitehair.“ButBessdoesn’twantmedrivingthemotorboatalone.ShesaysIcouldgetdisoriented.”“I’mnotallowedtodrivethemotorboat,either.”“Iknow,”hesays,holdingupthekeys.“ButBessandPennyaren’tbosshere.Iam.”Wedecide toeatbreakfast in town.Wewant toget theboataway from theBeechwooddockbeforetheauntscatchus.

EDGARTOWN IS A nautical, sweetie-pie village on Martha’s Vineyard. It takes twentyminutestogetthere.It’sallwhitepicketfencesandwhitewoodenhomeswithfloweryyards.Shopsselltouriststuff,icecream,priceyclothes,antiquejewelry.Boatsleavefromtheharborforfishingtripsandsceniccruises.Granddad seems like his old self.He’s tossingmoney around.Treatsme to espresso and

croissants at a little bakery with stools by a window, then tries to buy me books at theEdgartownbookshop.WhenIrefusethegift,heshakeshisheadatmygiveawayprojectbutdoesn’t lecture. Insteadheasks formyhelppickingoutpresents for the littlesanda floraldesignbookforGinny,thehousekeeper.WeplaceabigorderatMurdick’sFudge:chocolate,chocolatewalnut,peanutbutter,andpenuche.Browsing in one of the art galleries, we run into Granddad’s lawyer, a narrow, grayingfellow named Richard Thatcher. “So this is Cadence the first,” says Thatcher, shakingmyhand.“I’veheardagreatdealaboutyou.”“Hedoestheestate,”saysGranddad,bywayofexplanation.“Firstgrandchild,”saysThatcher.“There’sneveranythingtomatchthatfeeling.”“She’sgotagreatheadonhershoulders,too,”Granddadsays.“Sinclairbloodthroughandthrough.”This speaking in stock phrases, he has always done it. “Never complain, never explain.”“Don’ttakenoforananswer.”Butitgrateswhenhe’susingthemaboutme.Agoodheadonmyshoulders?Myactualheadisfuckingbrokenincountlessmedicallydiagnosedways—andhalfofmecomesfromtheunfaithfulEastmansideof thefamily. Iamnotgoingtocollegenextyear;I’vegivenupallthesportsIusedtodoandclubsIusedtobepartof;I’mhighonPercocethalfthetimeandI’mnotevennicetomylittlecousins.Still,Granddad’sfaceisglowingashetalksaboutme,andatleasttodayheknowsIamnotMirren.“Shelookslikeyou,”saysThatcher.“Doesn’tshe?Exceptshe’sgood-looking.”“Thankyou,”Isay.“ButifyouwantthefullresemblanceIhavetotuftupmyhair.”ThismakesGranddadsmile.“It’sfromtheboat,”hesaystoThatcher.“Didn’tbringahat.”“It’salwaystufty,”ItellThatcher.“Iknow,”hesays.ThemenshakehandsandGranddadhookshisarmthroughmineasweleavethegallery.“He’stakengoodcareofyou,”hetellsme.“Mr.Thatcher?”Henods.“Butdon’ttellyourmother.She’llstiruptroubleagain.”

42

ONTHEWAYhome,amemorycomes.Summerfifteen,amorninginearlyJuly.GranddadwasmakingespressointheClairmontkitchen.Iwaseatingjamandbaguettetoastatthetable.Itwasjustthetwoofus.“Ilovethatgoose,”Isaid,pointing.Acreamgoosestatuesatonthesideboard.“It’sbeentheresinceyou,Johnny,andMirrenwerethree,”saidGranddad.“That’stheyearTipperandItookthattriptoChina.”Hechuckled.“Sheboughtalotofartthere.Wehadaguide,anartspecialist.”HecameovertothetoasterandpoppedthepieceofbreadIhadinthereformyself.“Hey!”Iobjected.“Shush, I’m the granddad. I can take the toast when I want to.” He sat downwith hisespressoandspreadbutteronthebaguette.“Thisartspecialistgirltookustoantiquesshopsandhelpedusnavigatetheauctionhouses,”hesaid.“Shespokefourlanguages.Youwouldn’tthinktolookather.LittleslipofaChinagirl.”“Don’tsayChinagirl.Hello?”Heignoredme.“Tipperbought jewelryandhadthe ideaofbuyinganimalsculptures forthehouseshere.”“DoesthatincludethetoadinCuddledown?”“Sure,theivorytoad,”saidGranddad.“Andweboughttwoelephants,Iknow.”“ThoseareinWindemere.”“AndmonkeysinRedGate.Therewerefourmonkeys.”“Isn’tivoryillegal?”Iasked.“Oh,someplaces.Butyoucanget it.Yourgranlovedivory.ShetraveledtoChinawhenshewasachild.”“Isitelephanttusks?”“Thatorrhino.”Therehewas,Granddad.Hiswhitehairstillthick,thelinesonhisfacedeepfromallthosedaysonthesailboat.Hisheavyjawlikeanoldfilmstar.Youcangetit,hesaid,abouttheivory.Oneofhismottos:Don’ttakenoforananswer.Ithadalwaysseemedaheroicwaytolive.Hewouldsayitwhenadvisingustopursueourambitions.WhenencouragingJohnnytotrytrainingforamarathon,orwhenIfailedtowinthereadingprizeinseventhgrade.Itwassomethinghesaidwhentalkingabouthisbusinessstrategies,andhowhegotGrantomarryhim.“Iaskedherfourtimesbeforeshesaidyes,”he’dalwayssay,retellingoneofhisfavoriteSinclairfamilylegends.“Iworeherdown.Shesaidyestoshutmeup.”Now, at the breakfast table, watching him eatmy toast, “Don’t take no for an answer”seemedliketheattitudeofaprivilegedguywhodidn’tcarewhogothurt,solongashiswifehadthecutestatuesshewantedtodisplayinhersummer-houses.Iwalkedoverandpickedupthegoose.“Peopleshouldn’tbuyivory,”Isaid.“It’sillegalfor

areason.Gatwasreadingtheotherdayabout—”“Don’t tellmewhat thatboy is reading,” snappedGranddad.“I’m informed. Igetall thepapers.”“Sorry.Buthe’smademethinkabout—”“Cadence.”“You could put the statues up for auction and then donate the money to wildlifeconservation.”“ThenIwouldn’thavethestatues.TheywereverydeartoTipper.”“But—”Granddadbarked, “Donot tellmewhat todowithmymoney,Cady.Thatmoney isnotyours.”“Okay.”“Youarenottotellmehowtodisposeofwhatismine,isthatclear?”“Yes.”“Notever.”“Yes,Granddad.”Ihadtheurgetosnatchthegooseandflingitacrosstheroom.Woulditbreakwhenithitthefireplace?Woulditshatter?Iballedmyhandsintofists.Itwasthefirsttimewe’dtalkedaboutGrannyTippersinceherdeath.

GRANDDADDOCKSTHEboatandtiesitup.“DoyoustillmissGran?”IaskhimasweheadtowardNewClairmont.“BecauseImissher.Wenevertalkabouther.”“Apartofmedied,”hesays.“Anditwasthebestpart.”“Youthinkso?”Iask.“Thatisallthereistosayaboutit,”saysGranddad.

43

IFINDTHELiarsintheCuddledownyard.Thegrassislitteredwithtennisracquetsanddrinkbottles, foodwrappersandbeachtowels.Thethreeofthemlieoncottonblankets,wearingsunglassesandeatingpotatochips.“Feelingbetter?”asksMirren.Inod.“Wemissedyou.”Theyhavebabyoilspreadontheirbodies.Twobottlesof it lieonthegrass.“Aren’tyouafraidyou’llgetburned?”Iask.“Idon’tbelieveinsunblockanymore,”saysJohnny.“He’sdecidedthescientistsarecorruptandthewholesunblockindustryisamoneymakingfraud,”saysMirren.“Haveyoueverseensunpoisoning?”Iask.“Theskinliterallybubbles.”“It’s a dumb idea,” saysMirren. “We’re just bored out of ourminds, that’s all.” But sheslathersbabyoilonherarmsasshe’sspeaking.IliedownnexttoJohnny.Iopenabagofbarbequepotatochips.IstareatGat’schest.MirrenreadsaloudabitofabookaboutJaneGoodall.WelistentosomemusicoffmyiPhone,thespeakertinny.“Whydon’tyoubelieveinsunblockagain?”IaskJohnny.“It’saconspiracy,”hesays.“Tosellalotoflotionthatnobodyneeds.”“Uh-huh.”“Iwon’tburn,”hesays.“You’llsee.”“Butwhyareyouputtingonbabyoil?”“Oh,that’snotpartoftheexperiment,”Johnnysays.“Ijustliketobeasgreasyaspossibleatalltimes.”

GATCATCHESMEinthekitchen,lookingforfood.Thereisn’tmuch.“LasttimeIsawyouwasagainsuboptimal,”hesays.“Inthehallwayacouplenightsago.”“Yeah.”Myhandsareshaking.“Sorry.”“Allright.”“Canwestartover?”“Wecan’tstartovereveryday,Gat.”“Whynot?”Hejumpstositonthecounter.“Maybethisisasummerofsecondchances.”“Second,sure.Butafterthatitgetsridiculous.”“Sojustbenormal,”hesays,“atleastfortoday.Let’spretendI’mnotamess,let’spretendyou’renotangry.Let’sactlikewe’refriendsandforgetwhathappened.”Idon’twanttopretend.

Idon’twanttobefriends.Idon’twanttoforget.Iamtryingtoremember.“Just for a day or two, until things start to seem all right again,” says Gat, seeing myhesitation.“We’lljusthangoutuntilitallstopsbeingsuchabigdeal.”Iwant toknoweverything,understandeverything; Iwant toholdGat closeand runmyhandsoverhimandneverlethimgo.Butperhapsthisistheonlywaywecanstart.Benormal,now.Rightnow.Becauseyouare.Becauseyoucanbe.“I’velearnedhowtodothat,”Isay.Ihandhimthebagof fudgeGranddadandIbought inEdgartown,andthewayhis facelightsupatthechocolatetugsatmyheart.

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NEXTDAYMIRRENandItakethesmallmotorboattoEdgartownwithoutpermission.Theboysdon’twanttocome.Theyaregoingkayaking.IdriveandMirrentrailsherhandinthewake.Mirrenisn’twearingmuch:adaisy-printbikinitopandadenimminiskirt.ShewalksdownthecobblestonesidewalksofEdgartowntalkingaboutDrakeLoggerheadandhowitfeelstohave“sexualintercourse”withhim.That’swhatshecallsiteverytime;heranswerabouthowitfeelshastodowiththescentofbeachrosesmixedwithrollercoastersandfireworks.She also talks about what clothes she wants to buy for freshman year at Pomona andmoviesshewantstoseeandprojectsshewantstodothissummer, likefindaplaceontheVineyard to ride horses and start making ice cream again. Honestly, she doesn’t stopchatteringforhalfanhour.IwishIhadherlife.Aboyfriend,plans,collegeinCalifornia.Mirrenisgoingoffintohersunshinefuture,whereasIamgoingbacktoDickinsonAcademytoanotheryearofsnowandsuffocation.IbuyasmallbagoffudgeatMurdick’s,eventhoughthere’ssomeleftfromyesterday.Wesitonashadybench,Mirrenstilltalking.Anothermemorycomes.

SUMMERFIFTEEN,MIRRENsatnexttoTaftandWillonthestepsofourfavoriteEdgartownclamshack.Theboyshadplasticrainbowpinwheels.Taft’sfacewassmearedwithfudgehe’deaten earlier. We were waiting for Bess, because she had Mirren’s shoes. We couldn’t goindoorswithoutthem.Mirren’sfeetweredirtyandhertoenailspaintedblue.WehadbeenwaitingawhilewhenGatcameoutof theshopdowntheblock.Hehadastackofbooksunderhisarm.Herantowardusat topspeed,as if inaridiculoushurry tocatchus,eventhoughweweresittingstill.Thenhestoppedshort.ThebookontopwasBeingandNothingnessbySartre.Hestillhadthewordswrittenonthebacksofhishands.ArecommendationfromGranddad.Gatbowed,foolishly,clownishly,andpresentedmewiththebookatthebottomofthepile:itwasanovelbyJaclynMoriarty.I’dbeenreadingherallsummer.Iopenedthebook to the titlepage. Itwas inscribed.ForCadywith everything, everything.Gat.

“IREMEMBERWAITING foryourshoessowecouldgointotheclamshack,”I tellMirren.Shehasstoppedtalkingnowandlooksatmeexpectantly.“Pinwheels,”Isay.“Gatgivingmeabook.”“Soyourmemoriesarecomingback,”Mirrensays.“That’sgreat!”“Theauntiesfoughtabouttheestate.”

Sheshrugs.“Abit.”“AndGranddadandI,wehadthisargumentabouthisivorystatues.”“Yeah.Wetalkedaboutitatthetime.”“Tellmesomething.”“What?”“WhydidGatdisappearaftermyaccident?”Mirrentwistsastrandofherhair.“Idon’tknow.”“DidhegobackwithRaquel?”“Idon’tknow.”“Didwefight?DidIdosomethingwrong?”“Idon’tknow,Cady.”“Hegotupsetatmeafewnightsback.Aboutnotknowingthenamesofthestaff.AboutnothavingseenhisapartmentinNewYork.”Thereisasilence.“Hehasgoodreasonstobemad,”saysMirrenfinally.“WhatdidIdo?”Mirrensighs.“Youcan’tfixit.”“Whynot?SuddenlyMirrenstartschoking.Gagging,likeshemightvomit.Bendingoveratthewaist,herskindampandpale.“Youokay?”“No.”“CanIhelp?”Shedoesn’tanswer.Iofferherabottleofwater.Shetakesit.Drinksslowly.“Ididtoomuch.IneedtogetbacktoCuddledown.Now.”Hereyesareglassy.Iholdoutmyhand.Herskinfeelswetandsheseemsunsteadyonherfeet.Wewalkinsilencetotheharborwherethesmallmotorboatisdocked.

MUMMYNEVERNOTICEDthemotorboatwasmissing,butsheseesthebagoffudgewhenIgiveittoTaftandWill.Onandon,natternatter.Herlectureisn’tinteresting.Imaynotleavetheislandwithoutpermissionfromher.Imaynotleavetheislandwithoutadultsupervision.Imaynotoperateamotorvehicleonmedication.Ican’tbeasstupidasI’macting,canI?I say the “Sorry”mymother wants to hear. Then I run down toWindemere and writeeverythingIremembered—theclamshack,thepinwheel,Mirren’sdirtyfeetonthewoodensteps,thebookGatgaveme—onthegraphpaperabovemybed.

45

STARTOFMYsecondweekonBeechwood,wediscovertheroofofCuddledown.It’seasytoclimb up there; we just never did it before because it involves going through Aunt Bess’sbedroomwindow.Theroofiscoldashellinthenighttime,butinthedaythere’sagreatviewoftheislandand the sea beyond it. I can see over the trees that cluster around Cuddledown to NewClairmontanditsgarden.Icanevenseeintothehouse,whichhasfloor-to-ceilingwindowsinmanyoftheground-floorrooms.YoucanseeabitofRedGate,too,andtheotherdirection,acrosstoWindemere,thenouttothebay.Thatfirstafternoonwespreadoutfoodonanoldpicnicblanket.WeeatPortuguesesweetbreadandrunnycheesesinsmallwoodenboxes.Berriesingreencardboard.Coldbottlesoffizzylemonade.Weresolvetocomehereeveryday.Allsummer.Thisroofisthebestplaceintheworld.“IfIdie,”Isayaswelookattheview,“Imean,whenIdie,throwmyashesinthewaterofthetinybeach.Thenwhenyoumissme,youcanclimbuphere,lookdown,andthinkhowawesomeIwas.”“Orwecouldgodownandswiminyou,”saysJohnny.“Ifwemissedyoureallybadly.”“Ew.”“You’retheonewhowantedtobeinthewaterofthetinybeach.”“Ijustmeant,Iloveithere.It’dbeagrandplacetohavemyashes.”“Yeah,”saysJohnny.“Itwouldbe.”MirrenandGathavebeensilent,eatingchocolate-coveredhazelnutsoutofablueceramicbowl.“Thisisabadconversation,”Mirrensays.“It’sokay,”saysJohnny.“Idon’twantmyasheshere,”saysGat.“Whynot?”Isay.“Wecouldallbetogetherinthetinybeach.”“Andthelittleswillswiminus!”yellsJohnny.“You’regrossingmeout,”snapsMirren.“It’snotactuallythatdifferentfromallthetimesI’vepeedinthere,”saysJohnny.“Gack.”“Oh,comeon,everyonepeesinthere.”“Idon’t,”saysMirren.“Yes,youdo,”hesays.“Ifthetinybeachwaterisn’tmadeofpeenow,afteralltheseyearsofuspeeinginit,afewashesaren’tgoingtoruinit.”“Doyouguyseverplanoutyourfuneral?”Iask.“Whatdoyoumean?”Johnnycrinkleshisnose.“Youknow,inTomSawyer,wheneveryonethinksTomandHuckandwhat’s-his-name?”“JoeHarper,”saysGat.“Yeah,theythinkTom,Huck,andJoeHarperaredead.Theboysgototheirownfuneraland hear all the nicememories the townspeople have of them.After I read that, I always

thoughtaboutmyownfuneral.Like,whatkindofflowersandwhereI’dwantmyashes.Andtheeulogy,too,sayinghowIwastranscendentallyawesomeandwontheNobelPrizeandtheOlympics.”“WhatdidyouwintheOlympicsfor?”asksGat.“Maybehandball.”“IstherehandballintheOlympics?”“Yes.”“Doyouevenplayhandball?”“Notyet.”“Youbettergetstarted.”“Mostpeopleplantheirweddings,”saysMirren.“Iusedtoplanmywedding.”“Guysdon’tplantheirweddings,”saysJohnny.“IfImarriedDrakeI’dhaveallyellowflowers,”Mirrensays.“Yellowflowerseverywhere.Andaspringyellowdress, likeanormalweddingdressonlyyellow.Andhewouldwearayellowcummerbund.”“Hewouldhavetoloveyouvery,verymuchtowearayellowcummerbund,”Itellher.“Yeah,”saysMirren.“ButDrakewoulddoit.”“I’lltellyouwhatIdon’twantatmyfuneral,”saysJohnny.“Idon’twantabunchofNewYork art-world types who don’t even know me standing around in a stupid-ass receptionroom.”“Idon’twantreligiouspeopletalkingaboutaGodIdon’tbelievein,”saysGat.“Orabunchoffakegirlsactingallsadandthenputtinglipglossoninthebathroomandfixingtheirhair,”saysMirren.“God,”Iquip,“youmakeitsoundlikefuneralsaren’tanyfun.”“Seriously,Cady,”saysMirren.“Youshouldplanyourwedding,notyourfuneral.Don’tbemorbid.”“WhatifInevergetmarried?WhatifIdon’twanttogetmarried?”“Planyourbookparty,then.Oryourartopening.”“She’s winning the Olympics and the Nobel Prize,” says Gat. “She can plan parties forthose.”“Okay,fine,”Isay.“Let’splanmyOlympichandballparty.Ifit’llmakeyouhappy.”Sowedo.Chocolatehandballswrappedinbluefondant.Agolddressforme.Champagnefluteswithtinygoldballsinside.Wediscusswhetherpeoplewearweirdgogglesforhandballliketheydoforracquetballanddecidethatforpurposesofourparty,theydo.Alltheguestswillweargoldhandballgogglesfortheduration.“Do you play on a handball team?” asks Gat. “I mean, will there be a whole crew ofAmazonianhandballgoddessesthere,celebratingvictorywithyou?Ordidyouwinitbyyourlonesome?”“Ihavenoidea.”“Youreallyhavetostarteducatingyourselfaboutthis,”saysGat.“Oryou’renevergoingtowinthegold.We’llhavetorethinkthewholepartyifyouonlygetthesilver.”

LIFEFEELSBEAUTIFULthatday.ThefourofusLiars,wehavealwaysbeen.

Wealwayswillbe.Nomatterwhathappensaswegotocollege,growold,buildlivesforourselves;nomatter

ifGatandIaretogetherornot.Nomatterwherewego,wewillalwaysbeabletolineupontheroofofCuddledownandgazeatthesea.Thisislandisours.Here,insomeway,weareyoungforever.

46

DAYSTHATFOLLOWaredarker.RarelydotheLiarswanttogoanywhere.Mirrenhasasorethroatandbodyaches.ShestaysmainlyinCuddledown.Shepaintspicturestohanginthehallwaysandmakesrowsofshellsalongtheedgesofthecountertops.Dishespileinthesinkandonthecoffeetable.DVDsandbooksareinmessystacksalloverthegreatroom.Thebedslieunmadeandthebathroomshaveadamp,mildewysmell.JohnnyeatscheesewithhisfingersandwatchesBritishTVcomedies.Onedayhecollectsarowofoldteabags,soggyones,andtossesthemintoamugfilledwithorangejuice.“Whatareyoudoing?”Iask.“Biggestsplashgetsthemostpoints.”“Butwhy?”“Mymindworksinmysteriousways,”saysJohnny.“Ifindunderhandisgenerallythebesttechnique.”Ihelphimfigureoutapointsystem.Fivepointsforasprinkle,tenforapuddle,twentyforadecorativepatternonthewallbehindthemug.Wegothroughawholebottleoffresh-squeezedjuice.Whenhe’sdone,Johnnyleavesthemugandthemangled,leakingteabagswheretheylie.Idon’tcleanup,either.Gathasalistofthehundredgreatestnovelseverwritten,andhe’spushinghiswaythroughwhateverhe’s beenable to findon the island.Hemarks themwith stickynotes and readspassagesaloud. InvisibleMan.APassage to India.TheMagnificentAmbersons. Ionlyhalfpayattentionwhenhereads,becauseGathasnotkissedmeorreachedouttomesinceweagreedtoactnormal.Ithinkheavoidsbeingalonewithme.Iavoidbeingalonewithhim,too,becausemywholebodysingstobenearhim,becauseevery movement he makes is charged with electricity. I often think of putting my armsaroundhimorrunningmyfingersalonghislips.WhenIletmythoughtsgothere—ifforamomentJohnnyandMirrenareoutof sight, if forevena secondwearealone—the sharppainofunrequitedloveinvitesthemigrainein.These days she is a gnarled crone, touching the raw flesh of my brain with her cruelfingernails.Shepokesmyexposednerves,exploringwhethershe’ll takeupresidenceinmyskull.Ifshegetsin,I’mconfinedtomybedroomforadayormaybetwo.Weeatlunchontheroofmostdays.IsupposetheydoitwhenI’mill,too.Every now and then a bottle rolls off the roof and the glass smashes. In fact, there areshardsandshardsofsplinteredglass,stickywithlemonade,allovertheporch.Fliesbuzzaround,attractedbythesugar.

47

ENDOFTHEsecondweek,IfindJohnnyaloneintheyard,buildingastructureoutofLegopieceshemusthavefoundatRedGate.I’vegotpickles,cheesestraws,andleftovergrilledtunafromtheNewClairmontkitchen.Wedecidenottogoontheroofsinceit’sjustthetwoofus.Weopenthecontainersandlinethemupontheedgeofthedirtyporch.JohnnytalksabouthowhewantstobuildHogwartsout of Lego. Or a Death Star. Or, wait! Even better is a Lego tuna fish to hang in NewClairmontnowthatnoneofGranddad’staxidermyisthereanymore.That’sit.Toobadthere’snotenoughLegoonthisstupidislandforavisionaryprojectsuchashis.“Whydidn’tyoucalloremailaftermyaccident?”Iask.Ihadn’tplannedtobringitup.Thewordsspringout.“Oh,Cady.”Ifeelstupidasking,butIwanttoknow.“Youdon’twanttotalkaboutLegotunafishinstead?”Johnnyvamps.“I thoughtmaybeyouwereannoyedwithmeabout thoseemails.Theones I sentaskingaboutGat.”“No, no.” Johnnywipes his hands onhis T-shirt. “I disappearedbecause I’m an asshole.BecauseIdon’tthinkthroughmychoicesandI’veseentoomanyactionmoviesandI’mkindofafollower.”“Really?Idon’tthinkthataboutyou.”“It’sanundeniablefact.”“Youweren’tmad?”“Iwasjustastupidfuck.Butnotmad.Nevermad.I’msorry,Cadence.”“Thanks.”HepicksupahandfulofLegosandstartsfittingthemtogether.“WhydidGatdisappear?Doyouknow?”Johnnysighs.“That’sanotherquestion.”“HetoldmeIdon’tknowtherealhim.”“Couldbetrue.”“Hedoesn’twanttodiscussmyaccident.Orwhathappenedwithusthatsummer.Hewantsustoactnormalandlikenothinghappened.”Johnny’slinedhisLegosupinstripes:blue,white,andgreen.“GathadbeenshittytothatgirlRaquel,bystartingupwithyou.Heknewitwasn’trightandhehatedhimselfforthat.”“Okay.”“Hedidn’twanttobethatkindofguy.Hewantstobeagoodperson.Andhewasreallyangrythatsummer,aboutallkindsofthings.Whenhewasn’tthereforyou,hehatedhimselfevenmore.”“Youthink?”“I’mguessing,”saysJohnny.“Ishegoingoutwithanyone?”

“Aw,Cady,”saysJohnny.“He’sapretentiousass.Ilovehimlikeabrother,butyou’retoogood for him. Go find yourself a nice Vermont guywithmuscles like Drake Loggerhead.”Thenhecracksuplaughing.“You’reuseless.”“Ican’tdenyit,”heanswers.“Butyou’vegottostopbeingsuchamushball.”

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GIVEAWAY:CharmedLife,byDianaWynneJones.It’soneof theChrestomancistoriesMummyreadtomeandGat theyearwewereeight.I’verereaditseveraltimessincethen,butIdoubtGathas.Iopenthebookandwriteonthetitlepage.ForGatwitheverything,everything.Cady.IheadtoCuddledownearlythenextmorning,steppingoveroldteacupsandDVDs.IknockonGat’sbedroomdoor.Noanswer.Iknockagain,thenpushitopen.Itused tobeTaft’s room. It’s fullofbearsandmodelboats,plusGat-likepilesofbooks,emptybagsofpotato chips, cashews crushedunderfoot.Half-full bottlesof juiceand soda,CDs,theScrabbleboxwithmostofitstilesspilledacrossthefloor.It’sasbadastherestofthehouse,ifnotworse.Anyway,he’snotthere.Hemustbeatthebeach.Ileavethebookonhispillow.

49

THATNIGHT,GATandIfindourselvesaloneontheroofofCuddledown.MirrenfeltsickandJohnnytookherdownstairsforsometea.Voices andmusic float from New Clairmont, where the aunts and Granddad are eatingblueberrypieanddrinkingport.Thelittlesarewatchingamovieinthelivingroom.Gatwalks the slant of the roof, all theway down to the gutter and up again. It seemsdangerous,soeasytofall—butheisfearless.NowiswhenIcantalktohim.Nowiswhenwecanstoppretendingtobenormal.Iamlookingfortherightwords,thebestwaytostart.Suddenly he climbs back to where I’m sitting in three big steps. “You are very, verybeautiful,Cady,”hesays.“It’sthemoonlight.Makesallthegirlslookpretty.”“I thinkyou’rebeautiful alwaysand forever.”He is silhouettedagainst themoon. “HaveyougotaboyfriendinVermont?”Of course Idon’t. Ihaveneverhadaboyfriendexcept forhim. “Myboyfriend isnamedPercocet,”Isay.“We’reveryclose.IevenwenttoEuropewithhimlastsummer.”“God.”Gatisannoyed.Standsandwalksbackdowntotheedgeoftheroof.“Joking.”Gat’sbackistome.“Yousayweshouldn’tfeelsorryforyou—”“Yes.”“—butthenyoucomeoutwiththesestatements.MyboyfriendisnamedPercocet.Or,IstaredatthebaseoftheblueItaliantoilet.Andit’sclearyouwanteveryonetofeelsorryforyou.Andwewould,Iwould,butyouhavenoideahowluckyyouare.”Myfaceflushes.Heisright.Idowantpeopletofeelsorryforme.Ido.AndthenIdon’t.Ido.AndthenIdon’t.“I’msorry,”Isay.“HarrissentyoutoEuropeforeightweeks.Youthinkhe’lleversendJohnnyorMirren?No.Andhewouldn’tsendme,nomatterwhat.Justthinkbeforeyoucomplainaboutstuffotherpeoplewouldlovetohave.”Iflinch.“GranddadsentmetoEurope?”“Comeon,”saysGat,bitter.“Didyoureallythinkyourfatherpaidforthattrip?”Iknowimmediatelythatheistellingthetruth.Of courseDad didn’t pay for the trip. There’s noway he could have. College professorsdon’tflyfirst-classandstayinfive-starhotels.SousedtosummersonBeechwood,toendlesslystockedpantriesandmultiplemotorboats

andastaffquietlygrillingsteaksandwashinglinens—Ididn’teventhinkaboutwherethatmoneymightbecomingfrom.GranddadsentmetoEurope.Why?Whywouldn’tMummygowithme,ifthetripwasagiftfromGranddad?AndwhywouldDadeventakethatmoneyfrommygrandfather?“Youhavealifestretchingoutinfrontofyouwithamillionpossibilities,”Gatsays.“It—itgratesonmewhenyouaskforsympathy,that’sall.”Gat,myGat.Heisright.Heis.Buthealsodoesn’tunderstand.“Iknownoone’sbeatingme,”Isay,feelingdefensiveallofasudden.“IknowIhaveplentyofmoneyandagoodeducation.Foodonthetable. I’mnotdyingofcancer.LotsofpeoplehaveitmuchworsethanI.AndIdoknowIwasluckytogotoEurope.Ishouldn’tcomplainaboutitorbeungrateful.”“Okay,then.”“But listen. You have no ideawhat it feels like to have headaches like this. No idea. Ithurts,” I say—and I realize tears are running down my face, though I’m not sobbing. “Itmakes ithard tobealive, somedays.A lotof times Iwish Iweredead, I trulydo, just tomakethepainstop.”“Youdonot,”hesaysharshly.“Youdonotwishyouweredead.Don’tsaythat.”“Ijustwantthepaintobeover,”Isay.“Onthedaysthepillsdon’twork.IwantittoendandIwoulddoanything—really,anything—ifIknewforsureitwouldendthepain.”There isasilence.Hewalksdownto thebottomedgeof theroof, facingawayfromme.“Whatdoyoudothen?Whenit’slikethat?”“Nothing.Iliethereandwait,andremindmyselfoverandoverthatitdoesn’tlastforever.Thattherewillbeanotherdayandafterthat,yetanotherday.Oneofthosedays,I’llgetupandeatbreakfastandfeelokay.”“Anotherday.”“Yes.”Nowheturnsandboundsuptheroofinacouplesteps.Suddenlyhisarmsarearoundme,andweareclingingtoeachother.Heisshiveringslightlyandhekissesmyneckwithcoldlips.Westaylikethat,enfoldedineachother’sarms,foraminuteortwo,anditfeelsliketheuniverseisreorganizingitself,andIknowanyangerwefelthasdisappeared.Gatkissesmeonthelips,andtouchesmycheek.Ilovehim.Ihavealwayslovedhim.Westayupthereontheroofforavery,verylongtime.Forever.

50

MIRRENHASBEENgettingillmoreandmoreoften.Shegetsuplate,paintshernails,liesinthesun,andstaresatpicturesofAfricanlandscapesinabigcoffee-tablebook.Butshewon’tsnorkel.Won’tsail.Won’tplaytennisorgotoEdgartown.IbringherjellybeansfromNewClairmont.Mirrenlovesjellybeans.Today,sheandIlieoutonthetinybeach.WereadmagazinesIstolefromthetwinsandeatbabycarrots.Mirrenhasheadphoneson.ShekeepslisteningtothesamesongoverandoveronmyiPhone.

OuryouthiswastedWewillnotwasteitRemembermyname’CausewemadehistoryNananana,nanana

IPOKEMIRRENwithacarrot.“What?”“YouhavetostopsingingorIcan’tberesponsibleformyactions.”Mirrenturnstome,serious.Pullsouttheearbuds.“CanItellyousomething,Cady?”“Sure.”“AboutyouandGat.Iheardyoutwocomedownstairslastnight.”“So?”“Ithinkyoushouldleavehimalone.”“What?”“It’sgoingtoendbadlyandmesseverythingup.”“Ilovehim,”Isay.“YouknowI’vealwayslovedhim.”“You’remaking things hard for him.Harder than they already are.You’re going tohurthim.”“That’snottrue.He’llprobablyhurtme.”“Well,thatcouldhappen,too.It’snotagoodideaforyouguystobetogether.”“Don’tyouseeIwouldratherbehurtbyGatthanbeclosedofffromhim?”Isay,sittingup.“I’damillion timesrather liveandriskandhave itallendbadly thanstay in thebox I’vebeeninforthepasttwoyears.It’satinybox,Mirren.MeandMummy.Meandmypills.Meandmypain.Idon’twanttolivethereanymore.”Asilencehangsintheair.“I’veneverhadaboyfriend,”Mirrenblurts.I look into her eyes. There are tears. “What about Drake Loggerwood?What about theyellowrosesandthesexualintercourse?”Iask.Shelooksdown.“Ilied.”“Why?”

“Youknowhow,whenyoucometoBeechwood,it’sadifferentworld?Youdon’thavetobewhoyouarebackhome.Youcanbesomebodybetter,maybe.”Inod.“ThatfirstdayyoucamebackInoticedGat.Helookedatyoulikeyouwerethebrightestplanetinthegalaxy.”“Hedid?”“Iwantsomeonetolookatmethatwaysomuch,Cady.Somuch.AndIdidn’tmeanto,butIfoundmyselflying.I’msorry.”Idon’tknowwhattosay.Itakeadeepbreath.Mirrensnaps.“Don’tgasp.Okay?It’sfine.It’sfineifIneverhaveaboyfriendatall.It’sfineifnotonepersoneverlovesme,allright?It’sperfectlytolerable.”Mummy’svoicecallsfromsomewherebyNewClairmont.“Cadence!Canyouhearme?”Iyellback.“Whatdoyouwant?”“Thecookisofftoday.I’mstartinglunch.Comeslicetomatoes.”“Inaminute.”IsighandlookatMirren.“Ihavetogo.”Shedoesn’tanswer.IpullmyhoodieonandtrudgeupthepathtoNewClairmont.Inthekitchen,Mummyhandsmeaspecialtomatoknifeandstartstotalk.Natternatter,you’realwaysonthetinybeach.Natternatter,youshouldplaywiththelittles.Granddadwon’tbehereforever.Doyouknowyouhaveasunburn?Isliceandslice,abasketfulofstrangelyshapedheirloomtomatoes.Theyareyellow,green,andsmokyred.

51

MYTHIRDWEEKon-islandistickingbyandamigrainetakesmeoutfortwodays.Ormaybethree.Ican’teventell.Thepillsinmybottlearegettinglow,thoughIfilledmyprescriptionbeforewelefthome.IwonderifMummyistakingthem.Maybeshehasalwaysbeentakingthem.Ormaybe the twinshavebeencoming inmyroomagain, lifting things theydon’tneed.Maybethey’reusers.OrmaybeIamtakingmorethanIknow.Poppingextrainahazeofpain.Forgettingmylastdose.IamscaredtotellMummyIneedmore.WhenIfeelstableIcometoCuddledownagain.Thesunhoverslowinthesky.Theporchiscoveredwithbrokenbottles.Inside,theribbonshavefallenfromtheceilingandlietwistedonthe floor.Thedishes in thesinkaredryandencrusted.Thequilts thatcover thediningtablearedirty.Thecoffeetableisstainedwithcircularmarksfrommugsoftea.IfindtheLiarsclusteredinMirren’sbedroom,alllookingattheBible.“Scrabblewordargument,”saysMirrenassoonas Ienter.Sheclosesthebook.“Gatwasright,asusual.You’realwayseffingright,Gat.Girlsdon’tlikethatinaguy,youknow.”TheScrabbletilesarescatteredacrossthegreatroomfloor.IsawthemwhenIwalkedin.Theyhaven’tbeenplaying.“Whatdidyouguysdothepastfewdays?”Iask.“Oh,God,”saysJohnny,stretchingoutonMirren’sbed.“Iforgetalready.”“It was Fourth of July,” says Mirren. “We went to supper at New Clairmont and theneveryonewentoutinthebigmotorboattoseetheVineyardfireworks.”“TodaywewenttotheNantucketdoughnutshop,”saysGat.They never go anywhere. Ever. Never see anyone. Nowwhile I’ve been sick, theywenteverywhere,saweveryone?“Downyflake,”Isay.“That’sthenameofthedoughnutshop.”“Yeah.Theywerethemostamazingdoughnuts,”saysJohnny.“Youhatecakedoughnuts.”“Ofcourse,”saysMirren.“Butwedidn’tgetthecake,wegotglazedtwists.”“AndBostoncream,”saysGat.“Andjelly,”saysJohnny.ButIknowDownyflakeonlymakescakedoughnuts.Noglazed.NoBostoncream.Nojelly.Whyaretheylying?

52

IEATSUPPERwithMummyandthelittlesatNewClairmont,butthatnightIamhitwithamigraineagain. It’sworse than theonebefore. I lie inmydarkenedroom.Scavengerbirdspeckattheoozingmatterthatleaksfrommycrushedskull.IopenmyeyesandGatstandsoverme.Iseehimthroughahaze.Lightshinesthroughthecurtains,soitmustbeday.GatnevercomestoWindemere.Buthereheis.Lookingatthegraphpaperonmywall.Atthestickynotes.AtthenewmemoriesandinformationI’veaddedsinceI’vebeenhere,notesaboutGran’sdogsdying,Granddadandtheivorygoose,GatgivingmetheMoriartybook,theauntsfightingabouttheBostonhouse.“Don’treadmypapers,”Imoan.“Don’t.”Hestepsback.“It’supthereforanyonetosee.Sorry.”Iturnonmysidetopressmycheekagainstthehotpillow.“Ididn’tknowyouwerecollectingstories.”Gatsitsonthebed.Reachesoutandtakesmyhand.“I’mtryingtorememberwhathappenedthatnobodywantstotalkabout,”Isay.“Includingyou.”“Iwanttotalkaboutit.”“Youdo?”Heisstaringatthefloor.“Ihadagirlfriend,twosummersago.”“Iknow.Iknewallalong.”“ButInevertoldyou.”“No,youdidn’t.”“I fell for you so hard, Cady. Therewas no stopping it. I know I should have told youeverythingandIshouldhavebrokenitoffwithRaquelrightaway.Itwasjust—shewasbackhome, and I never see you all year, and my phone didn’t work here, and I kept gettingpackagesfromher.Andletters.Allsummer.”Ilookathim.“Iwasacoward,”Gatsays.“Yeah.”“Itwascruel.Toyouandtoher,too.”Myfaceburnswithrememberedjealousy.“Iamsorry,Cady,”Gatgoeson.“That’swhatIshouldhavesaidtoyouthefirstdaywegotherethisyear.IwaswrongandI’msorry.”Inod.Itisnicetohearhimsaythat.IwishIweren’tsohigh.“Half the time I hatemyself for all the things I’ve done,” says Gat. “But the thing thatmakesmereallymessedupisthecontradiction:whenI’mnothatingmyself,Ifeelrighteousandvictimized.Liketheworldissounfair.”“Whydoyouhateyourself?”AndbeforeIknowit,Gatislyingonthebednexttome.Hiscoldfingerswraparoundmy

hotones,andhisfaceisclosetomine.Hekissesme.“BecauseIwantthingsIcan’thave,”hewhispers.Buthehasme.Doesn’theknowhealreadyhasme?OrisGattalkingaboutsomethingelse,somethingelsehecan’thave?Somematerialthing,somedreamofsomething?IamsweatyandmyheadhurtsandIcan’tthinkclearly.“Mirrensaysit’llendbadlyandIshouldleaveyoualone,”Itellhim.Hekissesmeagain.“Someonedidsomethingtomethatistooawfultoremember,”Iwhisper.“Iloveyou,”hesays.Weholdeachotherandkissforalongtime.Thepaininmyheadfades,alittle.Butnotalltheway.

IOPENMYeyesandtheclockreadsmidnight.Gatisgone.Ipulltheshadesandlookoutthewindow,liftingthesashtogetsomeair.AuntCarrieiswalkinginhernightgownagain.PassingbyWindemere,scratchinghertoo-thinarmsinthemoonlight.Shedoesn’tevenhavehershearlingbootsonthistime.OveratRedGateIcanhearWillcryingfromanightmare.“Mommy!Mommy,Ineedyou!”ButCarrieeitherdoesn’thearhim,orelseshewillnotgo.SheveersawayandheadsupthepathtowardNewClairmont.

53

GIVEAWAY:APLASTICboxofLegos.I’vegivenawayallmybooksnow.Igavea fewtothe littles,onetoGat,andwentwithAuntBesstodonatetheresttoacharityshopontheVineyard.ThismorningIrummagethroughtheattic.There’saboxofLegosthere,soIbringthemtoJohnny.IfindhimaloneintheCuddledowngreatroom,hurlingbitsofPlay-Dohatthewallandwatchingthecolorsstainthewhitepaint.HeseestheLegosandshakeshishead.“Foryourtunafish,”Iexplain.“Nowyou’llhaveenough.”“I’mnotgonnabuildit,”hesays.“Whynot?”“Toomuchwork,”hesays.“GivethemtoWill.”“Don’tyouhaveWill’sLegosdownhere?”“Ibrought themback.Littleguywas starved for them,”Johnny says. “He’llbehappy tohavemore.”IbringthemtoWillatlunch.TherearelittleLegopeopleandlotsofpartsforbuildingcars.Heisridiculouslyhappy.HeandTaftbuildcarsallthroughthemeal.Theydon’teveneat.

54

THATSAMEAFTERNOON,theLiarsgetthekayaksout.“Whatareyoudoing?”Iask.“Goingroundthepointtothisplaceweknow,”saysJohnny.“We’vedoneitbefore.”“Cadyshouldn’tcome,”saysMirren.“Whynot?”asksJohnny.“Becauseofherhead!”shoutsMirren.“Whatifshehurtsherheadagain,andhermigrainesgetevenworse?God,doyouevenhaveabrain,Johnny?”“Whyareyouyelling?”yellsJohnny.“Don’tbesobossy.”Whydon’ttheywantmetocome?“Youcancome,Cadence,”saysGat.“It’sfineifshecomes.”Idon’twanttotagalongwhenI’mnotwanted—butGatpatsthekayakseatinfrontofhimandIclimbin.Idonotreallywanttobeseparatefromthem.Ever.We paddle the two-person kayaks around the bay side under Windemere to an inlet.Mummy’shousesitsonanoverhang.Beneathitisaclusterofcraggyrocksthatalmostfeelslikeacave.Wepullthekayaksontotherocksandclimbtowhereit’sdryandcool.Mirrenisseasick,thoughwewereonlyinthekayaksforafewminutes.Sheissicksooftennow, it’sno surprise. She liesdownwithher armsoverher face. Ihalf expect theboys tounpack a picnic—they have a canvas bag with them—but instead Gat and Johnny beginclimbingtherocks.They’vedoneitbefore,Icantell.They’rebarefoot,andtheyclimbtoahighpointtwenty-fivefeetabovethewater,stoppingonaledgethathangsoverthesea.Iwatchthemuntiltheyaresettled.“Whatareyoudoing?”“Wearebeingvery,verymanly,”Johnnycallsback.Hisvoiceechoes.Gatlaughs.“No,really,”Isay.“You might think we are city boys, but truth is, we are full of masculinity andtestosterone.”“Arenot.”“Aretoo.”“Oh,please.I’mcomingupwithyou.”“No,don’t!”saysMirren.“Johnnybaitedme,”Isay.“NowIhaveto.”Ibeginclimbinginthesamedirectiontheboyswent.Therocksarecoldundermyhands,slickerthanIexpected.“Don’t,”Mirrenrepeats.“ThisiswhyIdidn’twantyoutocome.”“Whydidyoucome,then?”Iask.“Areyougoingupthere?”“Ijumpedlasttime,”Mirrenadmits.“Oncewasenough.”“They’rejumping?”Itdoesn’tevenlookpossible.“Stop,Cady.It’sdangerous,”saysGat.Andbefore I can climb farther, Johnnyholdshis nose and jumps.Heplummets feetfirstfromthehighrock.

Iscream.Hehits thewaterwith forceandthesea is filledwithrockshere.There’snotellinghowdeeporshallowit is.Hecouldseriouslydiedoingthis.Hecould—buthepopsup,shakingthewateroffhisshortyellowhairandwhooping.“You’recrazy!”Iscold.ThenGatjumps.WhereasJohnnykickedandholleredashewentdown,Gatissilent,legstogether.He slices into the icywaterwithhardlya splash.He comesuphappy, squeezingwateroutofhisT-shirtasheclimbsbackontothedryrocks.“They’reidiots,”saysMirren.Ilookupattherocksfromwhichtheyjumped.Itseemsimpossibleanyonecouldsurvive.Andsuddenly,Iwanttodoit.Istartclimbingagain.“Don’t,Cady,”saysGat.“Pleasedon’t.”“Youjustdid,”Isay.“AndyousaiditwasfineifIcame.”Mirren sits up, her face pale. “Iwant to go home now,” she says urgently. “I don’t feelwell.”“Pleasedon’t,Cady,it’srocky,”callsJohnny.“Weshouldn’thavebroughtyou.”“I’mnotaninvalid,”Isay.“Iknowhowtoswim.”“That’snotit,it’s—it’snotagoodidea.”“Whyisitagoodideaforyouandnotagoodideaforme?”Isnap.Iamnearlyatthetop.My fingertips are already beginning to blister with clutching the rock. Adrenaline shootsthroughmybloodstream.“Wewerebeingstupid,”saysGat.“Showingoff,”saysJohnny.“Comedown,please.”Mirreniscryingnow.Idonot comedown. I am sitting, knees tomychest, on the ledge fromwhich theboysjumped.Ilookattheseachurningbeneathme.Darkshapeslurkbeneaththesurfaceofthewater,butIcanalsoseeanopenspace.IfIpositionmyjumpright,Iwillhitdeepwater.“Alwaysdowhatyouareafraidtodo!”Icallout.“That’sastupid-assmotto,”saysMirren.“Itoldyouthatbefore.”Iwillprovemyselfstrong,whentheythinkIamsick.Iwillprovemyselfbrave,whentheythinkIamweak.It’swindyonthishighrock.Mirrenissobbing.GatandJohnnyareshoutingatme.Iclosemyeyesandjump.Theshockof thewater iselectric.Thrilling.My leg scrapesa rock,my left leg. Iplungedown,downtorockyrockybottom,andIcanseethebaseofBeechwoodIslandandmyarmsandlegsfeelnumbbutmyfingersarecold.SlicesofseaweedgopastasIfall.AndthenIamupagain,andbreathing.I’mokay,myheadisokay,nooneneedstocryformeorworryaboutme.Iamfine,

Iamalive.Iswimtoshore.

SOMETIMES IWONDER if reality splits. InCharmed Life, that book I gaveGat, there areparalleluniversesinwhichdifferenteventshavehappenedtothesamepeople.Analternatechoicehasbeenmade,oranaccidenthasturnedoutdifferently.Everyonehasduplicatesofthemselves in these other worlds. Different selves with different lives, different luck.Variations.Iwonder,forexample,ifthere’savariationoftodaywhereIdiegoingoffthatcliff.Ihave

a funeral where my ashes are scattered at the tiny beach. A million flowering peoniessurroundmydrownedbodyaspeoplesobinpenanceandmisery.Iamabeautifulcorpse.Iwonder if there’s anothervariation inwhichJohnny ishurt,his legsandbackcrushed

againsttherocks.Wecan’tcallemergencyservicesandwehavetopaddlebackinthekayakwithhisnervessevered.Bythetimewehelicopterhimtothehospitalonthemainland,he’snevergoingtowalkagain.Oranothervariation,inwhichIdon’tgowiththeLiarsinthekayaksatall.Iletthempush

meaway.Theykeepgoingplaceswithoutmeandtellingmesmalllies.Wegrowapart,bitbybit,andeventuallyoursummeridyllisruinedforever.Itseemstomemorethanlikelythatthesevariationsexist.

55

THATNIGHTIwake,cold.I’vekickedmyblanketsoffandthewindowisopen.Isituptoofastandmyheadspins.Amemory.AuntCarrie,crying.Bentoverwithsnotrunningdownherface,notevenbotheringtowipeitoff.She’sdoubledover,she’sshaking,shemightthrowup.It’sdarkout,andshe’swearingawhitecottonblousewithawindjacketoverit—Johnny’sblue-checkedone.WhyisshewearingJohnny’swindjacket?Whyisshesosad?Igetupandfindasweatshirtandshoes.IgrabaflashlightandheadtoCuddledown.Thegreatroomisemptyandlitbymoonlight.Bottleslitterthekitchencounter.Someoneleftaslicedappleoutandit’sbrowning.Icansmellit.Mirren is here. I didn’t see her before. She’s tucked beneath a striped afghan, leaningagainstthecouch.“You’reup,”shewhispers.“Icamelookingforyou.”“Howcome?”“I had this memory. Aunt Carrie was crying. She was wearing Johnny’s coat. Do yourememberCarriecrying?”“Sometimes.”“Butsummerfifteen,whenshehadthatshorthaircut?”“No,”saysMirren.“Howcomeyou’renotasleep?”Iask.Mirrenshakesherhead.“Idon’tknow.”Isitdown.“CanIaskyouaquestion?”“Sure.”“I need you to tell me what happened before my accident. And after. You always saynothingimportant—butsomethingmusthavehappenedtomebesideshittingmyheadduringanighttimeswim.”“Uh-huh.”“Doyouknowwhatitwas?”“Pennysaidthedoctorswantitleftalone.You’llrememberinyourowntimeandnooneshouldpushitonyou.”“ButIamasking,Mirren.Ineedtoknow.”Sheputsherheaddownonherknees.Thinking.“Whatisyourbestguess?”shefinallysays.“I—IsupposeIwasthevictimofsomething.”Itishardtosaythesewords.“IsupposethatIwasrapedorattackedorsomegodforsakensomething.That’s thekindof thing thatmakespeoplehaveamnesia,isn’tit?”Mirrenrubsherlips.“Idon’tknowwhattotellyou,”shesays.“Tellmewhathappened,”Isay.

“Itwasamessed-upsummer.”“Howso?”“That’sallIcansay,mydarlingCady.”“Whywon’tyoueverleaveCuddledown?”Iasksuddenly.“Youhardlyeverleaveexcepttogotothetinybeach.”“Iwentkayakingtoday,”shesays.“Butyougotsick.Doyouhavethatfear?”Iask.“Thatfearofgoingout?Agoraphobia?”“I don’t feel well, Cady,” says Mirren, defensive. “I am cold all the time, I can’t stopshivering.Mythroatisraw.Ifyoufeltthisway,youwouldn’tgoout,either.”Ifeelworsethanthatallthetime,butforonceIdon’tmentionmyheadaches.“WeshouldtellBess,then.Takeyoutothedoctor.”Mirrenshakesherhead.“It’sjustastupidcoldIcan’tshake.I’mbeingababyaboutit.Willyougetmeagingerale?”Icannotargueanymore.Igetheragingeraleandweturnonthetelevision.

56

INTHEMORNING, there isa tire swinghanging fromthe treeon the lawnofWindemere.ThesamewayoneusedtohangfromthehugeoldmapleinfrontofClairmont.Itisperfect.JustliketheoneGrannyTipperspunmeon.Dad.Granddad.Mummy.LiketheoneGatandIkissedoninthemiddleofthenight.Iremembernow,summerfifteen,Johnny,Mirren,Gat,andIsquashedintothatClairmontswing together. We were much too big to fit. We elbowed each other and rearrangedourselves.Wegiggledandcomplained.Accusedeachotherofhavingbigasses.Accusedeachotherofbeingsmellyandrearrangedagain.Finallywe got settled. Thenwe couldn’t spin.Wewere jammed sohard into the swing,therewasnowaytogetmoving.Weyelledandyelledforapush.Thetwinswalkedbyandrefusedtohelp.Finally,TaftandWillcameoutofClairmontanddidourbidding.Grunting,theypushedusinawidecircle.Ourweightwassuchthataftertheyletusgo,wespunfasterandfaster,laughingsohardwefeltdizzyandsick.AllfourofusLiars.Irememberthatnow.

THISNEWSWINGlooksstrong.Theknotsaretiedcarefully.Insidethetireisanenvelope.Gat’shandwriting:ForCady.Iopentheenvelope.Morethanadozendriedbeachrosesspillout.

57

ONCEUPONAtimetherewasakingwhohadthreebeautifuldaughters.Hegavethemwhatevertheir hearts desired, and when they grew of age their marriages were celebrated with grandfestivities.Whentheyoungestdaughtergavebirthtoababygirl,thekingandqueenwereoverjoyed.Soon afterward, themiddle daughter gave birth to a girl of her own, and the celebrations wererepeated.Last,theeldestdaughtergavebirthtotwinboys—butalas,allwasnotasonemighthope.Oneofthetwinswashuman,abouncingbabyboy;theotherwasnomorethanamouseling.Therewasnocelebration.Noannouncementsweremade.Theeldestdaughterwasconsumedwithshame.Oneofherchildrenwasnothingbutananimal.Hewouldneversparkle,sunburntandblessed,thewaymembersoftheroyalfamilywereexpectedtodo.Thechildrengrew,andthemouselingaswell.Hewascleverandalwayskepthiswhiskersclean.Hewassmarterandmorecuriousthanhisbrotherorhiscousins.Still,hedisgustedthekingandhedisgustedthequeen.Assoonasshewasable,hismothersetthemouselingonhisfeet,gavehimasmallsatchelinwhichshehadplacedablueberryandsomenuts,andsenthimofftoseetheworld.Set out he did, for themouseling had seen enough of courtly life to know that should he stayhomehewouldalways be adirty secret, a source of humiliation tohismother andanyonewhoknewofhim.Hedidnotevenlookbackatthecastlethathadbeenhishome.There,hewouldneverevenhaveaname.Now,hewasfreetogoforthandmakeanameforhimselfinthewide,wideworld.Andmaybe,justmaybe,he’dcomebackoneday,andburnthatfuckingpalacetotheground.

58

LOOK.Afire.ThereonthenortherntipofBeechwoodIsland.Wherethemapletreestandsoverthewidelawn.Thehouse is alight.The flames shoothigh,brightening the sky.There isnoonehere tohelp.Farinthedistance,IcanseetheVineyardfirefighters,makingtheirwayacrossthebayinalightedboat.Evenfartheraway,theWoodsHolefireboatchugstowardthefirethatweset.Gat,Johnny,Mirren,andme.WesetthisfireanditisburningdownClairmont.Burningdownthepalace,thepalaceofthekingwhohadthreebeautifuldaughters.Wesetit.Me,Johnny,Gat,andMirren.Irememberthisnow,inarushthathitsmesohardIfall,andIplungedown,downtorockyrockybottom,andIcanseethebaseofBeechwoodIslandandmyarmsandlegsfeelnumbbutmyfingersarecold.SlicesofseaweedgopastasIfall.AndthenIamupagain,andbreathing,AndClairmontisburning.

***

IAMINmybedinWindemere,intheearlylightofdawn.Itisthefirstdayofmylastweekontheisland.Istumbletothewindow,wrappedinmyblanket.ThereisNewClairmont.AllhardmodernityandJapanesegarden.Iseeitforwhatitis,now.Itisahousebuiltonashes.AshesofthelifeGranddadsharedwith Gran, ashes of themaple fromwhich the tire swing flew, ashes of the old Victorianhouse with the porch and the hammock. The new house is built on the grave of all thetrophiesandsymbolsofthefamily:theNewYorkercartoons,thetaxidermy,theembroideredpillows,thefamilyportraits.Weburnedthemall.OnanightwhenGranddadandtheresthadtakenboatsacrossthebay,whenthestaffwasoffdutyandweLiarswerealoneontheisland,thefourofusdidwhatwewereafraidtodo.Weburnednotahome,butasymbol.

Weburnedasymboltotheground.

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THECUDDLEDOWNDOOR is locked. IbanguntilJohnnyappears,wearing theclotheshehadonlastnight.“I’mmakingpretentioustea,”hesays.“Didyousleepinyourclothes?”“Yes.”“Wesetafire,”Itellhim,stillstandinginthedoorway.Theywillnotlietomeanymore.Goplaceswithoutme,makedecisionswithoutme.Iunderstandourstorynow.Wearecriminals.Abandoffour.Johnny looksmein theeyes fora longtimebutdoesn’tsayaword.Eventuallyheturnsandgoesintothekitchen.Ifollow.Johnnypourshotwaterfromthekettleintoteacups.“Whatelsedoyouremember?”heasks.Ihesitate.Icanseethefire.Thesmoke.HowhugeClairmontlookedasitburned.Iknow,irrevocablyandcertainly,thatwesetit.I can see Mirren’s hand, her chipped gold nail polish, holding a jug of gas for themotorboats.Johnny’sfeet,runningdownthestairsfromClairmonttotheboathouse.Granddad,holdingontoatree,hisfacelitbytheglowofabonfire.No.Correction.Theglowofhishouse,burningtotheground.ButthesearememoriesI’vehadallalong.Ijustknowwheretofitthemnow.“Noteverything,”ItellJohnny.“Ijustknowwesetthefire.Icanseetheflames.”Heliesdownonthefloorofthekitchenandstretcheshisarmsoverhishead.“Areyouokay?”Iask.“I’mfuckingtired.Ifyouwanttoknow.”Johnnyrollsoveronhisfaceandpusheshisnoseagainstthetile.“Theysaidtheyweren’tspeakinganymore,”hemumblesintothefloor.“Theysaiditwasoverandtheywerecuttingofffromeachother.”“Who?”“Theaunties.”IliedownonthefloornexttohimsoIcanhearwhathe’ssaying.“Theaunties gotdrunk,night afternight,” Johnnymumbles, as if it’s hard to choke thewordsout.“Andangrier,everytime.Screamingateachother.Staggeringaroundthe lawn.Granddaddidnothingbutfuelthem.WewatchedthemquarreloverGran’sthingsandtheartthathunginClairmont—butrealestateandmoneymostofall.Granddadwasdrunkonhisown power andmymotherwantedme tomake a play for themoney. Because Iwas theoldestboy.Shepushedmeandpushedme—Idon’tknow.Tobe thebrightyoungheir.Totalkbadlyofyouas theeldest.Tobetheeducatedwhitehopeof the futureofdemocracy,somebullshit.She’dlostGranddad’sfavor,andshewantedmetogetitsoshedidn’tloseherinheritance.”Ashetalks,memoriesflashacrossmyskull,sohardandbrighttheyhurt.Iflinchandput

myhandsovermyeyes.“Doyourememberanymoreaboutthefire?”heasksgently.“Isitcomingback?”Iclosemyeyesforamomentandtry.“No,notthat.Butotherthings.”Johnnyreachesoutandtakesmyhand.

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SPRINGBEFORESUMMER fifteen,MummymademewritetoGranddad.Nothingblatant.“Thinkingofyouandyourlosstoday.Hopingyouarewell.”I sent actual cards—heavy cream stockwithCadence Sinclair Eastman printed across thetop.DearGranddad,Ijustrodeina5Kbikerideforcancerresearch.Tennisteamstartsupnextweek.OurbookclubisreadingBridesheadRevisited.Loveyou.“Just remind him that you care,” said Mummy. “And that you’re a good person. Well-roundedandacredittothefamily.”Icomplained.Writingthelettersseemedfalse.OfcourseIcared.I lovedGranddadandIdidthinkabouthim.ButIdidn’twanttowritetheseremindersofmyexcellenceeverytwoweeks.“He’s very impressionable right now,” saidMummy. “He’s suffering. Thinking about thefuture.You’rethefirstgrandchild.”“Johnny’sonlythreeweeksyounger.”“That’smypoint.Johnny’saboyandhe’sonlythreeweeksyounger.Sowritetheletter.”Ididassheasked.

ONBEECHWOODSUMMERfifteen,theauntiesfilledinforGran,makingslumpsandfussingaroundGranddadasifhehadn’tbeenlivingaloneinBostonsinceTipperdiedinOctober.Buttheywerequarrelsome.TheynolongerhadtheglueofGrankeepingthemtogether,andtheyfought over theirmemories, her jewelry, the clothes in her closet, her shoes, even. TheseaffairshadnotbeensettledinOctober.People’sfeelingshadbeentoodelicatethen.Ithadallbeen left for the summer. When we got to Beechwood in late June, Bess had alreadyinventoriedGran’sBostonpossessionsandnowbeganwiththoseinClairmont.Theauntshadcopiesontheirtabletsandpulledthemupregularly.“Ialwayslovedthatjadetreeornament.”“I’msurprisedyourememberit.Youneverhelpeddecorate.”“Whodoyouthinktookthetreedown?EveryyearIwrappedalltheornamentsintissuepaper.”“Martyr.”“HerearethepearlearringsMotherpromisedme.”“Theblackpearls?ShesaidIcouldhavethem.”Theauntsbegantoblurintooneanotherasthedaysofthesummertickedpast.Argumentafterargument,oldinjurieswererehashedandthreadedthroughnewones.Variations.“TellGranddadhowmuchyoulovetheembroideredtablecloths,”Mummytoldme.“Idon’tlovethem.”“Hewon’t sayno toyou.”The twoofuswerealone in theWindemerekitchen.Shewasdrunk.“Youloveme,don’tyou,Cadence?You’reallIhavenow.You’renotlikeDad.”“Ijustdon’tcareabouttablecloths.”

“Solie.TellhimtheonesfromtheBostonhouse.Thecreamoneswiththeembroidery.”ItwaseasiesttotellherIwould.Andlater,ItoldherIhad.ButBesshadaskedMirrentodothesamething,andneitheroneofusbeggedGranddadforthefuckingtablecloths.

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GATANDIwentnightswimming.Welayonthewoodenwalkwayandlookedatthestars.Wekissedintheattic.Wefellinlove.Hegavemeabook.Witheverything,everything.Wedidn’ttalkaboutRaquel.Icouldn’task.Hedidn’tsay.ThetwinshavetheirbirthdayJulyfourteenth,andthere’salwaysabigmeal.Alltwelveofusweresittingat the longtableonthe lawnoutsideClairmont.Lobstersandpotatoeswithcaviar.Smallpotsofmeltedbutter.Babyvegetablesandbasil.Twocakes,onevanillaandonechocolate,waitedinsideonthekitchencounter.Thelittlesweregettingnoisywiththeirlobsters,pokingeachotherwithclawsandslurpingmeat out of the legs. Johnny told stories.Mirren and I laughed.Wewere surprisedwhenGranddadwalkedoverandwedgedhimselfbetweenGatandme.“Iwanttoaskyouradviceonsomething,”hesaid.“Theadviceofyouth.”“Weareworldlyandawesomeyouth,”saidJohnny,“soyou’vecometotherightendofthetable.”“Youknow,”saidGranddad,“I’mnotgettinganyyounger,despitemygoodlooks.”“Yeah,yeah,”Isaid.“ThatcherandIaresortingthroughmyaffairs.I’mconsideringleavingagoodportionofmyestatetomyalmamater.”“To Harvard? For what, Dad?” asked Mummy, who had walked over to stand behindMirren.Granddadsmiled.“Probablytofundastudentcenter.They’dputmynameonit,outfront.”HenudgedGat.“Whatshouldtheycallit,youngman,eh?Whatdoyouthink?”“HarrisSinclairHall?”Gatventured.“Pah.”Granddadshookhishead.“Wecandobetter.Johnny?”“TheSinclairCenterforSocialization,”Johnnysaid,shovingzucchiniintohismouth.“Andsnacks,”putinMirren.“TheSinclairCenterforSocializationandSnacks.”Granddad banged his hand on the table. “I like the ring of it. Not educational, butappreciated by everyone. I’m convinced. I’ll call Thatcher tomorrow.My namewill be oneverystudent’sfavoritebuilding.”“You’llhavetodiebeforetheybuildit,”Isaid.“True.Butwon’tyoubeproudtoseemynameuptherewhenyou’reastudent?”“You’renotdyingbeforewegotocollege,”saidMirren.“Wewon’tallowit.”“Oh,ifyouinsist.”Granddadspearedabitoflobstertailoffherplateandateit.We were caught up easily, Mirren, Johnny, and I—feeling the power he conferred inpicturing us atHarvard, the specialness of asking our opinions and laughing at our jokes.ThatwashowGranddadhadalwaystreatedus.“You’renotbeingfunny,Dad,”Mummysnapped.“Drawingthechildrenintoit.”“We’renotchildren,”Itoldher.“Weunderstandtheconversation.”

“No,youdon’t,”shesaid,“oryouwouldn’tbehumoringhimthatway.”Achillwentaroundthetable.Eventhelittlesquieted.CarrielivedwithEd.Thetwoofthemboughtartthatmightormightnotbevaluablelater.JohnnyandWillwenttoprivateschool.Carriehadstartedajewelryboutiquewithhertrustandranitforanumberofyearsuntilitfailed.Edearnedmoney,andhesupportedher,butCarrie didn’t have an income of her own. And they weren’t married. He owned theirapartmentandshedidn’t.Besswasraisingfourkidsonherown.Shehadsomemoneyfromhertrust, likeMummyandCarriedid,butwhenshegotdivorcedBrodykeptthehouse.Shehadn’tworkedsinceshegotmarried,andbeforethatshe’donlybeenanassistant intheofficesofamagazine.Besswaslivingoffthetrustmoneyandspendingthroughit.AndMummy.Thedogbreedingbusinessdoesn’tpaymuch,andDadwantedustoselltheBurlingtonhousesohecouldtakehalf.IknewMummywaslivingoffhertrust.We.Wewerelivingoffhertrust.Itwouldn’tlastforever.SowhenGranddadsaidhemight leavehismoneytobuildHarvardastudentcenterandaskedouradvice,hewasn’tinvolvingthefamilyinhisfinancialplans.Hewasmakingathreat.

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AFEWEVENINGSlater.Clairmontcocktailhour.Itbeganatsixorsix-thirty,dependingonwhenpeoplewanderedupthehilltothebighouse.Thecookwasfixingsupperandhadsetout salmonmoussewith little flourycrackers. Iwentpastherandpulledabottleofwhitewinefromthefridgefortheaunties.The littles, having been down at the big beach all afternoon, were being forced intoshowers and fresh clothes by Gat, Johnny, and Mirren at Red Gate, where there was anoutdoorshower.Mummy,Bess,andCarriesataroundtheClairmontcoffeetable.I brought wineglasses for the aunts as Granddad entered. “So, Penny,” he said, pouringhimself bourbon from the decanter on the sideboard, “how are you and Cady doing atWindemerethisyear,withthechangeofcircumstances?Bessisworriedyou’relonely.”“Ididn’tsaythat,”saidBess.Carrienarrowedhereyes.“Yes,youdid,”GranddadsaidtoBess.Hemotionedformetositdown.“Youtalkedaboutthefivebedrooms.Therenovatedkitchen,andhowPenny’salonenowandwon’tneedit.”“Didyou,Bess?”Mummydrewbreath.Bessdidn’treply.Shebitherlipandlookedoutattheview.“We’renotlonely,”MummytoldGranddad.“WeadoreWindemere,don’twe,Cady?”Granddadbeamedatme.“Youokaythere,Cadence?”I knew what I was supposed to say. “I’m more than okay there, I’m fantastic. I loveWindemerebecauseyoubuiltitspeciallyforMummy.Iwanttoraisemyownchildrenthereand my children’s children. You are so excellent, Granddad. You are the patriarch and Irevereyou.IamsogladIamaSinclair.ThisisthebestfamilyinAmerica.”Not in those words. But I was meant to help Mummy keep the house by telling mygrandfather that hewas the bigman, that hewas the cause of all our happiness, and byreminding him that I was the future of the family. The all-American Sinclairs wouldperpetuateourselves, tall andwhite andbeautiful and rich, if onlyhe letMummyandmestayinWindemere.Iwas supposed tomakeGranddad feel in controlwhen hisworldwas spinning becauseGran had died. I was to beg him by praising him—never acknowledging the aggressionbehindhisquestion.MymotherandhersistersweredependentonGranddadandhismoney.Theyhadthebesteducations,athousandchances,athousandconnections,andstillthey’dendedupunabletosupport themselves. None of them did anything useful in the world. Nothing necessary.Nothing brave. Theywere still little girls, trying to get in goodwithDaddy.Hewas theirbreadandbutter,theircreamandhoney,too.“It’stoobigforus,”ItoldGranddad.NoonespokeasIlefttheroom.

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MUMMYANDIweresilentonthewalkbacktoWindemereaftersupper.Oncethedoorshutbehindus,sheturnedonme.“Whydidn’tyoubackmewithyourgrandfather?Doyouwantustolosethishouse?”“Wedon’tneedit.”“Ipickedthepaint,thetiles.Ihungtheflagfromtheporch.”“It’sfivebedrooms.”“Wethoughtwe’dhaveabiggerfamily.”Mummy’sfacegottight.“Butitdidn’tworkoutthatway.Thatdoesn’tmeanIdon’tdeservethehouse.”“Mirrenandthoseguyscouldusetheroom.”“Thisismyhouse.Youcan’texpectmetogiveitupbecauseBesshadtoomanychildrenandleftherhusband.Youcan’tthinkit’sokayforhertosnatchitfromme.Thisisourplace,Cadence.We’vegottolookoutforourselves.”“Canyouhearyourself?”Isnapped.“Youhaveatrustfund!”“Whatdoesthathavetodowithit?”“Some people have nothing.We have everything. The only personwho used the familymoneyforcharitywasGran.Nowshe’sgoneandallanyone’sworriedaboutisherpearlsandherornamentsandherrealestate.Nobodyistryingtousetheirmoneyforgood.Nobodyistryingtomaketheworldanybetter.”Mummystoodup.“You’refilledwithsuperiority,aren’tyou?YouthinkyouunderstandtheworldsomuchbetterthanIdo.I’veheardGattalking.I’veseenyoueatinguphiswordslikeicecreamoffaspoon.Butyouhaven’tpaidbills,youhaven’thadafamily,ownedproperty,seentheworld.Youhavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout,andyetyoudonothingbutpassjudgment.”“Youarerippingupthisfamilybecauseyouthinkyoudeservetheprettiesthouse.”Mummywalked to the foot of the stairs. “You goback toClairmont tomorrow.You tellGranddad how much you love Windemere. Tell him you want to raise your own kidsspendingsummershere.Youtellhim.”“No.Youshouldstanduptohim.Tellhimtostopmanipulatingallofyou.He’sonlyactinglikethisbecausehe’ssadaboutGran,can’tyoutell?Can’tyouhelphim?Orgetajobsohismoneydoesn’tmatter?OrgivethehousetoBess?”“Listen to me, young lady.” Mummy’s voice was steely. “You go and talk to GranddadaboutWindemereorIwillsendyoutoColoradowithyourfatherfortherestofthesummer.I’ll do it tomorrow. I swear, I’ll take you to the airport first thing. You won’t see thatboyfriendofyoursagain.Understand?”Shehadmethere.SheknewaboutmeandGat.Andshecouldtakehimaway.Wouldtakehimaway.Iwasinlove.Ipromisedwhateversheasked.

WhenItoldGranddadhowmuchIadoredthehouse,hesmiledandsaidheknewsomedayI’dhavebeautifulchildren.ThenhesaidBesswasagraspingwenchandhehadnointentionofgivinghermyhouse.Butlater,Mirrentoldmehe’dpromisedWindemeretoBess.“I’lltakecareofyou,”he’dsaid.“JustgivemealittletimetogetPennyout.”

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GATAND Iwentoutonthe tenniscourt in the twilightacouplenightsafter I foughtwithMummy.WetossedballsforFatimaandPrincePhilipinsilence.Finallyhesaid,“HaveyounoticedHarrisnevercallsmebymyname?”“No.”“Hecallsmeyoungman.Like,Howwasyourschoolyear,youngman?”“Why?”“It’slike,ifhecalledmeGathe’dbereallysaying,Howwasyourschoolyear,IndianboywhoseIndianunclelivesinsinwithmypurewhitedaughter?IndianboyIcaughtkissingmypreciousCadence?”“Youbelievethat’swhathe’sthinking?”“Hecan’tstomachme,”saidGat.“Notreally.Hemightlikemeasaperson,mightevenlikeEd,buthecan’tsaymynameorlookmeintheeye.”Itwastrue.Nowthathesaidit,Icouldsee.“I’mnot sayinghewants tobe theguywhoonly likeswhitepeople,”Gatwenton. “Heknows he’s not supposed to be that guy. He’s a Democrat, he voted for Obama—but thatdoesn’tmeanhe’scomfortablehavingpeopleofcolorinhisbeautifulfamily.”Gatshookhishead.“He’sfakewithus.Hedoesn’tliketheideaofCarriewithus.Hedoesn’tcallEdEd.Hecallshimsir.AndhemakessureIknowI’manoutsider,everychancehegets.”GatstrokedFatima’ssoftdoggyears.“Yousawhimintheattic.Hewantsmetostaythehellawayfromyou.”I hadn’t seen Granddad’s interruption that way. I’d imagined he was embarrassed atwalkinginonus.Butnow,suddenly,Iunderstoodwhathadhappened.Watchyourself,youngman,Granddadhadsaid.Yourhead.Youcouldgethurt.Itwasanotherthreat.“DidyouknowmyuncleproposedtoCarrie,backinthefall?”Gatasked.Ishookmyhead.“They’ve been together almost nine years.He acts as a dad to Johnny andWill.He gotdownonhiskneesandproposed,Cady.Hehadthethreeofusboysthere,andmymom.He’ddecoratedtheapartmentwithcandlesandroses.Wealldressedinwhite,andwe’dbroughtthisbigmealinfromthisItalianplaceCarrieloves.HeputMozartonthestereo.“JohnnyandIwereall,Ed,what’sthebigdeal?Sheliveswithyou,dude.Butthemanwasnervous.He’dboughtadiamondring.Anyway,shecamehome,andthefourofusleftthemaloneandhid inWill’s room.Wewere supposed to all rushoutwith congratulations—butCarriesaidno.”“Ithoughttheydidn’tseeapointtogettingmarried.”“Edseesapoint.Carriedoesn’twanttoriskherstupidinheritance,”Gatsaid.“Shedidn’tevenaskGranddad?”“That’s the thing,” said Gat. “Everyone’s always asking Harris about everything. Whyshouldagrownwomanhavetoaskherfathertoapproveherwedding?”

“Granddadwouldn’tstopher.”“No,”saidGat.“ButbackwhenCarriefirstmovedinwithEd,Harrismadeitclearthatallthemoneyearmarkedforherwoulddisappearifshemarriedhim.“Thepointis,Harrisdoesn’tlikeEd’scolor.He’saracistbastard,andsowasTipper.Yes,Ilikethembothforalotofreasons,andtheyhavebeenmorethangenerouslettingmecomehereeverysummer.I’mwillingtothinkthatHarrisdoesn’tevenrealizewhyhedoesn’tlikemyuncle,buthedislikeshimenoughtodisinherithiseldestdaughter.”Gatsighed.Ilovedthecurveofhisjaw,theholeinhisT-shirt,thenoteshewroteme,thewayhismindworked,thewayhemovedhishandswhenhetalked.Iimagined,then,thatIknewhimcompletely.I leaned in and kissed him. It still seemed somagical that I could do that, and that hewouldkissmeback.Somagicalthatweshowedourweaknessestooneanother,ourfearsandourfragility.“Whydidn’tweevertalkaboutthis?”Iwhispered.Gatkissedmeagain.“Iloveithere,”hesaid.“Theisland.JohnnyandMirren.Thehousesandthesoundoftheocean.You.”“Youtoo.”“Partofmedoesn’twanttoruinit.Doesn’twanttoevenimaginethatitisn’tperfect.”Iunderstoodhowhefelt.OrthoughtIdid.GatandIwentdowntotheperimeterthen,andwalkeduntilwegottoawide,flatrockthatlookedovertheharbor.Thewatercrashedagainstthefootoftheisland.Weheldeachotherandgothalfwaynakedandforgot,foras longaswecould,everyhorriddetailofthebeautifulSinclairfamily.

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ONCEUPONAtimetherewasawealthymerchantwhohadthreebeautifuldaughters.Hespoiledthemsomuchthattheyoungertwogirlsdidlittlealldaybutsitbeforethemirror,gazingattheirownbeautyandpinchingtheircheekstomakethemred.Oneday themerchanthad to leaveona journey. “What shall I bringyouwhen I return?”heasked.Theyoungestdaughterrequestedgownsofsilkandlace.Themiddledaughterrequestedrubiesandemeralds.Theeldestdaughterrequestedonlyarose.Themerchantwasgoneseveralmonths.Forhisyoungestdaughter,hefilledatrunkwithgownsofmanycolors.Forhismiddledaughter,hescouredthemarketsforjewels.Butonlywhenhefoundhimselfclosetohomedidherememberhispromiseofaroseforhiseldestchild.He came upon a large iron fence that stretched along the road. In the distance was a darkmansionandhewaspleasedtoseearosebushnearthefenceburstingwithredblooms.Severalroseswereeasilywithinreach.It was the work of aminute to cut a flower. Themerchant was tucking the blossom into hissaddlebagwhenanangrygrowlstoppedhim.Acloakedfigurestoodwhere themerchantwascertainnoonehadbeenamomentearlier.Hewasenormousandspokewithadeeprumble.“Youtakefrommewithnothoughtofpayment?”“Whoareyou?”themerchantasked,quaking.“SufficeittosayIamonefromwhomyousteal.”Themerchantexplainedthathehadpromisedhisdaughteraroseafteralongjourney.“Youmay keep your stolen rose,” said the figure, “but in exchange, giveme the first of yourpossessionsyouseeuponyourreturn.”Hethenpushedbackhishoodtorevealthefaceofahideousbeast,allteethandsnout.Awildboarcombinedwithajackal.“Youhavecrossedme,”saidthebeast.“Youwilldieifyoucrossmeagain.”Themerchantrodehomeasfastashishorsewouldcarryhim.Hewasstillamileawaywhenhesawhiseldestdaughterwaitingforhimontheroad.“Wegotwordyouwouldarrivethisevening!”shecried,rushingintohisarms.Shewasthefirstofhispossessionshesawuponhisreturn.Henowknewwhatpricethebeasthadtrulyaskedofhim.Thenwhat?WeallknowthatBeautygrowstolovethebeast.Shegrowstolovehim,despitewhatherfamilymightthink—forhischarmandeducation,hisknowledgeofartandhissensitiveheart.Indeed,heisahumanandalwayswasone.Hewasneverawildboar/jackalatall.Itwasonlyahideousillusion.Troubleis,it’sawfullyhardtoconvinceherfatherofthat.Herfatherseesthejawsandthesnout,hehearsthehideousgrowl,wheneverBeautybringshernewhusbandhomeforavisit.Itdoesn’tmatterhowcivilizedanderuditethehusbandis.Itdoesn’tmatterhowkind.

Thefatherseesajungleanimal,andhisrepugnancewillneverleavehim.

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ONENIGHT,SUMMERfifteen,Gattossedpebblesatmybedroomwindow.Iputoutmyheadtoseehimstandingamongthetrees,moonlightglintingoffhisskin,eyesflashing.Hewaswaitingformeatthefootoftheporchsteps.“Ihaveadireneedforchocolate,”hewhispered,“soI’mraidingtheClairmontpantry.Youcoming?”Inoddedandwewalked togetherup thenarrowpath,our fingersentwined.WesteppedaroundtothesideentranceofClairmont,theonethatledtothemudroomfilledwithtennisracquets and beach towels.With one hand on the screen door, Gat turned and pulledmeclose.Hiswarmlipswereonmine,ourhandswerestilltogether,there,atthedoortothehouse.Foramoment,thetwoofuswerealoneontheplanet,withallthevastnessoftheskyandthefutureandthepastspreadingoutaroundus.We tiptoed through themudroomand into the largepantry thatopenedoff thekitchen.Theroomwasold-fashioned,withheavywoodendrawersandshelvesforholdingjamsandpickles,backwhenthehousewasbuilt.Nowit storedcookies,casesofwine,potatochips,rootvegetables,seltzer.Weleftthelightoff,incasesomeonecameintothekitchen,butwewere sure Granddadwas the only one sleeping at Clairmont. Hewas never going to hearanythinginthenight.Heworeahearingaidbyday.Wewererummagingwhenweheardvoices.Itwastheauntscomingintothekitchen,theirspeech slurred and hysterical. “This is why people kill each other,” said Bess bitterly. “IshouldwalkoutofthisroombeforeIdosomethingIregret.”“Youdon’tmeanthat,”saidCarrie.“Don’ttellmewhatImean!”shoutedBess.“YouhaveEd.Youdon’tneedmoneylikeIdo.”“You’ve alreadydug your claws into theBostonhouse,” saidMummy. “Leave the islandalone.”“WhodidthefuneralarrangementsforMother?”snappedBess.“WhostayedbyDad’ssideforweeks,whowentthroughthepapers,talkedtothemourners,wrotethethank-younotes?”“Youlivenearhim,”saidMummy.“Youwererightthere.”“Iwasrunningahouseholdwithfourkidsandholdingdownajob,”saidBess.“Youweredoingneither.”“Apart-timejob,”saidMummy.“AndifIhearyousayfourkidsagain,I’llscream.”“Iwasrunningahousehold,too,”saidCarrie.“Eitherofyoucouldhavecomeforaweekortwo.Youleftitalltome,”saidBess.“I’mtheonewhohastodealwithDadallyear.I’mtheonewhorunsoverwhenhewantshelp.I’mtheonewhodealswithhisdementiaandhisgrief.”“Don’tsaythat,”saidCarrie.“Youdon’tknowhowoftenhecallsme.Youdon’tknowhowmuchIhavetoswallowjusttobeagooddaughtertohim.”“SodamnstraightIwantthathouse,”continuedBess,asifshehadn’theard.“I’veearned

it.WhodroveMothertoherdoctor’sappointments?Whosatbyherbedside?”“That’snotfair,”saidMummy.“YouknowIcamedown.Carriecamedown,too.”“Tovisit,”hissedBess.“Youdidn’thavetodothatstuff,”saidMummy.“Nobodyaskedyouto.”“Nobodyelsewastheretodoit.Youletmedoit,andneverthankedme.I’mcrammedintoCuddledownandithastheworstkitchen.Youneverevengointhere,you’dbesurprisedhowrun-downitis.It’sworthalmostnothing.MotherfixeduptheWindemerekitchenbeforeshedied,andthebathroomsatRedGate,butCuddledownis justas iteverwas—andhereyoutwoare,begrudgingmecompensationforeverythingI’vedoneandcontinuetodo.”“YouagreedtothedrawingsforCuddledown,”snappedCarrie.“Youwantedtheview.Youhavetheonlybeachfronthouse,Bess,andyouhaveallDad’sapprovalanddevotion.I’dthinkthatwouldbeenoughforyou.Lordknowsit’simpossiblefortherestofustoget.”“Youchoosenottohaveit,”saidBess.“YouchooseEd;youchoosetolivewithhim.Youchoose tobringGathereeverysummer,whenyouknowhe’snotoneofus.YouknowthewayDadthinks,andyounotonlykeeprunningaroundwithEd,youbringhisnephewhereandparadehimaround likeadefiant littlegirlwitha forbidden toy.Youreyeshavebeenwideopenallthetime.”“ShutupaboutEd!”criedCarrie.“Justshutup,shutup.”Therewasaslap—CarriehitBessacrossthemouth.Bessleft.Slammingdoors.Mummyleft,too.GatandIsatonthefloorofthepantry,holdinghands.Tryingnottobreathe,tryingnottomovewhileCarrieputtheglassesinthedishwasher.

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ACOUPLEDAYS later,GranddadcalledJohnnyintohisClairmontstudy.AskedJohnnytodohimafavor.Johnnysaidno.GranddadsaidhewouldemptyJohnny’scollegefundifJohnnydidn’tdoit.Johnnysaidhewasn’tinterferinginhismother’slovelifeandhewouldbloodywellworkhiswaythroughcommunitycollege,then.GranddadcalledThatcher.JohnnytoldCarrie.CarrieaskedGattostopcomingtosupperatClairmont.“It’srilingHarrisup,”shesaid.“Itwould be better for all of us if you justmade somemacaroni at Red Gate, or I can haveJohnnybringyouaplate.Youunderstand,don’tyou?Justuntileverythinggetssortedout.”Gatdidnotunderstand.Johnnydidn’t,either.AllofusLiarsstoppedcomingtomeals.Soonafter,BesstoldMirrentopushGranddadharderaboutWindemere.ShewastotakeBonnie,Liberty,andTaftwithhertotalkwithhiminhisstudy.Theywerethefutureofthisfamily,Mirrenwastosay.JohnnyandCadydidn’thavethemathgradesforHarvard,whileMirrendid.Mirrenwasthebusiness-mindedone,theheirtoallGranddadstoodfor.JohnnyandCadyweretoofrivolous.Andlookat thesebeautiful littles: theprettyblondtwins,thefreckle-facedTaft.TheywereSinclairs,throughandthrough.Sayallthat,saidBess.ButMirrenwouldnot.Besstookherphone,herlaptop,andherallowance.Mirrenwouldnot.OneeveningMummyaskedaboutmeandGat. “Granddadknows something is goingonwithyoutwo.Heisn’thappy.”ItoldherIwasinlove.Shesaiddon’tbesilly.“You’reriskingthe future,”shesaid.“Ourhouse.Youreducation.Forwhat?”“Love.”“Asummerfling.Leavetheboyalone.”“No.”“Lovedoesn’tlast,Cady.Youknowthat.”“Idon’t.”“Well,believeme,itdoesn’t.”“We’renotyouandDad,”Isaid.“We’renot.”Mummycrossedherarms.“Growup,Cadence.See theworldas it is,notasyouwish itwouldbe.”I looked at her.My lovely, tallmotherwith her pretty coil of hair and her hard, bittermouth.Herveinswereneveropen.Herheartneverleaptouttoflophelplesslyonthelawn.

Shenevermeltedintopuddles.Shewasnormal.Always.Atanycost.“Forthehealthofourfamily,”shesaideventually,“youaretobreakitoff.”“Iwon’t.”“Youmust.Andwhenyou’redone,makesureGranddadknows.Tellhimit’snothingandtellhimitneverwasanything.Tellhimhe shouldn’tworryabout thatboyagainand thentalktohimaboutHarvardandtennisteamandthefutureyouhaveinfrontofyou.Doyouunderstandme?”IdidnotandIwouldnot.IranoutofthehouseandintoGat’sarms.Ibledonhimandhedidn’tmind.

LATETHATNIGHT,Mirren,Gat,Johnny,andIwentdowntothetoolshedbehindClairmont.We foundhammers.Therewereonly two, soGat carriedawrenchand I carriedapair ofheavygardenshears.WecollectedtheivorygoosefromClairmont,theelephantsfromWindemere,themonkeysfromRedGate,andthetoadfromCuddledown.Webroughtthemdowntothedock inthedarkandsmashedthemwiththehammersandthewrenchandtheshearsuntiltheivorywasnothingbutpowder.Gatduckedabucketintothecoldseawaterandrinsedthedockclean.

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WETHOUGHT.Wetalked.Whatif,wesaid,whatifinanotheruniverse,asplitreality,GodreachedouthisfingerandlightningstrucktheClairmonthouse?WhatifGodsentitupinflames?Thushewouldpunishthegreedy,thepetty,theprejudiced,thenormal,theunkind.Theywouldrepentoftheirdeeds.Andafterthat,learntoloveoneanotheragain.Opentheirsouls.Opentheirveins.Wipeofftheirsmiles.Beafamily.Stayafamily.Itwasn’treligious,thewaywethoughtofit.Andyetitwas.Punishment.Purificationthroughflames.Orboth.

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NEXTDAY,LATEJulyofsummerfifteen,therewasalunchatClairmont.Anotherlunchlikealltheotherlunches,setoutonthebigtable.Moretears.ThevoicesweresoloudthatweLiarscameupthewalkwayfromRedGateandstoodatthefootofthegarden,listening.“Ihavetoearnyourloveeveryday,Dad,”Mummyslurred.“AndmostdaysIfail.It’snotfuckingfair.Carriegetsthepearls,BessgetstheBostonhouse,BessgetsWindemere.CarriehasJohnnyandyou’llgivehimClairmont, Iknowyouwill. I’llbe leftalonewithnothing,nothing,eventhoughCady’ssupposedtobetheone.Thefirst,youalwayssaid.”Granddadstoodfromhisseatattheheadofthetable.“Penelope.”“I’lltakeheraway,doyouhearme?I’lltakeCadyawayandyouwon’tseeheragain.”Granddad’svoiceboomedacrosstheyard.“ThisistheUnitedStatesofAmerica,”hesaid.“Youdon’t seemtounderstand that,Penny, so letmeexplain. InAmerica,here ishowweoperate:Weworkforwhatwewant,andwegetahead.Wenevertakenoforanswer,andwedeservetherewardsofourperseverance.Will,Taft,areyoulistening?”Thelittleboysnodded,chinsquivering.Granddadcontinued:“WeSinclairsareagrand,oldfamily. That is something to be proud of. Our traditions and values form the bedrock onwhich future generations stand. This island is our home, as it was my father’s and mygrandfather’s before him. And yet the three of you women, with these divorces, brokenhomes, this disrespect for tradition, this lack of awork ethic, you have done nothing butdisappointanoldmanwhothoughtheraisedyouright.”“Dad,please,”saidBess.“Bequiet!”thunderedGranddad.“Youcannotexpectmetoacceptyourdisregardforthevaluesofthisfamilyandrewardyouandyourchildrenwithfinancialsecurity.Youcannot,anyofyou,expectthis.Andyet,dayafterday,Iseethatyoudo.Iwillnolongertolerateit.”Besscrumpledintears.CarriegrabbedWillbytheelbowandwalkedtowardthedock.MummythrewherwineglassagainstthesideofClairmonthouse.

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“WHATHAPPENEDTHEN?”IaskJohnny.WearestilllyingonthefloorofCuddledown,earlyinthemorning.Summerseventeen.“Youdon’tremember?”hesays.“No.”“Peoplestartedleavingtheisland.CarrietookWilltoahotelinEdgartownandaskedmeandGat to followherassoonaswe’dpackedeverything.Thestaffdepartedateight.YourmotherwenttoseethatfriendofhersontheVineyard—”“Alice?”“Yes,Alicecameandgother,butyouwouldn’t leave,and finally shehad togowithoutyou.Granddadtookoffforthemainland.Andthenwedecidedaboutthefire.”“Weplanneditout,”Isay.“Wedid.WeconvincedBesstotakethebigboatandallthelittlestoseeamovieontheVineyard.”AsJohnnytalks,thememoriesform.Ifillindetailshehasn’tspokenaloud.“When they leftwedrank thewine they’d left corked in the fridge,” says Johnny. “Fouropenbottles.AndGatwassoangry—”“Hewasright,”Isay.Johnnyturnshisfaceandspeaksintotheflooragain.“Becausehewasn’tcomingback.IfmymommarriedEd,they’dbecutoff.AndifmymomleftEd,Gatwouldn’tbeconnectedtoourfamilyanymore.”“Clairmontwas like the symbol of everything thatwaswrong.” It isMirren’s voice. Shecame in soquietly Ididn’thear.She isnow lyingon the floornext toJohnny,holdinghisotherhand.“Theseatofthepatriarchy,”saysGat.Ididn’thearhimcomein,either.Heliesdownnexttome.“You’resuchanass,Gat,”saysJohnnykindly.“Youalwayssaypatriarchy.”“It’swhatImean.”“Yousneakitinwheneveryoucan.Patriarchyontoast.Patriarchyinmypants.Patriarchywithasqueezeoflemon.”“Clairmontseemedliketheseatofthepatriarchy,”repeatsGat.“Andyes,wewerestupiddrunk,andyes,wethoughtthey’dripthefamilyapartandIwouldnevercomehereagain.We figured if thehousewas gone, and thepaperwork anddata inside it gone, and all theobjectstheyfoughtaboutgone,thepowerwouldbegone.”“Wecouldbeafamily,”saysMirren.“Itwaslikeapurification,”saysGat.“Sherememberswesetafireisall,”saysJohnny,hisvoicesuddenlyloud.“Andsomeother things,” Iadd, sittingupand lookingat theLiars in themorning light.“Thingsarecomingbackasyou’refillingmein.”“Weare tellingyouall the stuff thathappenedbeforeweset the fire,” saysJohnny, still

loud.“Yes,”saysMirren.“We set a fire,” I say, inwonder. “We didn’t sob and bleed;we did something instead.Madeachange.”“Kindof,”saysMirren.“Areyoukidding?Weburnedthatfuckingpalacetotheground.”

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AFTERTHEAUNTIESandGranddadquarreled,Iwascrying.Gatwascrying,too.HewasgoingtoleavetheislandandI’dneverseehimagain.Hewouldneverseeme.Gat,myGat.Ihadnevercriedwithanyonebefore.Atthesametime.Hecriedlikeaman,notlikeaboy.Notlikehewasfrustratedorhadn’tgottenhisway,butlikelifewasbitter.Likehiswoundscouldn’tbehealed.Iwantedtohealthemforhim.Werandowntothetinybeachalone.Iclungtohimandwesattogetherinthesand,andforoncehehadnothingtosay.Noanalysis,noquestions.FinallyIsaidsomethingaboutwhatifwhatifwetookitintoourownhands?AndGatsaid,How?AndIsaidsomethingaboutwhatifwhatiftheycouldstopfighting?Wehavesomethingtosave.AndGatsaid,Yes.YouandmeandMirrenandJohnny,yes,wedo.Butofcoursewecanalwaysseeeachother,thefourofus.Nextyearwecandrive.Thereisalwaysthephone.Buthere,Isaid.This.Yes,here,hesaid.This.Youandme.IsaidsomethingaboutwhatifwhatifwecouldsomehowstopbeingtheBeautifulSinclairFamilyandjustbeafamily?Whatifwecouldstopbeingdifferentcolors,differentbackgrounds,andjustbeinlove?Whatifwecouldforceeveryonetochange?Forcethem.YouwanttoplayGod,Gatsaid.

Iwanttotakeaction,Isaid.Thereisalwaysthephone,hesaid.Butwhatabouthere?Isaid.This.Yes,here,hesaid.This.Gatwasmylove,myfirstandonly.HowcouldIlethimgo?Hewas a personwho couldn’t fake a smile but smiled often. Hewrappedmywrists inwhitegauzeandbelievedwoundsneededattention.Hewroteonhishandsandaskedmemythoughts.Hismindwasrestless,relentless.Hedidn’tbelieveinGodanymoreandyethestillwishedthatGodwouldhelphim.AndnowhewasmineandIsaidweshouldnotletourlovebethreatened.Weshouldnotletthefamilyfallapart.Weshouldnotacceptanevilwecanchange.Wewouldstandupagainstit,wouldwenot?Yes.Weshould.Wewouldbeheroes,even.

GATANDItalkedtoMirrenandJohnny.Convincedthemtotakeaction.Wetoldeachotheroverandover:dowhatyouareafraidtodo.Wetoldeachother.Overandover,wesaidit.Wetoldeachotherwewereright.

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THEPLANWASsimple.Wewouldfindthesparejugsofgas,theoneskeptintheshedforthemotorboats. There were newspapers and cardboard in the mudroom: we’d build piles ofrecyclingandsoakthoseingasoline.We’dsoakthewoodfloorsaswell.Standback.Lightapapertowelrollandthrowit.Easy.We would light every floor, every room, if possible, to make sure Clairmont burnedcompletely.Gatinthebasement,meonthegroundfloor,Johnnyonthesecond,andMirrenontop.“Thefiredepartmentarrivedreallylate,”saysMirren.“Twofiredepartments,”saysJohnny.“WoodsHoleandMartha’sVineyard.”“Wewerecountingonthat,”Isay,realizing.“Weplannedtocallforhelp,”saysJohnny.“Ofcoursesomeonehadtocalloritwouldlooklikearson.WeweregoingtosaywewerealldownatCuddledown,watchingamovie,andyouknowhowthetreessurroundit.Youcan’tseetheotherhousesunlessyougoontheroof.Soitmadesensethatnoonewouldhavecalled.”“Those firedepartmentsaremainlyvolunteers,”saysGat.“Noonehadaclue.Oldwoodhouse.Tinderbox.”“If the aunts andGranddad suspected us, they’d never prosecute,” adds Johnny. “Itwaseasytobankonthat.”Ofcoursetheywouldn’tprosecute.Noonehereisacriminal.Nooneisanaddict.Nooneisafailure.Ifeelathrillatwhatwehavedone.MyfullnameisCadenceSinclairEastman,andcontrarytotheexpectationsofthebeautifulfamilyinwhichIwasraised,Iamanarsonist.Avisionary,aheroine,arebel.Thekindofpersonwhochangeshistory.Acriminal.ButifIamacriminal,amI,then,anaddict?AmI,then,afailure?Mymindisplayingwithtwistsofmeaningasitalwaysdoes.“Wemadeithappen,”Isay.“Dependsonwhatyouthinkitis,”saysMirren.“Wesavedthefamily.Theystartedover.”“AuntCarrie’swanderingtheislandatnight,”saysMirren.“Mymother’sscrubbingcleansinkstillherhandsareraw.Pennywatchesyousleepandwritesdownwhatyoueat.Theydrinkafuckload.They’regettingdrunkuntilthetearsrolldowntheirfaces.”“WhenareyouevenatNewClairmonttoseethat?”Isay.“Igetuptherenowandthen,”Mirrensays.“Youthinkwesolvedeverything,Cady,butIthinkitwas—”“We’rehere,”Ipersist.“Withoutthatfire,wewouldn’tbehere.That’swhatI’msaying.”

“Okay.”“Granddadheldsomuchpower,”Isay.“Andnowhedoesn’t.Wechangedanevilwesawintheworld.”I understand somuch thatwasn’t clear before.My tea iswarm, the Liars are beautiful,Cuddledownisbeautiful.Itdoesn’tmatteriftherearestainsonthewall.Itdoesn’tmatterifIhave headaches or Mirren is sick. It doesn’t matter if Will has nightmares and Gat hateshimself.Wehavecommittedtheperfectcrime.“Granddadonlylackspowerbecausehe’sdemented,”saysMirren.“Hewouldstilltortureeverybodyifhecould.”“Idon’tagreewithyou,”saysGat.“NewClairmontseemslikeapunishmenttome.”“What?”sheasks.“A self-punishment. He built himself a home that isn’t a home. It’s deliberatelyuncomfortable.”“Whywouldhedothat?”Iask.“Whydidyougiveawayallyourbelongings?”Gatasks.Heisstaringatme.Theyareallstaringatme.“Tobecharitable,”Ianswer.“Todosomegoodintheworld.”Thereisastrangesilence.“Ihateclutter,”Isay.Noonelaughs.Idon’tknowhowthisconversationcametobeallaboutme.NoneoftheLiarsspeaksforalongtime.ThenJohnnysays,“Don’tpushit,Gat,”andGatsays, “I’m glad you remember the fire, Cadence,” and I say, “Yah, well, some of it,” andMirrensaysshedoesn’tfeelwellandgoesbacktobed.TheboysandI lieonthekitchenfloorandstareattheceilingforawhile longer,until Irealize,withsomeembarrassment,thattheyhavebothfallenasleep.

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IFINDMYmotherontheWindemereporchwiththegoldens.Sheiscrochetingascarfofpalebluewool.“You’realwaysatCuddledown,”Mummycomplains.“It’snotgoodtobedownthereallthetime.Carriewentyesterday,lookingforsomething,andshesaiditwasfilthy.Whathaveyoubeendoing?”“Nothing.Sorryaboutthemess.”“Ifit’sreallydirtywecan’taskGinnytocleanit.Youknowthat,right?It’snotfairtoher.AndBesswillhaveafitifsheseesit.”I don’twant anyone coming intoCuddledown. Iwant it just for us. “Don’tworry.” I sitdownandpatBoshonhissweetyellowhead.“Listen,Mummy?”“Yes?”“Whydidyoutellthefamilynottotalktomeaboutthefire?”Sheputsdownheryarnandlooksatmeforalongtime.“Yourememberthefire?”“Last night, it came rushing back. I don’t remember all of it, but yeah. I remember ithappened.Irememberyouallargued.Andeveryoneleft theisland.IrememberIwasherewithGat,Mirren,andJohnny.”“Doyourememberanythingelse?”“Whattheskylookedlike.Withtheflames.Thesmellofthesmoke.”IfMummythinksIaminanywayatfault,shewillnever,ever,askme.Iknowshewon’t.Shedoesn’twanttoknow.Ichangedthecourseofherlife.Ichangedthefateofthefamily.TheLiarsandI.It was a horrible thing to do. Maybe. But it was something. It wasn’t sitting by,complaining.Iamamorepowerfulpersonthanmymotherwilleverknow.Ihavetrespassedagainstherandhelpedher,too.Shestrokesmyhair.Socloying.Ipullback.“That’sall?”sheasks.“Whydoesn’tanyonetalktomeaboutit?”Irepeat.“Becauseofyour—becauseof—”Mummystops,lookingforwords.“Becauseofyourpain.”“BecauseIhaveheadaches,becauseIcan’tremembermyaccident,Ican’thandletheideathatClairmontburneddown?”“Thedoctorstoldmenottoaddstresstoyourlife,”shesays.“Theysaidthefiremighthavetriggeredtheheadaches,whetheritwassmokeinhalationor—orfear,”shefinisheslamely.“I’mnotachild,”Isay.“Icanbetrustedtoknowbasicinformationaboutourfamily.AllsummerI’vebeenworkingtoremembermyaccident,andwhathappenedrightbefore.Whynottellme,Mummy?”“Ididtellyou.Twoyearsago.Itoldyouoverandover,butyouneverremembereditthenextday.AndwhenItalkedtothedoctor,hesaidIshouldn’tkeepupsettingyouthatway,shouldn’tkeeppushingyou.”“You livewithme!” I cry. “Don’tyouhaveany faith inyourown judgmentover thatofsomedoctorwhobarelyknowsme?”

“He’sanexpert.”“WhatmakesyouthinkI’dwantmywholeextendedfamilykeepingsecretsfromme—eventhetwins,evenWillandTaft,forGod’ssake—ratherthanknowwhathappened?WhatmakesyouthinkIamsofragileIcan’tevenknowsimplefacts?”“Youseemthatfragiletome,”saysMummy.“Andtobehonest,Ihaven’tbeensureIcouldhandleyourreaction.”“Youcan’tevenimaginehowinsultingthatis.”“Iloveyou,”shesays.Ican’tlookatherpitying,self-justifyingfaceanylonger.

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MIRRENISINmyroomwhenIopenthedoor.Sheissittingatmydeskwithherhandonmylaptop.“IwonderifIcouldreadtheemailsyousentmelastyear,”shesays.“Doyouhavethemonyourcomputer?”“Yeah.”“Ineverreadthem,”shesays.“At thestartof thesummer IpretendedIdid,but Ineverevenopenedthem.”“Whynot?”“Ijustdidn’t,”shesays.“Ithoughtitdidn’tmatter,butnowIthinkitdoes.Andlook!”Shemakeshervoicelight.“Ievenleftthehousetodoit!”IswallowasmuchangerasIcan.“Iunderstandnotwritingback,butwhywouldn’tyouevenreadmyemails?”“I know,”Mirren says. “It sucks and I’m a horriblewench. Please,will you letme readthemnow?”Iopenthelaptop.Doasearchandfindallthenotesaddressedtoher.There are twenty-eight. I read over her shoulder. Most of them are charming, darlingemailsfromapersonsupposedlywithoutheadaches.

Mirren!TomorrowIleaveforEuropewithmycheatingfather,whois,asyouknow,alsodeeplyboring.Wishmeluckandknow

thatIwishIwerespendingthesummeronBeechwoodwithyou.AndJohnny.AndevenGat.Iknow,Iknow.Ishouldbeoverit.Iamoverit.Iam.OfftoMarbellatomeetattractiveSpanishboys,sothere.IwonderifIcanmakeDadeatthemostdisgustingfoodsofeverycountrywevisit,aspenanceforhisrunningoffto

Colorado.IbetIcan.Ifhereallylovesme,hewilleatfrogsandkidneysandchocolate-coveredants.

/Cadence

THAT’SHOWMOSTofthemgo.Butafewoftheemailsareneithercharmingnordarling.Thoseonesarepitifulandtrue.

Mirren.Vermontwinter.Dark,dark.MummykeepslookingatmewhileIsleep.Myheadhurtsallthetime.Idon’tknowwhattodotomakeitstop.Thepillsdon’twork.Someoneissplittingthroughthe

topofmyheadwithanaxe,amessyaxethatwon’tmakeacleancutthroughmyskull.Whoeverwieldsithastohackawayatmyhead,comingdownoverandover,butnotalwaysrightinthesameplace.Ihavemultiplewounds.IdreamsometimesthatthepersonwieldingtheaxeisGranddad.

Othertimes,thepersonisme.Othertimes,thepersonisGat.Sorrytosoundcrazy.MyhandsareshakyasItypethisandthescreenistoobright.Iwanttodie,sometimes,myheadhurtssomuch.IkeepwritingyouallmybrightestthoughtsbutIneversaythedark

ones,eventhoughIthinkthemallthetime.SoIamsayingthemnow.Evenifyoudonotanswer,Iwillknowsomebodyheardthem,andthat,atleast,issomething.

/Cadence

WEREADALLtwenty-eightemails.Whensheisfinished,Mirrenkissesmeonthecheek.“Ican’tevensaysorry,”shetellsme.“ThereisnotevenaScrabblewordforhowbadIfeel.”Thensheisgone.

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IBRINGMYlaptoptothebedandcreateadocument.Itakedownmygraph-papernotesandbegintypingthoseandallmynewmemories,fastandwithathousanderrors.Ifill ingapswithguesseswhereIdon’thaveactualrecall.TheSinclairCenterforSocializationandSnacks.Youwon’tseethatboyfriendofyoursagain.Hewantsmetostaythehellawayfromyou.WeadoreWindemere,don’twe,Cady?AuntCarrie,cryinginJohnny’sWindbreaker.Gatthrowingballsforthedogsonthetenniscourt.OhGod,ohGod,ohGod.Thedogs.Thefuckingdogs.FatimaandPrincePhilip.Thegoldensdiedinthatfire.Iknowitnow,anditismyfault.Theyweresuchnaughtydogs,notlikeBosh,Grendel,andPoppy, whom Mummy trained. Fatima and Prince Philip ate starfish on the shore, thenvomited them up in the living room. They shook water from their shaggy fur, snarfledpeople’s picnic lunches, chewed Frisbees into hunks of unusable plastic. They loved tennisballsandwouldgodowntothecourtandslimeanythathadbeenleftaround.Theywouldnotsitwhentold.Theybeggedatthetable.Whenthefirecaught,thedogswereinoneoftheguestbedrooms.GranddadoftenclosedtheminupstairswhileClairmontwasempty,oratnight.Thatwaytheywouldn’teatpeople’sbootsorhowlatthescreendoor.Granddadhadshutthemupbeforehelefttheisland.Andwehadn’tthoughtofthem.Ihadkilledthosedogs.ItwasIwholivedwithdogs,IwhoknewwherePrincePhilipandFatimaslept.Therestof theLiarsdidn’t thinkabout thegoldens—notverymuch,anyway.NotlikeIdid.Theyhadburnedtodeath.HowcouldIhaveforgottenthemlikethat?HowcouldIhavebeensowrappedupinmyownstupidcriminalexercise,thethrillofit,myownangerattheauntiesandGranddad—FatimaandPrincePhilip,burning.Sniffingat thehotdoor,breathing insmoke,waggingtheirtailshopefully,waitingforsomeonetocomeandgetthem,barking.Whatahorribledeathforthosepoor,dear,naughtydogs.

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IRUNOUTofWindemere.Itisdarkoutnow,nearlytimeforsupper.Myfeelingsleakoutmyeyes,crumplingmyface,heavethroughmyframeasIimaginethedogs,hopingforarescue,staringatthedoorasthesmokebillowsin.Where togo? I cannot face theLiars atCuddledown.RedGatemighthaveWill orAuntCarrie.Theislandissofuckingsmall,actually, there’snowheretogo. Iamtrappedonthisisland,whereIkilledthosepoor,poordogs.Allmybravadofromthismorning,thepower,theperfectcrime,takingdownthepatriarchy,thewayweLiarssavedthesummeridyllandmadeitbetter,thewaywekeptourfamilytogetherbydestroyingsomepartofit—allthatisdelusional.Thedogsaredead,thestupid,lovelydogs,thedogsIcouldhavesaved,innocentdogswhosefaceslitwhenyousnuckthemabitofhamburgerorevensaidtheirnames;dogswholovedtogoonboats,whoranfreealldayonmuddypaws.What kind of person takes action without thinking about who might be locked in anupstairsroom,trustingthepeoplewhohavealwayskeptthemsafeandlovedthem?Iamsobbingthesestrange,silentsobs,standingonthewalkwaybetweenWindemereandRedGate.Myfaceissoaked,mychestiscontracting.Istumblebackhome.Gatisonthesteps.

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HEJUMPSUPwhenheseemsmeandwrapshisarmsaroundme.Isobintohisshoulderandtuckmyarmsunderhisjacketandaroundhiswaist.Hedoesn’taskwhat’swronguntilItellhim.“Thedogs,”Isayfinally.“Wekilledthedogs.”Heisquietforamoment.Then,“Yeah.”Idon’tspeakagainuntilmybodystopsshaking.“Let’ssitdown,”Gatsays.Wesettleontheporchsteps.Gatrestshisheadagainstmine.“Ilovedthosedogs,”Isay.“Wealldid.”“I—”Ichokeonmywords.“Idon’tthinkIshouldtalkaboutitanymoreorI’llstartcryingagain.”“Allright.”Wesitforawhilelonger.“Isthateverything?”Gatasks.“What?”“Everythingyouwerecryingabout?”“Godforbidthere’smore.”Heissilent.Andstillsilent.“Ohhell,thereismore,”Isay,andmychestfeelshollowandiced.“Yeah,”saysGat.“Thereismore.”“Morethatpeoplearen’ttellingme.MorethatMummywouldratherIdidn’tremember.”Hetakesamomenttothink.“Ithinkwe’retellingyou,butyoucan’thearit.You’vebeensick,Cadence.”“You’renottellingmedirectly,”Isay.“No.”“Whythehellnot?”“Penny said it was best. And—well, with all of us being here, I had faith that you’dremember.”Hetakeshisarmoffmyshoulderandwrapshishandsaroundhisknees.Gat,myGat.He is contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. I love the lids of hisbrowneyes,hissmoothdarkskin,hislowerlipthatpushesout.Hismind.Hismind.Ikisshischeek.“IremembermoreaboutusthanIusedto,”Itellhim.“Irememberyouandmekissingatthedoorofthemudroombeforeitallwentsowrong.YouandmeonthetenniscourttalkingaboutEdproposingtoCarrie.Ontheperimeterattheflatrock,wherenoonecouldseeus.Anddownonthetinybeach,talkingaboutsettingthefire.”Henods.“ButIstilldon’trememberwhatwentwrong,”Isay.“Whyweweren’ttogetherwhenIgothurt.Didwehaveanargument?DidIdosomething?DidyougobacktoRaquel?”Icannotlookhimintheeyes.“IthinkIdeserveanhonestanswer,evenifwhatever’sbetweenusnow

isn’tgoingtolast.”Gat’s face crumples andhehides it inhishands. “I don’t knowwhat todo,”he says. “Idon’tknowwhatI’msupposedtodo.”“Justtellme,”Isay.“Ican’tstayherewithyou,”hesays.“IhavetogobacktoCuddledown.”“Why?”“I have to,” he says, standing up and walking. Then he stops and turns. “I messedeverythingup. I’mso sorry,Cady. Iamso, so sorry.”He iscryingagain.“I shouldn’thavekissed you, ormade you a tire swing, or given you roses. I shouldn’t have told you howbeautifulyouare.”“Iwantedyouto.”“Iknow,butIshouldhavestayedaway.It’sfuckedupthatIdidallthat.I’msorry.”“Comebackhere,”Isay,butwhenhedoesn’tmove,Igotohim.Putmyhandsonhisneckandmycheekagainsthis.IkisshimhardsoheknowsImeanit.Hismouthissosoftandhe’sjustthebestpersonIknow,thebestpersonI’veeverknown,nomatterwhatbadthingshavehappenedbetweenusandnomatterwhathappensafterthis.“Iloveyou,”Iwhisper.Hepullsback.“ThisiswhatI’mtalkingabout.I’msorry.Ijustwantedtoseeyou.”Heturnsaroundandislostinthedark.

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THEHOSPITALONMartha’sVineyard.Summerfifteen,aftermyaccident.Iwaslyinginabedunderbluesheets.Youwouldthinkhospitalsheetswouldbewhite,butthesewereblue.Theroomwashot.IhadanIVinonearm.Mummy and Granddad were staring down at me. Granddad was holding a box ofEdgartownfudgehe’dbroughtasagift.ItwastouchingthatherememberedIliketheEdgartownfudge.Iwaslisteningtomusicwithearbudsinmyears,soIcouldn’thearwhattheadultsweresaying.Mummywascrying.Granddadopenedthefudge,brokeoffapiece,andofferedittome.Thesong:

OuryouthiswastedWewillnotwasteitRemembermyname’CausewemadehistoryNananana,nanana

ILIFTEDMYhandtotakeouttheearbuds.ThehandIsawwasbandaged.Bothmyhandswerebandaged.Andmyfeet.Icouldfeelthetapeonthem,beneaththebluesheets.Myhandsandfeetwerebandaged,becausetheywereburned.

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ONCEUPONAtimetherewasakingwhohadthreebeautifuldaughters.No,no,wait.Onceuponatimetherewerethreebearswholivedinaweehouseinthewoods.Onceuponatimetherewerethreebillygoatswholivednearabridge.Onceuponatimetherewerethreesoldiers,trampingtogetherdowntheroadsafterthewar.Onceuponatimetherewerethreelittlepigs.Onceuponatimetherewerethreebrothers.No,thisisit.ThisisthevariationIwant.Onceuponatimetherewerethreebeautifulchildren,twoboysandagirl.Wheneachbabywasborn, the parents rejoiced, the heavens rejoiced, even the fairies rejoiced. The fairies came tochristeningpartiesandgavethebabiesmagicalgifts.Bounce,effort,andsnark.Contemplationandenthusiasm.Ambitionandstrongcoffee.Sugar,curiosity,andrain.Andyet,therewasawitch.Thereisalwaysawitch.Thiswitchwasthesameageasthebeautifulchildren,andassheandtheygrew,shewasjealousofthegirl,andjealousoftheboys,too.Theywereblessedwithallthesefairygifts,giftsthewitchhadbeendeniedatherownchristening.Theeldestboywasstrongandfast,capableandhandsome.Thoughit’strue,hewasexceptionallyshort.Thenextboywasstudiousandopen-hearted.Thoughit’strue,hewasanoutsider.Andthegirlwaswitty,generous,andethical.Thoughit’strue,shefeltpowerless.Thewitch, shewasnoneof these things, forherparentshadangered the fairies.Nogiftswereeverbestoweduponher.Shewaslonely.Heronlystrengthwasherdarkanduglymagic.Sheconfusedbeing spartanwithbeingcharitable,andgaveawayherpossessionswithout trulydoinggoodwiththem.Sheconfusedbeingsickwithbeingbrave,andsufferedagonieswhileimaginingshemeritedpraiseforit.Sheconfusedwitwithintelligence,andmadepeoplelaughratherthanlighteningtheirheartsormakingthemthink.Hermagicwasallshehad,andsheusedittodestroywhatshemostadmired.Shevisitedeachyoung person in turn on their tenth birthday, but did not harm them outright. The protection ofsomekindfairy—thelilacfairy,perhaps—preventedherfromdoingso.Whatshedidinsteadwascursethem.“Whenyouaresixteen,”proclaimedthewitchinarageofjealousy,“whenweareallsixteen,”shetoldthesebeautifulchildren,“youshallprickyourfingeronaspindle—no,youshallstrikeamatch—yes,youwillstrikeamatchanddieinitsflame.”Theparentsofthebeautifulchildrenwerefrightenedofthecurse,andtried,aspeoplewilldo,to

avoid it.Theymovedthemselvesandthechildrenfaraway, toacastleonawindswept island.Acastlewheretherewerenomatches.There,surely,theywouldbesafe.There,surely,thewitchwouldneverfindthem.But find them she did. And when they were fifteen, these beautiful children, just before theirsixteenth birthdays and when their nervous parents were not yet expecting it, the jealous witchbroughthertoxic,hatefulselfintotheirlivesintheshapeofablondmaiden.Themaidenbefriendedthebeautifulchildren.Shekissedthemandtookthemonboatridesandbroughtthemfudgeandtoldthemstories.Thenshegavethemaboxofmatches.Thechildrenwereentranced,foratnearlysixteentheyhadneverseenfire.Goon,strike,saidthewitch,smiling.Fireisbeautiful.Nothingbadwillhappen.Goon,shesaid,theflameswillcleanseyoursouls.Goon,shesaid,foryouareindependentthinkers.Goon,shesaid.Whatisthislifewelead,ifyoudonottakeaction?Andtheylistened.Theytookthematchesfromherandtheystruckthem.Thewitchwatchedtheirbeautyburn,theirbounce,theirintelligence,theirwit,theiropenhearts,theircharm,theirdreamsforthefuture.Shewatcheditalldisappearinsmoke.

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HEREISTHEtruthabouttheBeautifulSinclairFamily.Atleast,thetruthasGranddadknowsit.Thetruthhewascarefultokeepoutofallnewspapers.Onenight,twosummersago,onawarmJulyevening,GatwickMatthewPatil,MirrenSinclairSheffield,andJonathanSinclairDennisperishedinahousefirethoughttobecausedbyajugofmotorboatfuelthatoverturnedinthe mudroom. The house in question burned to the ground before the neighboring firedepartmentsarrivedonthescene.Cadence Sinclair Eastmanwas present on the island at the time of the fire but did notnotice it until it was well under way. The conflagration prevented her from entering thebuilding when she realized there were people and animals trapped inside. She sustainedburns to the hands and feet in her rescue attempts. Then she ran to another homeon theislandandtelephonedthefiredepartment.Whenhelpfinallyarrived,MissEastmanwasfoundonthetinybeach,halfunderwaterandcurledintoaball.Shewasunabletoanswerquestionsaboutwhathappenedandappearedtohave suffered a head injury. She had to be heavily sedated for many days following theaccident.HarrisSinclair,owneroftheisland,declinedanyformalinvestigationof the fire’sorigin.Manyofthesurroundingtreesweredecimated.FuneralswereheldforGatwickMatthewPatil,MirrenSinclairSheffield,andJonathanSinclairDennisintheirhometownsofCambridgeandNewYorkCity.CadenceSinclairEastmanwasnotwellenoughtoattend.Thefollowingsummer,theSinclairfamilyreturnedtoBeechwoodIsland.Theyfellapart.Theymourned.Theydrankalot.Thentheybuiltanewhouseontheashesoftheold.CadenceSinclairEastmanhadnomemoryoftheeventssurroundingthefire,nomemoryofiteverhappening.Herburnshealedquicklybutsheexhibitedselectiveamnesiaregardingtheevents of the previous summer. She persisted in believing she had injured her headwhileswimming. Doctors presumed her crippling migraine headaches were caused byunacknowledged grief and guilt. She was heavily medicated and extremely fragile bothphysicallyandmentally.These same doctors advised Cadence’smother to stop explaining the tragedy if Cadencecouldnotrecallitherself.Itwastoomuchtobetoldofthetraumafresheachday.Lether

remember in her own time. She should not return to Beechwood Island until she’d hadsignificanttimetoheal.Infact,anymeasurespossibleshouldbetakentokeepherfromtheislandintheyearimmediatelyaftertheaccident.Cadencedisplayedadisquietingdesire to ridherselfofallunnecessarypossessions, eventhingsofsentimentalvalue,almostasifdoingpenanceforpastcrimes.Shedarkenedherhairand took to dressing very simply. Hermother sought professional advice about Cadence’sbehaviorandwasadvisedthatitappearedanormalpartofthegrievingprocess.Inthesecondyearaftertheaccident,thefamilybegantorecover.Cadencewasonceagainattendingschoolaftermanylongabsences.Eventually,thegirlexpressedadesiretoreturntoBeechwoodIsland.Thedoctorsandotherfamilymembersagreed:itmightbegoodforhertodojustthat.Ontheisland,perhaps,shewouldfinishhealing.

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REMEMBER,DON’TGETyourfeetwet.Oryourclothes.Soakthelinencupboards,thetowels,thefloors,thebooks,andthebeds.Remember,movethegascanawayfromyourkindlingsoyoucangrabit.See it catch, see it burn. Then run.Use the kitchen stairwell and exit out themudroomdoor.Remember,takeyourgascanwithyouandreturnittotheboathouse.See you atCuddledown.We’ll put our clothes in thewasher there, change, then go andwatchtheblazebeforewecallthefiredepartments.Thoseare the lastwords I said to anyof them. JohnnyandMirrenwent to the top twofloorsofClairmontcarryingcansofgasandbagsofoldnewspapersforkindling.IkissedGatbeforehewentdowntothebasement.“Seeyouinabetterworld,”hesaidtome,andIlaughed.Wewereabitdrunk.We’dbeenattheaunties’leftoverwinesincetheylefttheisland.ThealcoholmademefeelgiddyandpowerfuluntilIstoodinthekitchenalone.ThenIfeltdizzyandnauseated.Thehousewascold.Itfeltlikesomethingthatdeservedtobedestroyed.Itwasfilledwithobjectsoverwhich theaunties fought.Valuableart,china,photographs.Allof themfueledfamily anger. I hit my fist against the kitchen portrait of Mummy, Carrie, and Bess aschildren,grinningforthecamera.TheglassonitshatteredandIstumbledback.Thewinewasmuddlingmyheadnow.Iwasn’tusedtoit.Thegascaninonehandandthebagofkindlingintheother,Idecidedtogetthisdoneasfastaspossible. Idoused thekitchen first, then thepantry. Idid thedining roomandwassoakingthelivingroomcoucheswhenIrealizedIshouldhavestartedattheendofthehousefarthestfromthemudroomdoor.Thatwasourexit.IshouldhavedonethekitchenlastsoIcouldrunoutwithoutwettingmyfeetwithgasoline.Stupid.Theformaldoorthatopenedontothefrontporchfromthelivingroomwassoakedalready,but therewas a small backdoor, too. ItwasbyGranddad’s study and led to thewalkwaydowntothestaffbuilding.Iwouldusethat.Idousedpartofthehallandthenthecraftroom,feelingawaveofsorrowfortheruinofGran’sbeautifulcottonprintsandcolorfulyarns.ShewouldhavehatedwhatIwasdoing.Shelovedherfabrics,heroldsewingmachine,herpretty,prettyobjects.Stupidagain.Ihadsoakedmyespadrillesinfuel.Allright.Staycalm.I’dwearthemuntilIwasdoneandthentossthemintothefirebehindmeasIranoutside.InGranddad’sstudyIstoodonthedesk,splashingbookshelvesuptotheceiling,holdingthegascanfarawayfromme.Therewasafairamountofgasleft,andthiswasmylastroom,soIsoakedthebooksheavily.ThenIwetthefloor,piledthekindlingonit,andbackedintothesmallfoyerthatledtothe

reardoor.Igotmyshoesoffandthrewthemontothestackofmagazines.Isteppedontoasquareofdryfloorandsetthegascandown.Pulledamatchbookfromthepocketofmyjeansandlitmypapertowelroll.I threw the flaming roll into thekindlingandwatched it light. It caught, andgrew,andspread.Throughthedouble-widestudydoors,Isawalineofflamezipdownthehallwayononesideandintothelivingroomontheother.Thecouchlitup.Then,beforeme,thebookshelvesburstintoflames,thegas-soakedpaperburningquickerthananythingelse.Suddenly theceilingwasalight. I couldn’t lookaway.The flameswereterrible.Unearthly.Thensomeonescreamed.Andscreamedagain.Itwascomingfromtheroomdirectlyaboveme,abedroom.Johnnywasworkingonthesecondfloor.Ihadlitthestudy,andthestudyhadburnedfasterthananywhereelse.Thefirewasrising,andJohnnywasn’tout.Ohno,ohno,ohno.Ithrewmyselfatthebackdoorbutfounditheavilybolted.Myhandswereslipperywithgas.Themetalwashotalready.Iflippedthebolts—one,two,three—butsomethingwentwrongandthedoorstuck.Anotherscream.Itriedtheboltsagain.Failed.Gaveup.Icoveredmymouthandnosewithmyhandsandranthroughtheburningstudyanddowntheflaminghallwayintothekitchen.Theroomwasn’tlityet,thankGod.Irushedacrossthewetfloortowardthemudroomdoor.Stumbled,skidded,andfell,soakingmyselfinthepuddlesofgasoline.Thehemsofmyjeanswereburningfrommyrunthroughthestudy.TheflameslickedouttothegasonthekitchenfloorandstreakedacrosstothewoodenfarmhousecabinetryandGran’scheerydishtowels.FirezippedacrossthemudroomexitinfrontofmeandIcouldseemyjeanswerenowalightaswell,fromkneetoankle.Ihurledmyselftowardthemudroomdoor,runningthroughflames.“Getout!”Iyelled,thoughIdoubtedanyonecouldhearme.“Getoutnow!”OutsideIthrewmyselfontothegrass.Rolleduntilmypantsstoppedburning.Icouldseealreadythat thetoptwofloorsofClairmontwereglowingwithheat,andmyowngroundfloorwasfullyalight.Thebasementlevel,Icouldn’ttell.“Gat?Johnny?Mirren?Whereareyou?”Noanswer.Holdingdownpanic,Itoldmyselftheymustbeoutbynow.Calmdown.Itwouldallbeokay.Ithadto.“Whereareyou?”Iyelledagain,beginningtorun.Again,noanswer.Theywerelikelyattheboathouse,droppingtheirgascans.Itwasn’tfar,andIran,callingtheirnamesasloudasIcould.Mybarefeethitthewoodenwalkwaywithastrangeecho.Thedoorwasclosed.Iyankeditopen.“Gat!Johnny?Mirren!”Noone there,but theycouldalreadybeatCuddledown,couldn’t they?Wonderingwhatwastakingmesolong.AwalkwaystretchesfromtheboathousepastthetenniscourtsandovertoCuddledown.I

ranagain,theislandstrangelyhushedinthedark.Itoldmyselfoverandover:Theywillbethere.Waitingforme.Worryingaboutme.Wewilllaughbecausewe’reallsafe.Wewillsoakmyburnsinicewaterandfeelallkinds

oflucky.Wewill.ButasIcameuponit,Isawthehousewasdark.Noonewaitedthere.ItorebacktoClairmont,andwhenitcameintoviewitwasburning,bottomtotop.The

turret roomwas lit, the bedroomswere lit, the windows of the basement glowed orange.Everythinghot.Irantothemudroomentryandpulledthedoor.Smokebillowedout.Ipulledoffmygas-

soakedsweaterandjeans,chokingandgagging.Ipushedmywayinandenteredthekitchenstairwell,headingtowardthebasement.Halfwaydownthestepstherewasawallofflames.Awall.Gatwasn’tout.Andhewasn’tcoming.IturnedbackandranuptowardJohnnyandMirren,butthewoodwasburningbeneath

myfeet.Thebanisterlitup.Thestairwellinfrontofmecavedin,throwingsparks.Ireeledback.Icouldnotgoup.Icouldnotsavethem.Therewasnowherenowherenowherenowherenowtogobutdown.

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IREMEMBERTHISlikeIamlivingitasIsitonthestepsofWindemere,stillstaringatthespotwhereGatdisappearedintothenight.TherealizationofwhatIhavedonecomesasafoginmychest,cold,dark,andspreading.Igrimaceandhunchover.Theicyfogrunsfrommychestthroughmybackandupmyneck.Itshootsthroughmyheadanddownmyspine.Cold,cold,remorse.Ishouldn’thavesoakedthekitchenfirst.Ishouldn’thavelitthefireinthestudy.Howstupidtowetthebookssothoroughly.Anyonemighthavepredictedhowtheywouldburn.Anyone.Weshouldhavehadasettimetolightourkindling.Imighthaveinsistedwestaytogether.Ishouldneverhavecheckedtheboathouse.ShouldneverhaveruntoCuddledown.IfonlyI’dgonebacktoClairmontfaster,maybeIcouldhavegottenJohnnyout.OrwarnedGatbeforethebasementcaught.MaybeIcouldhavefoundthefireextinguishersandstoppedtheflamessomehow.Maybe,maybe.Ifonly,ifonly.Iwantedsomuchforus:alifefreeofconstrictionandprejudice.Alifefreetoloveandbeloved.Andhere,Ihavekilledthem.MyLiars,mydarlings.Killedthem.MyMirren,myJohnny,myGat.Thisknowledgegoesfrommyspinedownmyshouldersandthroughmyfingertips.Itturnsthem to ice. They chip and break, tiny pieces shattering on theWindemere steps. Crackssplinterupmyarmsandthroughmyshouldersandthefrontofmyneck.Myfaceisfrozenandfracturedinawitch’ssnarlofgrief.Mythroatisclosed.Icannotmakeasound.HereIamfrozen,whenIdeservetoburn.Ishouldhaveshutupabouttakingthingsintoourownhands.Icouldhavestayedsilent.Compromised.Talkingonthephonewouldhavebeenfine.Soonwe’dhavedriver’slicenses.Soon we’d go to college and the beautiful Sinclair houses would seem far away andunimportant.Wecouldhavebeenpatient.Icouldhavebeenavoiceofreason.Maybe then,whenwe drank the aunties’ wine, we’d have forgotten our ambitions. Thedrinkwouldhavemadeussleepy.We’dhavedozedoff in frontof thetelevisionset,angryandimpotent,perhaps,butwithoutsettingfiretoanything.Ican’ttakeanyofitback.Icrawlindoorsanduptomybedroomonhandsofcrackedice,trailingshardsofmyfrozenbodybehindme.Myheels,mykneecaps.Beneaththeblankets,Ishiverconvulsively,pieces

ofmebreakingoffontomypillow.Fingers.Teeth.Jawbone.Collarbone.Finally,finally,theshiveringstops.Ibegintowarmandmelt.Icryformyaunts,wholosttheirfirstbornchildren.ForWill,wholosthisbrother.ForLiberty,Bonnie,andTaft,wholosttheirsister.For Granddad, who saw not just his palace burn to the ground, but his grandchildrenperish.Forthedogs,thepoornaughtydogs.Icryforthevain,thoughtlesscomplaintsI’vemadeallsummer.Formyshamefulself-pity.Formyplansforthefuture.I cry forallmypossessions,givenaway. Imissmypillow,mybooks,myphotographs. Ishudder atmy delusions of charity, atmy shamemasquerading as virtue, at lies I’ve toldmyself,punishmentsI’veinflictedonmyself,andpunishmentsI’veinflictedonmymother.Icrywithhorrorthatallthefamilyhasbeenburdenedbyme,andevenmorewithbeingthecauseofsomuchgrief.Wedidnot,afterall,savetheidyll.Thatisgoneforever,ifiteverexisted.Wehavelosttheinnocence of it, of those days beforewe knew the extent of the aunts’ rage, beforeGran’sdeathandGranddad’sdeterioration.Beforewebecamecriminals.Beforewebecameghosts.TheauntieshugoneanothernotbecausetheyarefreedoftheweightofClairmonthouseand all it symbolized, but out of tragedy and empathy. Not because we freed them, butbecausewewreckedthem,andtheyclungtooneanotherinthefaceofhorror.Johnny.Johnnywantedtorunamarathon.Hewantedtogomileuponmile,provinghislungswouldnotgiveout.ProvinghewasthemanGranddadwantedhimtobe,provinghisstrength,thoughhewassosmall.Hislungsfilledwithsmoke.Hehasnothingtoprovenow.Thereisnothingtorunfor.Hewantedtoownacarandeatfancycakeshesawinbakerywidows.Hewantedtolaughbig and own art and wear beautifully made clothes. Sweaters, scarves, wooly items withstripes.Hewanted tomake a tuna fish of Lego and hang it like a piece of taxidermy.Herefusedtobeserious,hewasinfuriatinglyunserious,buthewasascommittedtothethingsthatmatteredtohimasanyonecouldpossiblybe.Therunning.WillandCarrie.TheLiars.Hissenseofwhatwasright.Hegaveuphiscollegefundwithoutasecondthought,tostandupforhisprinciples.IthinkofJohnny’sstrongarms,thestripeofwhitesunblockonhisnose,thetimeweweresick together frompoison ivy and laynext to eachother in thehammock, scratching.ThetimehebuiltmeandMirrenadollhouseofcardboardandstoneshe’dfoundonthebeach.JonathanSinclairDennis,youwouldhavebeenalightinthedarkforsomanypeople.Youhavebeenone.Youhave.AndIhaveletyoudowntheworstpossibleway.IcryforMirren,whowantedtoseetheCongo.Shedidn’tknowhowshewantedtoliveorwhatshebelievedyet;shewassearchingandknewshewasdrawntothatplace.Itwillneverberealtohernow,neveranythingmorethanphotographsandfilmsandstoriespublishedforpeople’sentertainment.Mirrentalkedalotaboutsexualintercoursebutneverhadit.Whenwewereyounger,she

and I would stay up late, sleeping together on the Windemere porch in sleeping bags,laughing and eating fudge.We fought over Barbie dolls and did each other’smakeup anddreamedoflove.Mirrenwillneverhaveaweddingwithyellowrosesoragroomwholovesherenoughtowearastupidyellowcummerbund.Shewasirritable.Andbossy.Butalwaysfunnyaboutit.Itwaseasytomakehermad,and

shewasnearlyalwayscrosswithBessandannoyedwiththetwins—butthenshe’dfillwithregret,moaning inagonyoverherownsharp tongue.Shedid loveher family, lovedallofthem,andwouldreadthembooksorhelpthemmakeicecreamorgivethemprettyshellsshehadfound.Shecannotmakeamendsanymore.Shedidnotwanttobelikehermother.Notaprincess,no.Anexplorer,abusinesswoman,

aGoodSamaritan,anicecreammaker—something.Somethingshewillneverbe,becauseofme.Mirren,Ican’tevensaysorry.ThereisnotevenaScrabblewordforhowbadIfeel.AndGat,myGat.He will never go to college. He had that hungry mind, constantly turning things over,

lookingnotforanswersbutforunderstanding.Hewillneversatisfyhiscuriosity,neverfinishthehundredbestnovelseverwritten,neverbethegreatmanhemighthavebeen.Hewanted to stopevil.Hewanted toexpresshisanger.He livedbig,mybraveGat.He

didn’t shut upwhenpeoplewanted him to, hemade them listen—and thenhe listened inreturn.Herefusedtotakethingslightly,thoughhewasalwaysquicktolaugh.Oh,hemademe laugh.Andmademe think, evenwhen Ididn’t feel like thinking, even

whenIwastoolazytopayattention.Gatletmebleedonhimandbleedonhimandbleedonhim.Heneverminded.Hewanted

toknowwhyIwasbleeding.Hewonderedwhathecoulddotohealthewound.Hewillnevereatchocolateagain.Ilovedhim.Ilovehim.AsbestIcould.Buthewasright.Ididnotknowhimalltheway.I

willnever seehisapartment, eathismother’s cooking,meethis friends fromschool. Iwillnever see the bedspread on his bed or the posters on hiswalls. I’ll never know the dinerwherehegoteggsandwichesinthemorningorthecornerwherehedouble-lockedhisbike.Idon’tevenknowifheboughteggsandwichesorhungposters.Idon’tknowifheowneda

bike or had a bedspread. I amonly imagining the corner bike racks and thedouble locks,because I neverwenthomewithhim,never sawhis life, never knew that personGatwaswhennotonBeechwoodIsland.Hisroommustbeemptybynow.Hehasbeendeadtwoyears.Wemighthavebeen.Wemighthavebeen.Ihavelostyou,Gat,becauseofhowdesperately,desperatelyIfellinlove.I thinkofmyLiarsburning, in their last fewminutes,breathingsmoke, theirskinalight.

Howmuchitmusthavehurt.Mirren’shair in flames.Johnny’sbodyon the floor.Gat’shands,his fingertipsburnt,his

armsshrivelingwithfire.Onthebacksofhishands,words.Left:Gat.Right:Cadence.Myhandwriting.

I cry because I am the only one of us still alive. Because Iwill have to go through lifewithouttheLiars.Becausetheywillhavetogothroughwhateverawaitsthem,withoutme.Me,Gat,Johnny,andMirren.Mirren,Gat,Johnny,andme.Wehavebeenhere,thissummer.Andwehavenotbeenhere.Yes,andno.It ismy fault,my fault,my fault—andyet they lovemeanyway.Despite thepoordogs,

despitemystupidityandgrandiosity,despiteourcrime.Despitemyselfishness,despitemywhining, despite my stupid dumb luck in being the only one left and my inability toappreciate it, when they—they have nothing. Nothing, anymore, but this last summertogether.Theyhavesaidtheyloveme.IhavefeltitinGat’skiss.InJohnny’slaugh.Mirrenshouteditacrossthesea,even.

IGUESSTHATiswhythey’vebeenhere.Ineededthem.

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MUMMYBANGSONmydoorandcallsmyname.Idonotanswer.Anhourlater,shebangsagain.“Letmein,won’tyou?”“Goaway.”“Isitamigraine?Justtellmethat.”“Itisn’tamigraine,”Isay.“It’ssomethingelse.”“Iloveyou,Cady,”shesays.ShesaysitallthetimesinceIgotsick,butonlynowdoIseethatwhatMummymeansis,Iloveyouinspiteofmygrief.Eventhoughyouarecrazy.IloveyouinspiteofwhatIsuspectyouhavedone.“Youknowweallloveyou,right?”shecallsthroughthedoor.“AuntBessandAuntCarrieandGranddadandeveryone?Bessismakingtheblueberrypieyoulike.It’llbeoutinhalfanhour.Youcouldhaveitforbreakfast.Iaskedher.”Istand.Gotothedoorandopenitacrack.“TellBessIsaythankyou,”Isay.“Ijustcan’tcomerightnow.”“You’vebeencrying,”Mummysays.“Alittle.”“Isee.”“Sorry.Iknowyouwantmeatthehouseforbreakfast.”“Youdon’tneedtosayyou’resorry,”Mummytellsme.“Really,youdon’teverhavetosayit,Cady.”

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ASUSUAL,NOoneisvisibleatCuddledownuntilmyfeetmakesoundsonthesteps.ThenJohnnyappearsatthedoor,steppinggingerlyoverthecrushedglass.Whenheseesmyface,hestops.“You’veremembered,”hesays.Inod.“You’verememberedeverything?”“Ididn’tknowifyouwouldstillbehere,”Isay.He reaches out to holdmy hand. He feels warm and substantial, though he looks pale,washedout,bagsunderhiseyes.Andyoung.Heisonlyfifteen.“Wecan’tstaymuchlonger,”Johnnysays.“It’sgettingharderandharder.”Inod.“Mirren’sgotittheworst,butGatandIarefeelingit,too.”“Wherewillyougo?”“Whenweleave?”“Uh-huh.”“Sameplaceaswhenyou’renothere.Sameplaceaswe’vebeen.It’slike—”Johnnypauses,scratcheshishead.“It’slikearest.It’slikenothing,inaway.Andhonestly,Cady,Iloveyou,butI’mfuckingtired.Ijustwanttoliedownandbedone.Allthishappenedaverylongtimeago,forme.”Ilookathim.“I’mso,sosorry,mydearoldJohnny,”Isay,feelingthetearswellbehindmyeyes.“Notyourfault,”saysJohnny.“Imean,wealldidit,weallwentcrazy,wehavetotakeresponsibility. You shouldn’t carry theweight of it,” he says. “Be sad, be sorry—but don’tshoulderit.”WegointothehouseandMirrencomesoutofherbedroom.Irealizesheprobablywasn’tthereuntilmomentsbeforeIwalkedthroughthedoor.Shehugsme.Herhoneyhairisdimand the edgesofhermouth lookdry and cracked. “I’m sorry I didn’t do all of this better,Cady,”shesays.“Igotonechancetobehere,andIdon’tknow,Idrewitout,toldsomanylies.”“It’sallright.”“Iwanttobeanacceptingperson,butIamsofullofleftoverrage.IimaginedI’dbesaintlyandwise,butinsteadI’vebeenjealousofyou,madattherestofmyfamily.It’sjustmessedupandnowit’sdone,”shesays,buryingherfaceinmyshoulder.Iputmyarmsaroundher.“Youwereyourself,Mirren,”Isay.“Idon’twantanythingelse.”“Ihavetogonow,”shesays.“Ican’tbehereanylonger.I’mgoingdowntothesea.”No.Please.Don’tgo.Don’tleaveme,Mirren,Mirren.Ineedyou.

ThatiswhatIwanttosay,toshout.ButIdonot.Andpartofmewantstobleedacrossthegreatroomfloorormeltintoapuddleofgrief.ButIdonotdothat,either.Idonotcomplainoraskforpity.Icryinstead.IcryandsqueezeMirrenandkissheronherwarmcheekandtrytomemorizeherface.Weholdhandsasthethreeofuswalkdowntothetinybeach.Gatisthere,waitingforus.Hisprofileagainstthelitsky.Iwillseeitforeverlikethat.Heturnsandsmilesatme.Runsandpicksmeup,swingingmearoundasifthere’ssomethingtocelebrate.Asifweareahappycouple,inloveonthebeach.Iamnotsobbinganymore,buttearsstreamfrommyeyeswithoutcease.Johnnytakesoffhisbutton-downandhandsittome.“Wipeyoursnotface,”hesayskindly.Mirrenstripsoffhersundressandstandsthereinabathingsuit.“Ican’tbelieveyouputonabikiniforthis,”saysGat,hisarmsstillaroundme.“Certifiable,”addsJohnny.“Ilovethisbikini,”saysMirren.“IgotitinEdgartown,summerfifteen.Doyouremember,Cady?”AndIfindthatIdo.Weweredesperately bored; the littles had rentedbikes to goon this scenic ride toOakBluffsandwehadnoideawhenthey’dreturn.Wehadtowaitandbringthembackontheboat.So,whatever,we’dshoppedforfudge,we’dlookedatwindsocks,andfinallywewentintoatouristshopandtriedonthetackiestbathingsuitswecouldfind.“ItsaysTheVineyardIsforLoversonthebutt,”ItellJohnny.Mirrenturnsaround,andindeeditdoes.“Blazeofgloryandallthat,”shesays,notwithoutbitterness.Shewalks over, kissesme on the cheek, and says, “Be a little kinder than you have to,Cady,andthingswillbeallright.”“Andnevereatanythingbiggerthanyourass!”yellsJohnny.Hegivesmeaquickhugandkicksoffhisshoes.Thetwoofthemwadeintothesea.IturntoGat.“Yougoing,too?”Henods.“Iamso sorry,Gat,” I say. “Iamso, so sorry,and Iwillneverbeable tomake itup toyou.”Hekissesme,andIcanfeelhimshaking,andIwrapmyarmsaroundhimlikeIcouldstophim fromdisappearing, like I couldmake thismoment last, buthis skin is cold anddampwithtearsandIknowheisleaving.Itisgoodtobeloved,eventhoughitwillnotlast.Itisgoodtoknowthatonceuponatime,therewasGatandme.Thenhetakesoff,andIcannotbeartobeseparatefromhim,andIthink,thiscannotbetheend.Itcan’tbetruewewon’teverbetogetheragain,notwhenourloveissoreal.Thestoryissupposedtohaveahappyending.Butno.Heisleavingme.Heisdeadalready,ofcourse.Thestoryendedalongtimeago.

Gat runs into the sea without looking back, plunging in, in all his clothes, divingunderneaththesmallwaves.TheLiarsswimout,pasttheedgeofthecoveandintotheopenocean.Thesunishighin

theskyandglintsoffthewater,sobright,sobright.Andthentheydive—orsomething—orsomething—andtheyaregone.Iamleft,thereonthesoutherntipofBeechwoodIsland.Iamonthetinybeach,alone.

85

ISLEEPFORwhatmightbedays.Ican’tgetup.Iopenmyeyes,it’slightout.Iopenmyeyes,it’sdark.FinallyIstand.Inthebathroommirror,myhairisnolongerblack.Ithasfadedtoarustybrown,withblondroots.Myskinisfreckledandmylipsaresunburnt.Iamnotsurewhothatgirlinthemirroris.Bosh,Grendel,andPoppyfollowmeoutofthehouse,pantingandwaggingtheirtails.IntheNewClairmontkitchen, theauntiesaremakingsandwichesforapicnic lunch.Ginnyiscleaningouttherefrigerator.Edisputtingbottlesoflemonadeandgingeraleintoacooler.Ed.Hello,Ed.He waves at me. Opens a bottle of ginger ale and gives it to Carrie. Rummages in thefreezerforanotherbagofice.BonnieisreadingandLibertyisslicingtomatoes.Twocakes,onemarkedchocolateandonevanilla,restinbakeryboxesonthecounter.Itellthetwinshappybirthday.BonnielooksupfromherCollectiveApparitionsbook.“Areyoufeelingbetter?”sheasksme.“Iam.”“Youdon’tlookmuchbetter.”“Shutup.”“Bonnie is a wench and there’s nothing to do about it,” says Liberty. “But we’re goingtubingtomorrowmorningifyouwanttocome.”“Okay,”Isay.“Youcan’tdrive.We’redriving.”“Yeah.”Mummygivesmeahug,oneofherlong,concernedhugs,butIdon’tspeaktoheraboutanything.Notyet.Notforawhile,maybe.Anyway,sheknowsIremember.Sheknewwhenshecametomydoor,Icouldtell.Ilethergivemeasconeshe’ssavedfrombreakfastandgetmyselfsomeorangejuicefromthefridge.IfindaSharpieandwriteonmyhands.Left:Bealittle.Right:Kinder.Outside, Taft andWill are goofing around in the Japanese garden. They are looking forunusualstones.Ilookwiththem.Theytellmetosearchforglitteryonesandalsoonesthatcouldbearrowheads.WhenTaftgivesmeapurpleonehe’sfound,becauseheremembersIlikepurplerocks,Iputitinmypocket.

86

GRANDDADANDIgotoEdgartownthatafternoon.Bess insistsondrivingus,butshegoesoff by herself while we go shopping. I find pretty fabric shoulder bags for the twins andGranddadinsistsonbuyingmeabookoffairytalesattheEdgartownbookshop.“IseeEd’sback,”Isayaswewaitattheregister.“Um-hm.”“Youdon’tlikehim.”“Notthatmuch.”“Buthe’shere.”“Yes.”“WithCarrie.”“Yes,he is.”Granddadwrinkleshisbrow.“Nowstopbotheringme.Let’sgotothe fudgeshop,”hesays.Andsowedo.Itisagoodouting.HeonlycallsmeMirrenonce.

THEBIRTHDAYIScelebratedatsuppertimewithcakeandpresents.Taftgetshoppeduponsugarandscrapeshiskneefallingoffabigrockinthegarden.ItakehimintothebathroomtofindaBand-Aid.“MirrenusedtoalwaysdomyBand-Aids,”hetellsme.“Imean,whenIwaslittle.”Isqueezehisarm.“DoyouwantmetodoyourBand-Aidsnow?”“Shutup,”hesays.“I’mtenalready.”

***

THENEXTDAYIgotoCuddledownandlookunderthekitchensink.Therearespongesthere,andspraycleanerthatsmellslikelemons.Papertowels.Ajugofbleach.I sweep away the crushed glass and tangled ribbons. I fill bags with empty bottles. Ivacuumcrushedpotatochips.Iscrubthestickyfloorofthekitchen.Washthequilts.Iwipegrimefromwindowsandputtheboardgamesintheclosetandcleanthegarbagefromthebedrooms.IleavethefurnitureasMirrenlikedit.On impulse, I take apadof sketchpaper andaballpoint fromTaft’s roomandbegin todraw.Theyarebarelymorethanstickfigures,butyoucantelltheyaremyLiars.Gat,withhisdramaticnose,sitscross-legged,readingabook.Mirrenwearsabikinianddances.Johnnysportsasnorkelingmaskandholdsacrabinonehand.When it’sdone, I stick thepictureon the fridgenext to theoldcrayondrawingsofDad,Gran,andthegoldens.

87

ONCEUPONAtimetherewasakingwhohadthreebeautifuldaughters.Thesedaughtersgrewtobe women, and the women had children, beautiful children, so many, many children, onlysomethingbadhappened,somethingstupid,criminal,terrible,somethingavoidable,somethingthatnevershouldhavehappened,andyetsomethingthatcould,eventually,beforgiven.Thechildrendiedinafire—allexceptone.Onlyonewasleft,andshe—No,that’snotright.Thechildrendiedinafire,allexceptthreegirlsandtwoboys.Therewerethreegirlsandtwoboysleft.Cadence,Liberty,Bonnie,Taft,andWill.And the three princesses, the mothers, they crumbled in rage and despair. They drank andshopped,starvedandscrubbedandobsessed.Theyclungtooneanotheringrief,forgaveeachother,andwept.The fathers raged, too, though theywere faraway;and theking,hedescended intoadelicatemadnessfromwhichhisoldselfonlysometimesemerged.Thechildren,theywerecrazyandsad.Theywererackedwithguiltforbeingalive,rackedwithpain in their heads and fear of ghosts, racked with nightmares and strange compulsions,punishmentsforbeingalivewhentheothersweredead.Theprincesses,thefathers,theking,andthechildren,theycrumbledlikeeggshells,powderyandbeautiful—fortheywerealwaysbeautiful.Itseemedasifasifthistragedymarkedtheendofthefamily.Andperhapsitdid.Butperhapsitdidnot.Theymadeabeautifulfamily.Still.Andtheyknewit.Infact,themarkoftragedybecame,withtime,amarkofglamour.Amarkofmystery,andasourceoffascinationforthosewhoviewedthefamilyfromafar.“The eldest children died in a fire,” they say, the villagers of Burlington, the neighbors inCambridge,theprivate-schoolparentsoflowerManhattan,andtheseniorcitizensofBoston.“Theislandcaughtfire,”theysay.“Remembersomesummersago?”Thethreebeautifuldaughtersbecamemorebeautifulstillintheeyesoftheirbeholders.Andthisfactwasnotlostuponthem.Norupontheirfather,eveninhisdecline.Yettheremainingchildren,Cadence,Liberty,Bonnie,Taft,andWill,

theyknowthattragedyisnotglamorous.Theyknowitdoesn’tplayoutinlifeasitdoesonastageorbetweenthepagesofabook.Itisneitherapunishmentmetedoutnoralessonconferred.Itshorrorsarenotattributabletoonesingleperson.Tragedyisuglyandtangled,stupidandconfusing.Thatiswhatthechildrenknow.Andtheyknowthatthestoriesabouttheirfamilyarebothtrueanduntrue.Thereareendlessvariations.Andpeoplewillcontinuetotellthem.

MYFULLNAMEisCadenceSinclairEastman.IliveinBurlington,Vermont,withMummyandthreedogs.Iamnearlyeighteen.Iownawell-usedlibrarycard,anenvelopefullofdriedbeachroses,abookoffairytales,andahandfuloflovelypurplerocks.Notmuchelse.Iamtheperpetratorofafoolish,deludedcrimethatbecameatragedy.Yes, it’s true that I fell in lovewithsomeoneandthathedied,alongwith the twootherpeopleIlovedbestinthisworld.Thathasbeenthemainthingtoknowaboutme,theonlythingaboutmeforaverylongtime,althoughIdidnotknowitmyself.Buttheremustbemoretoknow.Therewillbemore.

MYFULLNAMEisCadenceSinclairEastman.Isuffermigraines.Idonotsufferfools.Ilikeatwistofmeaning.Iendure.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ThanksmostofalltoBeverlyHorowitzandElizabethKaplanfortheirsupportofthisnovelincountless ways. To Sarah Mlynowski (twice), Justine Larbalestier, Lauren Myracle, ScottWesterfeld, and RobinWasserman for commenting on early drafts—I have never shown amanuscripttosomanypeopleandbeeninsuchdireneedofeachperson’sinsights.ThankstoSaraZarr,AllyCarter,andLenJenkinaswell.ThankstoLibbaBray,GayleForman,DanPoblacki,SunitaApte,andAyunHalliday,plusRobin, Sarah, andBob for keepingme company and talking shopwhile Iwrote this book.GratitudetoDonnaBray,LouisaThompson,EddieGamarra,JohnGreen,MelissaSarver,andArielle Datz. At RandomHouse: Angela Carlino, Rebecca Gudelis, LisaMcClatchy, ColleenFellingham,AlisonKolani,RachelFeld,AdrienneWeintraub,LisaNadel,JudithHaut,LaurenDonovan, Dominique Cimina, and everyone who put so much creativity into helping thisbookfindanaudience.Thanksespeciallytomyfamily,whoarenothingliketheSinclairs.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

E. LOCKHART is the author of four books about RubyOliver:The Boyfriend List,The BoyBook,The Treasure Map of Boys, andReal Live Boyfriends. She also wrote Fly on the Wall,Dramarama, andHow to Be Bad (the lastwith SarahMlynowski and LaurenMyracle).HernovelTheDisreputableHistoryofFrankieLandau-BankswasaMichaelL.PrintzAwardHonorBook,afinalistfortheNationalBookAward,andwinnerofaCybilsAwardforBestYoungAdultNovel.VisitE.onlineatemilylockhart.comandfollow@elockhartonTwitter.

Alsobye.lockhart

TheRubyOliverNovels

TheBoyfriendList

TheBoyBook

TheTreasureMapofBoys

RealLiveBoyfriends

•••

FlyontheWall

Dramarama

TheDisreputableHistoryofFrankieLandau-Banks

HowtoBeBad(writtenwithSarahMlynowskiandLaurenMyracle)