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crushed all previous stone-skipping records. They'd crossed to the ocean side and swum in a sea so wild that Alice had nearly drowned. And even that hadn't been quite enough of a distraction.

    u

    Alice was reading on the beach Sunday afternoon when Riley approached. She dropped down onto Alice's towel and lay beside her on her side, bouncing her toe against Alice's calf. Companion able as it was, Alice knew she wouldn't be there for long. Riley never held still on the beach unless she was sitting in the lifeguard chair. She swam constantly, she surfed under the right conditions, she was a wizard with a boogie board in shallow water. She liked volleyball, and in the old days, she loved building sandcastles. Even now Riley gave no thought to sunbathing, and she never read a book or even a magazine, as far as Alice knew.

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    Alice was a reader and Riley was not. Alice remembered long ago sitting in the kitchen at the little table across from her mother in their apartment in the city. Judy was doing a big freelance proof reading job for an educational publisher at the time. Alice remem bered all the proofs piled on the table. It was winter, she recalled. It was already dark in the late afternoon, and Alice wore thick socks around the apartment instead of bare feet.

    They'd lived in the same two-bedroom apartment on West 98th Street between Amsterdam and Columbus avenues since Alice was a baby. It was near the school where Ethan taught history and coached wrestling, and where Alice had gone since kindergarten. Riley had gone there, too, until fifth grade. It was a good private school, and Judy and Ethan paid half-price for them, which was partly why they were so slow to switch Riley to a school that spe cialized in teaching kids with learning problems.

    It was after Christmas, Alice remembered, because Riley had gotten the dolphin book wrapped up under the tree. Riley had left it on the kitchen counter, and Alice had picked it up and started reading it for her mother. She was showing off, she knew. Her brain did not turn any of the letters the wrong way, and she felt guilty for it in retrospect. In first grade she could already read books meant for fourth- and fifth-graders. She blasted through all the words, hard and easy, until her mother noticed and came around the table to admire her. Alice hadn't realized Riley had come into the room until Riley was moving toward her, her mouth in a contortion.

    Riley had reached out and snatched the book from Alice's hands with such force that Alice just sat there, blinking. "That's

    � 38 � The Last Summer (of You and Me)

    my book," Riley had said angrily, and strode out of the room. Alice always had an easier time being bad at things than Riley did.

    Now Riley leaned into Alice, so their arms and shoulders were pressed together. She leaned over to see the title of Alice's book.

    "Middlemarch. Is it good?" Riley asked, as though she may or may not read it herself.

    "Amazing."

    "George Eliot is a woman, right?"

    "Yes," Alice said. It felt nice, Riley's body leaning into hers. Whatever their differences, their physical closeness was never awkward or strained. The body of her sister was not quite like a separate body. Riley's limbs felt to Alice practically like her own, like they were partly bound into her central nervous system and vice versa. Like if she thought hard enough, she could make Riley's knee bend. With an old feeling of tenderness, Alice rested her head on Riley's shoulder. She used to do that when she was smaller.

    "Do you want to walk to Ocean Beach?" Riley asked. "They're having the sandcastle contest today."

    "Today?"

    "I saw the flyer in the market. The judging's at four."

    "I'll go," Alice said. It was one of the milestones of early sum mer. Riley jumped up and offered Alice two hands.

    Together Riley and Alice had made tremendous sandcastles. They had won the contest the second year they'd entered--not the kiddie contest but the