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“Jump!”
    There’s no way I’m jumping down from that height. I try to crouch, but Lydia lets go of my leg and then Alyssa stumbles like she tripped. I go flying off their shoulders and land hard on the ground, and the corn really doesn’t cushion my fall at all.
    â€œI think we killed her,” Lydia says. They both come over and lift the hair off my face, trying not to giggle, but I slap their hands away and roll over, groaning.
    â€œAre you okay?” Alyssa’s voice drips with fake concern. “I tripped,” she proclaims in her worst actor’s voice.
    â€œYou did not,” I say. “You did it on purpose.”
    â€œOoooh, someone’s mad,” Lydia says. “Don’t get mad, Kate. Get even.”
    It takes all my self-control not to tell her to buzz off. I manage a smile and say, “Oh, I will,” in a passably evil voice, but somehow it’s not funny. This only makes me feel worse.
    â€œI’m going to die if I don’t have something to drink, like, immediately ,” Lydia declares. “Last one to the house is a freakin’ zombie.”
    She takes off running and Alyssa starts after her, then pauses to glance back at me.
    â€œYou okay?”
    I nod, pulling twigs out of my hair.
    â€œCome on, then!”
    She bolts after Lydia. I sit up and clean off my camera, which fell in the dirt. It took me a long time to earn enough money to buy my camera. I spent an entire summer baby­sitting the neighbors’ kids and cleaning out the chicken coop, plus I had to use birthday and Christmas money. It’s like my baby. I clean it and fuss over it, and I probably have way too many photos of me posing with it. Alyssa knows all this. I’m always reminding her that electronics break easily and we need to be careful with it, but she still let it drop on the ground without a second thought. This bothers me more than my own tumble.
    I slowly stand up and brush myself off. No broken bones, anyway. I limp back toward the house, wondering if any famous directors ever let loose with a few tears when they had a really bad day on the set, but somehow it’s hard to imagine Steven Spielberg crying.

L ydia ends up getting a ride home with Alyssa at the end of the day, so I don’t get a chance to ask Alyssa about her strange behavior.
    After they leave, my dad finds me in the kitchen. “How did it go?”
    I don’t feel like explaining how the day was a major disaster, so I just mumble, “Fine.”
    â€œYou have footprints on your back.”
    I sigh. “Yeah, I know.”
    â€œOkay, then. As long as you know.” My father drums his fingers on the counter, looking distracted. “Uh, where’s your mother?”
    â€œI think she’s in the chicken coop.”
    He peers outside. “Well, I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be in the den.”
    My mother made chocolate chip cookies while we were outside shooting. Alyssa and Lydia each had three before they left. I ate three, too, but I decide one more won’t hurt. There’s nothing like warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies melting in your mouth to make you feel better.
    As I head for my bedroom, I pass the den. It’s a small room with old wooden floors that my dad took over as his home office. He usually closes the door when he’s working, but today it’s open. I glance inside and see why. Wilma is curled up on a chair, snoozing. She has a talent for pushing open doors that aren’t quite latched and making herself comfortable. My dad is sitting with his back to me at his desk, on the phone as usual. The way he’s talking sounds funny, though. Not businesslike.
    â€œIt’s getting hard to keep this a secret.” His voice is low, almost a murmur. “It’s all getting very complicated.” He chuckles. “I know. Me, too. Have I told you lately how much I—”
    Wilma picks this moment to notice me. She