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her middle finger.
    I say, “I like your ring.”
    “Diego gave it to me.”
    I follow her lead. “Who’s Diego?”
    Her eyes gleam. “Oh, Callie. There’s so much you don’t know.”
    I say, “I want to know about the boat trip. How was it?” Details, texture, moments that have now slipped away forever; I want them recreated by Ivy for me so I can feel the wind in her hair. Would Kurt have kissed her? Look at that pink mouth—of course he kissed her. Our drinks arrive, froufrou concoctions of yogourt and berries, cold, and admittedly good. I suck loads of mine down, thinkingnow about how we once spent an afternoon making smoothies in my kitchen. Ivy came up with the recipes and together we blended, tasted, giggled and invented ridiculous names for our drinks.
    Ivy says, “I wish you’d been there. Xander’s nice, but, uh, the
three
of us. Kinda weird. Kurt blatantly wanted it to be just us two, but there isn’t much room on a small boat. Oooh, I have a great idea. You’d
love
Xander. Let’s double date. Tonight. You and me, and them. God, Kurt’s just my type, like Diego.”
    “‘Kay. Tell me already. Who’s Diego?”
    “He was, like, my soulmate. Here’s a pic.” She gets her phone from her bra and shows me a blurry image of a guy looking over his shoulder at the camera. His black eyes smoulder and he’s all poser-pouty. He wears a leather jacket and I think he’s sitting on a motorbike. I reach for the phone but Ivy holds on to it. She says, “Cute, hey? Do you think he looks like Kurt?”
    “Not really.”
    She considers the image. “I think he does.”
    “So, how long were you and Diego together?”
    She slides her phone away. “Forget Diego. Weshould live in the moment. Tonight sounds good, okay?”
    “I don’t know about double dating.”
    “It’ll be great.”
    “Where are we going?” I don’t know why I’m asking. There’s no way Mom will let me go. I’m not even allowed to be at this café with Ivy. As I think this, I also know with sudden ferocity that I don’t want to miss out. I don’t want to lose Ivy again by always having to say no. I say, “Actually, don’t tell me. It’ll be easier to lie to Mom.”
    “Why lie?”
    “It doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll sneak out. Somehow.”
    Ivy frowns.
    I ask, “Have you got something good I can wear?”

    I’m helpful around the house for the evening. I play with Cosmo, even changing his disgusting diaper. Mom and I aren’t exactly speaking, but we’re not shouting at each other either. She must assume that now she’s laid down the rules, I’ll simply follow. She didn’t even notice that I went out earlier. She’s sowrapped up with the new book, she thought I was in my room the whole time. She gets like this toward the end of a project. A bit fuzzy round the edges.
    Dad’s busy too. The university is on summer break, has been for a few weeks, but he’s organized some conference on oral storytelling. Two smartly dressed women and two bearded men arrive at the house to talk about the influence of Greek epics on contemporary poetry. Together they burble off to the conference. Dad gets back around ten, singing quietly to himself, and thumps up the stairs to his office in the attic.
    I lie in bed listening to the floorboards creak up there. Will he never go to sleep? I’m fully dressed under the covers. I’ve never sneaked out at night before. I’ve read books where characters do it, but—ridiculously—I’ve always been scared
they
might get caught, and never dared to do it myself.
    I flick through the pages of
Bonjour Tristesse,
not really reading. With a sigh, I turn back to the beginning. The book is so short, I should have finished it already, but I can’t concentrate at all. Lines spring out at me …
I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow … That summer,
I was seventeen and perfectly happy … tall and almost beautiful, with the kind of good looks that immediately inspires one