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without flossing. It only got worse after the car accident, and I really thought Dad would say no to a summer vacation across the country -- especially with his comments about me spending too much time with Frankie. But after presenting a convincing argument, citing my honor roll final grades, and committing to additional housework without being asked, I won him over. After that, whenever someone mentioned California, I changed the subject. Like I told Frankie -- he can still revoke permission until we're on the plane.
    "I know they're going as a family," Dad says. "I meant -- without the neighbor kid getting underfoot."
    He says "the neighbor kid" like I'm some barnacle that even industrial-strength chemicals can't remove from the hull of their family tragedy.
    "Dad, she kind of needs me there, you know?" I force myself to keep my voice steady, thinking about Frankie's "positive envisionation." I am on the beach. There are drooling boys and postcards and something about beautiful mermaids....
    "I understand that, Anna. It's just that... do you ever think that part of the reason Frankie isn't moving on is -- is that you aren't letting her?"
    I look to Mom for support, but her eyes are on me expectantly, as if at any minute I'll see their irrefutable logic and unpack my bags. I know Mom and Dad care about Frankie, but they weren't the ones hiding upstairs with her in the weeks after Matt's death while well-meaning relatives and friends stopped by, bearing an endless supply of cards and food in disposable foil pans and saying all the wrong things. "He's in a better place now." "God must have a plan for him." "At least he didn't suffer." "You're still young, Jayne. Maybe you can have another child." "You'd stop thinking about him if you took down his pictures." They didn't hold Frankie as she sobbed for hours at a time without talking. They didn't make sure she ate even when she wasn't hungry. They didn't do her homework when she couldn't concentrate, or explain to our teachers why she was late for every class.
    "How do you know Frankie isn't moving on?" I ask.
    "Anna," Dad says gently, "all I'm saying is that as long as you're around, Red and Jayne don't really have to worry about Frankie -- you're doing it for them. And two thousand miles away on a trip that will be extremely difficult for them -- that complicates things. We just want to make sure you're ready to deal with this."
    Deal with this? Not only does he reduce my best friend's emotional state to something akin to an annoying rash, he also plants a new seed in my already overcrowded brain.
    Could I be the reason Frankie isn't moving on?
    Since Matt's death, the earth has made more than one full trip around the sun -- plenty of time to be Over It, according to the official books and therapists and school counselors that tried to talk to me about my "caretaker" role in Frankie's life.
    But Frankie isn't over it.
    I'm not over it.
    And I don't want to talk about it, because one day his name will brush against my lips in her presence, and through an involuntary blushing of the cheeks, a misting of the eyes, a breath drawn too tightly, or a single tear, the secret I'm supposed to keep locked up forever will be revealed.
    "Sweetheart," Mom says. She looks at me softly with her You Can Talk to Me face, which is only slightly more tolerable than its close cousin, the I Was Young Once, Too, face. Unlike the IWYOT face, which usually means that she knows I'm up to something and I'd better not lie about it, the YCTTM face is equal parts guilt and empathy with a dash of "are we still friends?" and "your father isn't a bad guy" stirred in.
    "Dad and I are just concerned about Frankie. We know she's under a lot of pressure, and you've been managing some really tough emotions that maybe Red and Jayne should be more involved with."
    I think about Aunt Jayne's constant whirlwind of interior decorating and shopping sprees with Uncle Red's credit cards.
    "Well, they aren't