“The room is about the same as that dorm we saw at UVA; it’s just older.”

“What time is it over there?”

“It’s almost midnight. We’re five hours ahead, remember?”

We’re five hours ahead, like she’s already considering Scotland her home, and she’s only been gone a day, not even! “We miss you already,” I tell her.

“Miss you too.”

After dinner I text Chris to see if she wants to come over, but she doesn’t text back. She’s probably out with one of the guys she hooks up with. Which is fine. I should catch up on my scrapbooking.

I was hoping to be done with Margot’s scrapbook before she left for college, but as anyone who’s ever scrapbooked knows, Rome wasn’t built in a day. You could spend a year or more working on one scrapbook.

I’ve got Motown girl-group music playing, and my supplies are laid out all around me in a semicircle. My heart hole punch, pages and pages of scrapbook paper, pictures I’ve cut out of magazines, glue gun, my tape dispenser with all my different colored washi tapes. Souvenirs like the playbill from when we saw Wicked in New York, receipts, pictures. Ribbon, buttons, stickers, charms. A good scrapbook has texture. It’s thick and chunky and doesn’t close all the way.

I’m working on a Josh-and-Margot page. I don’t care what Margot says. They’re getting back together, I know it. And even if they aren’t, not right away, it’s not like Margot can just erase him from her history. He was such a big part of her senior year. And, like, her life. The only compromise I’m willing to make is I was saving my heart washi tape for this page, but I can just do a regular plaid tape instead. But then I put the plaid tape up against the pictures and the colors don’t look as good.

So I go ahead and use the heart tape. And then, swaying to the music, I use my heart template to cut out a picture of the two of them at prom. Margot’s going to love this.

I’m carefully gluing a dried rose petal from Margot’s corsage when my dad raps on the door. “What are you up to tonight?” he asks me.

“This,” I say, gluing another petal. “If I keep at it, it’ll probably be done by Christmas.”

“Ah.” My dad doesn’t move. He just hovers there in the doorway, watching me work. “Well, I’m going to watch that new Ken Burns documentary in a bit, if you want to join me.”

“Maybe,” I say, just to be nice. It’ll be too much of a pain to bring all my supplies downstairs and get set up again. I’m in a good rhythm right now. “Why don’t you get it started without me?”

“All righty. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Daddy shuffles down the stairs.

It takes me most of the night, but I finish the Josh-and-Margot page, and it comes out really nice. Next is a sister page. For this one I use flowered paper for the background, and I glue in a picture of the three of us from a long time ago. Mommy took it. We’re standing in front of the oak tree in front of our house in our church clothes. We’re all wearing white dresses, and we have matching pink ribbons in our hair. The best thing about the picture is Margot and I are smiling sweetly and Kitty is picking her nose.

I smile to myself. Kitty’s going to pitch a fit when she sees this page. I can’t wait.

10

MARGOT SAYS THAT JUNIOR YEAR is the most important year, the busiest year, a year so crucial that everything else in life hinges upon it. So I figure I should get in all the pleasure reading I can before school starts next week and junior year officially begins. I’m sitting on my front steps, reading a 1980s romantic British spy novel I got for seventy-five cents at the Friends of the Library sale.

I’m just getting to the good stuff (Cressida must seduce Nigel to gain access to the spy codes!) when Josh walks out of his house to get the mail. He sees me too; he lifts his hand like he’s just going to wave and not come over, but then he does.

“Hey, nice onesie,” he says as he makes his way across the driveway.

It’s faded light blue with sunflowers and it ties around the neck. I got it from the vintage store, 75 percent off. And it’s not a onesie. “This is a sunsuit,” I tell him, going back to my book. I try to subtly hide the cover with my hand. The last thing I need is Josh giving me a hard time for reading a trashy book when I’m just trying to enjoy a relaxing afternoon.

I can feel him looking at me, his arms crossed, waiting. I look up. “What?”

“Wanna see a movie tonight at the Bess? There’s a Pixar movie playing. We can take Kitty.”

“Sure, text me when you want to head over,” I say, turning the page of my book. Nigel is unbuttoning Cressida’s blouse and she’s wondering when the sleeping pill she slipped in his Merlot will kick in, while simultaneously hoping it won’t kick in too soon, because Nigel is actually quite a good kisser.

Josh reaches down and tries to get a closer look at my book. I slap his hand away, but not before he reads out loud, “Cressida’s heart raced as Nigel moved his hand along her stockinged thigh.” Josh cracks up. “What the heck are you reading?”

My cheeks are burning. “Oh, be quiet.”

Chuckling, Josh backs away. “I’ll leave you to Cressida and Noel then.”

To his back, I call out, “For your information, it’s Nigel!”

* * *

Kitty’s over the moon about hanging out with Josh. When Josh asks the girl at the concession stand to layer the butter on the popcorn (bottom, middle, top), we both give an approving nod. Kitty sits in the middle of us, and at the funny parts she laughs so hard she kicks her legs up in the air. She weighs so little that the seat keeps tipping up. Josh and I share smiles over her head.