I arrived outside school at exactly 7:55 the next morning. The bagel I’d forced myself to eat kept rising in my throat.

Rachel had texted me back just as I’d been drifting off to sleep: Picnic benches. 8:00 tomorrow morning.

She was already there, bundled up in a thick wool coat and gray-and-white snowflake scarf. I had the same scarf in red and white; we’d knit them together. “Hello,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Hi.” Her blond hair was to her shoulders, and held back with a handmade purple-and-white polka-dot headband, which matched her handmade purple-and-white polka-dot tote bag.

I was wearing a couple of items that Rachel had made for me: a multicolored belt crafted from old ties, and the meant-for-special-occasions-only bottle-cap necklace.

I sat down beside her. It was cool and damp, but it wasn’t raining.

Rachel didn’t say a word. It was my job to get things started. “I like your headband. It’s very Jane Fonda Workout.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you get the idea—”

“From Wendy Russell on The Marilyn Denis Show? Yes.”

“I saw that episode, too. It was a good one.”

Rachel nodded, and we grew silent.

“Might I also say that your dickey is spectacular?”

She glanced down at her mock turtleneck in kelly green. “Thanks. I made it last week out of a piece of old fleece.” More silence. I undid a couple of toggles on my coat and angled myself so Rachel could see the necklace. “Oh,” she said. “That’s supposed to be for special occasions.”

“I guess I thought, you know, this had the potential to be one.”

She looked away.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Good.”

“And your parents?” I omitted the remaining member of her family.

“They’re good, too. How about yours?”

“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.” And suddenly, inexplicably, I felt tears spring to my eyes. Rachel reached out and put a hand over mine, and I saw she was wearing the Miss Piggy mittens I’d made her for Christmas three years earlier. “I’m so sorry, Rachel. You were trying so hard to be a good friend, and I was such an awful one.”

“Truly awful.”

“What I did— What I said—”

“I could have lived with what you did. But the other…”

“I know. I don’t know what to say. I was so angry, I was…spewing hatred.” I forced my next words out. “How’s your brother?”

Rachel smiled. “He’s great. Super excited to start kindergarten next year, talking a mile a minute, very opinionated…”

It felt like my heart was being squeezed.

“Just last week he rode his bike without training wheels….”

I couldn’t help it. I started to cry for real.

Rachel stopped. “I’m so sorry. Oh, Petula, I’m so sorry.” Then she was crying, too. “I still miss her so much. She was such an awesome little girl.”

We let ourselves be sad for a while. “I brought you something,” I said eventually. I rummaged around in my tote bag and pulled out our Little House on the Prairie bonnets.

Rachel started to laugh. “Oh my God…”

We put them on. Then, spontaneously, we started acting out our all-time favorite scene, when poor Mary Ingalls discovers she’s blind. “Help me, Pa!” we said in unison. “Pa, I can’t see! Hold me! It’s dark! It’s too dark! I’m scared, Pa!”

Kids had started to arrive for school. They stared openly. Koula strode past in her Doc Martens and fishnet stockings. “Freaks!” she yelled.

But I couldn’t care less. It was a seriously awesome moment. Like we’d traveled back in time. “I hate that Nellie Oleson!” I shouted, quoting another of our favorite lines. “I hate that Nellie Oleson!” I said again, waiting for Rachel to join in.

But she didn’t. Her expression had gotten all serious again. She pulled off the bonnet and held it out to me.

“You can keep it,” I said. “It’s yours.”

She hesitated before she stuffed it into her school bag. “I guess I should go.” Her voice had taken on an edge that I did not like.

“Um. I was hoping—”

“Hoping we could pick up where we left off?”

“No. Maybe.”

“Why would you want to be friends with a fat, ugly loser who can’t see that everyone around her hates her guts and thinks she’s pathetic?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did. But that wasn’t the worst of it, Petula. You also said”—her voice caught—“you said the wolf suit was my idea. You said Maxine’s death was my fault.”

“Rachel,” I pleaded, “I wasn’t myself. I was a mess. I was medicated.”

“I know. I know all that. But it’s not that easy to forget.” She looked at the ground. “What I went through doesn’t come close to what you went through, what you are going through. But you really hurt me, Petula. You made me feel like garbage.”

“You were never the garbage. I’m the garbage.”

The bell rang. Rachel stood. “I’m glad you reached out. Really. Let’s…let’s just see how it goes.” Then she walked away.

I felt like my guts were lying on the pavement in front of me.

I sat there for a long time. I don’t know what I’d expected. I was so shell-shocked I barely registered the red Mazda that squealed up to the curb, fifteen minutes after classes had started. I barely registered the boy in the shiny blue Adidas tracksuit until he sat down beside me and started punching my arm.

“Ow. Ivan, stop.”

“Sorry. I just wanted you to see me.”

I don’t know why, but that made me feel even more gutted. “I see you.”

“You look sad.”

“I feel sad.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

We sat in silence for a few more minutes. “I guess we should get to class,” I said. We both stood up. Being a good six inches taller than him, I gazed right down at his terrible bed head. “Hang on.” I grabbed a comb from my tote bag. “Do you mind?”

Ivan shrugged. He turned around, and I combed out the back of his hair. It was super greasy. I felt the bagel rise in my throat again, but I got the job done. “There. That’s better.”

He broke into a huge grin. “Thanks, Petula.”

“You’re welcome, Ivan.”

When I entered the building I went straight to the girls’ washroom. I threw my comb in the garbage and scrubbed my hands under scalding-hot water for two full rounds of “Happy Birthday.”