So, how have things been back at the ranch with your mom?” Dr. K asks.

“Back at the ranch?”

“It’s an expression; it means—”

“At home.”

“You just wanted me to know that it’s what old people say.”

“Yes.”

“Noted. So?”

“Back at the ranch in Park Slope, Brooklyn, things are okay.”

She’s smiling. So am I. Things are so much easier when it’s just us and our dance. Everything seems a little more relaxed. Her Converse have some paint splatter on them. “It’s better. We’re talking. I mean, not a lot, I am not exactly chatty anyway, and it’s not like before, but I don’t think it could be. But it’s not bad, and that’s a lot better than what it was. This morning I made her tea. She likes tea before a big meeting, which she had today. So I made her some tea. We ate breakfast together. It’s not a big deal or whatever, but it was nice.”

“Kind of a big deal considering the last few months you’ve had together.” My face is hot. I feel a small ball forming at the back of my throat. I’m irritated that I want to cry. Why now? Why do I always have to freaking cry?

“What’s happening over there?”

“I hate the fact that everything makes me cry. I had breakfast with my mom; what’s the big freaking deal? Why do I have to sit in therapy and talk about it, and why in the hell do I have to sit in therapy and cry about it?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but have you been having a tremendously happy last few months? Or years?”

“Obviously not,” I say through the tears that have completely disobeyed me and are now making their hot trails down my face.

“And in that time, was one of the people you could most count on in the world, in fact, let me say, the only person you could count on in the world, your mother?”

“Yeah. So? I haven’t talked to her. And I am now. I know that already; why is it making me cry?”

“Because it’s a big deal, Sparrow.” She sounds almost angry, but I think she’s just trying to tell me she means what she’s saying; she’s also using her hands a lot, which she seems to do when she’s trying to make a point. The waves of her tattoo move slightly with her gestures.

“Because I lost her and this morning I got to have breakfast with her.”

“Yeah, you’re surviving. That matters.”

“Can I put some music on?”

“Sure. You’ve earned it.”

I smile a little and head over to the iPod dock. The first notes haven’t even squeaked out before Dr. K is smiling and tapping her foot. “Weaves,” she says, and I smile because I know she only listened to them because of me. I feel my head lean back, happy and light at the end when Jasmyn starts screaming. The silence after the song feels less empty than it usually does.

“Listen, Sparrow, I know this may seem like a random question, but the school year’s almost over.… ”

“Yee-haw, as we say at the ranch.”

“What are your plans for the summer?”

“I don’t know.” I remember the flyer crumpled now at the bottom of my backpack. “There’s this place that Mrs. Wexler wanted me to go, I think. I don’t think I could do it, though.”

“What’s it called?”

“Nix Rock Camp? Something like that.”

“Gertrude Nix Rock Camp for Girls.”

“Yeah,” I say, surprised that she’s heard of it, and also not surprised at all.

“Mrs. Wexler had good taste. It’s a sleepaway camp: You’d learn how to play an instrument, you’d take music classes and join a band with the other girls there. At the end, you put on a show with the songs you’ve written together. ”

I can’t say anything. It sounds perfect. It sounds impossible. Far away. Four weeks. Other girls. Mrs. Wexler. A show. I swing from good to bad to terrifying to awesome and back to terrifying again. I don’t believe I’ve actually managed to say anything, though.

“What do you think?”

“I think it sounds … ” My eyes. Again. Who is this girl who cries all the time? “Great.”

“The deadline has passed, but I know a guy. They’ll wait for your application. Talk to your mom, and have her call me if she has any questions.”