That afternoon Ivy padded into her mother’s bedroom. The blankets were pulled tight and the throw Aunt Connie had given her mom for Christmas one year—fleece with a print of pussycats all over it—was folded in half across the foot. That her mother always made her bed no matter what was one of the surprising things about her. Ivy sat on the edge of the mattress and dangled her feet, not very far. She was almost as tall as her mom now.

When a car pulled into the drive, Ivy jumped. Then there was a tapping on the door. Ivy got under Aunt Connie’s cat blanket and pretended she was a girl who was too sick even to move.

She actually pretended this—as if she was a character in a movie, “a girl,” instead of herself, Ivy. It helped for about as long as the knocking lasted. When the car pulled away, she felt like she’d been flung to the farthest corner of the universe and would never find her way home. She let tears seep out of her eyes, and slowly, she reached out and lifted the bottle that was beside her mom’s bed.

She twisted the lid off and smelled. Put a finger down in the bottle and tilted it until liquid sloshed onto her finger. She watched three minutes lurch by on her mother’s bedside clock while she thought about trying it.

Then she put the bottle back exactly where it had been and rushed to the kitchen and washed her hands. Next she stuck her head under the tap and let the water run over her tongue even though she hadn’t tasted from the bottle.

Sometime while the water gushed into her mouth and ran into her hair and splashed across her face, Ivy decided she was going to school Monday morning. She was going to have to face it all and get on with her life.

She called Prairie late on Sunday night. “I feel a lot better. It was so boring. All I did was sleep and watch TV. Ugh.”

“We stopped by—”

“Did you?” Ivy said brightly. “Wow, I didn’t know. I slept a lot.”

“I knocked for a long time.”

“Huh.”

“You must’ve been pretty sick, not to hear it.”

“I was. It was no fun.”

“We ate at the Really Fine.”

Ivy froze like a mouse about to be snapped up by a copperhead.

“I had a cheeseburger. Of course.”

There was laughter in Prairie’s voice and Ivy laughed too. She hoped Prairie wouldn’t notice how shrilly it came out. “Of course!”

“Olympia waited on us. She asked where you were.”

“Uh-huh?” The mouse-at-the-end-of-its-life feeling swept over Ivy again.

“We told her you were sick and she tried to send a cup of tea home with us. She thought you were my sister.”

“Oh!”

“Which you are, of course, blood sisters, like we swore,” Prairie said. “It’s just—she thought you lived with us.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wish you did. I miss you.”

Tears rose in Ivy’s eyes. “Me too.”

“Why don’t you come home, then?”

Ivy’s feelings did a tailspin. It was like when her mom apologized for throwing her notebook. One moment Ivy’d felt one way and known it was the right and only way. Then, a few words later, everything was changed. The situation was completely different, and yet there was something identical about it. “I am home.”

“You know what I mean.” Prairie’s sigh was vexed. “I just mean that we all miss you. We want you here, when the baby comes and everything. You’re ours, that’s how we feel. Me and Grammy and Mom were talking about it last night and we all agreed. Even though you’re not ours, of course, we know that. You’re your own person. But you’re our own person, if that makes any sense.”

“Thanks,” Ivy said thickly. She should add something more, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know what it would be. She thought of lying in bed with Aunt Connie’s blanket pulled up, pretending to be “a girl.” What girl was the question she couldn’t seem to answer.

“Well—I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Prairie said after a few seconds had ticked by. “That’s good.”

“It was a rotten weekend.”

“Should’ve let me bring you that ginger ale.”

“You’re probably right,” Ivy said.