I’ve never been terrific at finishing projects. This past year, I started a scrapbook, a journal, three books, daily yoga stretches, and a beauty routine involving a weekly mask and blackhead strips. I didn’t continue any of them. I got bored, distracted. But the sixty-five things are something I want to finish. I have to. They’re sneaky and fun and exciting—thinking of them, figuring out how to keep them secret. Every time, I get this filled-up, kind of powerful feeling. Strong. Hopeful. I wish I could tell Grandma. And my teacher, Mr. Pontello. They’d know what I mean.

19. Matt’s been working a lot at his cashier job at the pool. His car’s a mess, and I don’t want Mom and Dad to get mad, so I clean it out while he’s in the shower. What I find: fifteen Subway napkins; one black, stretchy headband; a white sock; seven pens; two pencils; gum wrappers; a torn ace of diamonds card; crumpled notebook paper; and an almost-empty soda bottle that really smells.

Later, Matt doesn’t notice. He just jumps in and drives away, his hair still damp.

20. I find a bunch of Matt’s old baseballs in our garage and put them on the Cantalonis’ lawn. They’ll have lots of spares now in case they hit one into the weeds.

Mrs. Millman has kept up her daily stakeouts. I find a little silver balloon in our basement, attached to a plastic stick. It has a yellow smiley face with the words HAVE A NICE DAY!

When Mrs. M. leaves for mahjong, I stick the balloon into one of her outside flowerpots (twenty-one). Maybe it will make her smile for once. But later, the balloon is gone, and notes are taped on everyone’s front doors: Important neighborhood meeting. Tonight, seven p.m. We must get to the bottom of these pranks. Yours in safety, Mrs. Myrna Millman.

But no one can come. Conflicts, too busy.

“Probably just some kids fooling around,” Dad says, crumpling the note and tossing it into the garbage can. He shakes his head. “We had a Mrs. Millman type where I grew up. Mrs. Betty Lunetti.”

“You’re kidding.” I laugh, sitting next to him at the kitchen counter. “You never told me that. Betty Lunetti? What a name.”

“Yep. We were terrified of her. She always had these electric blue curlers in her hair, and come to think of it, she had a poodle too, this mean, yippy little dog—”

“Steven, c’mon,” Mom says, opening her laptop. “Everyone knows Myrna Millman has nothing else to do except dream up this nonsense. Focus. We have to be in court first thing tomorrow.”

Even though it’s eight p.m., Mom looks crisp in her black trousers and sleeveless white sweater. Black-and-white-checked jacket over the back of her chair. Black heels kicked off onto the floor. You know that store that has only black-and-white clothes? Mom keeps them in business.

She’s one inch shorter than me. When Matt and I were younger and she would get mad about something, we used to joke that she’s four feet eleven of tough and one inch of mom.

Dad grabs his seltzer, sits down, and then flips a page on a legal pad. “Where were we?”

I want to tell them: I like the neighborhood nonsense. It’s way more fun than your nonsense.

Mom glances at me as her phone rings. “Nina, honey. I know we haven’t connected in the last few days. It’s been crazy. I’ll come up later. I want to hear all about the art class, okay?”

“Sure.”

I fall asleep before she comes. If she even does.

The next day after summer school, when I’m getting the mail, something lightly pings the back of my head. A tiny crab apple hits the ground. I turn around. No one. I sit on the grass and flip through the envelopes; then another apple bounces off my arm.

Eli used to pull crab apples from his tree and toss them at me through the bushes that separate our side yards like a row of soldiers.

Back then it was funny. He’s fourteen now, almost taller than the bushes.

“I see you,” I say calmly.

He cuts through and sits next to me. “What are you doing?”

“Not much.”

“I know it’s you.”

“What’s me?”

“All this stuff that’s been going on around here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Eli lies back, clasping his hands on his stomach. He closes his eyes to the sun. “I’ve thought about it. There’s no one else who would do these kinds of things. It has to be you.”

I plunk the mail down. “You don’t even know me anymore.”

He smiles, eyes still closed. “Yes, I do.”

He’s teasing. He’s changed. What’s with him and Jorie, and the other night? I’m so mad at both of them. I mean, all this time, it was always the three of us.

I peek at Eli: the hair on his legs, his T-shirt loose around his shoulders. Faded, wrinkled cargo shorts. His fingernails: clean and short. And then, a rush of the memory of us hiding from Jorie, his brown eyes shining in the dark. My heart beating, loud and fast.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Good. Thank you.

Eli stands and walks toward his house. “My mom uses those foot things every day.”

I pick up a crab apple and toss it in his direction. I’ve always been a good shot. The tiny apple plunks his arm.

I count this as twenty-two because he laughs.

Something that’s the same: his laugh.

Eli picks up the crab apple, throws it sky-high, and then catches it. “See you later. Mystery Girl.”