MISS GALLAGHER THINKS IT would be nifty if we made our own Halloween masks. She thinks a lot of things are nifty, like the electric pencil sharpener that Mr. Simpkins, the gym teacher, brought her on the second day of class, and the fact that I’m Jewish and stayed home from school on the High Holidays, and her latest discovery, which is that I make my own lunch. She found that out yesterday when she was carrying a box from her car in the parking lot back to the classroom. I was watching from my lunch rock and saw her short red skirt get shorter and shorter, because the box was hiking it up. I was scared that she was going to start showing her underpants, which would be about the worst thing that could happen to a teacher.

“Miss Gallagher!” I yelled, and waved. I had to tell her.

“Naomi,” she yelled, all cheery. Then she shifted the box to her hip so she could wave back to me, which made her skirt problem a definite emergency. She walked over to me on her tippy high heels. I looked away, because I was scared that I would see what I really didn’t want to. But then she put the box down, so I was safe.

“Wow, Naomi,” she said, hovering over me and peeking in my lunch box. Her blond hair was like a silk scarf blowing in my face. “Your mom sure packs you a healthy lunch. Apple. Carrot sticks. Cheese sandwich on wheat bread.”

“I make my lunch.”

“Really? Every single day?” She backed up and looked right in my face with her eyebrows up. I could see her green eye shadow. I could see squiggly black lines under her eyes.

I nodded.

“Nifty!” she said. “Your mom is a very lucky lady to have such a responsible girl. You tell your mom I said that she’s one lucky, lucky lady.”

I nodded, but I haven’t said anything to Mom. She’s been feeling lots of things lately, but lucky is definitely not one of them.

Now Miss Gallagher says, “Okay, children, let’s see the artists in you come alive,” but first we have to tear a lot of strips of newspaper and mix up paste out of flour and water. “There’s no limit to our imaginations,” she says as she hands out one balloon per student to blow up and use as a mold for the mask. So far, everyone is doing a pretty good job of cooperating and not playing balloon volleyball or whacking each other with rolled-up newspaper, since Miss Gallagher told us during class meeting this morning that our Halloween party on Friday is a privilege, not a right, and she will happily enjoy the treats herself while we sit with our heads down on our desks if we choose to act like hooligans, which is, she’s afraid, becoming our bad habit, just like some people choose to smoke cigarettes.

While we work, Miss Gallagher reads us a story about a girl who sees a glowing light in the swamp near her house at midnight on Halloween and sets off by herself to investigate the mystery. She’s scared of everything—the dark, the birds, the shadows, the bats—so I don’t understand why she doesn’t just stay home under the covers, relax, and forget about it.

“Now what do I do?” Dawn whispers to me after she has a pile of newspaper strips, a milk carton of paste, and a blown-up balloon.

“Take one strip. Dip it in the paste like this. Press it on the balloon.”

Dawn nods and smiles.

The girl’s flashlight wimps out when she’s in the middle of the swamp. It’s the blackest night. The very darkest night of the year. “Whoooooo,” Sean says, but I guess Lori and Debbie are too scared to laugh. Joey looks at me and rolls his eyes.

“Make sure you only cover half of the balloon,” I whisper to Dawn. “Otherwise you won’t be able to get the balloon out and you won’t have a mask.”

“I know that already,” Dawn says.

Rachel told me at breakfast that she might not trick-or-treat with me this year. She says that Genevieve’s parents are having a Halloween party and she and Genevieve might hang out with the grown-ups, because they’re really laid-back and fun to be with.

“But, Rach,” I said, “we always trick-or-treat together. It’s our tradition.”

“Well, traditions change. Everything changes. Case in point.” She waved her hand at Mom’s empty place at the table.

“As soon as she’s feeling better, she’ll start coming to breakfast,” I said.

“C’mon, Chirp. She’s not going to be feeling better. Only worse. That’s how MS works.”

“She might not have MS. We don’t know for sure.”

“Fine,” Rachel said. “You keep living in your fantasy world. Meanwhile, I’m going to go to a really cool party.”

Before I could ask her who she thought I’d trick-or-treat with then, since there are no other kids on our road except the Morell boys, she jumped up from the table.

“Rachel!” I yelled.

“Shhh,” she said, “you’ll wake up Mom. A little consideration, Chirp.” Then she pulled on her penny loafers, grabbed her books, and headed out the door.

I want to be a seagull. With a bright yellow beak. And a red dot on the beak. I’m going to make cardboard wings and just keep my fingers crossed that it won’t rain.

Last year Rachel was a hula girl and nearly froze to death because she wore a pink tube top and a grass skirt made out of torn-up brown paper bags, and Mom said that she absolutely had to wear a jacket and no point in trying to argue, so Rachel walked out of the house in her peacoat but then stashed it under the first pitch pine. I was toasty because I was a coconut. I wore Dad’s brown down jacket with a belt around the bottom and stuffed it with towels to round me out, and Mom put brown face paint on my face.

“Aloha, my tropical beauties,” Mom said when we came home, and if she noticed Rachel’s chattering teeth, she didn’t show it. Then Dad said, “Show us your loot,” and Mom said, “Any chocolate for the parent who loves you best?” and Dad said, “Chocolate, shmocolate. If you love me, you’ll turn over the Sugar Babies,” and Mom laughed and hugged him while we dumped our loot out on the living room floor. The four of us sat in a circle and ate candy until it was way past my bedtime and we just couldn’t eat any more.

Miss Gallagher is still reading. Now the girl is lost. Even though the swamp is practically in her backyard and she supposedly plays there all the time, she has no idea how to get home. She’s scared, and lost, and danger is lurking, and there’s no one to lend her a hand.

“Uh-oh,” Dawn says. “Uh-oh, uh-oh.” I think she’s uh-ohing about the girl, but then I see that she’s covered her whole balloon with newspaper.

Suddenly I’m so tired I think my head might crash down on my desk. I raise my hand and ask for permission to go to the girls’ room. I splash my face with cold water and then go into a stall, lock the door, sit down on the toilet, and close my eyes. Once there was a curly-haired Jewish girl who went into the girls’ room a few days before Halloween and never came out. People searched high and low—neighbors, the kids in her class, detectives with fingerprint powder and sniffer dogs—but she seemed to have just vanished into thin air. Poof.

When I walk past Joey on my way back to my seat, he whispers, “What are you going to be for Halloween?”

“Poof!” I whisper.

“Wacko,” he whispers, smiling.

Maybe, actually, it wouldn’t be so bad if he wanted to trick-or-treat together. If he asks me what I think, I guess I’ll tell him that I’ll put it in my pipe and smoke it.

“I’ve got to be able to flap. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

I made my wings myself out of cardboard from a Sears box in the basement, but Rachel’s helping me attach them to my arms. With just one strap of cloth per wing, they slip when I flap.

“You’re flapping too hard,” Rachel says.

“No, I’m not. I just need more straps to hold the wings on,” I say.

“Why can’t you be something easy, like a cowgirl or a clown?” Rachel mumbles, but she’s reaching for the ragbag so she can cut me some more strips to make into straps.

“Are you sure you won’t come with me tomorrow night, Rach?” I ask. “You can have all the SweeTARTS and Bit-O-Honeys. I might even split the chocolate with you.”

“Genevieve’s dad makes poison potion, and he told me that he’d give me a sip, even though it’s for the grown-ups. And Ned—that’s her dad—reads from Frankenstein with all the lights off except this weird red one that they use every year. Anyway, I’m kind of old to trick-or-treat.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Most kids just go with whoever’s on their street, but we’ve only got the Morell boys. Dawn said I could go with her family, but they start before it’s even dark, since Trent’s only four. And Sally always goes to her grandma’s in Barnstable.”

“And I guess you don’t want to go with Mom and Dad. Or just Dad?”

“Rach, we haven’t trick-or-treated with them since we were tiny!”

Rachel pokes two holes near the top of each wing and threads the strips of cloth in. She pokes two holes near the bottom of each wing and does the same thing. Then she ties the wings to my arms.

“Flap,” she says.

I start off slow, like I’m standing on wet sand and just warming up for takeoff. Flap-flap-flap-flap.

“So far, so good,” Rachel says.

“So good, so far,” I say.

“Try faster,” she says.

I speed up, like I’m about to take off, faster and faster, then whoosh, I’m off. I flap around the living room, where Mom is stretched out on the couch, talking with her friend Annie, and out into the hall.

“Oh, birdie!” Rachel yells. “Here, birdie, birdie!”

I flap up the stairs, with Rachel right behind me. I’m running and flapping and flying and laughing, and Rachel’s laughing, too. I fly down the stairs. I fly right out the front door. It’s a bright, chilly morning, a great day for flying. I fly around the hydrangea bush. I fly in a huge circle in the front yard.

“Here, birdie, birdie!” Rachel yells. “Seagull want a cracker?” I turn around, cock my head, and fly right toward my sister. Before she can catch me, I swoop away with my wings spread wide. Now I’m soaring. I soar down the driveway, up the front walkway, around the house.

I slow down a little so Rachel can catch up. Her cheeks are pink. Her hair is wild.

“You soar, too,” I say.

For a split second she stares at me like I’m crazy. Then she sticks her arms out and she is, she’s soaring, too! We soar around the house two times. We soar single-file down the sand path, because it’s not wide enough for side-by-side soaring.

“Wow, look how tiny our house is from way up here,” I say.

“Just a speck of a house,” Rachel says.

“Just a speck of a town,” I say.

“Ocean? What ocean?” she says. “Oh, it must be that teeny blue spot down there.”

“Hello, Miss Gallagher! I know you’re down there somewhere, but you’re microscopic!”

“Hello, my stupid junior high school! You’re not even a blip on my radar screen. Too bad for you!”

“Yeah, too bad for you!”

We soar together until my arms start to throb.

“Coming in for a landing,” I tell Rachel. One flap, two flaps, three flaps, and I’m down, in front of the dead beech tree.

“Landing gear down,” Rachel yells, and she flaps a few times, too, and plops down next to me in the sandy dirt.

“It’s hard work, being a bird,” I say. My heart’s pounding. My T-shirt’s wet with sweat, even though this is definitely jacket weather and I’m not wearing one.

“Hard work,” Rachel agrees. She looks at me and shakes her head, her dark wavy hair bouncing around. “You’re a nut-job,” she says, but for the first time in a while, her eyes are really, really happy.

I guess this is a cool party, but it’s all grown-ups and too dark and really loud and everyone’s just sitting around and talking, except for a pirate and the Queen of Hearts, who are dancing in the corner near the blue lava lamp. Not dancing, really, just holding on to each other. I don’t know how Genevieve’s parents know so many people, since they just moved here two years ago, but it’s crowded, too crowded for me to fly. I barely recognize anyone, which is strange, since the summer people left in September and I know practically everyone in town. Maybe Genevieve’s parents have secret party friends they import from P-town and Hyannis.

“Hey, Chirp,” Genevieve says, “do you want to help me pass around the appetizers?” She’s a fairy in a miniskirt and sparkly top. I think she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Her hair is long and wavy, and I bet she can sit on it. Her eyes are blue-green, like the bay when there’s no seaweed churned up in the water.

I follow her into the kitchen, and her mom, who’s a cat in a black bodysuit, says, “Hey, little bird, I think we need to clip your wings if you want to be a waitress like my lovely daughter,” and a man in a rubbery President Nixon mask, who’s helping her open wine bottles, starts laughing like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Genevieve’s mom says, “Just call me Debsy,” and unties my straps, takes off my wings, and sticks them behind a bookcase. She’s holding a plate with rolled-up bacon and white bread stuck with toothpicks. “At this joint, we pay in bacon roll-ups.” She winks at Nixon, who puts his hands on her hips and squeezes. “Payday,” she says, and holds the plate in front of me.

“No thanks,” I say. I’ve never eaten bacon or ham before, since Mom doesn’t feel comfortable with them. We don’t officially keep kosher, but bacon and ham just aren’t on Mom’s radar. She loves clam strips, though. And steamers. And quahogs. Mr. Pialetti at the liquor store calls me Missy Quahog, since Dad came into his store on the night I was born to buy a bottle of champagne, so he knows that I’m a Cape Cod native, and all Cape Cod natives are nicknamed quahogs and know to say it “co-hogs.”

“Hard to find good help these days,” Nixon chuckles, and I think he’s making fun of me. My face turns hot.

“Leave the girl alone, Mr. President,” Debsy says, but she’s giggling while she gulps red wine. She hands me the plate of bacon roll-ups and a stack of little napkins with ghosts on them that say “Have a boo-tiful night.” She gives Genevieve a plate loaded up with Ritz crackers with cream cheese and green olives. “Go get ’em, girls!” she says, and kisses the top of Genevieve’s head.

Everyone either pretty much ignores us or tries to guess our costumes, which is tricky in my case, since my wings were clipped and I took my papier-mâché mask off because it was too hot. I just look like a curly-haired girl in a white Danskin top and gray Danskin pants and pink sneakers, because seagulls have pink feet.

“Wow, what a beautiful fairy princess!” Prince Charming, who works at the hardware store, says to Genevieve. He has a deep voice and arm muscles and a silky purple cape, and he’s not a teenager but he’s not quite a real grown-up yet, either. He reaches out and runs his fingers slowly through Genevieve’s hair. She blushes and smiles. I feel kind of dorky just standing there, so I keep passing the plate, solo, until it’s empty, and then I go look for Rachel.

She’s not in the living room, and she’s not in the dining room, and she’s not in the kitchen. Upstairs, all of the doors are closed. I put my ear to one. I hear flushing. A devil comes out. I think she works at Flanagan’s. “Your turn, sweetie,” she says. I wait until she goes downstairs, and then I press my ear against the next door. Lots of laughing and talking. I put my hand on the doorknob and slowly turn it. Like a good detective, I push the door open carefully, carefully, without a sound.

A bunch of grown-ups are sitting in a circle on a bed with a green Indian-print bedspread in what must be Debsy and Genevieve’s dad’s room. Rachel is standing at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, Little Sister,” some guy in a sailor hat says. “Come on in and close the door.”

“Hey, Chirp,” Rachel says. “Come on in and close the door,” and everyone laughs. The room’s smoky. It smells like burnt-black popcorn.

“Does Little Sister belong to you?” Mr. Sailorman asks Rachel. She nods and smiles.

“My name’s Chirp. Rachel, I want to go home.”

“Home?” Mr. Sailorman says. “But the party’s just getting started, Little Sister.”

“We just got here, Chirp,” Rachel says. “We haven’t even heard Frankenstein yet.”

“I want to go home,” I say. “I want to trick-or-treat.” Something feels funny, like they’re all on one team and I’m on the other.

“We have a trick we could show you right here,” a pirate says.

“Hey, good idea,” says a lady with a black witch’s hat. “Do you want to see a trick, Chirp?”

I shake my head, because the only thing I want is for Rachel to leave this stupid party with me. If we move fast, we can probably trick-or-treat at a few houses before everyone turns their porch lights off.

Mr. Pirate lights up a cigarette. He sucks on it and slowly blows smoke into Miss Witchy’s face. Her eyes are closed. She gulps the smoke in like she’s eating food. Then she opens her eyes and blows a wimpy little ring into the smoky air that’s swirling all around her head. Mr. Sailorman claps, but I think it’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Can we go now?” I ask Rachel.

“We’ll be reading Frankenstein really soon,” Miss Witchy says.

“Hang out for a while, Chirp,” Rachel says. “It’s a cool party. We can listen to Frankenstein. It’ll be better than trick-or-treating.”

“Much better,” Mr. Sailorman says.

“We can walk home together later,” Rachel says, but I’m already out the door, and I don’t close it like I opened it, carefully, without a sound. Wham. I’m not a detective. I’m a girl at a grown-up party on Halloween with only half of a seagull costume on. I go to the kitchen and get my wings from behind the bookshelf. I go to Genevieve’s room and get my mask off of her dresser. Even though the polite thing is to say Thank you very much for having me, I don’t feel like talking to the wine-gulping cat woman, so I wave to Genevieve, who’s now dancing with Prince Charming, grab my jacket, and start my around-the-corner-down-Starling-Lane-left-on-Quonset-Neck-Road-right-on-Salt-Marsh-Lane walk home.

It’s cold and dark, and there are hardly any trick-or-treaters still out, only a few older kids with pillowcases and no-good costumes, like just a straw hat or just a blond wig. It’s hard to walk fast when you’re carrying cardboard seagull wings. It’s hard not to think about ghosts and vampires and men with dripping blood when it’s Halloween night and you’re a gull with clipped wings walking home all alone and the moon is glowing green behind a fat cloud. What I really want is to be on Salt Marsh Lane, almost done trick-or-treating, with Rachel next to me and a big bag of loot that I’m schlepping and about to dump out on the living room floor, with Mom and Dad asking me for chocolate and Sugar Babies. If Rachel were here with me instead of at that stupid party, she’d sing You can’t always get what you waa-ant, and I’d sing You can’t always get what you waa-ant, and we’d sing together to the end of the chorus, finishing with a nice, loud waaaaahhhh! and before I knew it I’d be home, instead of on Quonset Neck Road by myself and needing to pee.

It’s not a good night for peeing behind a bush. It’s not a good night for pulling my pants down outside. Mom says it’s important for girls to move through the world with a sense of purpose so that they’re not easy targets. Swing your arms. Take up space. Show that you’re a strong girl. Mrs. Newlon, on the corner, is bringing her pumpkin in off of the porch. I give her a strong wave and a strong shout—“Hello, Mrs. Newlon!”—but I guess she doesn’t hear me, because she closes her door and turns her porch light off.

The Graysons. The Bonazolis. Home. I’m just about home. There are people standing in the road. Joey and his two brothers, lit up by the moonlight.

“What’s up?” Vinnie says, and starts walking toward me. He’s wearing a beat-up leather jacket. He’s got something behind his back.

“What’s shakin’?” Donny says. He’s got something, too. Joey’s following them, looking down.

“Happy Halloween, Tweety Bird,” Vinnie says. He’s the oldest one. He jerks his chin up to get his stringy blond hair out of his eyes.

“How’s Dr. Dad, the headshrinker?” Donny asks. His face is all pimply, and he always looks mad, even when he’s pretending to be friendly. “Has he been shrinking your head lately?”

“I think I see something there on her neck.” Vinnie takes a step closer to me, stares hard. He smells like cigarette smoke. “Yeah, I definitely see a little round thing on her neck. Must be her head.”

He laughs. Donny laughs. Joey’s quiet, staring at the ground.

“Think fast, bro,” Vinnie says, and he tosses an egg, gently, to Joey. Joey catches it. “Maybe Chirp would like to play ball, Joey. Why don’t you throw it to her?” He winks at his brother.

“Nah,” Joey says, and he tosses the egg back to Vinnie.

“Aw, that’s not very nice of you, leaving the girl out,” Donny says. He takes an egg from behind his back. “I bet the nice girl wants to play ball. Don’t you want to play ball, nice little Jewish girl?”

I shake my head. I start walking backward.

“I think she does,” Vinnie says.

“I’m sure she does,” Donny says.

“It’s the windup,” Vinnie says.

Donny winds up.

I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to pee. I don’t want to run back into the dark, away from home.

“It’s the—”

“Wait!” Joey says. “I thought we were on a mission. Leave her alone. Her mom’s really sick. I’ll catch up to you guys. Meet you in front of the you-know-what.”

“Hey,” Vinnie says, “it looks like Joey’s got a girlfriend.”

“Oh, Joey, you’re my hero,” Donny says in a squeaky high voice, but he lowers his pitching arm.

“Oh, Joey, you’re just the cutest little freak!” Vinnie says, cracking up.

They’re laughing their heads off. They walk away. I can’t help it. I’m crying. Joey’s looking at me. He’s shaking his head. He doesn’t say anything.

“Sorry,” I say. “Thanks for helping me.”

“You’re sorry? You didn’t do anything. Jerks.” He kicks the ground.

“It’s just that this has been the worst Halloween ever,” I say. I hand Joey a wing. I throw mine down in the sand by the side of the road and sit on it. Joey watches his brothers walking away. Then he gently puts his wing down. He looks at it and nudges it with his sneaker a few times, like he’s trying to get it lined up just right, but with what, I can’t tell. Then he sighs, dusts the wing off with his hand, wipes his hand on his pant leg, and sits down.

“What I wanted was to go trick-or-treating with Rachel, like I always do, and come home and share candy with my mom and dad, but she convinced me to go with her to this stupid party.” Words keep filling up my mouth and spilling out. I tell Joey about the cat woman and Nixon and the bacon roll-ups. I tell him about the grown-ups sitting around blowing smoke. I’m not even sure if he’s listening, because I’m not looking at his face, but I don’t care. I can’t stop talking. I’m about to tell Joey about my walk home when he interrupts me.

“Wait,” he says, “I have an idea. Give me a head start, and then come over to my house. Make it quick, ’cuz I’ve got to go meet my brothers,” and he tears off across the street.

I walk into our backyard and pee behind our rhododendron bush, because I’ll pee in my pants if I wait one second longer, and then I run back to Joey’s house, since I don’t want him to be late for his brothers and have them punch his arm or throw an egg at him. I ring the doorbell. Joey opens the door. I stand there, waiting for him to tell me his idea. He looks at me. I look at him. I hear a TV upstairs. I hear his father yell, “It’s pretty damn late for the doorbell, Joseph!” Joey just stands there.

Finally he says, “C’mon, Chirp.”

“C’mon, what?”

“Well, what do you say?” Joey says, and lifts his eyebrows up.

Finally I get it.

“Trick or treat!”

Joey smiles. He grabs a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses and SweeTARTS and Dots.

I put out my hands and he tips the bowl and dumps a big old pile in.

“Happy Halloween,” he says, and punches me in the arm one, two, three times, so gently it’s like he’s patting me. I’m a good dog and he’s patting me. Then he pulls the door closed behind us.

“Stay out of trouble,” he says.

“Woof,” I say.

Then he runs off to meet his brothers in front of the you-know-what.

Our porch light is on. Our pumpkin isn’t out anymore. Mom and Dad’s bedroom light is on. I bet they’re lying in bed, talking. Maybe Mom’s saying Wow, Katie Henderson was a pretty snazzy daisy with that homemade costume, and Dad is saying Yes, she looked sweet, but what I really wonder is what’s going on with the older brother. Did you see how much candy he took? He just reached in, and when I told him to take one of each, he acted like he didn’t hear me, which suggests that he’s dealing with issues of boundaries and …

I open the front door. The full candy bowl is sitting on top of the wicker sweater chest. Mom and Dad said that they would pass out candy. Dad stood right here in the front hall when Rachel was tying on my seagull wings and said, “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll man the fort. Candy in every bag!” and Mom nodded from the couch and said, “Of course we will. Of course. It’s Halloween,” and I could tell she was trying hard to make her voice sound excited. But Mom and Dad didn’t pass any candy out.

When no one answers the door on Halloween, it means that the people hate kids or someone is very, very sick and can’t even manage to hold out a bowl of candy and say Help yourselves, or they might actually be stone-cold dead.

I know that I should knock on Mom and Dad’s bedroom door and say I’m home, safe and sound. But I don’t feel safe, and I’m not sure what sound means. Somehow I bet I’m not feeling that, either. I’m cold and quivery, like someone dumped ice water down my back, so I creep up the stairs, quiet, quiet, and into my room, where I pile up my blankets in the middle of my bed, the warm, snuggy red one and the fluffy white quilt and the yellow Therma-Weave that I’ve had since I was a baby. I put a Hershey’s Kiss in my mouth. I’m burrowing under and curling up tight in my nest with just a little air tunnel so that I can breathe. With my eyes closed, there’s only the sweet taste of chocolate and the quiet ocean rumble of Mom and Dad’s voices through my wall.

“I’m sure you’re already aware that this is important, since we never call family meetings,” Dad says, the next day after dinner. He’s standing in front of the fireplace, and his face looks worried, even though he’s talking in his calm, slow voice and nodding, like he’s happily agreeing with something. It must be an emergency, since we weren’t even supposed to clear the table or put the leftover spinach lasagna in the fridge. Just come follow Mom and Dad right into the living room.

What I’m hoping is that maybe Dad found out about the smoke at Genevieve’s house. I want him to give us a speech about appropriate behavior and then say that we’re not allowed at Genevieve’s house if grown-ups are blowing smoke in each other’s faces. And I wouldn’t mind at all if he finished up by saying that he really would have expected that Rachel would have walked me home so I wasn’t at the mercy of hoodlums on Halloween and he’s a bit disappointed and thinks it might be a good idea for Rachel to say she’s sorry. Maybe he’ll even say that he’s sorry for forgetting to hand out the Halloween candy.

I can’t tell what Rachel’s hoping for, since I can’t see her face, because I’m sitting in the green chair and she’s sitting on the floor, playing with the fringe on her bell-bottoms. Mom’s stretched out on the couch.

“Well—” Dad says, and Rachel interrupts.

“You know, I have a ton of homework that I really need to do,” and Dad looks at Mom like Honey, can you give me a hand here? but Mom’s staring into space, like she’s a zombie.

Dad puts his hands on his hips. “Mom and I got disappointing news yesterday evening,” he says. “We heard from the neurologist that a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis has been confirmed.”

Rachel mumbles, “See, I knew it,” and Dad says, “I didn’t hear that, Rachel. What did you say?” but she just shakes her head and waves her hand near her ear like she’s swatting a mosquito.

“Of course, I’m aware that this is a lot to absorb. The doctor said that usually it takes longer to diagnose MS, but in this case they’re quite certain,” Dad says. Mom looks pale. I want to hold her hand, but I’m scared that it will feel cold and clammy. Mom is the least cold and clammy person I know, but maybe her MS has already changed that.

“Your mother and I are open to any questions that you may have,” Dad says. I don’t think he’s noticed that Mom’s closed up shop. That’s what she always says when she’s tired and needs us to leave her alone for a while. Kiddos, I’m closing up shop now. You need to give me a little break here.

“First, I’d like to explain a bit about the disease,” Dad says. “And then I’d like to hear about what you’re feeling. Does that sound good?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Rachel is pulling threads out of her fringe. She’s piling up little white strings on her knee.

“For our bodies to work properly,” Dad says, “our nerves send out signals, telling our bodies what to do. Our nerves are protected by a coating, called myelin. In the case of MS, the myelin sheath deteriorates, and it affects the way the signals get through to the body.”

Tears run down Mom’s face and drip off her chin. She’s not wiping them away. She’s not making a sound.

“Remember how we always take the subway when we visit Boston?” Dad asks. Last time we were there, Mom and I rode the swan boats in the Boston Public Garden while Dad and Rachel walked down Newbury Street. Mom yelled Yahoo! when the boat took off, so I yelled Yahoo, too! and the man pedaling the boat, who reminded me of Bert in Mary Poppins because of his good-looking dark hair and the sparks in his green eyes, started laughing, and he gave us an extra-long ride because it was a slow day due to a nip in the air and a blowy wind and there was only one other passenger, an old lady, who was reading her book and not even looking around. Mom and I had our hair down, and the wind stirred it all up. A bunch of mallards followed us the whole way. When the ride was over, Mom did a fancy twirl and a really low curtsy for the driver and he said, “You must be a dancer,” and I said, “You should see her,” and he said, “Ah, if only I could,” and Mom smiled and turned pink, and the driver said, “Come back and visit me sometime.” Then Mom and I held hands, crisscrossed like ice dancers, and sashayed up the dock.

“Remember the pull cord you yank to signal to the conductor that he should stop the train at the next station?” Dad asks.

Rachel nods. I nod.

“Well, think of the nerve as the wire of the pull cord. The myelin sheath is like the plastic coating that protects the wire.”

“And I’m the damn train wreck,” Mom says in a quiet, hard voice.

“Hannah!” Dad starts to walk toward her.

“Don’t.” Mom’s zombie eyes are gone. She glares at Dad, and he stops walking.

There’s a long silence. On and on and on. I see Joey’s porch light flick on. I hear a car drive by. Then Rachel says, “Is it okay if I get started on my biology project now?” and she gets up and walks out of the room.

Dad’s got his face in his hands. I wait to see if Mom will open up shop. I watch her face. Finally she feels me watching, and she gives me a sad smile. When I touch Mom’s hand, it’s cold and clammy, and that’s how I know that everything’s changed.