At a friend’s house, everything is uncomplicated. No one drops toys in the fish tank, no one cares if the cellar door is open or closed, and no one shrieks unless there’s a huge, hairy spider crawling up her arm.

And they only have regular family rules:

No snacks right before supper.

Call if you’re going to be late.

Homework first.

But the best part of being at a friend’s house is I can be just me and put the sister part of me down.

Kristi’s room looks like a page from a catalog, the sort of shiny catalog I get in the mail and can only afford a toothbrush or a poster from. But Kristi’s new pink-swirled curtains match the fat comforter on her bed, which matches the pink-and-blue rug on her floor.

It’s all beautiful, but what I envy most is the neat row of things on her bureau. Photographs, makeup, her jewelry tree, and a long row of nail-polish bottles — everything out in the open, not jumbled in drawers like mine, out of David’s sight.

Lying next to Kristi on her new-smelling pink comforter, I wish I wasn’t wearing an old, sun-faded T-shirt and had put on makeup this morning.

“I think he’s cute,” Kristi says, and I force my gaze back to the Teen People spread in front of us. The boy in the magazine has perfect teeth and stabbing dark eyes.

Kristi taps the little box that says UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH JAKE. “He says his ideal date would be a sunset walk on the beach and a picnic supper she had prepared.”

“He sounds cheap.” Soon as I say it, I wish I could stuff the words back into my mouth.

But Kristi laughs. “Yeah. Why can’t he bring the picnic? If you get invited somewhere, you shouldn’t have to bring supper!” She flips onto her back.

I roll over, too. Her ceiling is ordinary, plain white with a simple, square glass light in the middle and two hooks, like upside-down question marks, holding nothing. I think Mrs. Bowman hung plants here.

“Can you date yet?” Kristi asks.

I shrug. “I know boys from school and church, but no one I’d want to go somewhere with — by myself. Well, not really by myself, because he’d be there, too.” Oh, shut up, I tell my tongue.

“You should ask that boy you drew on a date,” Kristi says. “What’s his name?”

I shift my shoulders, pretending I need to stretch so she won’t notice I’m squirming. Is there any harm in telling his name? They’re not likely to meet. Jason doesn’t even go to the same school I do.

“Jason.”

“My boyfriend and I broke up before I moved,” Kristi says. “But I think Ryan likes me. His mom works at the community center where I volunteer. Did you know the community center is sponsoring a summer dance? It’s for kids aged eight to seventeen. You could ask Jason.”

“You volunteer?” I need to change the subject.

“Yeah, with the preschool day camp. It sounded fun when I signed up, but they want me to come every day now. And with going to Dad’s every weekend, I haven’t even had time to finish unpacking.”

I glance to her bureau, to the framed photograph of a man standing with a dog. “My friend Melissa’s parents are divorced. She’s in California for the summer with her dad.”

“My parents aren’t divorced.”

She says it so sharp, I gasp. “I’m sorry, I thought because —”

“They’re just separated.” Kristi reaches up to twirl a piece of hair in her fingers. “They’re just taking a break for a while.”

It’s so quiet I can hear birds outside and cars driving past on the road. Kristi holds the very end of the lock of hair and it spins back, falling against the path of freckles across her nose.

“Want to shoot some baskets?” she asks, pushing her hair away. “I don’t know which box my basketball’s in, but it’s in the garage somewhere.”

“Sure.”

I can’t help checking off a list of differences in each room we pass through. No locks on the doors, no little-kid videos next to the TV, no safety plugs in the outlets, and a box of cookies left out on the kitchen table — no one worried someone will eat them all at once.

Kristi’s garage is full of boxes, bikes, rakes, a snow-blower, and a clutter of other things. We open boxes until we find her basketball. “I hope you’re not real good.” Kristi passes me the ball. “I’m only kinda good.”

“Me, too,” I say, relieved. We play one-on-one, until I see Dad pull into our driveway with David.

David runs up the walkway to our house, clutching his video.

“Hi!” Dad smiles, coming toward the fence. “It’s a nice surprise to drive in and see you next door, Cath.”

First, I’ve told him not to call me “Cath,” because it sounds too much like he’s calling me a baby cow, and second, why’s it such a surprise I have a friend next door?

“You need to get David a new tape player.” I set up for a shot. “The one he has keeps pulling his cassettes apart, and I have to fix them.” The ball bounces off the rim.

“Can’t you say ‘hello’ first?” Dad asks.

“Hello. But don’t forget. I’m sick of fixing his cassettes.”

“I’m Catherine’s dad.” He nods to Kristi. “It’s nice to have you and your family in the neighborhood. What do your parents —?”

“Oh, wow.” I check my watch. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah, I have to start supper for my mom.” Kristi shoots the ball. “I’ll see you?”

“Definitely!” I get the ball and pass it to her, loving the hollow thump it makes hitting her hands.

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Dad calls. “I need to get something from the car.”

I walk home, easy as you please. In the living room, I can barely keep from skipping past Mom reading the newspaper on the couch. Next to her David shakes his hands with excitement as a video preview plays on the TV.

“Did you have fun?” Mom asks me. The newspaper pages make a whispery sound as she folds them. “Kristi seems like a nice girl.”

I nod.

David slaps his legs with his hands. “Rated PG for adventure, action, and peril!”

“Jason missed you today,” Mom says, and my happiness deflates like a balloon with the smallest tear.

“He said that?”

“Well, actually, what he said was, ‘Tell Catherine all gone stinks a big one.’” Mom looks over the top of her glasses, giving the long, what-have-you-been-up-to-young-lady? stare.

“Who’s Jason?” Dad says from the doorway, a teasing smirk on his face.

“A boy at David’s OT place.” I watch Dad’s eyebrows shoot upward, and I roll my eyes. “He’s just a boy. It’s not like he’s a boy or anything.”

“Oh, I almost forgot, Jason sent you something,” Mom says. “It’s in a bag on the kitchen table.”

“PG-thirteen,” David shouts. “Parents strongly cautioned!”

I stroll, ho-hum, to the kitchen but I’m curious. On the table I find a paper bag and reach inside. My fingers touch something tickly, cold. I pull out a big bunch of carrots, the feathery green tops attached.

Untangling a carrot from the bunch, I imagine Cinnamon and Nutmeg in their cage, shuffling through the shavings, drinking from the water bottle.

I snap the carrot in half.

From down the hall comes a crazed burst of squealing. Then a shriek: “QUIET, PIGS!”

By the time I reach my room, David’s standing in my doorway, his hands over his ears. “Sorry.” I push past him. “Go back to your video. They’ll stop in a minute.”

Cinnamon and Nutmeg jostle each other, their front feet high against the side of the cage.

Out of my way, fatso!

Who are you calling fat, hairball? That carrot is mine!

I toss carrot bits into the cage, and a shaving-flying scuffle breaks out, finally settling into happy chortling and chewing sounds.

A trickle of guilt curls through me. Why can’t the world be simpler, like it is for guinea pigs? They only have a few rules:

Crying will get you attention.

If it fits in your mouth, it’s food.

Scream if you don’t get your share.

But I can make it up to Jason on Tuesday.

I already know how.