your cars,” I said.

“As do you,” he said.

“Didn’t have a choice,” I said. “I got dragged to the car shop whenever Dad wanted to tinker. He took me to all the car shows when I was a kid too—you know, at the Larz Anderson Auto Museum. Italian car show, German car show, but especially the British car show—Jags, Rolls-Royces, Aston Martins, they have everything. But I liked the Minis best.”

“They suit you,” he said. “The pocket rocket.”

Was that a crack about my size, about the pocket, or something else? “I’m not exactly small!” I said, standing tall. He was still a head above me. Dang.

“That’s what they call the car,” he said.

“I know!” I said. It was way past time to end this conversation. “Listen, thanks for finding my keys. You’ve no idea how much trouble I’d be in if I lost them.”

“Anytime,” he said. “See you around the lake?”

“Sure.”

“Dude,” Shayla said. “Who was that guy?”

“What guy?” I asked. My cell phone had lit up five minutes after I left the parking lot.

“The guy hanging out with you in the parking lot,” Shayla said. “Holding Yogi’s leash and staring at your butt.”

“You saw him?” I asked, mortified.

“I came by to pick you up,” Shayla said. “Like I promised. But you were standing there with the keys in your hand talking to him.”

“Why didn’t you come over?” I asked.

“Didn’t want to break up the cozy chat you were having,” Shayla said. “God knows you don’t talk to many guys.”

“I talk to Peter, and David, and Isaac.…”

“AP study group is not talking!”

“He found my keys,” I said. “That’s all. He wasn’t, like, chatting me up, or anything.”

“Sure he wasn’t,” Shayla said.

Shayla and I met in kindergarten, and we’ve been close since sixth grade. Back then we took Yogi for a walk every day after Dad got home from work. I rode ahead on my purple bike with the blue and silver handlebar streamers, and Dad and Yogi followed on the sidewalk. That was my favorite part of the day, way better than school, where people stared and walked on eggshells around me (Her mom, like, died! It’s so sad!), and more fun than the quiet dinner and homework that came later.

Shayla’s mom, Sue, always waved to us on our walks—which led to us stopping to chat, which led to invitations to cookouts at their house. The Siegels, Rachel’s family, were usually there too. Shayla, Rachel, and I rode Razor scooters in the driveway while Dad tried to cope with stilted conversation that tiptoed around Mom’s passing. I found out later that Sue’s niece had died of cancer. All the people in our unofficial support group had been affected directly or indirectly by the disease. Shayla’s cousin, Rachel’s grandmother. They understood.

Anyhow, that’s why Shayla knows me well.

“I mean it,” I said. “He’s not my type.”

But I don’t think I was convincing her.

“Look, I’m home now,” Shayla said. “Can you come over? I want the deets!”

“Sure!” I said.

Chapter Four

I dropped Yogi home before going to see Shayla.

Who was in full-on interrogation mode.

“So he has a cat?” she asked. A Camp Woodtrail headband held her dark, springy hair out of her pretty green eyes—the better to quiz me with.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“And his mom’s a dean, and he’s into cars?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Hmmm.” Shayla analyzed the available information with care. “So, he’s probably smart—because of Mom; kind—since he likes animals; he’s athletic, he’s cute… but is he seeing someone, or not?”

We both decided he must have a girlfriend. He hadn’t made the slightest attempt to ask for my number.

“Well, at least you’ve talked,” Shayla said, strategizing. “So next time you can—”

“No!” I said. “I may be prepping for the SAT again. And I’ve got too much to do for Vinnie’s wedding. I’m not getting involved with anyone.”

“But you finally found someone you LIKE,” Shayla said. “It’s like a miracle!”

“What’s a miracle?” Sue, Shayla’s mom, popped into the room and we dropped the subject. Sue, an avid quilter, is my sewing guru. She wanted to know all about what Vinnie was planning to wear to her wedding and fifty other things. I wished I had answers!

When I got back, the house was quiet.

No dog at the front door. No Dad either. But Dad had to be home because the minivan was sitting in the garage—he and Yogi were probably out for a walk.

I checked in the garage, just in case. God, Dad really had to clean the garage before the wedding! It was full of junk—car tires, garden tools, old files, computers. Even if he did, I’d still have to park my car outside. The Lotus was too delicate, and there was no question of putting the minivan outside.

I looked at my key bunch. Did I still have a key to the minivan? Yeah, I did.

On impulse I opened the door and turned the engine on. Familiar scents cocooned me. In the rearview mirror I could see the weathered Northwestern University bumper sticker that Mom had proudly placed on the back window when Vinnie had been accepted to Feinberg. Dad knew I wanted the minivan to be around to see me off to college and let me add my bumper sticker next to Vinnie’s. Only then would he donate the minivan to benefit WBUR, as Mom wanted. But it didn’t feel right to be sitting in the driver’s seat. I left the minivan in park and climbed over the armrest into the second row.

The thing was a time machine, I swear. If I closed my eyes I could go back to being ten years old. I could almost imagine Mom sitting in the driver’s seat.…

My eyes snapped open. No, the radio channel was wrong. I leaned over the armrest, turned off Dad’s talk show station, and put on WBUR, Boston’s National Public Radio station. A measured voice filled the van, talking about the Senate race. Yeah, that was right. I smiled, remembering the time when Mom

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