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“I—I didn’t do anything, ” was all I could reply.

But for the first time in ages, I felt like I had.

* * *

After the night I took Claire’s pictures, she only left her bedroom when Mom was out. When I first saw her descend the stairs, I could understand why. She looked like a flamingo trying to climb down Mt. Everest. When she finally reached the bottom, she came over and sat beside me on the couch. I couldn’t help but stare.

“Star Trek? ” she asked in an obvious attempt to divert my attention to the TV.

“Yeah, you want me to turn it? ” Claire hated Star Trek. I had the remote up, poised and ready when she said, “No, no. . . Star Trek’s fine. ”

I let it play and kept my eyes on the screen, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. The actors moved across the TV, but their words seemed muted. All I could hear was Claire breathing beside me.

In a whisper, I asked, “When will it be enough, Claire? ”

She didn’t say anything for a long time. “You don’t understand, Loey. ”

“You keep saying that. ” I looked at her. “Okay, so make me understand. ”

Her eyes fell to her lap. “I can’t stop. That’s it. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? ” She laughed a halfhearted laugh. “I always thought I could stop, you know? I always thought I was strong and I knew what I was doing. Sometimes I actually believed this made me stronger than everyone. I’d start again. . . to toughen up. But now, I don’t know. It’s not what I thought it would be. Not at all. ” She stopped and took a long breath.

I stared at her, watched her mouth tremble, and remembered when she had seemed so strong. The illusion had been pretty believable.

“It all seemed so easy once. ” A mock tinged her laugh. “I was better than everyone. ” The way she said this made it sound like being better had never been a good thing. “But once the snowball starts down the hill, I don’t know that there’s any way to stop it. At least, there isn’t for me. ”

What was she saying? That she was just giving up? She was going to let this kill her? We both turned back to the TV. This subject was too big not to have something trivial to balance it out.

“You have to try, Claire. You have to, ” I finally said.

“I’m so tired, Loey. I’m tired of being sick, but I think more than that, I’m tired of the cycle. I’m tired of what I see in the mirror, but that seems to be the least of it now. There’s no way out—when I went away, I learned so many new ways to hide my problems. Myself. I don’t know how to pretend that I’m okay even if I’m not. Because the thing is, I don’t know how to live without it. The clinic was the only place I fit in, but I hated who I became there. ”

It was the first time I’d heard her use the word “clinic” instead of a “campus. ” I grabbed her hand and held it. It was bony and limp and cold. We both stared at the screen.

“Please, ” I whispered, but I didn’t even really know what I was asking.

After several minutes, she spoke again. “I’ll go away again. I’ll do it for now because I don’t know what else to do, but I don’t know what will change. And in some ways I’m scared of how I’ll change. ”

I was scared of that, too. “I wish I could help you. ” It felt like I had a hunk of lead in my throat. “I wish I could go with you, or there was something—anything—I could do. ”

“You said you’d give up college for me, ” she said in a quiet voice. She must have heard my fight with our parents. “I know you’d do anything for me, Loey, and that’s why I’m going to go. ” She smiled and a tear slid down her cheek. “I’ll try to find another way. I’ll—”

Just then, Mom’s car rattled on the driveway. Claire abruptly stopped what she was saying and her voice changed. The sweetness and emotion were gone. “I’ll tell her tomorrow. I will, ” she added, knowing I needed the reassurance. “Would you. . . help me up the stairs? ”

I knew what she was asking—anything not to face Mom right now. In one swoop, I picked her up in my arms and headed up the stairs, feeling like I was carrying little more than air.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Most of the time, one day is like the next when you’re in high school. There are moments and events that stick out, but entire days have seldom stuck with me.

I walked to school one day in the middle of October.

One day.

Claire had been to see Dr. Quinton and decided on another clinic, this one only a few hours away in Chicago. She was set to leave the next week.

I strolled along, feeling the weight of it all falling away from me. It was peaceful, blue skies all around, the crisp air brushing my skin.

A sparrow glided along in tranquil flight. When it hit the windshield of the sedan driving beside me on Hawthorne Street, the thud made me jump. I think it shocked me as much as the driver of the car.

The bird tumbled off the windshield and onto the road. The car drove off, but I stayed in place, waiting for I don’t know what. Slowly I inched from the sidewalk into the street. The little sparrow lay still.

It wasn’t until I got to school, half an hour late, that I realized how long I’d stood there transfixed by the poor sparrow. My first period teacher reprimanded me for my tardiness, but I could only stare back blankly. Even when I saw Marcus at lunch, I was still dazed. It’s just a stupid bird, I kept telling myself.

I stared out the window during my last class, wondering if Marcus and I might practice driving after school, when suddenly there he was, leaning up against his Camaro in the parking lot. My stomach fluttered a little, and I was glad I was finally returning to my normal self.

Even though I was sure Marcus couldn’t place which classroom I was in, he started leaning on the car at different angles and striking poses with his non-existent muscles and I knew it was just for me. I slapped a hand over my mouth to suppress a laugh.

One of the teacher’s assistants poked her head into my history class, distracting me.

“Loann Rochester, you’re wanted in the office. ” She looked so serious. As I pulled my hand from my mouth, my smile went with it.

People get called to the office all the time. I, however, had never been sent to the office in the middle of class. My pencil clattered to the floor when I tried to slide it into the front pouch of my backpack.

On the walk down the hallway, I could barely focus on the TA leading the way. I rattled my brain for a viable reason for my summons. Was it because I was late? Did someone find out I’d been doing Marcus’s homework? Would they really pull me out of class because of that?

I slowed my pace when the school office came into view. The wind was sucked out of me like I’d stepped into an airless chamber. It felt like I was watching a movie where the waiting room was on one side of a big hospital window and the cameras on the other. I could envision a scene where a doctor gives a family bad news.

In those made-for-TV movies, there’s always music, but no real sound. No crying, gasping, screaming. You see all the mouths moving and all of the tears, but you don’t really hear any of it. I always loved the ingenious way moviemakers could make a scene so powerful and yet so surreal. So not like real life, and yet enveloping so much of the deep emotion of real life.

Ms. Remmers, the school counselor, saw me through the office window and started toward me. She had tears in her eyes, and when she stood before me, her mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear a word she was saying. I tilted my head. Even though I didn’t know what was happening, I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. My whole world became hazy. I figured I must have been crying, because a Kleenex was pressed into my hand.

There was only silence.

Nothing else was tangible about that moment, that gap in time, however long it might have been. Just that I knew in my heart that Claire was gone.

* * *

The next thing I remember was yellow. It was bright and it was right in my face. It was Marcus in his sunshine shirt.

He hugged me and patted my back methodically. His voice leaked in from far off in the distance. “Tell me what to do, Loey, ” he said. “Tell me how to help you. ”

One of his hands ran over my hair. He drew my head to his chest and it was then, I think, that I stopped holding my breath.

When I eventually pulled away, I realized we were behind the school, between the two portable classrooms.

Marcus’s eyes were red. I wiped mine with my tattered Kleenex.

“My camera, ” I mumbled. I didn’t even know why I said it, but it was like the word made my brain shutter into action. “Oh no, the pictures! ” I cried.

“What? What is it, Loey? ”

“I can’t look at them. I can’t. . . I can’t. . . get any more. ” I knew I wasn’t making any sense, but all I could think of were those last pictures I’d taken of Claire. They were her last pictures. I gasped out a cry. She really, really wasn’t coming back. Those pictures were all I had left of her.

Suddenly I felt desperate to get away from the school, away from this realization, away from my camera in my locker and my project in the art room. “I have to go home, ” I said, surprised that home was the place I wanted to go for comfort, and even more surprised by the sureness of my voice.

“I know. ” He stroked my hair again. “Do you want me to go with you? ”

I could barely imagine what it would be like to go home and not find Claire in her room, but as much as I wanted Marcus to come with me, wanted to hold on to his arms and never let go, I couldn’t. I had to get away from everything. Right now. “No. I need to go alone. ”

He opened his mouth to argue, but I held up a hand and backed away.

CHAPTER FORTY

Each day it felt a little more real. Life quickly became busy and exhausting, with a million decisions to make for Claire’s funeral. Mom spent many hours on the phone, on e-mail, or running between the funeral home, the church, and the florist. It seemed like there was no time to stop, no time to eat together, just barely enough time and energy to respond to messages of either disbelief or sympathy. The morning of Claire’s funeral, when things were finally on track, Mom spoke to me for the first time in what felt like ages.

“Tell me where I failed, Loann, ” she said from the living room couch, staring across at a blank patch of wall. Her voice was as flat as the wall in front of her.

I fiddled with the buttons on my jacket, hoping the question would disappear. But it didn’t. It just hung there, unavoidably stuck in midair between us like the Goodyear Blimp. I’d hoped for things to slow down enough for us to have a conversation, but this, this was too hard. I wanted to shrug my shoulders and grumble, “I don’t know, ” like a normal teenager might answer a question about their weekend plans. But the truth was, I had a million questions of my own for her.

Why didn’t you listen to me? Or to her? Why did you have to fight with Dad all the time and demand so much from everybody?

But would any of it have made a difference anyway?

“Where did I go wrong? ” she asked, not willing to let it go. I could sense the wetness around her eyes, and suddenly I realized how much she was hurting about this. How much she had always been hurting over Claire, over me, over not feeling like a good enough Mom or wife or person.

It shocked me. My whole life Mom’d been confident. Able. Strong.

Dad appeared in a dark suit, mumbling something about starting the car. Even though he had been around the house every day for the last week, I barely noticed him. He didn’t return phone calls or talk to pastors. I caught him staring at the wall or the washing machine or the flowers that had been delivered, but other than that, he never seemed to actually be doing anything. Both my parents were like walking outlines, moving through our house. No shades of gray or dimension to either of them.

I watched Dad go and was about to follow when Mom pushed again. “Loann, where did I go wrong? ”

“Wrong? ” It came out of my mouth as though I was too daft to grasp the English language. Mom didn’t react, just kept shaking her head, then staring into space with tears rolling down her face.

“What’s right or wrong anyway? ” I said, not really knowing what I meant. “Can there even be right or wrong in this? ” Nothing I could say would make her feel any better, but there really wasn’t any way to feel better now anyway, was there?

Mom rubbed small circles on her forehead. I faced the window and went on, maybe for my own benefit.

“Were you supposed to tell her to eat? Was I supposed to yell and scream and follow her around all day long? Would she have listened to either of us? Maybe you’re not a good mother, maybe I’m not a good sister, but exactly what part of this mess should Claire have been responsible for? ” I choked on the last part. It felt like such blasphemy to say these things now. But they were true. And I, for one, needed to hear them.

* * *

The funeral was a big haze.

With the nice weather, my parents had opted for a graveside service. The first person I registered seeing was Shayleen.

“I’m so sorry, ” she said, coming right up to me with tears streaking her face. I accepted her expression of condolence. Friends or not friends, I believed she was sorry.

I couldn’t concentrate on Shayleen, though, who was still saying something to me. My eyes went to the mounds of bright blossoms. To the open casket in the middle of them.

I couldn’t see inside the casket from where I stood a few feet away, thank God, and I tried to focus on Shayleen, then Deirdre, who had appeared beside her.

Were they friends again? Had Claire’s death done that? I knew these weren’t big questions—I had so, so many bigger ones—but I couldn’t help tilting my head and staring between the two girls.

I felt Marcus behind me before he touched my shoulder. I felt his strength. He’d wanted to come over every day of the past week, but I’d told him no over and over again. It just didn’t seem like there was room in our house for anyone from the outside. My parents and I seemed to need all the space we could get. But now, looking up at Marcus, I realized how wrong I’d been.

I stared at him, feeling stronger by the second.

As if Shayleen and Deirdre could sense our need to be alone, they cleared away. Marcus led me back toward a tree, away from the casket and all the people, and suddenly my chest felt lighter.

He was wearing dark pants and a blue button-down shirt. He looked so handsome, and I found myself gazing absent-mindedly again, as I had with Shayleen and Deirdre.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Um, I brought this. ” He held up my camera.

I blinked hard. He thought I wanted my camera? Now? Here? He thought I wanted to remember this?

“Those pictures, I developed them, and you were right. They were. . . ” He shook his head like he didn’t have the words. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He motioned over his shoulder toward the parking lot. “I tried to add them to your composite, but. . . ” He shook his head again. “You’ll be much better at placing them, I’m sure. ”

I looked down at my camera like it was covered in nuclear waste and took a step away from him. “You. . . developed those pictures? The ones in my camera? ” My voice squeaked on the last word.

“Yeah, you wanted me to, right? ”

I shook my head, but my throat had gone dry. I didn’t know how I’d ever look at any pictures of Claire again, but just knowing those were in existence. . . I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed my stomach. Marcus reached for my hand and started tugging me toward the parking lot. His eyebrows pulled together, so I could tell he had some sense that I was losing it, but I doubted he knew how much.

I yanked my hand away. “I can’t—I can’t see that right now! ” How could I ever look at Claire’s eyes crying out for help? It would be like driving a dull knife deep into my heart. “I need to get back. ” I pointed to where people were milling around, waiting for the service.

“It’s not starting for a few minutes yet. ” Marcus looked at me even more confused. “Loann, it’s. . . you’ll see. I promise. ”

I shook my head again, but he held my hand and wouldn’t let it go this time. I wanted to throw a tantrum like a two-year-old, anything to not have to face those pictures, but Marcus was so slow, so gentle, and his grip was so hard that, just for a second, I wanted to be led somewhere else. Somewhere away from my sister’s casket.

Marcus let go of my hand when we arrived at his car and I thought I might collapse to the ground. Strangely, my legs held out. He opened his car door and leaned in. I felt frozen in place. I just wanted to dive into the passenger seat and tell him to get me out of here.

When he emerged from the car, Marcus was holding my art project. My montage. He laid it out on the hood of his car and motioned for me to come over.

“I can’t. . . ” Tears streamed down my face. “I can’t see her right now. You don’t understand. She. . . she needed me. ”

Marcus moved back to me and held both my hands in his. “You still need to see this, Loey. ” He nudged me forward a step, but stayed behind, a hand on each of my shoulders as though he had to hold me up. And he probably did.

The first thing I saw were Claire’s eyes. It was a close-up from our last photo shoot. My mouth opened in shock. They weren’t pleading, like I expected. They were deep, intricate, telling eyes. They had this vivid quality, and I expected them to blink, or to water.

I looked to another photo, her hand in her hair. Even though she’d been so sick, so weak, she looked like a supermodel in the shot. There was no fear or insecurity.

In another, her mouth was pursed like she had an exciting secret.

A small cry escaped me and Marcus squeezed my shoulders. I reached forward and adjusted one of the pictures he had added so the Y in the word “Beauty” was visible.

“You captured so much of her, ” Marcus whispered.

I nodded. There was so much here—so much of her depth and her thoughts and her beauty, her complicated world. But everything I had, it still wasn’t all of her. It still wasn’t enough.

I moved another picture over, and then another, as if by moving them I might find more underneath. But only the cardboard backing showed through.

Marcus had set my camera down beside the montage. I reached for it and checked to make sure there was film inside. Backing up, I accidentally knocked into Marcus but he quickly moved out of my way. As I turned and strode for the service, he murmured something about taking care of the composite, but I couldn’t hear him. I needed to find more of my sister before it was too late.

There was a line of people paying their respects at Claire’s casket, but I didn’t care. I looped around the other side and avoided people’s eyes as they questioned me. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. But I didn’t care about anyone else today. I cared about Claire.

And there she was. I’d always heard that you could tell a person’s spirit was gone when they were dead, that the reason an open casket brought so much peace was because you could truly tell they’d moved on.

I didn’t believe that. Claire looked like she was sleeping. I felt like I needed to see her eyes to know what was in there or what wasn’t. Her face looked pudgy, like it had when she’d come back from the clinic in California. Her lips were a dry, chalky pink and I wanted so badly to give her a swipe of lip gloss. She wore her favorite white capris, and even her ankles looked thick.

It was funny, but that’s what finally did it. What gave me peace. Her ankles. Claire’s ankles had never, ever been thick. I pulled my camera to my eye and zoomed in on them, ignoring the quiet gasps around me. I took several shots of her ankles, one of the back of her hand, scarred from sticking her finger down her throat, a close-up of her hairline, which, despite her scraggly, boyish cut, had always stayed the same. Then just one of her pudgy face.

I had backed fully away from the casket, ready to let other people take their turn, when my stomach started to clench inside me again. It still wasn’t enough. A franticness rose within me and I scanned the crowd, which was now nearly a hundred people. I searched for familiarity, and took a shot of Deirdre, with her arms now around Shayleen. That was Claire. Claire had done that. Josh stood off to the side, alone, and he looked right at me when I took a shot of him. He reached up and squeezed his forehead. The look of torment on his face might have given me a moment of happiness two weeks ago. But not today. I took another shot, just to make sure I’d captured it.

I took a shot of Mom, holding the back of a chair so she wouldn’t collapse, and Dad, looking toward his car. I wanted to yell at him to just go, leave, but even as I thought the words, I could feel his pain for the first time. He’d never been enough for any of us, and he knew it.

But I didn’t have time to think about him.

I needed more of Claire before there wasn’t any more to find.

I found Jasmine in the crowd and thought I might be done. But the second I pulled my camera from my face, I needed more.

I started to snap pictures of the flowers by the casket, of people in the crowd I didn’t even know. It still wasn’t enough.

I recognized the hands on my shoulders, but pulled away. I didn’t want Marcus right now. I needed to do this.

My eyes roamed more frantically. “Did you bring more film? ” I asked him, my tone all-business.

“Loann. ” He didn’t speak again for several seconds. I didn’t look over at him. The pastor was preparing to start the service, and I didn’t have time for this. “Loann, there’s no rush, ” Marcus said.

I snapped to him. “What do you mean, there’s no rush? All there is now is rush. All of it’s over, it’s practically over, and I have nothing left! ”

People looked over at us, and Marcus tugged me away from the crowd.

“I need to. . . ” I scanned the crowd again, pulling back, but my eyes were teary and I couldn’t see properly.

Marcus slid his arms around me, enveloping my shoulders, my arms, my hands, my camera. He held me tightly, and at first I squirmed to get away, but he just kept holding me tighter and tighter, and repeating my name, “Loey. . . Loey. . . Loey. ”

And then I stopped. I let out a big burst of a cry.

“I know, ” he said into my hair. “But you’ll find more of her, I promise. ”

“Will I? ” I needed him to tell me again. To keep telling me.

He nodded and I sank a little more into him. “Look how much you have already. And think of how many other boxes of photos are at home that you haven’t even used, Loey. ”

My breathing slowed. I did have a lot of photos at home. A lot of different images of her that I hadn’t looked at in a long time.

He motioned toward his car again. “And that alone will make an amazing scholarship project. ”

Marcus’s words filled me with a sudden new pain. It didn’t seem fair of me to go on to college when my sister couldn’t. I couldn’t do something she had never done. Would never be able to do. That’s not the way it worked with us.

“It’s going to be brilliant, Loey, ” he whispered in my ear. “So honest. ”

My back became warm against him, and suddenly I just wanted him closer, so much closer. I wanted to forget about everything else except him.

“And that’s just one of the things I love about you, ” he whispered into my neck.

Suddenly I was too warm, and besides, I couldn’t be thinking about him this way. Not right now. I cleared my throat and pulled away. “It’s really cool of you to bring the camera and stuff, ” I said in a more composed tone, like I hadn’t heard him.

Marcus stood there, blinking down at me, like what I was saying wasn’t quite registering. Finally he crossed his arms. “So. ” He paused. “We’re friends. ”

I nodded. In the distance I heard the pastor inviting guests to take their seats for the start of the service. I fought between my responsible side, needing to be there, and the side of me that wanted to escape.

“Let’s be honest, here. ” Marcus met my eyes again and I fought the urge to squirm. “Where do you see this going? ” He motioned between me and him.

“When? ” I blurted, barely believing he would push to talk about this now.

He squinted his eyes a little. “I don’t know. Anytime. In a month. In a year. Ten years? ” After a long pause, he added quietly, “Today. ”

When I didn’t answer, he said, “Today, here, it just. . . it makes me realize I don’t want to waste any more time. ”

“I’m just. . . I’m not ready, ” I said. But even as I said it, it felt like a lie.

Marcus thought about this for a long time. “I’m not Josh, you know, ” he said finally.

“I know that, ” I whispered. “It’s. . . it’s not him. ”

He took a step closer and lifted my hand. “So what is it? ”

I loved the feel of his soft, warm hand, but the rest of my body went rigid. I didn’t even know why until I opened my mouth and I said, loud and angry, “How can I be happy, how can I think about this, when my sister just died? When Claire won’t ever get married or go to college or ever even love anybody the way I love you? ” For the first time, I realized I already had something Claire did not. Would never have. The thought made me sick.

Marcus tugged me closer and rested his chin against my forehead. “Loann, you deserve to be happy. ” He sniffed and I realized he was crying too. I wanted so badly for him to crack a joke or mock me about something. But he just went on, in all seriousness. “Look, it doesn’t have to be now. Not for me. But at some point, you will need to move forward without her. You’re right. She’s never going to go to college. She’s never going to fall in love. ” Even though his voice was gentle, his words hit hard, like a hammer to my skull. “But you will. And you should. ” He swallowed loudly. “And now you have to do everything enough for both of you. ” His eyes bore into mine. “That’s what Claire would have wanted. ”

Tears spilled down my face. Marcus reached up and wiped them away with his thumbs.

“It’s not going to be as hard with us as you think. I promise, Curly. ”

He smirked a little, and I exploded in one single, breathy laugh. I was sure people in the service could hear me, but I didn’t care. It felt good to release the tension. I nodded, still not pulling my eyes away. “Okay. ”

“Okay? ” He raised his eyebrows.

I nodded. “Okay. ”

Marcus took a tiny step closer. It looked like he was fighting a smile, which made me struggle not to giggle, even though there was nothing remotely funny about the moment. It was just so strange, thinking about kissing my best friend for the first time.

But then it wasn’t strange at all.

Marcus leaned in a little closer, and touched a feather-light kiss to my lips. Then another. I kissed him back, just as lightly, like we were afraid of breaking each other. Or afraid of something, anyway.

But the more he kissed me, the less scary or strange it felt. The more it felt like, Of course this would happen.

“I think we need a picture of this, ” Marcus said between kisses. “Of you and me. Like this. ”

He wanted a picture of this? Of kissing my best friend at my sister’s funeral? What could be more perfectly morbid? What could be more appallingly inappropriate? But even as I asked myself these questions, the answer came to me.

Nothing is ever perfect. Not this. Not Claire. Certainly not any of the rest of my life.

Beauty isn’t perfect. It’s something to be felt and something to be breathed. Claire did that every day, whether she knew it or not.

And what I had with Marcus? It was more than just friendship or even a relationship. We were becoming two people who could really see each other. The way I wished Claire could have been seen. Somehow, what we had, it was going to be enough.

It had to be.

Because Marcus was right. Claire would have wanted this for me.