It takes awhile for everything to digest.

Dawn and I sit in the booth in Renwick’s for over an hour, drinking endless glasses of iced tea, and speaking in hushed voices. We rehash everything again and again. Now it all seems so obvious, right in front of our faces all along, watching and waiting for us to figure it out. I down my final glass of iced tea and toss a few dollars on the table and scoot out of the booth. I need the fresh air. The booth and Renwick’s are suddenly stifling.

“Let me find my wallet…” says Dawn, half out of the booth, half buried in her purse.

“I got it. Come on.”

I push through the front door and out onto the street into the warm summer day. It’s hot and muggy today. I stand on the curb and stretch my long arms over my head, stretch my back after the time cramped in that booth, breathe the heated air. Dawn joins me, slinging her purse across her shoulder, and like me, wondering what we do next.

Next, we ultimately decide to see a movie. We walk the two blocks to Stoneybrook Cinema and buy tickets to the next showing, which happens to be a Rock Harding romantic comedy. It’s not much interest to either of us, but it’s there and it’s starting in five minutes. We go inside and are surprised to see Stacey and Mary Anne standing in line at the concession stand. I start to duck out of sight, but Stacey spots me, and raises her eyebrows. I think she will let me go, let me silently slip into the theater with Dawn in tow. But she doesn’t. She nudges Mary Anne with her elbow and Mary Anne turns her face away from the candy display. I wave and Stacey waves back, but Mary Anne looks away.

It hits me then, what hasn’t necessarily occurred to me in the blur of the last couple of hours, that Mary Anne and I could be related. Somewhere in the world, perhaps somewhere close by, I may have a cousin and Mary Anne may have a half-sister or half-brother. And that would be the same person. Someone out there who may look like Gran and Aunt Margolo with their carrot-colored hair and blue eyes, and Mr. Spier’s weasely face. Someone with a life and a career and a family who doesn’t know their real mother shot herself in the head or that their real father is a doofus like Mr. Spier. That someone would be about thirty years old now. It could be anyone.

I turn away and follow Dawn into the theater. She doesn’t say anything and neither do I. We climb to the back row and sit directly beneath the projector. Stacey and Mary Anne don’t come into our theater. And when we leave an hour and a half later, rolling our eyes at the insipid movie plot, Stacey and Mary Anne are nowhere to be seen. There is a rift between us now and I wonder when the summer ends and we fall back into our regular pace how we will make it come together again. I don’t want to be alone again like I was after Cokie.

I push that thought away, away and down, and let it be buried.

“It’s the only thing that fits,” Dawn says out of the clear blue as we walk down Main Street.

“What fits?”

“Richard, of course.”

“Did you think about this all through the movie?”

“Of course. I had to have something to distract me from that mindless plot,” Dawn answers. “Richard explains everything. Why your aunt disappeared, why she and Mom stopped being friends, why Granny and Pop-Pop hated Richard – “

“Why my mom doesn’t like your mom,” I add.

Dawn stops. “Your mom doesn’t like my mom?” she asks.

I shrug. “She asked me not to hang out with you at the beginning of the summer.”

“Why?”

I shrug again. “Because you’re Sharon Porter’s daughter, I guess.”

Dawn is quiet, thinking. “You like to do things your mother says not to,” she finally says, then starts walking again. “She probably thought Mom would tell me about your aunt.”

“That isn’t true,” I protest. I mean to the former and not the latter. My voice comes out edgy, sharp. Dawn thinks she’s so smart, that she knows me. She’s barely glanced me, she barely knows me. Me or my mother or anything.

Dawn ignores the sharpness of my voice. She plows forth, countering her own thoughts. “But why would Mom tell me about your aunt? It wouldn’t just be your aunt, it would be your aunt and Richard. Mom and Richard may be miserable, but Mom wouldn’t want to out a secret like that. She wouldn’t do that to me, or to Mary Anne. That would be too cruel.”

“My mother wouldn’t know that.”

“Your mother isn’t stupid. Besides, would she really care all that much? From what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound like she and Margolo got along so well.”

“She doesn’t like to talk about her.”

“For any number of reasons, maybe,” says Dawn. She shrugs. “I doubt it matters. Your mom may just not like my mom. Your mom probably dislikes lots of people.”

My jaw drops. “That’s not true!”

“It’s not an insult. She just seems the picky sort,” Dawn says, off-handedly, and I can tell she’s trying to smooth it over. And so I let her.

We walk back to the Stoneybrook Public Library and get into my Corvette. Dawn leaves Mary Anne’s bike chained outside the library. “Maybe someone will steal it and give Mary Anne a real reason to hate me,” Dawn says, lightly. We drive around downtown trying to decide our next move, our next destination. I had promised myself that today I would visit Stoneybrook Manor and Elsa Matheson, but it doesn’t seem possible now. Not today. So, we need something else, some other distraction.

“Let’s go see Julie and Emily,” suggests Dawn as we roll down Essex and passed the Bernsteins’ pharmacy.

“They’re at Journalism camp,” I remind her.

“Oh, that’s right,” she says and rolls down her window and dangles her arm out. “Want to go see your grandmother?”

“No,” I respond, flatly. Dawn may want to continue sleuthing, but Gran isn’t someone I wish to see now. She isn’t someone I know. “We’ll go see Mari,” I decide.

“Mari doesn’t like me.”

“Ah, that’s just Mari,” I tell her, turning the Corvette in the direction of Cherry Valley Road. We cruise passed the hospital and around the corner to Mari’s house. The Drabeks live in a brown two-story house right across the street from Stoneybrook General. On the nights that I sleep over at Mari’s, I can look out her bedroom window to see the glow of the lights of the ER and all night long hear ambulance sirens race to and away.

We park at the curb and Dawn follows me reluctantly up the walk to the front porch. I lean on the doorbell until Dawn smacks my hand away. Mari opens the front door wearing ratty jean shorts and a tank top, her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Oh!” she says in surprise, seeing Dawn and I unexpectedly on her stoop. “Did I know you were coming?” she asks, in her point blank Mari way.

“Do you suspect you’re getting senile, Mar?” I ask her, trying to beat her around to a good mood. “We were out and thought we’d stop by,” I tell her and push my way inside. Otherwise, Mari could keep us standing there for eternity, inquiring pointlessly about the details of our unexpected arrival.

“Oh? Where were you?” asks Mari, following me into the foyer, leaving Dawn behind.

“Nowhere. Downtown. We saw that Rock Harding movie. What is it called, Dawn? My Phantom Prince?”

“Oh! I want to see that!” exclaims Mari.

“Why? It’s terrible. He isn’t really a ghost. Now I’ve saved you five dollars and two hours of your life.”

Mari pulls a face, but I ignore it.

“So, what are you up to, Mar?” I ask her.

“Oh, not much. I’ve just been down in my studio,” she answers. Mari’s studio is actually half of the rec room, the other half being devoted to her little brother and his many toys. “And I’m baby-sitting Derek,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“Who?” replies Dawn.

“My brother,” Mari says, edgily, like Dawn should know. Mari rolls her eyes at me again just as behind her, Dawn shoots me a look. I shrug for the both of them.

“Let’s see what you’re working on,” I suggest and head for the door underneath the stairs that leads to the rec room. I head down uninvited.

The rec room is in its usual disastrous state – Lego sets mixing on the floor, half-empty bottles of Yoo-Hoo set on the television, jellybeans spilled all over the couch, and on Mari’s side of the room a clutter of unfinished projects scattered over the tables with paint tubes and pencils, empty canvases leaning against the wall, and on the table to where Mari’s stool is sitting, a large block of gray clay with a rearing horse head erupting from the misshapen mass, presumably Mari’s current project. Mari has no one area of art in which she focuses, instead she dabbles, always searching for her passion.

“I didn’t know you were an artist, too,” comments Dawn, picking up a small clay sculpture of a bird.

“Oh, you’re an artist?” asks Mari with a hint of interest. “I didn’t know.”

“No, I meant I didn’t know you were an artist in addition to, you know, playing tennis and cooking,” corrects Dawn.

“I’m multi-talented,” says Mari, taking the sculpture from Dawn.

“It’s cool that you have so many hobbies,” Dawn tells her.

Mari frowns. “I don’t have hobbies,” she says, scathingly. “I have talents.”

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at her, then turns it on me. “Okay, sorry,” she says. “I like your stuff. I wish I could draw or something.”

Mari snorts.

It was a mistake to come. I don’t get what Mari’s deal is. Certainly, she’s always been the prickly sort, always suspicious of new people, but she’s being downright rude. Believe it or not, at school, Mari’s quite popular, and in youth group, too. Most everyone likes Mari, even if Mari doesn’t exactly like most everyone. I get Mari usually. I am used to navigating Mari, steering around her moods. I don’t get Mari now.

“Where’s your brother?” Dawn asks Mari.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you were baby-sitting.”

“Well, I’m sure he’s not dead,” snaps Mari.

I want to tell Mari to stop acting like a jerk, but instead I simply announce, “I’m thirsty,” and head back upstairs, just expecting the others to follow. I help myself to a glass of water in Mari’s kitchen and then sort of poke around the counters. Mari’s family usually has something interesting sitting out – muffins or tea cakes or slices of bread, always in strange, experimental combinations and flavors. The last time I was over Mari and her dad made a pound cake with an orange-boysenberry glaze.

“We have éclairs in the fridge,” Mari tells me. “Dad brought them home last night.”

Mari and I sit at the kitchen table and split an éclair while Dawn leans against the stove, sipping a glass of water. She declines my offer of a bite.

“All that sugar would make me sick,” she says.

“Then it’s lucky your dad’s not the dessert chef at Chez Maurice,” Mari replies, haughtily.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” says Dawn, taking a long sip of water.

I am at a loss, feeling trapped between them, their back and forth. Must every place in my life be a battleground? I pop the last of the éclair in my mouth, resist the urge to lick my fingers, instead wiping them on a napkin. I take another sip of water. All these silent, awkward pauses in my life.

“So, what’s new?” I ask, feigning brightness and cheer.

Mari shrugs. “Just waiting for August when I get out of here again for church camp, “ she answers. Mari spends her summers running, looking for her escapes, filling her time with time away from Stoneybrook. Two summers ago, she ran to four different summer camps. I missed her. “I’m mapping out my own vegetable garden,” Mari adds, landing on something of interest to her. “I’m thinking about harvesting mushrooms. We had a seminar on it at culinary camp.”

“Fascinating,” I reply.

“I think it sounds neat,” says Dawn, perhaps telling the truth, perhaps seeking Mari’s approval. “But is that safe?”

“I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t safe,” says Mari. “My parents wouldn’t let me.”

Mari takes us outside to show us the plot of earth she and her father have cleared for a vegetable garden. She comes to life, shedding some of her prickles. I do my best to be pleased at the change, but it’s all so uninteresting that I can’t work up much enthusiasm.

We leave not long afterward. Mari walks us to the door and onto the front porch. We chat, briefly, little words of goodbye. Dawn has checked out, and I suppose none of us know why we came.

Dawn and I head down the front walk and I glance behind to see Mari sit down on the stoop, folding her skinny arms around the knees of the ratty jean shorts. We’re halfway down the walk when a red sports car pulls to a stop at the curb and Mari’s mother climbs out of the back seat. She shuts the car door and waves to her car pool as they pull back into the street and take off down Cherry Valley Road. Mari’s mother starts up the walk toward Dawn and I, hoisting an oversize bag onto her shoulder. Mari’s mother isn’t like Mari. She’s taller and wider with ample hips and heavy legs. Mari’s mother doesn’t want to be called Mrs. Drabek, only Jennifer, something my tongue never quite allows me to do. So I avoid calling her anything at all.

“Hello, girls,” she greets Dawn and I, warmly, as we make room for her on the path. “Having a good summer?”

“Yes,” I reply, walking on.

“Stay for dinner next time,” she calls after me, and then, “Mari! Did you even invite Grace to stay for dinner?”

I unlock the Corvette and duck into the driver’s seat, but look to the house as I insert the key in the ignition and turn over the car. Mari’s risen from the stoop and walks into the house, slamming the door in her mother’s face. Mari’s mother waits a beat and then opens the door and slips inside.

Dawn and I drive away.

“You’re not usually so accommodating,” Dawn comments after a minute or two.

“I drive you all the time,” I reply.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Dawn says and pauses. “I’ve never seen you bend for anyone like that.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You bend for Mari,” Dawn continues. She chooses her words, mulls them over. “You work hard for her…for her what? What is it?” Dawn turns her head to look at me, watches with curiosity.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I repeat. My arms stiffen, my hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“She’s such a wet blanket. Why do you care about her approval?”

“Mari’s not a wet blanket,” I tell Dawn. “She’s my friend.”

“Some friend. You aren’t even yourself.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I get it. Mari’s difficult, Mari’s moody. Blah blah blah.”

“There’s that. Yes,” I agree, allowing Dawn that. “But you still don’t understand.”

“Then maybe you should explain it to me. Is she blackmailing you or something? Got some good dirt on you? Because you don’t seem to enjoy yourself with her. Do you even like Mari?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I like her. She’s my doubles partner,” I answer, dismissively. Of course, I like Mari. She’s my oldest friend. She chose me when no one else did. “She’s my oldest friend.”

“Hmm,” Dawn murmurs, turning her head from me to gaze out the window as I speed through a yellow light.

“She’s very loyal. We’ve been friends since kindergarten,” I tell Dawn, the need to convince her creeping through my words. I want her to believe. “Since kindergarten,” I repeat. I remember starting kindergarten with Cokie already my best friend, and we would sit atop the jungle gym as recess queens with Erica Blumberg and Lauren Hoffman, stamping on the fingers of lesser girls hanging from the monkey bars – girls like Emily Bernstein and Mary Anne Spier. But in class I sat with Mari, the second tallest girl in the room, at our own private table, and walked with her at the end of the line. We stood together with Miss Coolson at the back of the class picture and again for the class concerts. Mari was the first friend I made on my own. The first friend I made on my own in the space between infancy and high school. And even though I shot up far passed her, growing long and lean while she petered out at an average height, I made her and kept her.

And Dawn could never understand that.

“Just don’t make me go over there again,” says Dawn. “I’m not a fan.”

“All right, I won’t,” I promise, but I take it as a personal affront. I shouldn’t.

“Do you think Richard knows?” asks Dawn.

“Knows what?”

“Graaaace,” Dawn whines, tossing her head backward in exasperation. “Where have you been all day? On another planet? Sheesh!”

I purse my lips together. “Sorry,” I say, tightly. “But I can’t follow your random thought process.”

“What’s wrong? Are you mad?”

“No!”

“What, are you mad about Mari?”

“Why would I be mad about someone I apparently don’t even like?”

Dawn sighs.

“Nevermind,” I tell Dawn. I realize I’ve been turning circles around downtown Stoneybrook. I make a left turn and head for Dawn’s neighborhood. I am unable to bite my tongue. “I just doubt you’d like it if I insulted your oldest friend. You know, Soupy.”

“Soupy? Soupy?” roars Dawn. She throws her head back with such quick force she nearly knocks the headrest off the seat. “Her name is Sunny!”

I roll my eyes. Either name is stupid.

“You crack me up, Grace,” Dawn says, wiping her eyes.

“Thank you,” I reply, not seeing the humor at all.

Dawn laughs for three more blocks. I find it annoying.

When she finally finishes, she says, “Anyway…my Soupy isn’t a wet blanket. She’s a firecracker. That’s what my stepmom calls her.”

“Mari could be a firecracker,” I say, even though I don’t actually believe it. “You don’t even know.”

Dawn laughs again.

My shoulders tense slightly. I’m irritated without explanation. I want my annoyances to have meaning. I am bothered by Dawn, by the whole situation. Why? It’s stupid. It’s silly. Dawn doesn’t like Mari – that’s hardly my problem. I detest Abby Stevenson, but I don’t judge Dawn too harshly for liking her. But I want to win this for some reason.

I try to shake it off. I turn onto Burnt Hill Road. Dawn’s house comes into view.

“When Cokie and I stopped being friends,” I hear myself say before I truly know I’m saying it. I never mention Cokie. Not to anyone. I avoid her even in my own head. “Cokie, Mari, and I were friends, but Mari chose me. Everyone else, they stayed with Cokie. Mari stayed with me.”

“Maybe she just didn’t like Cokie,” Dawn replies, off-handedly.

It’s like a slap in the face.

I look at Dawn as I pull into her empty driveway. She’s gathering her things, searching for her keys. She doesn’t think of what she’s said. It’s forgotten.

I squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles turn stark white. I don’t speak.

It’s like saying I’m not special.

“So, tomorrow, Stoneybrook Manor, right?” Dawn asks, opening her door. “We wasted too much time today. We need to get to the serious sleuthing.” She leans back inside the car. She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Grace? Stoneybrook Manor, right? We’re tracking down Elsa Matheson tomorrow?”

“Yes. Of course,” I answer. “I have to go home.”

Dawn’s eyebrow lowers to furrow with the other. “All right. I’ll call you in the morning. Good night!” Dawn slams the door and hurries up the walk to her darkened house. She spins around once to wave.

I throw the Corvette into reverse and fly out of the driveway, peeling down Burnt Hill Road. I am upside-down. I am reeling. It’s all these little things I’ve held so close that are slowly crumbling.