“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Mrs. Wallace said. “But I will say, Kelsey, that as for who you are, you’ve got a whole, long life to figure that out.”

That’s what Davis had said, too. And Gillian. And everyone else. But the truth was, in some very messed-up way, speaking for Michelle, if only for a few minutes, had made her feel less hollow. The only time she felt like moving forward was last night, with Peter, who needed Michelle as much as she did. Yes, she wanted to tell them, I have plenty of time, but Michelle’s time has already run out.

And that wasn’t fair.

Mrs. Wallace looked at her watch. “I better start preparing for next period.”

“I want to take your class,” Kelsey said suddenly.

Mrs. Wallace’s forehead wrinkled. “Which class?”

She couldn’t have Michelle, but she could still get to know her better. She could do what she never bothered to do when Michelle was alive. She could find out what made her tick. “Your Art History class.”

“That’s an Advanced Placement class,” Mrs. Wallace said, then gave a pitying laugh. “You missed the first half! We’re already on French Impressionism. I don’t think you’ll be able to catch up, Kelsey. This is for students serious about art history. It won’t be fun for you.”

“Please.” She found her eyes.

Mrs. Wallace sighed, shaking her head. “You’d have to switch your schedule around.…”

“Let me try. I can do it. Really, I would like to know more about…” Michelle’s portrait next to her, in the corner of her eye, hair lifting. The soup can. Ian’s directions. The print on the wall. “Warhol. Will we study Andy Warhol, for example?”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Wallace narrowed her eyes, thinking. The teacher turned and walked away toward her classroom. Kelsey’s heart sank.

Then Mrs. Wallace called behind her, sighing. “All right. Sort it out with the counselors.”

“I will!” Kelsey called back, and fought the urge to do a little dance.

“Okay, then,” Mrs. Wallace said as she closed the door. “I’ll see you at sixth period.”

POSTMARK 1/6, RECEIVED 1/13

Dear M—Forgot to send you this postcard from the Brussels Airport, so I’m sending it now. I was about to write something else but a huge rat just scurried through the computer room and scared the shit out of me. And I’m wearing flip-flops. My dad always told me flip-flops were the worst kind of shoes because they leave you unprepared. I always told him to screw off and wondered what on earth I would need to be prepared for but now I have rat residue on my foot. You live and you learn. I’m changing into my boots, though their more accurate name is portable ovens. Oh well. Give yourself an awkward sweaty hug for me.—P

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Berthe Morisot.”

Anyone who happened to be passing through the alley behind the Maxfields’ backyard would hear an extended list of notable French Impressionists floating through the night in Kelsey’s scratchy voice, a little scratchier than usual. Maybe she was coming down with something.

“Auguste Renoir.” Kelsey was pacing on her side of the porch, puffy coat unzipped, earbuds blasting. She sniffed. She was definitely coming down with something.

“Mary Cassatt,” she called into the darkness.

Mrs. Wallace, as Kelsey had found out over the past couple of weeks, was a pop quiz sorceress. She had a sixth sense for when her class was most comfortable, and at the precise peak of relaxation, BAM! Quizzes up her sleeve.

“Claude Monet.”

She had recorded herself stating dates and names of paintings, and put them on her phone. She would match the artist to their facts out loud, because staring at a book would find her using it as a pillow. She needed her limbs involved somehow. She was walking to stay awake.

“Edgar Degas.”

“Kelsey?”

She turned to see her deck door slide open, her father’s scraggly, hulking frame dominating the light. She took out her earbuds.

“Hi, Dad.”

A smile peeked through his beard. “Whatcha doin’ out here?”

“Studying.”

“Pardon me, what word just came out of your mouth?”

Kelsey let out a laugh, and said it slower this time. “Stud-y-ing.”

He backed into her room. “You have a clown nose. Come in from the cold for a minute.”

She followed her dad inside, and he folded his big body slowly to sit in her desk chair, wearing the same old Cambodian cotton white button-down, stained slightly with burger grease. As he looked around with a gruff eye, she kicked some dirty clothes into the closet. For a minute, it was like it used to be.

He crossed his ankle over his knee. “What were all those names? Boyfriends?”

Kelsey let out a sarcastic “Ha! No, I—”

“You switched from Spanish to French, or something?”

“Nope.” She flopped on her bed. “I’m taking Art History.”

“Art History, huh?”

“AP Art History. What Michelle used to take.”

Kelsey was staring at the chipped red paint on her nails, avoiding her father’s eyes. “What?” she said finally.

“Nothing,” her dad said, a calm smile resting on his face. “Will you be able to handle a class like that?”

“Yes.”

She could tell he was waiting for further explanation. He knew her as well as anyone. He knew she had spent most of her high school years driving around Lawrence with Davis, improvising parties in the basements of her friends’ houses, avoiding her homework with elaborate excuses. And she was happy that way. But everyone was happier then.

“Have you spoken to your mother about it? I think she’d be very proud you’re challenging yourself.”

Kelsey hadn’t made an effort to speak to her mother since before Christmas, the day of the City Market trip. Her mom left notes for her on the fridge occasionally, and asked Kelsey if she’d missed the deadline for submitting her application to KU. “To your great surprise, I’ve turned it in already,” Kelsey had called to her through the door, and that was it. So, it wasn’t as if her mom was busting down the door to speak to Kelsey, either.

“It’s none of Mom’s business.”

“You’re her daughter. Everything you do is her business.”

“If she wants to know about it, she doesn’t have to send you as a messenger.”

“Kels,” her father said, putting up his hands. “I act alone. I think the Art History class is fantastic.” He paused. Kelsey waited. “And that’s all I have to say about it.”

“Good,” Kelsey said, and she felt herself relax. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He leaned forward, pinching his nose, just like Michelle used to do when she was thinking. “You’ve got the biggest burden of us all, Kels.” His eyes shone a little, but he blinked, and his smile kept. “You don’t remember this, but your mother used to give you and Mitch baths in the sink. You were both very small babies. And even if she set you on either side of the sink, you’d find a way to get next to each other in the water. You two just loved to cuddle.”

Kelsey was quiet. Of course she wasn’t supposed to remember something like that, but actually, she could.

She could remember the warm water.

Her mother’s hands.

She could remember the puzzle-piece feeling of having her sister next to her, which is a feeling that no one in the world could ever know. Not just anyone else with a sister. Not another set of twins. No one but her and Michelle, and the way Michelle could twist her elbow inside out and Kelsey couldn’t, and Kelsey’s mole on her lower back and Michelle’s on her forearm, and how they always knew what the other was thinking.