“Well, it’s good advice,” she says. “That’s why it’s on so many cards.”

I half smile at her; she takes my hand.

“There are little things you can do,” she says.

“Like what?” I ask, craving a prescription that will cure my heartbreak.

“Well, like first thing in the morning, when you wake up and remember that Audrey’s gone, instead of dwelling on what she won’t get the chance to do, think of something really great that she did do. Honor her a little, and then move on.”

“Easier said than done,” I say. “What else?”

Sydney shrugs. “Take a shower. Go to school. Pay attention. Do the things you used to like to do; eventually, they’ll get fun again. Call Megan and talk to her about your feelings. When he’s ready, try to reconnect with Matt.”

I’m quiet, so she continues.

“Unfortunately, there’s no formula for making the pain of death go away sooner. No matter what, you’re going to carry this with you for the rest of your life. But how you carry it is up to you. You can choose to dwell on the sadness of losing Audrey, or you can choose to celebrate the time you had with her.”

“You sound like her,” I say.

“She must have been a smart girl,” Sydney jokes.

For the first time in days, a small laugh comes out of me.

“Are you going to get in trouble for coming here?” I ask.

“What God doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Sydney says. “And besides, my best girl needed me. You may not know it, but I’m always here for you, Daisy.”

Sydney leaves after dinner, and it’s like she takes some of my angst with her. By talking openly about Audrey, I feel like I’ve released a lead balloon. I’m a little bit lighter. A little bit better.

I go to bed at nine and sleep like a baby. When I wake up in the morning, the memory of Audrey’s funeral slams into my brain. I push it aside, choosing to think instead about the time she thought she saw Jake Gyllenhaal outside Starbucks downtown. Sad and happy tears stream down my face as I laugh out loud about her reaction: She really thought it was him.

“You’re totally Gyll-obsessed,” I say aloud to Audrey, wherever she is.

And then, I go take a shower.

I walk to school, hoping that the fresh air and vitamin D will help perk me up even more. On the way, I dial Megan’s number.

“I’m sorry for not calling you,” I say.

“Don’t apologize to me,” she says. “Your best friend just died. I’m impressed that you’re even functioning.”

“I wasn’t there for a few days,” I say.

“I know,” Megan says quietly. “Mason called my mom for advice.”

“Sometimes I think they love each other,” I say, smiling.

“Same.”

“It’s a good thing we love each other, too,” I say. “Just in case they ever own it and get married or something.”

“We’re already sisters, anyway,” Megan says.

We’re quiet for a few seconds.

“Hey, Megs?”

“What’s up?”

“I feel… guilty,” I say.

Megan is quiet, encouraging me to go on.

“I feel like I’ve been given so many chances, and Audrey didn’t even get one,” I say. “I feel horrible about it.”

“You have survivor’s guilt,” Megan says softly. “It’s normal.”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” I say. “I feel like I should have done more for her. I feel guilty for being in Seattle when Audrey was going downhill. I feel like I abandoned her or something. I actually feel bad for being with you.”

Megan is silent for so long I think the phone might have lost service.

“I can see how you might feel that way,” she says finally.

“You do?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “But stop worrying about things like that. You didn’t give Audrey cancer, and you couldn’t make it go away, either. Audrey knew you loved her, and you guys were good. There’s no way you could have predicted when it would happen. It’s not your fault.”

When Megan says those last four words, my heart implodes. Not until this moment have I realized that I’ve been blaming myself. I mean, sure, Audrey had cancer, which was totally out of my control. But in a way, I thought—I hoped—that my friendship was helping her to stay strong.

“You’re right,” I say quietly. “It’s not my fault.”

“I’ll tell you what is your fault, though,” Megan says, a little tinge of teasing in her voice.

“Oh, really?” I say, okay with thinking about something besides death for a while.

“It’s totally your fault that our blog is lopsided right now because of a serious lack of coverage out of Middle America.”

“I might be able to solve that problem,” I say.

“I can’t wait to see what Flower Girl has to say.”

Feeling lighter after my call with Megan, I reach Victory with a little time to spare. As I walk through the doors, an idea pops into my head. Before classes start, I go to the computer lab and print out the lyrics to “The Way I Am.” It’s the song Audrey sang to Matt and me when she was joking around about our crush. But I realize that it sums up our friendship, too.

With a bunch of curious students watching, I tape the lyrics to the front of Audrey’s locker, then, smiling, head to English alone. Matt’s chair is still empty, but I know he’ll come back soon.

When I visit my locker again before lunch, there are more lyrics taped to Audrey’s. By the end of the day, her locker is completely covered by handwritten and printed scraps of songs tacked on in Audrey’s honor. As I read through the lyrics, I finally understand.

Everyone misses Audrey; they weren’t faking it.

I’m not alone.

A little over a week later, responding to Megan’s fantasy Grammy speech, I blog my gracious Oscar acceptance. Then, back on earth, I check Facebook. It’s not something I do a lot. Having to start a new profile every time I change my name, I never have very many friends, so there’s not much activity on my pages. When I last checked in Seattle, I only had sixteen friends, and most of them were bus kids.

That’s why, after typing in my password and checking my notifications, I’m surprised to find thirty-two friend requests waiting for me, all from kids at Victory. Most of them are straight-up requests, but a few have sweet notes about how awesome Audrey was and how cool it was of me to start the lyric tribute.

I accept every single one without hesitation, then check my wall for new posts. Nicole Anderson, formerly Nicole Yang, a bus kid who lives in Atlanta, posted a “positive energy” message in light of Audrey’s death. I smile about both the note and the fact that Megan’s obviously looking out for me. A girl in my history class sent me a virtual hug. I scroll down and get a jolt when I see a post from Matt.

I don’t know why, but I don’t write back right away. I’d rather call him. See him in person. Look in his eyes and really connect with him.

For the moment, I move on.

I notice that Megan’s online the second before she sends a friend suggestion. It’s for Nora Emerson.

I sigh deeply, considering what to do. The night in Seattle when Megan and I found Nora feels like years ago, but two weeks have passed. So overwhelmed and exhausted by everything with Audrey, I’ve been pushing thoughts of Nora away. But it’s time to deal with this. The need to know what happened to Nora—to know for sure if she’s Case 22—overtakes me.

I click to add her as a friend and type a cryptic personal message to her: “I want to hear your story. I’m like you.” As if she was waiting by the computer, she friends me immediately. Since she’s online, I open the messaging program.

I type in my cell number and hit return, then watch the clock. The phone rings before two minutes have passed.

“Hello?” I say.

“It’s Nora,” the voice on the other end of the line says. Unsure, she adds, “Emerson.” Her voice is the same as the day she brought me the birthday invitation, except she was more confident back then.