“That was the best study session I ever had,” I tell him.

“Locked in my memory too,” he says, then glances away as though embarrassed, bending to tear open another box. “Even though thinking about it made me hit my thumb with a hammer putting up a wall display.”

“This thumb?” I reach for one of his callused hands, kiss the thumb.

“It was the left one.” Jase’s face creases into a smile as I pick up his other hand.

“I broke my collarbone once,” he tells me, indicating which side. I kiss that. “Also some ribs during a scrimmage freshman year.”

I do not pull his shirt up to where his finger points now. I am not that bold. But I do lean in to kiss him through the soft material of his shirt.

“Feeling better?”

His eyes twinkle. “In eighth grade, I got into a fight with this kid who was picking on Duff and he gave me a black eye.”

My mouth moves to his right eye, then the left. He cups the back of my neck in his warm hands, settling me into the V of his legs, whispering into my ear, “I think there was a split lip involved too.”

Then we are just kissing and everything else drops away. Mr. Garrett could come out at any moment, a truck full of supplies could drive right on up, a fleet of alien spaceships could darken the sky, I’m not sure I’d notice.

We stand there, leaning back against the door, until a large truck really does pull in and Jase has to unload more things. It’s only 11:30 and I’m not due at the Garretts’ till three, so I don’t want to leave, which means I busy myself doing unnecessary things like rearranging the order of the sample chips in the paint section, listening to the click-click-click of Mr. Garrett’s pen cap, and reliving everything in my happy heart.

Later, I struggle to concentrate and help Duff build a “humane zoo habitat for arctic animals out of recyclable materials” for his science camp exhibit. The task is complicated by the fact that George and Harry keep eating the sugar cubes we’re trying to use as building material. Also by the fact that Duff is unbelievably anal about what “recyclable” means.

“I’m not sure sugar counts as recyclable. And definitely not pipe cleaners!” he says, glaring at me as I slap white paint on egg cartons, transforming them into icebergs, which are going to float in our fake aluminum-foil arctic waters.

The kitchen door bursts open and Andy storms through, without explanation, in floods of tears, her wails echoing down the stairs.

“I can’t get these cubes to stay together. They keep melting when I put the glue on them,” Duff says crossly, swirling his paintbrush in the puddle of Elmer’s, which has just dissolved another sugar cube.

“Maybe if we put clear fingernail polish on them?” I suggest.

“That’ll melt too,” Duff says gloomily.

“We could just try,” I offer.

George, crunching, suggests we build the walls out of marshmallows instead. “I’m sort of sick of sugar cubes.”

Duff reacts with a rage out of all proportion. “George. I’m not building this as a snack for you. Marshmallows don’t look anything like glass bricks in a wall. I need to do well on this—if I do, I get a ribbon and next month’s camp costs half off.”

“Let’s ask Dad,” Harry suggests. “Maybe boat shellac? Or something?”

“My life is over,” Andy sobs from upstairs.

“I think I should go talk to her,” I tell the boys. “You call your father—or Jase.”

I head up the stairs toward the echoing wails, grabbing a box of Kleenex from the bathroom before I go into Andy and Alice’s room.

She’s lying facedown on her bed, in her soggy bathing suit, having cried so hard that there’s a big damp circle on her pillow. I sit down next to her, handing her a wad of Kleenex.

“It’s over. Everything’s over.”

“Kyle?” I ask, grimacing, because I know that’s what it has to be.

“He…he broke up with me!” Andy raises her head, her hazel eyes swimming with tears. “By…Post-it note. He stuck it on my lifejacket while I was practicing rigging the jib.”

“You’re kidding,” I say, which I know is the wrong thing to say, but honestly.

Andy reaches under the pillow and pulls out a neon orange square that reads: Andrea. It’s been fun, but now I want 2 go with Jade Whelan. See ya, Kyle.

“Suave.”

“I know!” Andy bursts into a fresh round of tears. “I’ve loved him for three years, ever since he taught me how to make a slip knot on the first day of sailing camp…and he can’t even say this to my face! ‘See ya’?! Jade Whelan? She used to take boys behind the piano in fourth-grade assembly and show them her bra! She didn’t even need one! I hate her. I hate him.”

“You should,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

I rub Andy’s back in little circles much the way I did Nan’s. “The first boy I kissed was this guy Taylor Oliveira. He told everyone at school I didn’t know what to do with my tongue.”

Andy gives a faint watery giggle. “Did you?”

“I had no clue. But neither did Taylor. He used his like a toothbrush. Yuck. Maybe because his dad was a dentist.”

Andy giggles again, then looks down and sees the Post-it note. The tears resume.

“He was my first kiss. I waited for somebody I really cared about…and now it turns out he was a jerk. Now I can’t take it back. I wasted my first kiss on a jerk!” She curls into a ball on the bed, sobbing even louder.

“Shut up, Andy, I can’t concentrate on my project!” Duff calls up the stairs.

“My world is coming to an end,” she retorts loudly, “so I don’t particularly care!”

At this point Patsy wanders in, having recently learned both to climb out of her crib and to remove her diaper, in whatever state it may be. In this case, fully loaded. She waves it triumphantly at me. “Poooooooooop.”

“Ugh,” Andy moans. “I’m gonna throw up.”

“I’ll get it.” I reflect on the fact that two months ago I had never come in contact with a diaper. Now I could practically teach a Learning Annex course on the many ways of dealing with any potential toileting disaster.

Patsy watches me with detached curiosity as I clean up her wall (ew), change her sheets (again, ew), plunk her into a short bath, and re-diaper and clothe her in something sanitary. “Where poop?” she asks mournfully, craning her neck to examine her bottom.