“A little,” I say, laughing, my heart slightly lighter than it was five minutes ago. “Okay, a lot.”

“Good, well I miss you more. So that should help with that non-sleeping thing,” she says, unable to stave off the yawn that trails at the end. “Wanna talk about how sucky this is?”

It’s sweet she even asks. It’s sweet, because she’s heard me gripe and complain non-stop for weeks about this move and how unfair it is. She’s helped me try and decipher why it’s so important that we live closer to Wisconsin, why my dad always wins the decision-making game in our family. There’s nothing new to say, though. And I know she’s exhausted. So tonight I let her off the hook.

“Nah, I think I’ll just hang up and dream sweetly over the fact that you miss me more. That should do for tonight,” I say, and I swear I can hear her smile.

“Okay. I’ll send more pictures tomorrow. And maybe snap a shot of mystery neighbor for me,” she chuckles.

“Yeah, uh…no. I’m not coming near him. I’m afraid you’ll have to stick with your imagination,” I say.

When she says “Goodbye,” and hangs up, I let one more tear fall.

I carry feeling pitiful right through sunrise, which is partly to blame for my insomnia. The rest was the strange sensation that Owen Harper was lying on his bed, across our driveways and lawns, staring right back at me.

“Honey, take your breakfast to go. You’ll be late for the bus,” Mom says, folding the toasted Pop Tarts up in a napkin and handing them to me.

“Actually, I have a ride,” I say, sliding into one of the stools at the breakfast bar and breaking one of the pastries in half. The goo that oozes out the side is hot, and it burns my fingertips. “Damn!”

“Careful,” my mom says. Such a harmless word—one she’s said to me a million times, a million more as a nurse.

But hearing it this morning throws me back into a nightmare, and all I can hear in my head is Owen’s voice—the way he said “Careful,” and the sinister, barely-there grin that glowed as he walked away.

“Ken…did you hear me?” Mom is waving in front of me now.

“Oh, no…sorry, burned my hand a little,” I say, not feeling the burn at all anymore, at least not the one on my hand.

“Who is giving you a ride?” She has her hand on one hip, as if she’s concerned about me with someone she doesn’t know. I’ve been walking to school on my own in the city for three years, but a ride from a very harmless girl at my new high school is really giving her cause for worry?

“Oh…I made a friend,” I say, smiling as I take a bite. This will make her happy, because this will help abide some of the guilt she feels for moving me out here. “Her name’s Willow. She’s in band. Drum major, actually.”

“Drum major, eh?” Mom says, holding her hand out for my napkin, clearly irritated at the crumbs I’m spilling all over the floor. “The band marches out here, huh? Your father is going to HATE that.” She flashes her eyes wide when she says the word hate.

“So let’s not tell him. He’s never home on Friday nights,” I say, holding my mom’s sightline while she considers this. It’s true; my father will hate it. He’s a purist, thinks I should be practicing orchestra and classical and piano—nothing but technical-music-skills work, twenty-four-seven. But it’s also true that he is never home on Friday nights. Friday and Saturday, to be more accurate. Those are performance nights, and the full orchestra doesn’t leave the building until well after midnight. My dad is rarely home before two or three in the morning, and sometimes he stays there on Friday nights, like he did last night. He’s been putting in long hours setting up his new office.

“Depends,” Mom says, pausing at the garbage can before throwing my napkin away. She chews at the inside of her cheek for a minute, and then she flips her gaze to me. “Do I get to come watch?”

The giggle escapes my mouth quickly, and I slide over and give her a hug, playing the role of good daughter—something we both need a little of. “Yes, you can come watch. But no going overboard.”

“So, I can’t become a booster or anything like that?” she teases.

“Oh god, no. You can come to one, two shows tops,” I say, holding out a hand for her to shake on our deal, knowing that’s all her schedule would allow her to attend anyhow.

“Two, with an option for a third—especially if you’re playing for homecoming and riding on one of those float things,” she says, and I laugh. My mom grew up in rural Illinois, and Bryce never had anything like she had in high school. She grew up with football games and bonfires. Instead, my old school was all about performance, with fall and winter and spring showcases. My mom’s been regaling me with tales of life at a normal, public high school for the last three years.