A Season for Fireflies by Rebecca Maizel Page B

“No.”
    She flinches at my response and stands up. My shame sits on my shoulders.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say, because I am. I’m so sorry.
    Perfect, popular Kylie Castelli’s eyes tear up and she looks down at the bedspread.
    â€œYou don’t remember being friends.” She has her hand over her mouth. It’s only then that I see she’s wearing a ring, a thin silver band with a small blue stone. It’s identical to the one I’m wearing. They gave it to me at the hospital but I hadn’t thought much of it. I assumed it was a gift from Mom and Dad.
    If I try really hard, maybe something will come, some shred of memory from the past year. I will it from the darkness. I struggle for any clue, but my mind is pitch-black and I can’t find my way to the light.
    My legs aren’t strong enough, so I have to sit down. I grip the bedpost with my left hand. I have to press my heels into the floor to steady myself. If I grip too tight I might set off a spasm.
    â€œI don’t know what happened. Or why I stopped hangingout with my friends.” I quickly rebound when she flinches. “My other friends. You know, May Harper, Panda Thomas, Wes Peterson . . .”
    Kylie’s frown sets even deeper. “You said you didn’t want to be in theater anymore. That you wanted something different,” she explains.
    I take a step closer to Kylie.
    â€œWhen? When did I say that?”
    She drops her eyes and searches the floor.
    â€œAll the time.”
    â€œAll the time?” I repeat. “I don’t talk to Wes? Or May? Or anyone from the theater?”
    â€œNo. Not really.”
    â€œWhy? There has to be some reason!”
    She slaps her hands to her thighs. “God, Penny. I’m standing right here.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re right.”
    After a moment she explains, “There’s not much to tell. My car broke down. You picked me up. I took you to Alex James’s party. That was the night we became friends—we’ve been friends ever since.”
    â€œAlex James? The guy who always wears bright-colored Polos?”
    â€œHe asked you out right before Tank’s party. We were dying over it. Penny? Remember?” I don’t know what she reads from my expression but her eyes widen. “God, you really don’t remember, do you?”
    â€œI wish I did. I remember you from school and stuff. It’sjust . . . Kylie, I don’t know you.”
    Kylie breaks into a sob and turns, running for the door. “I have to go,” she cries.
    â€œKylie, wait!” I call, and move too quickly. The screaming, needling pain blasts from the center of my right palm. The seizing comes in waves. The pain cuts off my words. The muscles in my palm clench so tight that my fingers are drawn together, straight and awkward. I have to bend over to tolerate the pain.
    I yell out and fall to my knees in the middle of the room. My back shudders and my fingers close, pinching together tighter and tighter, until the fingertips touch. The spasms run from my neck to my tailbone.
    I cry out and heavy footsteps run up the stairs. Not Mom’s, but Dad’s.
    â€œIt’s okay,” he says, and wraps his hands around me to steady the pain. “It’s okay, Penny. Just breathe.”
    But I can’t.

NINE
    THAT MONDAY MORNING BEFORE SCHOOL STARTS, I finally get access to my computer for a carefully timed twenty minutes.
    My online accounts show a world that has existed, up until now apparently, only in my wildest imagination.
    In many of the photos, Kylie and I drink from the same bottle of vodka at parties, wear matching leather jackets at concerts, and have coordinating face paint at football games. In each photo Lila and Eve are in the background, but we are in the foreground of the picture, arms draped around each other. We are the stars. We’re clearly best friends.
    It’s weird