Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson

time,” Emma adds. She shifts her weight on my lap, driving my hip bones into the wooden seat. “Lia’s really going to be in trouble now. He’s going to ground her for a hundred years.”
    “If we can get back to Miss Parrish,” the detective says.
    I put my finger on Emma’s lips. “Shh.”
    “No, I don’t know why Cassie would call me. I hadn’t talked to her for months. We weren’t friends anymore. No particular reason, just one of those things that happens when you’re a senior.”
    The cop nods as she closes her notebook. “I remember those days,” she says. “Thank God they’re over.”
    “Can you tell me what happened to her?” I ask.
    “No, I’m sorry. If you think of anything, here’s my number.” She hands me a card. “Tell your parents to call me if they want. Like I said, this is nothing to worry about. We just want to close the book on this one.”
    After Emma makes a big stinking deal to Dad and Jennifer about the police visit . . . after I spend a hour calming them down, answering the same questions over and over and over again . . . after Dad calls the detective because he doesn’t believe me . . . after Jennifer burns the steak, sets off the smoke alarm, and orders Chinese food . . . after I read Emma a chapter of Harry Potter . . .
    after Jennifer claims the tub for a bubble bath . . . after Dad falls asleep grading papers comparing the election of 1789 to the election of 1792 . . . the house sleeps.

    The cell phone crawls out of its hiding place under my laundry and sneaks into my hand. As I play her messages over and over, I turn on my computer and visit a country I haven’t been to in months, a whispersecretblog for girls like me. . . .

    Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of strange little girls screaming through their fingers. My patient sisters, always waiting for me. I scroll through our confessions and rants and prayers, desperation eating us one slow bloody bite at a time.
    Two flies crash into my lampshade, buzzbuzz , random leftovers from summer with a few hours left to live. I turn off the lights and they swarm to the computer screen, dancing across uploads of sknnygrrl ribs and hips and collarbones, bones pulled out of their skin and laid on top so they can dry in the sun. Beautiful when seen through the paper wings of out-of-season flies.
    I turn off everything and crawl into bed.
    The flies throw themselves against the window with wet, angry noises, then hover above me, waiting to crawl into my mouth. Maybe they’re Cassie’s familiars, escorts from the grave heralding her arrival.
    I can’t face her alone.
    I sneak down the stairs and put Emma’s boots on the tread second from the bottom. If Dad comes down for a midnight snack or to work, he’ll knock them over and give me a warning.
    I head for the basement, lock the door behind me, and put in a couple of sweaty hours on the stair-stepper.

    The loudspeaker yanks me out of Friday’s English in the middle of a practice test and sends me to Ms. Rostoff’s office. She tells me that my stepmother called and I have to leave school early for an emergency shrink appointment.
    “Why?” I ask.
    “Cassie,” Ms. Rostoff says. “Talking about it will help.”
    My purse slips off my shoulder. It’s been doing that all day. “Talking makes things worse.”
    She glances at her screen. “You’ll miss Physics.”
    “Oh,” I say, hiking up the purse strap, “that changes everything.”
    Dr. Nancy Parker smells like cherry cough drops. I sit on her fat leather couch, purse on the floor, and pull the hideous raspberry-colored afghan over me. She unwraps another Halls. I think she’s addicted to suffering from a chemical dependency on the red dye. She should explore that issue.
    She turns on the white-noise fan and pops the drop in her mouth. “Your parents are concerned that Cassie’s death is triggering you.”
    The couch faces a floor-to-ceiling wall of books. They are filled with crap. None of