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you, nothing,” he says. “I just wanted you to myself.”
    It’s such a Dad thing to say—one of those fibs he comes up with just to make you feel good. I do my best to play along.
    â€œYou’re lying,” I say. “You would have been happy to stay there all day—or at least until the muffins ran out.”
    We both laugh even though it’s not that funny.
    â€œI just couldn’t stand it,” I say. “Everybody looking at me. Everybody expecting me to act a certain way. Even Helena and Sophie doing their big drama-queen thing. It made me want to scream.”
    I get up on one elbow and look at Colin. “He’s not dead,” I say. “I know it. How am I supposed to take everybody’s stupid condolences when he’s not even dead? It makes me so mad.”
    Colin gets up on one elbow too. He puts his hand on my hip. “People are just trying to be nice, Ria.”
    I squish my eyes together and let out this sort of frustrated growl. “Well, they aren’t nice. They’re making me feel terrible. And I. Can’t. Handle. It.”
    I flop back down on the tabletop with my arm over my face. We’re quiet for a long time.
    â€œFine,” Colin says. “You don’t have to handle it.”
    He leans over me. “Forget about other people. We don’t have to spend time with them. I’ll pick you up when I get out of school, and we’ll go somewhere, just you and me. We can act however we like. We can do whatever we want. We can be sad or happy or mad—whatever we feel like. Okay?”
    I don’t know what I’d do without him.

Chapter Eight
    I stay home and sleep or watch movies or pretend to read a book until three in the afternoon, when Colin comes over. We pick Elliot up from school, eat a quick meal, then disappear.
    Disappearing—that’s what this is all about. Colin put the roof up on the LeSabre. It still attracts attention, but most people don’t notice me curled up in the passenger seat now.
    We drive to the park. On warm nights, we sit up by the fort. On colder nights, we find an out-of-the-way parking spot and stay bundled up in the car.
    Despite what that might sound like, these aren’t just giant make-out sessions. Sometimes we watch a movie on my laptop. Sometimes we turn on the inside light and do our homework or play Mankalah. Once, Colin put on an oldie radio station and we slow-danced under the streetlamp.
    Other times—like at least once a day—I just sit in the front seat and cry.
    Tonight, I cry more than usual. It’s been five days since the accident. Divers have only found one of Dad’s boots and the sleeve of his jacket. Crews have searched the surrounding forest. There’s no sign of him.
    They’re very sorry, the man in charge said today, but they’ve called off the rescue mission. The best they can hope for now is to recover the body.
    Steve Patterson is officially presumed dead.
    â€œPresumed!” I want to scream. “How can they presume? They don’t know Dad. They don’t know what he’s capable of. It’s only been five days.”
    I bawl my eyes out. Colin just keeps passing me Kleenex. I don’t know how he isn’t completely grossed out. My eyes are red, my nose is huge, and my forehead is throbbing as if I’ve got some big pumping heart in there instead of a brain.
    When I’ve finally exhausted myself, Colin takes my hand. He says, “Ria. I know this is hard, but I think you’re going to have to accept that your dad is gone.”
    I try to pull away, but he won’t let me.
    â€œThat lake is really deep and really cold. The plane was completely destroyed. Even a guy as smart and athletic and tough as Steve couldn’t have survived that.”
    I glare at him, but he won’t stop, he won’t let me go.
    â€œI bet your dad’s looking down on us right now and wishing he could have