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“What do you think?” she asked.
    “I think you want to take her.”
    “I do not! I would never interfere like that!”
    “Not to interfere, just to . . . I don’t know . . . It’s like you want to get your hands on her.”
    Oh, my gosh, she’s right, thought Dana.
    “You feel bad about how she’s been raised,” Polly went on, “and you want to make it up to her.”
    “How could I possibly do that?” Dana asked, knowing it didn’t matter, knowing she loved Alder and would do anything to make her happy.
    “I don’t know.” Polly grinned. “Cupcakes?”
     
     
    After the walk, Dana called Connie on her cell phone from the driveway. She didn’t want Alder to overhear the conversation in case it went badly. “So it’s the beginning of second quarter,” she began carefully. “What if she just stayed here until the end of it? That would be January. She’d be back for the next semester at Peak . . . Artistic . . .”
    “It’s not about chronological time , Dana, it’s about being in an environment that allows the integrity of the work to flow.”
    “Okay, so if Alder gets . . . flowing . . . while she’s here, she can scoot right back up to the Berkshires. She’d be home in an hour.”
    Connie was silent. Dana knew she wouldn’t acquiesce—she’d determine a way for it to make sense on her own terms. “She’s blocked,” Connie said finally. “Change of venue could be just the thing. Maybe she’ll come up with some visual commentary on the soullessness of suburbia.”
    “Great,” said Dana, slumping in relief. “And can you send some clothes? Because she only brought two pairs of undies.”
     
     
    It wasn’t hard to get Alder registered at Cotters Rock High; in fact, it was surprisingly easy.
    “You have her birth certificate?” asked the elderly secretary in the main office. “Records from the previous school? Medical forms?”
    “No, I—”
    “Well, just get them in when you can.”
    Dana filled out paperwork while the secretary pecked slowly at her computer keyboard. “She’s in the system now,” said the secretary. “Tell her to come to the office when she gets to school tomorrow, and I’ll give her a schedule. And don’t forget to get me those records.”
    “She can start tomorrow?”
    “Don’t you want her to? Most people can’t wait to get them out of the house.”
     
     
    When Dana got home, she told Alder, “You’re all set. You start tomorrow.”
    Alder stared blankly out the window at the falling leaves and said, “Great.”

CHAPTER 4
    D ANA MADE PASTA FOR DINNER. FOODWISE, IT was the canvas upon which all three of them could paint their own individualized palate-pleasing pictures. Dana would heat up some marinara and a few meatballs for herself and steam a vegetable to use as a partial pasta substitute. She tried to reduce her carbohydrate intake wherever possible. Morgan would slather hers with butter and dump little snowdrifts of parmesan cheese onto it. Grady would mix his with one spoonful of peanut butter and one of ketchup.
    “Whoa! What are you—the Jackson Pollock of penne?” Alder slid into her seat, wearing a black T-shirt printed with the image of an upright guitar. Its neck ran up between her breasts, ending abruptly at the top of the shirt. It was as if her face were the guitar’s head.
    “No,” said Morgan, “he’s just a pig.”
    Grady turned to her and opened his mouth, a wad of food sitting on his tongue.
    “Gross!” yelled Morgan. “Mom! He’s disgusting.”
    “Enough, you two,” said Dana. She turned to Alder, trying not to imagine her mouth as a guitar fret and her eyes as tuning knobs. “What would you like with your pasta?”
    “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Alder. “I’ll just have some sauce and meatballs.”
    “Are you sure? I thought . . . Your mother’s such a strict vegetarian . . . I assumed . . .”
    A wicked grin lit Alder’s features. “It’ll be our little secret.”
    “Alder, your mother wasn’t