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Right—that would be me—had a history with Doug going back further than freshman year. Marco. POLO.
    â€œNope, not Wanda—Wonder, that’s me,” I babbled to Doug. I had known him since fourth grade! Why did he always pretend not to remember my name? “So can I have two slices of pizza, extra cheese and pepperoni?”
    He started to write down my order but Trina interrupted. “Wrong. She’ll have a turkey grinder with lettuce, tomato, and very light mayo. . . .”
    â€œA Coke,” I interrupted, but Trina plowed on.
    â€œWith two mineral waters and . . .”
    â€œFries?” Doug said, scribbling.
    â€œWe’ll split a bag of baked potato chips. A Caesar salad for me, dressing on the side. Thanks, bub.”
    Trina laid a twenty spot on the counter and walked over to a table without so much as a glance back to Doug.
    â€œHey,” I said, following her. “I don’t like sandwiches. I wanted pizza.”
    â€œWe’re doing some serious dancing this afternoon, Wonder. You gotta treat your body with more respect.”
    I didn’t have a chance to protest. Jen sauntered over to our table. “What, is this a B-Kidz reunion?” she asked. She had one of those nasty pretty faces: straight light blond hair and doll-baby blue eyes, but a nasty disposition, like if you took Barbie’s teen buddy Skipper and turned her into Nellie Oleson from Little House on the Prairie. Jen was also like one of those size-zero girls that always had to wear cutoff shorts and tube tops to let everyone know how skinny and cute they were. Underneath the table, my hands nervously tugged at the T-shirt covering my flabby abs, the result of a summer spent eating pizza for lunch and banana boat sundaes on my breaks at the DQ.
    Trina shot back her vintage I’m-not-taking-your-shit look. She stared Jen squarely in the eyes and said, “If it is, I don’t remember the invitation that went out to you.”
    Point score: our girl Treen.
    Jen flipped her hair and turned away. Her posse followed her out of the restaurant. As she left, Jen turned to face me at the door. She pointed at me, but said nothing. I was warned.
    I wondered if Trina’s coaching duties would extend to her becoming my five-foot-tall black country-music-singer-wanna-be bodyguard at Devonport High.

Six
    On the drive back to Tig’s, I asked Trina, “Do you stay in touch with Kayla?”
    She shook her head. “Nope.” I took the silence that followed for: Don’t go there.
    I wondered how she felt, seeing her fellow girl group member and friend go on to superstardom. From what I could see, Trina seemed genuinely happy and excited about her future. I wondered if the same was true of Kayla. You’d think so, since she had become so famous, but in the few days I’d spent with Tig, he’d spent half his time on the phone reassuring Kayla how great she was, how beautiful, how popular—as if she didn’t know.
    I did venture this question to Trina: “Do you think about her?” We both knew I meant Lucky, not Kayla.
    â€œEvery day,” Trina said.
    â€œSometimes it feels like half of me is gone without her, and like I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the half that’s left.”
    Trina said, “I miss her so much still it literally hurts. When songs she loved come on the radio, my stomach just turns over and I have to run to the bathroom. I bet Kayla feels the same.”
    I told Trina about the last year back in Cambridge, when Dad was forgetting to show up at the university and could be found wandering along the Charles River, Mom had been placed on disability leave from her law firm job because she couldn’t make it through the day without falling apart, and my little brother had been caught spray-painting graffiti at the 7-Eleven.
    â€œSounds like this move to the Cape was what your family needed,