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into the family room, tell them that we grabbed some Dunkin on the road and now you’ve got a stomach thing—”
    â€œYeah, good. Dunkin. Stomach thing. That’s actually not a lie.”
    â€œRight. And then they can ask me about when practice is going to start up again and you can slip into some jammies and into bed and if they want to come check on you, you can pretend to be asleep.”
    â€œBut I want to cuddle you.” This was partly the shrooms talking, but it was also the way we were. Neither of us had sisters, so we spent a lot of time doing what we thought sisters did. Braiding each other’s hair, cuddling, fighting. We hadn’t fought in a few weeks, but I knew a fight was coming. Maybe mid-cuddle, probably in the morning.
    â€œGet your shit together, kiddo,” Tess was bound to tell me in her exasperated big-sister voice. And I would nod and she would scowl and we would both know that it doesn’t matter because I always end up doing the same shit all over again.
    For now, in the driveway, we weren’t fighting. We were moving. “First things first,” Tess said as she grabbed my shoulders and pointed me to the door. “Upstairs. Eyes on the prize.”
    â€œAye-aye, cap’n,” I said, and strode up the brick walkway. Though I was still noticing so much—the rustle of leaves that sounded like rain, the glint of evening sunlight on the silver knocker that reminded me of a sword—I must not have noticed some obvious stuff, such as the skateboard resting against the oak tree in the front yard. I pushed open the door without knowing what I was really walking into.
    Now, here’s something you’ve got to understand. No one
ever
hangs out in our living room. It’s strictly aChristmas-Eve-and-the-grandparents-are-visiting corner of the house. So when I stepped inside and saw three people sitting on the living room couch together, I was tempted to turn tail and not look back. Figured I’d stumbled into the neighbor’s place.
    Dad’s voice cast an anchor, though. “Speak of the devil!” he hollered.
    My head pivoted, and then my gaze landed on the person sitting between my parents. A boy. In a suit. On our living room couch. He stood, and I spoke. “And the devil doesn’t have a clue what the hell is going on.”
    Mom rose to her feet next and she presented the boy like he was a car for sale. “It’s Dylan . . .”
    â€œHovemeyer, ma’am,” Dylan said as he pulled down on his jacket to straighten out the wrinkles. There were a lot of wrinkles.
    Now it was Dad who stood and remarked, “Hovemeyer? I’ve seen that name in the old cemetery by St. Francis.”
    â€œOur family goes back a ways,” Dylan said with a nod. “And people tend to die.”
    I knew Dylan. Well, I didn’t know him personally, but everyone at school
knew
him. He was the one you suspected. Of what? Well, name it.
    â€œHey, it’s . . .” Tess had joined me in the doorway, her hand on my back.
    â€œDylan Hovemeyer,” he said, stepping toward us with a hand outstretched. I wasn’t sure which one of us the hand was intended for, but Tess was quicker on the draw. As she shook Dylan’s right hand, I presented my left one and soon I was shaking his left one. A pulse of energy zipped between the three of us, back and forth,like people doing the wave at a stadium. “We all have econ together,” he went on.
    â€œRiiiight,” Tess and I said at the same time, as if this were something we’d never thought about before, which was total BS. We’d discussed Dylan. We had theories about him.
    Mom’s face crinkled up as she said, “I assumed you were already friends.”
    â€œWe’re
becoming
friends,” Dylan said, staring at me. “Fast friends.”
    The handshake à trois was still going strong and Tess gave me that what-now?