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her. I mean, her eyes light up, and she gets this big smile, kind of like a little kid at Christmas. That should make me feel good. But it makes me sad. And sometimes it makes me angry—like I want to shout at her and say, “Look what you did, Marissa! Look how you messed up your life by going to a stupid drinking party when people who loved you—people like me—warned you not to! How many times did we tell you that drinking and driving do not mix?!” But how can I do that? Especially when she’s sitting there with her shaved head (from the surgery), looking rather pathetic with her scars and bruises still healing. And so I just sit down and talk to her like the therapist has encouraged us to do.
    Today I told her about Wyatt and Vanessa and how I was eating lunch with them. She couldn’t remember who they were, which is not so unusual. For that reason we keep some old yearbooks in her room. I found pictures of both of them, not hard to do since they’re both so popular, but when I pointed them out, Marissa scowled.
    She shook her head. “No,” she said gruffly.
    “Why?”
    “Bad girl.” She pointed to Vanessa’s smiling face in the cheerleader photo.
    “I know. She’s a snob, and she can’t be trusted, but if God loves her, so can I, right?”
    Marissa frowned at me, then pointed at the photo again. “Bad girl, Maya. Not good.”
    I smiled. “Some people used to call you a bad girl, Marissa.”
    She gave me a lopsided grin. “I
good
bad girl.”
    “Maybe Vanessa will be a good bad girl too. People can change, you know.”
    “No,” she said firmly. “Banana…no…” She looked confused now, and I had to think.
    “You mean Vanessa?”
    “Yes. Banessa.”
    I put my upper teeth against my lower lip to make a
V
sound. “Vanessa,” I corrected her. This is something else we’re encouraged to do.
    She imitated me and said, “V-v-va-nessa.”
    “Good!”
    “No. Bad. V-v-vanessa bad. Bad girl.”
    “Okay,” I conceded. “Let me show you another bad girl who’s one of my friends.” I took the yearbook back and hunted until I found a photo of Siobhan. “Do you know her?” I asked Marissa.
    “Yes.”
    “Siobhan.” I said the name slowly.
    “Shu-on,” she tried.
    “That’s close,” I told her and then repeated the name slowly. “SHUH-bon.”
    “Siobhan,” she said perfectly.
    “Good!”
    “Siobhan good.”
    “Siobhan is a
good
girl?”
    “Yes. Good girl. Good bad girl. Siobhan my friend.”
    I was surprised by this. I didn’t recall Marissa hanging with Siobhan last year. But then I didn’t even remember seeing Siobhan around. Perhaps more surprising was that Marissa not only had managed to get her name right and to string some words together but had remembered Siobhan in the first place.
    “You and Siobhan were friends?” I persisted.
    “Yes. Friend. Siobhan my friend.” She pointed to me. “Maya my friend.” Then she pointed over my shoulder. “Chloe my friend. Allie my friend.”
    I turned to see Chloe and Allie standing in the hallway. These girls have been friends with Marissa longer than I have. Evenbefore they started their rock band, Redemption. And when the band took off and they began recording and touring, they continued the friendship. Chloe, who looks like a real rocker chick with her spiky dark hair, pierced eyebrow, black leather skirt, and tall boots, waved to Marissa. “That’s right,” she said as the two of them came over to stand on the other side of Marissa’s bed. “We’re all friends, aren’t we?”
    “Siobhan friend,” Marissa said again.
    “Siobhan Blakely?” Allie glanced at me, but her blue eyes seemed slightly confused.
    “Yeah,” I said. “I was telling Marissa that Siobhan is my friend, and she said Siobhan was her friend too.”
    “That’s cool,” Chloe said in a way that reminded me of her sister-in-law, Caitlin. Both these girls are especially kind and gracious to everyone—no matter who they are.
    At that point I was