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him, he’ll back off.”
    “Probably,” she said. “He was always generally nice and very popular. He’s smart and artistic. It was bizarre when he lost it last year, but who knows, maybe he was having some problems we don’t know about. His friends accepted him back fairly easily. I suppose the rest of us should as well.”
    Acceptance. It was the one thing I’d desired since our move. Evan was right. I should know better than to judge someone on rumors, but then again, something was going on with Connor Jacobs and he was trying to involve me now. I couldn’t deny that.

    “H ERE,” I SAID TO my grandmother, pulling the plate of china out of her hands. “Let me set the table.” She reached in the cabinet for more plates.
    “Thank you, dear.”
    “No problem,” I said, trying not to drop the stack of fragile fine china I carried in my hands. My mother’s mother, Bebe, was great. I’d always enjoyed her presence and even spent weeks with her as a child during the summer. She was fun and loved games and art. It was nice to be near her after such a stressful time. I wasn’t sure how much my mother had told her about the incident at school or the visits to the doctors, but when I arrived she wrapped me into a tight embrace and smoothed my hair like she had when I was little. I suspected she knew more than she was letting on.
    I carried the plates into the dining room and laid them around the table, mentally counting in my head the number of guests and seats. Between my parents, my grandmother and my Uncle John there should have been five. I held up the extra plate. “I think you gave me one too many, Bebe.”
    Bebe arrived into the dining room a moment later with a handful of silverware. “Oh, your Aunt Jeannie is coming for dinner—didn’t your mother tell you?”
    I shook my head and set the plate on the white linen tablecloth. My Aunt Jeannie was really my mother’s cousin, but she was older and had always been more like her big sister since Bebe had helped raise her. I’d only met her a couple of times. She’s an artist in New York and traveled often. My mother and Bebe often told me we were similar in disposition and attitude, but I couldn’t see it. Images of her bohemian style and artistic life came to mind—what I would give to have her carefree attitude.
    “She should be here anytime,” Bebe continued, handing me the utensils, and squeezing my hand in the process. “Put these out and I’ll be in the kitchen.”
    I laid the shiny silverware out, fork on the napkin, knife and spoon to the right of the plate, meticulously working my way around the table. I glanced up and noticed Evan standing near the doorway.
    “I couldn’t resist coming to see you,” he said laughing. “I wish I was getting ready to eat turkey, dressing and all the rest. What kind of pie did your mother make?”
    Cautiously, I looked over my shoulder, before whispering, “Apple.”
    “Ugh, I loved apple pie. And pumpkin. And cherry.” I suppressed a laugh as he ran his hands over his belly and licked his lips in memory.
    “So what you’re saying is, you loved pie.”
    He laughed back. “I did. I was a growing teenage boy. I ate everything in sight.” He walked around the room, touching the antiques placed decoratively around the house. “I see why your mother moved to an older home. She must have missed all this.”
    During times like this it was hard to remember Evan was eternally sixteen. He had rare moments of maturity and insight. “Maybe. I think she likes the energy in an old home, but her decorative style is definitely more contemporary than my grandmother’s.”
    He paused in front of a wild, abstract painting in the center of the wall. “I don’t know…this one is rather bold.”
    I walked over to stand next to him and studied the vivid strokes and heavy paint. There were thick pieces of paper and words swirling around several nondescript forms that jumbled together so I didn’t understand what they