Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

Ashley, Lindsey, and Coral stood there, clustered together. When they saw Marah they screamed—really, it was this ear-piercing shriek—and surged toward her, pulling her into a group hug.

Marah felt as if she were experiencing it all from some great distance. She heard their voices but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Before she knew it, she was being swept out of the condo on the tide of her three best friends’ enthusiasm. They were all talking to her at once as they climbed into Coral’s Honda and drove down to the ferry terminal, where a boat was waiting. They drove right on and parked.

“It’s so cool that you’re back,” Lindsey said, bouncing in the backseat, leaning forward.

“Yeah. We, like, couldn’t believe when Tully called. Were you going to surprise us?” Ashley asked.

“Of course she was,” Coral said from the driver’s seat. “Now, we have to tell you everything!”

“Start with Tyler Britt,” Lindsey said.

“Right. Totally. ” Coral turned to Marah and launched into a long, laughing story about Tyler Britt dating some skanky girl from North Kitsap and getting caught by the cops in his underwear and getting a minor-in-possession ticket and being banned from the homecoming football game.

Marah kept a smile on her face the whole time, but what she was thinking was, I can hardly remember my crush on Tyler Britt. It felt like a lifetime ago. She forced herself to nod and smile; sometimes she remembered to laugh when they told her funny stories about the grad party.

Later, when they were at Lytle Beach, stretched out on brightly colored towels, drinking Cokes and noshing on Doritos, Marah didn’t know what to say.

She felt oddly separate, even though they lay close enough together that their shoulders touched. Coral was talking about college and how glad she was that she and Ashley were going to be roommates at Western Washington University, and Lindsey was whining that she didn’t want to go off to Santa Clara alone.

“Where are you going?” Coral asked Marah.

Honestly, she was so out of it, barely listening in fact, that Marah didn’t hear the question the first time it was asked.

“Mar?”

“Where are you going to college?”

“UW,” Marah said, trying to concentrate. It felt as if a warm gray fog had fallen around her—just her.

She didn’t belong with these girls who giggled all the time and dreamed of falling in love and starting college and thought their moms were too strict.

She wasn’t like them anymore, and by the time their day was over, and they drove her back to Seattle, the awkward silences in the car attested to their understanding of this truth. They walked her up to the condo and gathered around her at the door, but now they all knew there was nothing to say. Marah hadn’t known it before, but friendships could die, too, just wither away. She didn’t have the strength to pretend to be the girl they used to know.

“We missed you,” Coral said quietly, and this time it sounded like goodbye.

“I missed you, too,” Marah said, and it was true. She would give anything to make it still true.

When they left, Marah walked back into Tully’s condo. She found Tully in the kitchen, putting dishes away.

“How was it?”

Marah heard something in Tully’s voice, a slurring of words that didn’t quite make sense. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Tully had had a few drinks, but it was way early for that.

And really, Marah didn’t care. She just wanted to climb into bed and pull the covers up over her head and go to sleep. “It was great,” she said dully. “Better than great. I’m tired, though, so I’m going to take a nap. ”

“Not too long,” Tully said. “I rented Young Frankenstein. ”

One of Mom’s favorite movies. How many times had Mom said, “Valk ziss vay,” and pretended to hunch over like Marty Feldman? And how many times had Marah rolled her eyes in impatience at the old joke?

“Great. Yeah,” she said, and headed for her room.

Eleven

“Tell me that’s not what you’re wearing,” Tully said when Marah walked into the living room on Wednesday night, wearing torn, low-rise flared jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt.

“Huh? It’s teen grief therapy,” Marah said. “Let’s face it, if you’re invited, fashion isn’t your biggest problem. ”

“You have pretty much dressed like a bag lady since you got here. Don’t you want to make a good impression?”