--- - ! '"I brought juice packs!" Mrs. Porter said. "In the cooler."

"That''s okay," I said. "I''m not thirsty."

"Oh, but, sweetie -- I always brought juice when I picked you up from school."

It jostled me to be called “sweetie” -- that''s what she''d always called Lizzie. But my heart was aching for Mrs. Porter. It must have been intense to be talking to me -- the first time since Lizzie''s funeral.

"Have some," Chloe said, handing me an ice-cold pack of orange-mango juice. Perfect, I thought -- Lizzie''s number one choice. I slugged some down. A few drops spilled on the beige seats. I wiped them up with the sleeve of my green army jacket.

"How was school?" Mr. Porter asked, the first thing he''d said.

"Pretty good," I said. "I have an English test tomorrow. Lots of homework . . ." At that second, I realized that in the excitement of seeing Chloe, I''d left my backpack next to the stone wall. "Oh, could we go back a sec, actually, I forgot . . ." I started to say.

"Lizzie, English was always your best subject," Mrs. Porter said. "You''ll have nothing to worry about. A poet, that''s what I always said of you. My girl, the poet."

"Um," I said. "You mean ''Emily.''" Lizzie wrote poems' - ! ' I write plays.

"It''s better we start right now, sweetie," Mrs. Porter said. "No going back, no being stuck in old ways. You''ll get used to it. We already have, haven''t we, Chloe?"

"Yeah," Chloe said, looking away from me, out the window.

"Used to what?" I asked. I felt a tiny bit sick to my stomach -- not the most unusual thing in the world. I was known to get carsick, but not usually right here on the sleepy country lanes of my hometown.

"Tell her, Chloe," Mrs. Porter said.

"You''re my sister," Chloe said.

"True, we''re just like sisters," I said. I looked across the seat at her, but she was still staring out the window. That''s when I noticed we had driven past the cemetery. We were at the stop sign, about to turn onto Shore Road.

"Not ''like,''" Mr. Porter said.

Nausea bubbled up in me. I was going to be sick. "Please, could you pull over?" I asked. No one replied. Mr. Porter just drove faster, past the gold-green salt marsh. "Stop," I said, feeling dizzy.

Mr. Porter didn''t, though, and no one spoke. I saw the traffic light looming -- once we went through we''d be on I-95, the interstate heading to wherever -- and my head spun with the fact that these were people I loved, trusted as much as anyone, but who were acting so bizarre. This couldn''t be happening -- I didn''t even know what "this" was, but my gut was telling me it was now or never. This was my chance. We stopped at the red light. I grabbed the handle and pulled, trying to yank open the door. Nothing happened.'