Honk.

The springs of Melanie's Subaru sagged as I climbed in, holding the overfull bowls of oatmeal precariously over my lap.

"Hey." Melanie's black, loopy braid was sopping wet. It spattered the back of her seat with fine droplets.

"Hey," I echoed. I reached into my jacket for a spoon and felt my fingers brush against my Mom's earrings. Crap. There was no way my mom wouldn't notice these missing.

I tried to hand Melanie an oatmeal, but she waved it away. "My mom says if I hit another pole I'll be paying for my own insurance. I'm in responsible driver mode. Both hands on the wheel."

She patted the wheel with her fingertips.

"I feel safer already," I said, drawing the seatbelt across my chest.

"But if you feed me my oatmeal..."

We passed my younger brother waiting at the bus stop. He was talking to the two other kids who lived on our cul-du-sac, showing them the pinewood derby car he was working on for woodshop. He pretended not to notice us until Melanie stopped at the intersection and laid on her adorable horn.

"Speaking of being responsible," Melanie said, pausing for me to spoon feed her. She chewed, then continued with a full mouth. "Did I tell you I walked in on Nate naked? It was like, six minutes after you and Navid left."

"You texted me something about that." I took a bite of my oatmeal and worked through a thick glob of cinnamon. "Does that mean you're, like, married now?"

"By Utah law, yes. Til death do we part."

Melanie clamped down hard on the wheel and swerved around a pothole. The old Melanie would have slammed into it at full speed. She was taking this seriously.

"Apparently Dylan got trashed and threw up all over him," she said. "I heard water running and thought someone left the sink on or something, so I went to shut it off, but nope. There's Nate, washing his clothes in the shower."

"That's what happens when you have showers without curtains."

"Right? My parents are too snobby for curtains. I don't think they'll be happy until they live in an eighteenth century French castle."

We turned down the road that led to the road that led to the dusty path that led to the small grassy hill that was Parker's street. Parker's house wasn't on our way to school. Parker's house wasn't on the way to anything.

The nose of the car turned upward and kissed dirt. Parker was already outside sitting at the top of the hill. He put out his hand for us to stop and loped down the monster of a driveway, arms flopping as he jogged. He was still wearing the shirt he'd been wearing last night.

"Hungover as hell," Melanie diagnosed. "He should cut his losses and make it a four day weekend."

Parker fell into the backseat the way a tree might fall into a lumber pile. He pulled his backpack over his face.

Melanie patted him over the center console. "Good morning."

"I don't even know why I'm here," Parker wheezed. "I am death."

Melanie yanked the wheel sharply and we were on our way. With the first lurch of the car, Parker's backpack tipped open and spilled pencils all over the floor. His face smooshed into the upholstery.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Into the cushy seat, he said, "Fun party."

Melanie nodded with pride. She had inherited the all-important role of hosting The Quarterly. It was an honor and a nightmare, even after Navid's cleaning effort. I could only imagine the state her house was in. Parker and I had both volunteered to come over and clean before her parents got home from vacation.

Melanie's parents had retired young after a shock success selling plastic car accessories, the little balls you used to put on your car antennae shaped like Winnie The Pooh or Mickey Mouse or a baseball mascot. No one had car antennaes anymore, but it didn't matter; they'd already made out with their fortune. Now they spent most of their time touring the world, as rich people were want to do, leaving behind a big, empty house and a we-won't-ask-if-the-police-don't policy.

I needed to ask Melanie how she always managed to convince them to go out of town when it was Quarterly time.

"I can't believe you abandoned me and went to Melanie's room," Parker complained into his backpack. "Before I came and found you, I had to hang out with Dylan and Logan and Jake and the rest of the basketball guys. They never stop throwing things. Doesn't have to be a basketball. Doesn't even have to be ball-shaped."

He stretched out, yawned, and rolled onto his side. I pushed a spoonful of oatmeal toward him and he opened his mouth lazily.

"Watches, oranges, beers, diningware," Parker muttered sleepily, mouth full of oats. "Is that what basketball does to you? Just makes you want to toss random shit around? I don't get it."

The drive to school was quick. Melanie swerved around potholes like she was deathly allergic. I held the bowls of oatmeal steadily so she could take bites at stop signs, which, true to her nature, she took at a roll. At least she respected the dangerous ones. In a town this small, we all knew where the speed traps were.

The parking lot was nearly full when we arrived. Students bustled around the red brick building like a hive. Athletes were just getting released from morning practice and ran to the showers, shivering, splashing through gray mounds of curbside slush.

"Pull over!" Parker shouted, sitting up in his seat. As soon as the car was mostly stopped, he threw open the door and stumbled into the pavement, tripping over his feet. He pulled it together into a casual jog and joined Kimberly Ellison, his current pursuit, pseudo-casually pretending to be going the same direction as her.

"'Thanks for the ride,'" Melanie mocked, watching Parker hit on Kimberly.

"Do you want to carry his backpack, or do I have to?" I asked. He'd left it in the back seat.

"Oh no," Melanie said, fingers clasped around the steering wheel. "I can't, I'm driving!"

"You're right!" I said, grabbing the backpack. "I'm so inconsiderate!"

I was about to push the car door open when Melanie paused me with a quick, "Hey."

I knew her tone. She used it when she knew she shouldn't bring something up, but she was going to anyway. "Only one more Quarterly and it'll be the anniversary."

"I noticed that, too."

We sat there a moment, watching Parker hold the door open for Kimberly. We were early; first bell hadn't yet rung. We had some time to sit and dwell.

"Mom's making me go back to the school counselor," Melanie said, playing with her braid. "She thinks this time of year is going to dredge up old feelings, or whatever."

The school guidance counselor, Mr. Greeley, liked to make you relive difficult conversations through puppet shows. I needed puppet therapy to help me forget my puppet therapy.

"I'm sorry," I said, wondering which puppet Melanie chose to play herself. I used the matted old bear named Mr. Tumbles. He was missing an eye. "I'd come with you, but I think Mr. Greeley forgot I existed, and I want to keep it that way."

"Great, it'll just be me, Savannah, and Logan, talking about our feelings." Melanie stuck out her tongue. "We have the most screwed up homeroom class in history."

Our homeroom class did have an exceptionally high number of students seeing the guidance counselor. Three years ago, Savannah Carlton's little sister died. After it happened, I remembered thinking, wow. That is so awful. I can't imagine. That was back when my brother was still around and my parents were on speaking terms. These days, I thought I saw her catching my eye in the hallway a little more than usual, giving a quick smile.

Then again, there was a big difference between Savannah's sister and my brother. I could hope Peter was coming back. I could be angry with him once — if — he did.

And I wasn't sure if I was allowed to, or supposed to, move on.

I didn't know what was going on with Logan Southerland that had him making monthly reports to the guidance counselor. Knowing the crowd he ran with, it wasn't anything responsible.

"It's like guidance referrals are contagious," I agreed, twisting Parker's backpack straps. "My mom thinks I'm not handling the divorce."

"I'm surprised you haven't, like, pulled a fire alarm yet."

"I'm extremely well-adjusted," I said, twisting the straps until they strained. "It mostly irritates me that my Mom and Dad keep talking about the divorce like it was some big surprise. Like they were doing just fine before Peter left and broke everyone in half."

"Your mom scares me so much," Melanie said, finally opening the car door. "Does your Dad address her by 'ma'am?'"

"She prefers 'Your Majesty.'"