Maisie asked, "Why do you go to therapy? I know why I go — I've been screwed over by my parents. But why do you go? There's nothing wrong with you. Is there?"

"Uh, it's kind of personal," I replied.

Maisie grabbed the yearbook from Susan's hands and rifled the pages. She was impatient with Susan's slowness in going through the book. "Oh, look at this!" Maisie said, turning the book toward us, showing one of the last pages.

It was a tribute to Misty Sabatino: a collage of pictures of her. There was one of the twins (her and the young Mrs. Wix) with their heads together, but all the rest were Misty alone. In some she was dancing, in one she played a guitar. You saw her laughing, walking to school...

"Look," Susan said, "She's smiling in all of them except this one." She pointed to a small photo off to the side of the collage. It showed a pale, big-eyed Misty staring straight into the camera.

"She looks so sad!" Maisie commented.

"Like a little lost girl," Susan added.

I froze. It was unmistakably the girl I saw in the window. It couldn't be anyone else.

"What?" Maisie asked, catching my expression.

"Nothing," I said with a shiver. "It's just awful that she died so young."

I wasn't sure I wanted to tell anyone that I'd seen Misty's face in the window. I could still believe I'd only imagined it, but that was a little harder now that I recognized the face. Then again, maybe I was only fooling myself into thinking that it was Misty's face I'd seen. It could easily have been a girl who looked like Misty. It could even have been someone from the Sabatino family, a teenage girl who wanted to look around her family's house before my family moved in.

"So, it's a mystery," Susan said.

I realized that I missed something. "What's a mystery?" I said.

"I knew you were off in the clouds!" Maisie laughed. "This should be right up your alley, you girl detective, you."

"I'm not a girl detective," I said.

Maisie shrugged.

"So what's the mystery?" I repeated.

Susan answered, "Why Mrs. Wix was the evil twin. It looks like Ms. Overmore was friends with Misty, not Ma– Mrs. Wix."

Maisie said, "I wonder whether Ms. Overmore blames Mrs. Wix for Misty's death?"

"Oooh," Susan said. "A guilt trip." She flipped to one of the pages in front, then nodding said, "Ms. Overmore was on the yearbook staff. She could have made the tribute and slipped in the 'evil twin' comment."

Maisie continued, "Maybe Mrs. Wix is so dowdy because she feels it's her fault."

This was the side of Maisie that I didn't like at all. She could be so incredibly unkind. "I like Mrs. Wix," I said.

Maisie looked at me for a moment, and said, "You would, Mark."

At first I felt distress, but then remembered my mother's suggestion about the Peppermint Patty comments: If you ignore it, they'll probably stop saying it. Maisie was only trying to get a rise out of me. So I smiled.

Then something struck me. "Wait. If Misty was killed by a drunk driver, how could it possibly be Mrs. Wix's fault?"

Maisie shrugged.

"I don't know either," Susan replied, "but what else could the evil-twin remark be about? I doubt that Mrs. Wix put that under her own picture. I mean, who was the driver?"

The three of us sat looking at each other until Maisie said, "So what's next? Is there somebody we could ask?"

Susan replied, "I think I can get to the public library tomorrow night. I could look through old issues of the Flickerbridge Sentinel. We know the date, so it shouldn't take me long to find the story."

"Good thinking," Maisie admitted. Then added, "Better you than me!"

When I got out of detention, Ida's car was waiting for me. I was a little excited; this would be my first view of the inside of my new house. And there was a surprise waiting in the car: Maisie, dressed in jeans. "Hey, girl!" she called to me.

"What are you up to?" I asked.

"I'm helping you clean your new house," she replied. I smiled. "I do know how to clean," she informed me. "You'll see. Everything shiny, clean, and manageable."

"Cool," I said.

Ida broke in. "I have a message from your mother, and a menu for you to look at. The message is, your therapy appointment is moved to next Saturday. Here's the menu. I need to know what you want for dinner so I can put the order in."

As I tried to scan the menu, Maisie said, "Why do you go to therapy? I know why I go — I've been screwed over by my parents. But why do you go? There's nothing wrong with you. Is there?"

"Uh, it's kind of personal," I replied.

Maisie gave me a look of disbelief. "What do you mean personal? I'm your friend. You can tell me."

"I can't," I said.

She looked genuinely shocked. "Marcie," she protested. "You have to tell me! I'll let you read my diary if you tell me."

"You keep a diary?"

"Yes, Miss Goldenflower makes me," she said. "She's my therapist."

"I wish you wouldn't call her that," Ida scolded. "You know that's not her name. And you can't ask Marcie that question. Let a girl have her secrets."

Maisie looked daggers at the back of her mother's head. "But you're going to ask Marcie's mom, though, aren't you? If you haven't already. When you find out, will you tell me? I'll be a loving daughter if you do."

Ida scoffed. "Hardly," she replied. I wasn't sure which part of Maisie's remark she was replying to, but it didn't matter.

"Let me think about how to tell you," I said.

"Okay," Maisie replied. She looked out the window, then back at me. "Have you thought about it?"

"No," I laughed. "Maisie, give it a rest. It really is personal."

"But you'll tell me?"

I opened my mouth and shut it. Then I said, "I'll tell you something. Not everything."

"Hmmph!" She didn't really seem put out. She just wanted to tease me and get me riled.

And so she fell silent for a bit. Then an idea hit her. Smiling a wicked little smile, she whispered, "It's the Mark business, isn't it?"

I don't know why I didn't react. Maybe it's because I knew something a little mean was coming. She was right, but at the same time she was so, so wrong.

I looked at her and felt a strange feeling that I don't think I've ever felt before: I felt kind of sorry for Maisie. I felt pity. Her mother seemed nice, but if what Maisie said was true, neither of her parents really gave a damn about her. As far as I could tell, Susan and I were her only friends, and our friendship was still fairly superficial. She couldn't hang out with Susan, or even talk to her, except during odd moments at school.

So what did she do before I arrived at BYHS? What does she do after school now? Is she alone all the time?

"Oh, Maisie," I said. "You are a terror." She grinned happily.

I guess having someone to tease is the closest she's come to having a friend.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way