Hopefully, Lillia will text back, because I would have loved to have seen Reeve’s face too. Even so, I know it worked—my plan worked. Reeve’s heart is broken. There’s no doubt about it.

The whole thing reminded me of that day down at the docks, when Reeve told all those guys that he wasn’t my friend. My heart broke that day for sure.

Now we’re the same.

“Oh, hey. How old is your aunt Bette? Does she have any dresses from the twenties?”

Kat, she’s not that old! She’s only forty-six.”

Kat guffaws. “My bad. I just thought she might have some vintage stuff you could borrow for New Year’s Eve.”

I swallow. “You don’t mean Rennie’s party?”

“Um.” Kat looks blankly at me for a second, then starts shaking her head. “Here’s the thing. I overheard someone talking about the bouncer password. Everyone at school will be there. I thought it will be fun to crash. She won’t even notice us.”

“What about Lillia? She won’t want to go there.”

“We’ll convince her. What else is she going to do?”

When we get to the high school, Kat waves good-bye and heads toward T-Town. I pick up the bike path and head home.

I can feel it, inside. The peace and the quiet where the rage used to be. It’s like the lowest of low tide; all that bad stuff has gone out to sea. I suck in a deep breath, and it hits me like a ton of bricks.

I can go home now. Not to Middlebury. Home home. Back with my parents.

Now that Reeve’s gotten his, now that I’ve got closure, what’s keeping me on Jar Island? I love Lillia and Kat to death, obviously, but they’re both out of here next year. It’s not like I’ve made a ton of other friends. It’s the perfect time to say good-bye to Jar Island. I came, I saw, I conquered. I’ll tell my parents to come here for New Year’s, and I’ll leave with them.

There’s a twinge at my heart, thinking about leaving Aunt Bette behind, especially the way the house is. And the way our relationship is. But maybe she can come with us. Why not? She could use getting off this island as much as I could. Mom and Dad could hire someone to work on the house while it’s empty, get it back to tip-top shape by summer.

Yes, this is the plan. I stop at the water, watching a ferry chug off. I imagine being on it, sandwiched between my mom and dad. All of us so happy, back where I belong. With my family. With my life on track.

I fight the urge to immediately tell the girls. I don’t want to upset them, or let them try to convince me to stay, or at least to finish out the year. I feel the sort of peace that comes from any good decision. It’s the right thing to do.

When I get home, I decide to start packing. No time like the present! I feel like I’ve got so many more clothes than when I came here. I’m not sure how; I don’t remember ever going shopping.

I pack all my summer stuff first, the things I came with. Then I make a few trips down to the basement and out to the garage to get the stuff I left behind the first time. Like my old Nancy Drew books and the photo albums. I sing while I do it, all the Christmas carols that Mr. Mayurnik taught us in chorus.

I feel so so so good. I’ve never felt better.

Aunt Bette doesn’t ask me what I’m doing. She watches me, quiet, from the living room. The rest of the house is a mess, a complete mess, but I can get started on that later. We’re both going to have to pitch in if we want to have this place cleaned up before Mom and Dad come.

Aunt Bette gets a call after dinner, and I can tell right away that it upsets her.

“What is it?” I say.

She sinks into a kitchen chair. “One of the galleries where I sell my paintings is closing down. They want me to come pick up my work tonight.” She glances at the clock and rubs her temples. “Now, actually.”

“Gee. Nice of them to give you a heads-up.” I say it sarcastically, with a mean laugh. But Aunt Bette doesn’t even crack a smile. “I’ll go with you,” I tell her. “You might need help carrying stuff.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, Mary, I don’t—”

“It’s no trouble. I’m finished with my homework.” That’s a lie, but whatever. How long would this take? As weird as things have been between us lately, I’m still worried about her. She might need me. She doesn’t have friends like I do, to have her back.

Anyway, there’s something about this that feels like good timing. Hopefully, Aunt Bette will leave Jar Island with my parents and me. And now that this gallery isn’t showing her work anymore, well . . . what reason does she have to stay? She could get a fresh start somewhere else, like me.

I meet Aunt Bette in her Volvo. I was thinking she’d change into a pair of pants and a nice sweater, but she’s still in her housecoat. And her hair is wild. I don’t think she’s combed it today. And maybe not yesterday either.

Her hands are trembling. We’re driving kind of fast, taking the turns too sharp.

“You’re nervous.”

She glances at me out of the side of her eyes. “Mary. Please. Do not say a word, okay? Not to me, not to the owner. I want to get in and out of there as fast as I can.”

“Okay. Sure. You won’t even know I’m there. Promise.” Hopefully, I won’t have to say anything. But if I need to, I’m not going to hesitate.

The gallery is down in T-Town, at the end of a small stretch of businesses. There are about half as many stores here as there are on Main Street in Middlebury, and none of them are as nice. Of all the parts of Jar Island, T-Town probably gets the least amount of tourists. It’s more a place for the locals. So I’m not surprised the gallery went under.

The gallery is a white building on a corner. It has a big window in front, and across the bottom of the glass, in gold-stencil, it reads art in the jar, lowercase letters because I guess that’s the thing? A temporary wall is directly behind the window. I figure that’s where they hung the best paintings. It’s bare now, pockmarked with nail holes.

The front door is propped open. I can see a ladder inside, a bunch of drop cloths, open cans of paint. There’s a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor in the center, her hair tied back in a black scarf. She’s thumbing through some papers inside a cardboard box.

Aunt Bette turns off the car and takes a few deep breaths. She walks in. I watch her from the car. The woman doesn’t smile; she doesn’t even seem to say hello to Aunt Bette. She just points toward the back.