|photo by Willy Wo from Unsplash|

Noah and I finish our shakes with minimal conversation. It's uncomfortable and so incredibly awkward that by the time he parks in our driveway, all I can think about is getting inside and finding someplace I can be alone. I need to finish reading.

But when I reach for the car door latch, I freeze. Lindsay is standing in the front yard, no more than five feet away—a stone-faced teenager wearing running shoes and earbuds.

I take a fortifying breath and open the door. "Thank you," I tell Noah. "For um, everything."

"No problem," he says, but the sentiment doesn't match the tension on his face.

I definitely should not have told him about my dream.

Noah doesn't linger like he did at Faircrest. He shifts into reverse as soon as I'm out of the car. After I close the door he gives me a quick, tense smile and backs out of the driveway. I watch him go, because I don't want to face my sister. I'm not ready to talk—or even think about this weird mix of guilt and resentment that's making my stomach feel like it wants to reject the chocolate-raisin-infused milkshake I drank thirty minutes ago.

"Are you okay?" Lindsay asks.

"I'm fine." I take another breath as I turn around, reminding myself that both of my doctors, Dabney and Greene, said my move here would be a big adjustment—on the entire family. 

"What about you?" I ask.

"All good." She pulls on the black wire draped across her boobs and the tiny speakers pop out of her ears. "Can we go for a walk?"

"Um, sure. But first, I should probably tell Mom I'm home."

"No, don't," Lindsay says, grabbing my arm. "If Mom knows you're back, then we won't be allowed to go for a walk."

She puts a lot of stress on the word we. Meaning Mom won't allow me and Lindsay to walk together?

"Has she texted since you left the house?" Lindsay asks.

"No."

"Then we're fine," she says, dropping my arm. "She hasn't started worrying yet. Why should she? You're with Dodge. He's literally your hero." She blows a sarcastic blast of air out of her nose. Like it's stupid to think of him that way—which I never have until now. But then her eyes get wide with some revelation that makes her smile. "He's your Dream Hero," she says. And she laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask, equal parts annoyed and confused. Because it's almost like she can't control herself. And that's not like Lindsay at all.

She stops abruptly and does this dramatic twist, giving the house a quick glance before she turns back and grabs my arm again. "We should go before Mom looks out the window," she says, leading me into the street.

I don't argue, because now I want time alone with her. I want to find out what the heck that was earlier—that weird argument between her and Mom.

But first, I owe her an explanation. "I'm sorry I left without telling you," I say. "But I swear it wasn't something I planned. I mean, Noah did ask if he could text me, but I never said I would go anywhere with him. I didn't even mean to call him back, but when he offered to come get me, I just...I said yes because at that moment, I was feeling overwhelmed and like, I needed to escape. But that was wrong. I should've knocked on your door or—"

"Nah, it's okay," she says. "I would've done the same thing. That's why I'm out here. This is how I escape."

Her tone makes it sound like an inside joke, but I'm not sure I get it. Is the walk her way of escaping? Or just being outside?

"Seriously though, Ally. I don't have a problem with you hanging out with Dodge. That's not why I showed you the—" She grabs my arm again. "You haven't mentioned the IM app to Mom, have you?"

"No."

"Good," she says, like it's this huge relief. "That's good. But seriously. Don't, okay?"

"I won't. I promise."

Lindsay stops walking. She stares at my hand, head tilted. Puzzled, I guess, because I'm holding out my fist?

She makes a fist of her own and taps it against mine. Then we both open our hands, fingers fanned, and thread them together, like a hand hug. "I can't believe you remember that," she says.

"Um, yeah. It's something we made up a long time ago. Because we thought we were too cool for the pinky swear. Right?"

"Yes and no. We made that up the first summer we lived in Virginia. Before you met Samantha and Dodge."

Lindsay flings her arms open and crashes herself against me for a hug. She's taller now, but so am I. If I stretch my neck, I can still rest my chin on her head. I still look like her big sister, even if I don't act like one. I hug her back, so hard, because this is the Lindsay I've been waiting for. She even smells right, like the strawberry bubblegum she was obsessed with when we were kids.

"I'm really glad you're back," she says, and the sweet vulnerability in her voice is like a validation that her odd behavior all these weeks has been exactly what I thought it was: a cry for help. My little sister needed me, and moving here was absolutely the right decision. All we need is a little time to adjust—and to talk a few things out. Then everything will be fine. The Virginia house will feel like home.

"What's it like being around Dodge now?" she asks, wiggling out of my arms. "Do you like him?"

"I don't know him well enough to like him," I say.

But that doesn't feel entirely true.

"You are blushing so hard right now," Lindsay says, smiling. "That's good, Ally. Dodge is a good guy. I didn't understand that when we were kids. I didn't know what it was like to feel those feelings."

"Meaning you do now?"

She nods. Vigorously. And I have to remind myself that my little sister is fourteen. She has boobs and her period—and all the hormonal urges that go with it.

"There's a guy," she says, pink-cheeked and swoony. "He has this great, unruly brown hair and green, green eyes and when he looks at me, my bones turn into oatmeal. I understand why you wanted to spend time with a boy instead of your bratty little sister. You weren't doing it to be mean. You were in love, right?"

"Um." Her bones turn to oatmeal?

"You don't remember," she says. "But you were totally in love with Dodge and I was so stupid. Promise me you'll remember that when you talk to Samantha."

All the confidence that came with Lindsay's hug leaves me. "I got back into the IM conversations," I tell her. "I know about the boy from New Jersey—I know you told Noah."

She starts walking again. So fast and determined, I have to jog to catch up with her.

"It's not a big deal, Linds. I mean, yeah, it does seem like you were on a mission to keep me and Noah from getting together. But I deserved it, right? I was a pain in the ass, too."

Lindsay veers off the road. She hops off a culvert and into...like...a shallow drainage ditch that runs between two houses. There's a tall wooden fence around one of the backyards, and the other has a border of flowering shrubs that runs the length of the property. And this neighborhood has a lot of trees—skyscraper trees with thick leaf canopies that block out the late afternoon sun. So it almost feels like we're walking into a tunnel.

She stops and digs into her pocket. She bites into her bottom lip as she maneuvers something to the surface. It's small and white, and apparently fragile, but I can't say that I know what it is. Then she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out...a lighter?

Yes, it is. One of those plastic cigarette lighters they keep by the cash register in convenience stores. But the thing in my little sister's other hand is not a cigarette. She pinches it between her fingers and holds it to her lips while she flicks her thumb on the lighter—practiced and casual. And she closes her eyes against the smoke as she breathes it in.

I've seen this in movies and on television. So I know what she's doing. But still, I have to ask. "Are you smoking weed?"

Lindsay nods, because she doesn't want to let the smoke out of her lungs.

Because holding the smoke is what makes you get high.

My little sister is getting high.