All day I try to shut out the numbers repeating in my head.

But I can't. By the time I walk into Pre-Calculus, the sevens have clustered into pairs: 77...77...77...77...77.

When the bell rings and I leave the classroom, a nine joins in: 779...779...779...779...779.

It's Wednesday, which means that today I'm scheduled to meet with Mrs. Latrobe, the school psychologist. She's nice enough, I guess. She's always wearing these loose sweaters of muted colors and long polished-stone necklaces. I bet she lives in Park Slope. She always smiles warmly, but she's the kind of lady you know has no idea what to do with a quiet, messed up kid like me.

Invariably her questions loop back around to asking me whether I've started remembering anything about my disappearance. She says it's not likely that things will start to come back to me, but possible. I think she's afraid of what I might remember.

"You don't have to talk about anything you're not comfortable with, Celeste," she reassures me. "But if you've located any new memories you want to share, I'm here to listen."

And that's when the numbers scrolling through my head suddenly attach themselves to a word: 779 . . . sterling.

But I don't say anything to Mrs. Latrobe about it. Last year, this kid's dad shot her mom and killed himself, and afterward the kid kinda lost it. She visited Mrs. Latrobe for a few weeks, but finally they put her in a special school for traumatized adolescents. And that's the last thing I want. So I pretend that everything is normal.

I shrug at Mrs. Latrobe and mumble, "I don't remember anything at all."

Still, I can't help but hope that I'm not totally crazy and that 779 sterling just might have something to do with my disappearance—and, by extension, my sister.