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Portland who aren’t coming to visit this year because they’re all from Mom’s side of the family—her sister Marti and Uncle Bob, her half-brother Joe and my cousins, Gabby and Griff.
    I miss Mom’s cooking .  I miss the way she made any meal into a feast.  By this time last year our house smelled of sugar and baking bread, cooked apples and pumpkin pies, fudge and cookies and home-made caramel.
    Dad yells, “Hurry up, Aspen!  I can’t be late today!”
    I flop across my bed .  Minutes pass, then a half hour, and all I’ve done is cry.  I ache for Mom’s arm round my shoulder.  I miss the sound of her voice, so much I almost hear it.  Dad knocks softly on my door.  I hold my breath and wait for our creaking stairway to confirm he’s gone downstairs.
    I can’t tell him how Mom is fading away.  I don’t want to hear those words spoken out loud.  It terrifies me to realize that the longer she’s dead, the more I’m forgetting: her smell, her laugh, the way she loved me so completely.  I wish I’d said ‘I love you’ just one last time.  I wish I’d said ‘Good-bye.’
    I’m sorry for that, Mom.  I’m sorry.
     
    I nibble on the breakfast Dad made for me—toast and apple slices—though I’m not hungry.  I’m late for school and I’ve made Dad late, too.  But he drives like he always does, anticipating the traffic lights and keeping five miles under the speed limit.
    “ Maybe we could get a second car,” I say.
    Dad glances at me and frowns.  “I’ll do the school driving for now.” From his tone I know I’ve made him think of Mom, which makes sense.  I mean, I’m thinking of her, too.  I want to talk about her, but there’s a sticky kind of silence in the space between us, like someone has peeled back the Jeep’s roof and filled it to the brim with molasses.
    As we near the school I notice Kyle’s truck, parked sideways across two corner stalls at the edge of the lot.  I haven’t seen his shiny black clean-as-clean Chevy since the day I sat in it, crying like the biggest baby ever.
    Dad stops at the curb and idles , waiting for me to get out.  “Cool old truck,” he says.
    I munch on my apples.
    It’s been four weeks since I poured my heart against Kyle’s sleeve.  Four weeks since we gave each other a full body hug on the front porch of my house.  That day had me feeling so good about things: about Mom and life, about going on.  But since that day Kyle and I have hardly spoken.
    I don’t get it.
    He frowns through class, with his head down. No more poetic insights.  No thoughtful answers.  When we cross paths in the hall he says, “Hey Aspen,” and keeps on walking, pretending he can’t see the questions burning in my eyes.  It’s pathetic, but the more he ignores me the more I listen to his music on YouTube, feeling stupid for telling him about my mom, stupid for falling apart in his arms.  I hate how inside I seem broken, like telling Kyle the truth has come back to mock me, shredding my new-found happiness with the same precision a magpie exhibits for road kill.
    A stray vampire wanders by and Dad asks, “You didn’t know to dress up today?”
    “ I am dressed up.”  I smooth the black warmth of the wool dress I’m wearing.  It’s a simple cut: straight and tight as Saran Wrap.  The sleeves rest at my knuckles, the hem three inches below my knees, the deep scoop neck a perfect showcase for Mom’s looping strands of beads.  I even painted the heels of my boots black, just for the occasion.  It helps, I think, that I’ve been crying.  My face is washed of color.  My eyes feel too big.
    “Lily Munster?” he asks.
    “Who?”
    “An old TV character.”   Dad raises his eyebrows.  “It was a guess.”
    “I’m invisible,” I say.  “You know.  Nothing to draw attention.  Get it?”
    “Not really.”  Dad drums his finge rs across his steering wheel. “How about grabbing a snack after school?” he asks.  “Or going out to