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dresser top, complete with shoes, belts, scarves, jewelry, headbands, everything to get the full effect. If after a few minutes or hours or even a day I still don’t absolutely love the ensemble, I carefully put each item back in its proper place and start from scratch.
    I finally decide on my darkest pair of designer jeans and a beige cashmere cardigan with a Michael Kors white tee underneath. My sand-colored UGGs and brown paisley scarf set it off. I’ll look comfortable, pretty, and soft. I’ll also be conservative enough for church group, but not frumpy.
    “Are you ready, sweetie?” Mom calls from downstairs as I brush the final stroke of mascara on my lashes.
    “Sure, here I come.”
    “I forget — am I taking you to Emma’s house or to her church?”
    “Emma’s first and then her church.” I kiss Mom on the cheek. “We’re picking her up and giving her a ride.”
    “Right.” Mom grabs her black purse that I covet and digs for her keys. “I’m so glad Emma’s church has a dynamic youth group. I love our church, but we’re just not big enough to have that kind of program.”
    I nod. Mom brings this same topic up about every six weeks. It’s like she’s apologizing or something. I don’t mind. I like our church, and I like Emma’s youth group. I don’t mind going to both. I think it actually gives me a broader view, listening tothe different ways both churches approach the same thing. They always end up with Jesus’ love, which is all that matters to me.
    “Remember what happened when Mike Alcott’s son — isn’t his name Mike too? — tried to pull something together?”
    I remember. “It was awful.” I laugh as Mom and I climb into the Prius. “I think maybe four of us showed up for the meeting. We were all too embarrassed to sing because everyone would hear our voices. No one would talk except for Amelia Sorgaf. And she just talked and talked and talked and Mike — that is his name — finally had to cut her off to say the closing prayer.”
    “Like I said,” Mom laughs, starting the car, “I’m glad Emma’s church has somewhere you can go. And, Lindsey . . .” She lays her French-manicured hand on top of mine. “I’m so glad you girls want to go and that you have each other as friends.”
    “Yeah, Em’s great.” I start pushing buttons on the radio. Mom always changes it to her oldies station, which grates on me.
    “You know things are going to be tough in school. Goodness knows with Kristine . . .” Mom’s voice trails off like the red taillights of the car in front of us.
    I forget about the music for now and look at Mom’s silhouette, gray in the dimly lit car. I can tell she’s fighting back tears. Mom’s a family counselor, which is ironic, considering the state of things with Kristine these days. I guess the doctor can never operate on her own family, or a prophet is never recognized in their hometown — something like that.
    Sometimes I’m furious at Kristine. I am both mesmerized and terrified by my sister. She is the epitome of cool. She has that whole cheerleader thing going for her, and her boyfriend makes the entire female population of our school swoon. Of course, she’s sleeping with him. As she told me one time, “Safe sex is better than no sex.” Whatever that means.
    Kristine claims she stays so thin by smoking, and she drinks. “Just a little now and then,” she tells me. “It’s not like I get loaded or anything.” There isn’t a party she isn’t invited to or a student at school who doesn’t know her name.
    I see how popular Kristine is, but I also see the post-party Kristine. The one who makes Mom cry with fear and worry when Kristine comes home in the wee hours of the night. The one who gets escorted home by the police when the party she’s at gets busted. On the nights that Dad travels out of town for his sales job, I hear Mom sobbing into her pillow long after Kristine passes out on top of her covers. On the nights Dad is home, I