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was a percussionist in Andrew’s middle-school orchestra last year, when she was in eighth grade. I pictured her whacking a kettledrum with her buzzed-up, bleached punk hair. I pictured Andrew whacking a drum next to Maddie, his hair flopping around. Then I remembered Andrew saying to me at breakfast, “See you at the concert tonight, right?”
    Andrew had been practicing for months to do a piano solo at his spring concert.
    â€œHoly shit. Andrew!” I shouted.
    â€œWhat?” Cody asked.
    I looked at my phone. 7:10. There was a text from Jerri. Where are you?
    My throat clenched. “Oh no. I have to go.”
    â€œYou need a ride?” Cody asked.
    I shook my head and jumped out of my seat. Karpinski called after me, “You still owe for pizza!”
    I ran out the door, grabbed my bike out of Cody’s truck and, angry hammy and all, pumped it like a mother all the way to the middle school (going the wrong way up Second Street for half the trip—dumbass cars honking at me).
    I was way late. I missed the whole crappy concert. Jesus, I still feel sick about this. Andrew spent half his free time last year writing feltonreinstein.com for me, and what do I do? Forget his whole concert.
    â€¢ • •
    Crap. I have to take a whiz. Someone is going to take my seat (I can see an old man eyeballing it, I swear) and I have to take my carry-on bag into the bathroom where it will absorb weenus germs. Gross.
    Okay. Going to do this.

August 15th, 2:50 p.m.
O’Hare Airport, Part II
    I did not die in the bathroom. That’s good, huh? They have these crazy hand dryers in there. It’s like sticking your hands into a tiny, wicked tornado. Awesome. Your skin blows into crazy ridges.
    Some plane to Philadelphia is boarding, so there are plenty of seats for me at the gate. Woo!
    Okay. Back to the tragedy of the missed concert.
    â€¢ • •
    Andrew’s concert was getting out right when I got to the middle school. Parents were flowing out. Dorky kids in their high-water black pants and neck-choking white shirts carried violin cases and cello cases. I saw Bony Emily, Andrew’s best friend, walking next to her mom.
    â€œAndrew still here?” I asked.
    â€œNo. He left right away. Nice going, Felton,” she said.
    â€œCrap.”
    Mr. Burkholz, the middle-school gym teacher, shouted to me while I rolled past: “Nice picture in the paper! Ha-ha!”
    My stomach twisted. Jerk. Mr. Burkholz is one of those teachers who could give a shit if jocks are beating up other kids. He treated Cody and Karpinski like they were his best friends when they were like thirteen. I remember him asking them what they did for fun. Seriously. “What do you dudes do for fun?” They were thirteen. What a chump, Aleah.
    I took off on my bike, then slowed down because I didn’t want to actually get home and have to encounter the disappointment of Andrew and the sadness of Jerri. As you know, though, it only takes a few minutes to get from BMS (Bluffton Middle School) to our house, even if you’re going super slow (which you often did on your Walmart bike last summer). I rolled down the main road hill, saw Jerri’s Hyundai parked out on the driveway, swallowed hard, and thought: I have an excuse, right? Aleah…and my hamstring hurts and someone put posters of me up in school.
    Jerri and Andrew were up in the living room, having the post-event ice cream. (This is a long tradition, as you know.) Usually Andrew is fairly chattery. Usually he is talking a lot, going over the highlights, talking about who screwed up where, how he could’ve improved his performance, etc. When I climbed up the stairs from the garage and basement, though, there was no talking at all. Andrew and Jerri sat in silence.
    Jerri shook her head at me.
    Andrew said, “You missed it.”
    â€œI…I had a bad day.”
    â€œAndrew has been talking about this concert for months,