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reception that followed. Alexandra standing up, hand on her sister’s shoulder, and saying words that spoke of loyalty and love and intense, passionate sisterhood. Andrea suddenly wondered how Alexandra was doing. They hadn’t spoken in months. Nor had Andrea talked with Jessica, currently at their childhood home in San Francisco finishing her senior year in high school. She didn’t know how either of them were doing. She found herself wishing she’d talked with Jessica more. They’d been close once.
    Sitting here now, watching Sarah outlining her scars in black, she wished she knew them. All of them. She wished she’d been there to comfort Carrie after Ray died. She wished she’d been there for the thousands of big things and small things that had happened in their lives, and she wondered, for the ten thousandth time, why her parents had taken that away from her.
    Leah’s eyes shifted to Andrea like a pair of searchlights. “And you live with your grandmother? In Spain?”
    Mind your own business.
    Instead of vocalizing the thought, she said, “Yes.”
    “It must be beautiful.”
    Andrea shrugged, a short gesture devoid of any meaning.
    “Why do you live there?”
    The eyeliner pencil froze in Sarah’s hand, and her eyes swiveled up toward Leah. Andrea shook her head. “I don’t know. I used to go for summers, then they got longer and longer. When I was about six or seven, my mom sent me to live there permanently, and then I visited here on the holidays.”
    Leah Simpson looked troubled, her face reflecting ill-formed emotions. Andrea looked away. She didn’t need or want anyone’s pity. The one thing she was grateful for was Abuelita. Her grandmother didn’t just raise her. She filled her life with love. Abuelita made sure, every day, that Andrea knew she was loved, no matter what was wrong with her parents.
    “When was the last time you came home?”
    “Home is Calella. Spain.”
    Simpson nodded. “Of course. I meant to say, when was the last time you visited the United States?”
    “Last summer. After the accident.”
    “Not the holidays?”
    Andrea rolled her eyes, but not quick enough to hide the sting.
    She remembered the phone call. A week before Thanksgiving, last fall.
    “Hello?” her mother had said.
    “Mother, it’s Andrea.”
    “Andrea, dear, how are you?”
    Andrea had leaned back at the question, staring at the ceiling, and said, “Bueno, mother. And you?”
    “I miss you, darling.”
    “I’m sure.” Her mother didn’t react to the sarcasm.
    “Mother…” she said.
    “Yes, dear?”
    “I think I want to stay in Spain for the holidays this year. Carrie is still grieving and I have final exams in January. I think I just need some down time.”
    Silence at the other end of the line. Her mother didn’t react. She didn’t say, no, you have to come home, or even no, please come home. She didn’t say that she’d miss Andrea. She didn’t say anything.
    “Mother?” Andrea had said.
    Adelina Thompson’s tone of voice had been uninterpretable. “I see. Well, then.” She had fallen silent again.
    A few weeks later, Christmas had come. Andrea spent Christmas Eve with her grandmother and two of her cousins in the old town centre, walking around the Nacimiento, a massive Nativity scene spreading over nearly the entire square. The town centre was heavily decorated with colorful fruit and flowers, candles in windowsills, Christmas trees and along the edge of the town centre, a bustling Christmas market. Across from the market, the Hogueras , a Christmas bonfire celebrated the shortest day of the year. Shortly after sunset the bonfire was lit. Later, some daring young people would jump over the bonfire. Javier would be among them, laughing and strutting.
    As the stars rose that night, families all over town lit oil lamps in their windows, leaving the entire town sparkling with the lights. She’d ended up spotting Javier that night, kissing a girl in the alley. She wasn’t