appendix. But most of our adaptations are good ones. I remembered a story I’d fact-checked about a Japanese doctor who’d been arrested for surgically disconnecting young men’s fear circuits, plucking apart their brain fibers like a threadbare tapestry. It was a for-service hire, a dimming of the amygdala in a half-dozen humans, suddenly preternaturally brave. But also stupid, self-endangering. Fear is a survival mechanism, as any half-witted high school biology student can tell you. Darwin knew that dead men don’t reproduce.
But the impulse to rewire a brain, that I knew all too well. My own parents had worked hard at it, mucking around in my skull—chemically rather than surgically—from the time I was old enough to have a personality.
Middle school: me at my ugliest; Dad’s eyes as he turned to me, a mixture of fury and fear. The oval of blood growing syrupy on the floor. I read once that seventh grade is exactly when your brain undergoes its biggest changes since infancy, overproducing brain cells and then killing off most of them. Letting them duke it out for survival. Which is ironic, really, since seventh grade is a bunch of confused preteens doing the same thing.
* * *
I dashed outside at my stop and stepped through the rain toward Mrs. Iredale’s home. Her town house was orange brick and cute, with bay windows and navy trim and a small front yard in need of mowing. Next door some kids were playing in their own wet patch of lawn, stomping into puddles with their brows knitted in concentration. On the porch, my hand jumped out and rang the doorbell before I could stop to think about it.
No answer. Again, the relief/disappointment cocktail.
“What’s your name?” It was one of the girls next door, her wet hair matted to her face.
“I’m Lindsay.” I flashed them a smile. “What’s your name?”
“Sophie.” She picked a bathing suit wedgie unflinchingly. Kids can be so unflappable. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to Mrs. Iredale. I was friends with her daughter.”
She cocked her head. “Mrs. Iredale?”
Shit, was this the wrong house?
“Can I help you?” It was an adult voice, a knowing voice, coming up the path behind me.
“Mrs. Iredale, I’m Lindsay. Edie’s friend. I’m—I’m sorry to bother you.” I was struck, frozen. She was beautiful, with silver-streaked hair and Edie’s freckles and a serious expression on an otherwise impish face.
“It’s Ms.,” she said. “Ms. Iredale.”
“I’m sorry. That’s right. I’m…I’ve been thinking about putting together a little commemorative video of Edie to share with her friends,” I continued, cursing myself for wasting all that time on the bus not coming up with a better lie, “and I thought you might be interested in sharing some photos. And I have to tell you, I tried to find your number or email address and just wasn’t having any luck, but I saw your address online and was heading up to Riverdale this morning anyway, so…”
She peered at me. “You found my address but not my email?”
I shook my head, felt the rush of blood to my cheeks. “I’m sorry, that came out like a save-face kind of thing—to be honest, I had the idea when I was already on the bus here.”
“The commemorative video? Or coming to see me?”
“Oh, coming to see you, I mean. I’m doing the video either way. I found a few videos of all of us on my old Flip cam and thought it would be nice to edit together something I could share on Vimeo, so…”
I thought she’d interrupt me, but she just stared. I hung my closed umbrella off of the porch and shook raindrops from it gravely. They floated in a cloud before falling.
“Do you want to come inside and dry off?” Mrs. Iredale finally said.
“That would be great, if you don’t mind. My friend told me she’s running late, too, but I can get out of your hair in just a minute.”
She unlocked the door and held it open for me. She was almost a foot shorter than me and this felt wrong, oafish me wandering inside with a trail of wet footprints in my wake. I suddenly wondered why I hadn’t brought her a gift, some chocolates, flowers bound and wrapped in cellophane.
“Tell me your name again. Lizzie?” She pulled out a towel and handed it to me. She moved suddenly, jerkily.
“Lindsay,” I told her.
“Were you one of Edie’s roommates?”
“No, but I was really close with all of them—Sarah and Kevin and Alex.” I said their