“Sabrina is a waitress at the North Shore,” Pick says. “And last night, she agreed to be my girlfriend.” He beams at Jessie. It feels as though he has just crushed her heart under his bike tire or picked her heart up like a shell at the shoreline and hucked it out to sea. Agreed to be my girlfriend.

Sabrina elbows Pick in the ribs. “You know I only said yes because I’m dying to go to Woodstock.”

“Woodstock or bust!” Pick says. “Four weeks from now I should have a pile of money saved.”

Sabrina smiles at Jessie. “Set your things down,” she says. “Then we can go for a swim.”

“Oh,” Jessie says. “I’m not staying. I just came to say hi.” She squints out at the ocean through her gathering tears. The water sparkles and Jessie is hot from biking, so hot, but there’s no way she can stay here at the beach, no way she can swim with Sabrina and Pick. Sabrina is Pick’s girlfriend. They are going steady, and Sabrina, not Jessie, is going with Pick to Woodstock. But what about the other day? The necking in Little Fair? It wasn’t just a peck on the cheek; they had really been kissing. What changed? Pick had gone to a bonfire, maybe two bonfires, and it’s true that Jessie hadn’t really seen him since then, but she had relived the kissing in her mind a thousand times and she assumed he had too. But the necking with Jessie must not have lived up to his expectations because now look—she has been relegated to little-sister status.

She should have let him go further. She should have let him put his hand under her shirt. But it had been so new then, and she hadn’t been ready. It seems wildly unfair that now Pick is kissing Sabrina and putting his hand beneath Sabrina’s shirt. Now Pick and Sabrina are getting carried away and Jessie is left behind.

She turns and wanders through the maze of blankets and towels; she’s careful, even in her agitated state, not to kick sand on anyone.

One of the transistor radios is playing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” It’s getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore.

“Jessie!” Pick calls out. She hears him but she doesn’t look back. She knows not to do that, at least.

In the parking lot, she unlocks her bike from Pick’s and from the rack, and in one small, juvenile gesture, she kicks Pick’s bike to the ground.

When Jessie arrives back at All’s Fair—All’s fair in love and war, she thinks, and she shudders at how cruel her own house’s name now seems—she hears her mother’s raised voice in the kitchen. Jessie couldn’t care less. She will write to her father and tell him about Garrison rubbing against her, or about Exalta’s anti-Semitism, or that Kate is drinking so much Jessie doesn’t feel safe, and she will be allowed to return home. She needs to get off this island. If she stays, she will die, or at least the inside of her will die.

Even now, her stomach hurts. She’s certain she will never eat again, never sleep again, never be happy or carefree again. She has learned the hard way that love ruins everything.

As Jessie is heading up the stairs to Little Fair, she hears her mother say Mr. Crimmins’s name, and then Pick’s name, and curiosity gets the better of her and she heads for the kitchen.

Kate and Exalta are facing each other with their arms crossed. Jessie has walked in on a showdown.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“The Crimminses are leaving,” Kate says.

“Leaving?” Jessie says.

“Moving out,” Kate says.

Jessie can’t believe her good luck. She feels a little lighter.

“Nonsense,” Exalta says. “Bill Crimmins is well into his seventies and the boy is sixteen. We can’t just put them out on the street.”

“We most certainly can,” Kate says. “Bill Crimmins is a fraud.”

“I’m sure he tried his best,” Exalta says. “And I hate to remind you of this, darling, but this is my house and the only person with a say about who stays or goes is me.”

“Mother, please,” Kate says. “Try to see it from my point of view. Think how difficult it is for me—”

“Jessie and Pick are friendly,” Exalta says. “It’s good for her to have another young person around.” She looks up and sees Jessie. “Aren’t you fond of young Pickford, Jessica?”

Jessie is finally starting to think like a tennis player. It feels like Exalta has just lobbed a ball to her forehand. Charge the net! she thinks. “Actually, Nonny, I don’t like Pick. I don’t like him at all. I think he’s…” She tries to be strategic with her choice of words. “Common.” She looks at her mother. “And dangerous. A bad influence. He asked me to go with him to Woodstock.”

“Woodstock!” Kate cries.

Exalta looks nonplussed. “Think of how the boy has been raised. Or not raised, as the case may be. We can hardly evict him. And I won’t do that to Bill, not after the years, the decades, he has faithfully served this household.”

“He’s caused us more trouble than he’s saved us,” Kate says.

“That’s nonsense and you know it, Katharine,” Exalta says. “I will hear nothing else about it. They are staying put.”

“Mother,” Kate says.

“Nonny…” Jessie says.

“Enough,” Exalta says.

Jessie trudges up to her bedroom. She feels doubly cheated now. Triply cheated—no beach, no Pick, no chance to be rid of Pick.

She can’t even bring herself to hate Sabrina. Sabrina was nice. Pick is right to make Sabrina his girlfriend. She’s pretty, kind, friendly, and older. The problem isn’t Sabrina; it’s Jessie herself.

Jessie’s stomach hurts something awful. Even though it’s a bright, sunny day, Jessie decides she’s going to put on her pajamas on and climb into bed. She has a book to read for pleasure: From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, about some kids who run away from home and end up living in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Jessie wants to run away. That was what Woodstock was all about, but Pick must not even remember that he asked Jessie to go. He must not remember that he tried to kiss Jessie in the buttery and then he did kiss her, passionately, two separate times.

It happened. It wasn’t something she dreamed—although now, it’s destined to feel that way.