The organ boomed out Pachelbel, and we scurried to the back of the church. Mrs. Olson—the only organist in town—waited for no bride; weddings followed her schedule. Slipping down the aisle, I spotted Robby in the fourth row from the back. He watched me. Just me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my dress and slid between Odile and Mary Louise in the first pew. In neat pairs, the bridesmaids and groomsmen followed. The overbearing notes of “Here Comes the Bride” filled the church. Dad stood in the exact spot where Mom’s coffin had been. Her ivory casket had been carried up the same aisle that Eleanor and her father were walking down now.

“Dearly beloved,” Iron-Collar Maloney began, and tears filled my eyes. Scared that Dad would be upset if he saw, I hunched down and stared at the kneeler. Odile placed her foot on mine. The pressure gave me something to focus on.

“Married and Brenda barely dead,” Sue Bob said.

“And James taking up with someone so young,” Mrs. Ivers said, though she’d been the one to set them up.

“He’s doing this for Lily,” old Mrs. Murdoch said. “That girl needs a mother.”

Whisper, whisper, whisper. I tried not to listen.

“You may now kiss the bride,” is usually the best part, because it’s romantic and close to the end, but watching Dad kiss another lady felt weird. Mary Louise elbowed me, like she couldn’t believe it, either.

In the hall, pastel streamers floated between the fluorescent lights. “All this pink makes me want to barf,” Mary Louise said. Slouching on the metal folding chairs, we watched the bride and groom glide along, greeting guests. It was only a matter of time before they had a kid so they could replace me like they’d replaced Mom.

The cake, nearly as tall as Eleanor, echoed the frothy form of her Cool Whip dress. She and Dad cut the cake, his hand over hers on the silver knife. They tucked crumbs into each other’s mouths. Cameras flashed. Dad gestured for me to come get a slice. Of course, Tiffany Ivers got there first.

“At least the cake’s good,” she said.

“Shut up.” I grabbed two plates, one for Mary Louise, one for me.

“Just trying to be nice.” She turned to Dad. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobsen.”

He’d seen the exchange and probably wondered why his daughter couldn’t be as sweet as Tiffany Ivers. The plates in my hands trembled. Before Dad could scold, I rushed off, weaving between wedding guests.

Robby appeared before me. “Sucks, huh?”

I heard so much in those words. I’m sorry your mom died. Today must be hard for you.

“Yeah.”

He carried my plates back to Mary Louise, lingering at the table for a minute before heading back to his parents. She ate my cake and hers. When the DJ put on a slow song, I stared at the blinking exit sign above the door, not willing to watch Mr. and Mrs. Jacobsen smoosh up against each other. Dad tapped me on the arm. “Father-daughter dance, Lil.” He led me to the dance floor, where Mr. Carlson gently spun Eleanor around. We were supposed to dance, but just stood there. “In church,” Dad said, “I saw you with your head down.”

I tensed.

“I’m a little sad, too,” he admitted.

He took my hand. We swayed slowly, together, and for the rest of the reception, his confession stayed in my ears.

Dad and Eleanor drove off in our station wagon, decorated with a “Just Married” sign. Relieved the ordeal was over, I trudged home with Mary Louise. In my room, I changed into my eagle T-shirt. She kicked the pink dress under the bed.

* * *

CHEZ ODILE, I awoke to the aroma of buttery croissants. Feeling out of sorts, I didn’t eat much. I couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like when Dad and Eleanor got back from their lune de miel, moon of honey. Things would change, and I worried there wouldn’t be room for me.

“You seem pensive.” Odile handed me The Outsiders. “It’s about family, the one you’re born with, and the one you create with kindred souls. It’s about how we make a place for ourselves in this world.”

“Your books are lucky,” I said, eyeing her shelves. “They have an exact place they should be. They know who they’re next to. I wish I had a Dewey Decimal number.”

“I used to wonder what my number would be if I had one. We could create our own.”

This spurred a conversation. Should we be in literature or nonfiction? Should Odile’s number be French or American, and was there a French-American number? Could we share the same number so we’d always be together? We added 813 (American), 840 (French), and 302.34 (friendship), and created our shelf of 1955.34-worthy books. Some favorites were Le Petit Prince, Little Women, The Secret Garden, Candide, The Long Winter, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Their Eyes Were Watching God. When we finished, I felt like no matter what happened, I’d always have a place with Odile.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Mary Louise and I lounged on Odile’s couch and drank café au lait that was mostly lait while she hoed her garden. When we finished, I peeked into the drawers of her buffet.

“Do you still think she was a spy?” Mary Louise asked.

I shrugged. From the bills, I learned her clothes came from a boutique in Chicago. Not exactly a discovery—I knew they weren’t from Jeans ’n Things. In a faded Christmas card, someone named Lucienne urged Odile to contact her parents before it was “too late.”