I’M GROUNDED, WHICH ISN’T SURPRISING given the way I acted last week, but my grounding extends over the weekend of Halloween. So on Saturday when everyone goes to Colton’s house for a horror movie marathon, I’m stuck at home.

I’ve trashed my twelve-steps list, tearing it up into tiny pieces and watching them fall in the wastebasket in my bedroom. When I went back and read through the twelve steps, I realized I’d written a list that was meant to fix important relationships for the sake of re-creating the past I wanted. The twelve-step program doesn’t guarantee life rewinds back to how it was before the addiction. The addict has to do a lot of work evaluating their own behavior while accepting that life won’t be exactly the same as before, in order to make a better future for themselves.

That’s what I need to do, too. I don’t have control over certain things that’ve happened in my life. Dad’s addiction. Gram’s passing. Moving in with Aunt June. Living with the recoverees. Because you can’t control life’s misfortunes. They’re inevitable. You can only control how you react to them, and how you move forward.

I’m in my room braiding and rebraiding my hair as the sun is just beginning to set. It casts a hazy purple glow over the costume-filled streets. I almost wish Nonnie would turn Queen’s Greatest Hits on to drown out the happy screams from the trick-or-treaters outside my window.

A mixture of boredom and desperation kicks in, and I wander downstairs and into the kitchen. A warm, sugary scent hits my nose. Peach and Saylor are making candy apples. There’s a hint of spice, of autumn. It reminds me of all the times Grams would make her sweet apple pie for our Thanksgiving dinners.

Peach spots me first. “Hey, Kira.” Her voice is gentle, but not quite as chipper as usual, which makes my stomach burn with guilt. I’ve given her such a hard time, yet she continues to reach out. “Saylor has never made candy apples, can you believe that? So I’m teaching him. Care to join us?”

Saylor doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s wearing a fleece pullover that conceals all his bracelets. He looks incomplete without them.

I can tell he doesn’t want me here, and for some reason that hurts. He’s always had a soft soul, but now there are no signs of empathy.

Not that I deserve any.

“No thanks,” my voice comes out small. Ashamed.

My dad appears. He’s wearing his old glow-in-the-dark jack-o’-lantern T-shirt that he always brings out this time of year. There’s an enormous plastic bowl of candy in his hands.

He turns to me. “Feel like takin’ on candy duty tonight?”

Instead of hanging around the kitchen where I’m not wanted, I figure this is the next best thing. “Sure.”

I take the bowl outside and sit on our porch swing. At least this way I won’t have to listen to the doorbell ring all night.

It’s a chilly evening, the kind that reminds me that winter is right around the corner. I’m wrapped up in my oversized Cedarville sweatshirt and a worn pair of sweats. The first kid I hand candy to asks why I’m not wearing a costume. I pull my hood over my head to hide my lack of effort, and he scampers back to his parents.

A few minutes later, the front door opens. Nonnie stands there dressed in full Freddie Mercury attire. She’s wearing a white button-down and slacks with a fur-lined red cape draped over her shoulders, a magnificent jeweled crown resting on top of her head.

“Can I sit down?” she asks.

I nod, surprising myself that I’m eager for company.

We’re quiet. A trio of little girls dressed as the Powerpuff Girls come up to get candy. I give them each a handful.

When they walk away, I turn to Nonnie. “Are you always Freddie Mercury for Halloween?”

She folds a hand over her chest. “It would be a sin if I weren’t.”

I feel the corners of my mouth turn up.

“Aha!” she exclaims. “There it is. I was wondering if I’d ever see you smile again.”

Shame trickles through me. “My dad hates me.”

“Oh, child, no, he doesn’t.” Her voice is heartbreakingly gentle. It makes me feel even worse. “Your father cares about you so much. You gave us all quite a scare the other night, that’s all.”

We’re interrupted by another group of trick-or-treaters dressed in various Marvel superhero costumes. I give them each a generous amount of candy and watch them run over to the next house.

“Sometimes genuine concern can come off aggressively,” Nonnie says. “That’s only the panic talking. Trust me. I spent years thinking my brother despised me.”

“Your brother?” I repeat, a little surprised. I didn’t know Nonnie had siblings.

“Oh yeah.” She leans back on the porch swing. “He took me in when I was living in New York. Thought he’d find me dead in a gutter if he didn’t. I was reckless when I drank, and every time I came home obliterated he’d scream at me. Sometimes until he was hoarse.” She pats my knee. “But that’s because he was overly concerned about me, especially since I don’t have the greatest track record.”

“Why?” I have a hard time imagining someone as confident and carefree as Nonnie depending on an excess of alcohol as a release.

She’s silent for a moment. “It was an easy way to escape my self-hatred.” Her hand smooths over the fur lining of her cape. “It never made things better.”

I nod, knowing—in a sense—how she feels. It never helped my dad escape his depression after losing Grams.

“I didn’t meet that faux Freddie on the subway until years after Charles and I divorced,” she continues. “I didn’t cope well with his affair in the beginning. I blamed myself. I drank to try and feel good again, but I was slowly spiraling out of control. I said awful things to my parents—to my brother Paul—but he never gave up on me. Not until the day he died.”

It’s strange. In the back of my mind I knew Nonnie was at Sober Living for the same reasons as my dad. It’s hard to picture her as that person.

“That’s why I won’t give up on Saylor. I never had a chance to reconcile with my parents, but he does. He will. Forgiving someone isn’t always easy, but it’s possible.”

I pick at a loose strand of fabric on the rocker. I remember what she told me that night we talked in my bedroom. You always have to forgive your own mistakes. Otherwise they’ll eat you alive.

I know what I should do.

I pull my knees close to my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I feel my throat tighten. “I didn’t mean what I said that night.”

“Of course you did,” Nonnie says gently. “And that’s okay, I promise you that. Emotions are what keep us alive. It’s what needed to be said, and I know it’s what you needed your father to hear. While I accept your apology, I want you to know I don’t blame you.”

I feel tears fall down my cheeks. She’s being so kind. So understanding. I don’t deserve it.

“Coming home late with a boy wasn’t your smartest move, but granted, your father never did give you a chance to explain, did he?” She shrugs. “We all make mistakes. It’s what keeps us interesting, but it also shouldn’t destroy the relationship you have with him.”

My chest tightens with emotion. I don’t want to be on bad terms with my dad. I know he didn’t leave me to go to rehab for selfish reasons—it was his choice to get help. Not just for himself, but also for the people he cares about. For me. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t only come back for my friends and my normal school life. I also came back for him.

“Nonnie?”

She glances down at me.

“Thank you.”

She pats my leg. “Freddie said he liked to be surrounded by splendid things, and I agree.” She smiles. “But you know what? You’re one of them.”

My tears fall faster. “I’ve been horrible.”

“Darling, no.” She places her arm around the bench and leans closer. “You’ve been human.”

We pass out candy until the streets grow quiet, but I can’t shake the shame that sits in my stomach. Part of my twelve steps was to get Nonnie and Saylor and Peach out as soon as possible. I wanted the life I had before they came. I still don’t know what would happen if Margaret found out, but now that I know them, I’d willingly defend them as good people, just like my dad. What I’d created was a set of guidelines to get my life back to how it was, when what I really need is the courage to move forward.

Alex was right. I am scared of change.

If I really wanted to better myself, I’d be kinder, like Nonnie. I’d learn to be patient, like Saylor. I’d be generous, like Peach. These were all things worth accomplishing, not a petty list designed with the intention of bringing my life back to the way it was a year ago. Because despite what I thought, struggling to live with an alcoholic father and no maternal support wasn’t ever going to be normal. Living in a house with people who actually care about you… that’s more normal than anything else.

Nonnie stands up. “C’mon, let’s go rot our teeth on Peach and Saylor’s candy apples.”

I hesitate. She notices.

“Don’t be worried,” she tells me. “They’re human, too.”