I had looked up "autistic" in the dictionary. I couldn't find the word, but I had found "autism." The definition said something about childhood schizophrenia, acting out, and withdrawal. That was no help. Then I looked up "schizophrenia," but I was more confused than ever. The definition mentioned "withdrawing from reality." For heaven's sake, I am always withdrawing from reality - every time I daydream. And my stepsister, Karen, believes in ghosts and witches, but there's nothing wrong with her. I would have to wait and see what Mrs. Felder said.

I rang the doorbell.

I could hear a piano playing. It stopped when the bell rang. A few moments later, Mrs. Felder was at the door.

"Kristy?" she said.

"Yes," I replied. "Hi, Mrs. Felder." "Goodness, you've grown," was her reply, as she held the door open for me.

"Really?" I said. "Thanks. I'm still the shortest person in my class, though." "I guess I haven't seen you in awhile. I knew your family better when David Michael was little. Your mom and I tried to set up play dates for him and Susan, but Susan was already . . . different. Even then. She's eight now. How old is David Michael? He must be almost eight." "Yup. He's seven and a half," I replied.

Mrs. Felder nodded. She had led me into the living room, which was bright and sunny. A grand piano filled almost a quarter of the room. And walking restlessly back and forth in front of it was the little girl I had seen out Claudia's window.

Susan.

She was wringing her hands in front of her and making clicking noises with her mouth. She didn't look at either her mother or me.

"Susan?" said Mrs. Felder. "Susan? . . . Susan!" Susan continued walking and flapping and clicking.

"Susan!" said Mrs. Felder more loudly. "Come here, please." Like a sleeper waking from a dream, Susan turned and walked toward us. Her eyes were fixed on some point above our heads.