The salesgirl leads us to the handicapped room at the end. I hang up the beautiful but so-not-me dress on the hook. At least I have anonymity at Willowhaven Mall. Nobody from Ashland will ever see me in this. As I slip on the dress, I keep wondering why Steve isn’t in that row of guys. Why is Huxley spending time with me and not him? If she were worried about him cheating, wouldn’t she want to keep him under her thumb at all times? Maybe they’re having a good laugh over these rumors, and the joke’s on us.

I do a double take in the mirror. Is this really my body? I have boobs! My figure could be referred to as womanly in some circles. I flick my hair away from my face, treating the mirror like a Vogue photographer. Damn you, Huxley. You’re good.

All the boyfriends swivel their heads to me, and they can’t help but smile. Neither can I. And for a second, I picture any one of them getting up and throwing his arms around me. Short and Stubby snaps her fingers in her boyfriend’s face, waking both of us up.

“I think we have a winner,” Huxley says. She’s already found two more dresses for me to try on.

“I can’t afford all this.”

“My treat! I love helping out those less fortunate.” She hangs them in my room. Even though she doesn’t care about the money, I still feel weird about this.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I wish there was a better way to phrase that, but suspicion and curiosity seem to have disabled that part of my brain.

“Because where you see an ugly duckling, I see a swan.”

She says it so sweetly, so innocently. It’s a total punch in the gut. I go back to my changing room without saying a word.

* * *

We traverse the mall en route to Spritz, a new makeup store Huxley claims she discovered, which means in a week, every girl at Ashland will clean it out.

“So where’s Steve tonight?” I ask as we stroll past the food court. Couples share fries and Cinnabons just as they would in the cafeteria—because food does not taste good unless it’s being fed to you.

“He went to a Devils game with his family.”

“You weren’t invited?”

“I was, but with SDA, I didn’t want it to be a late night. I’m having brunch with them on Sunday.”

“You hang out with his family a lot?”

“Yes.” Huxley fingers a scarf on a kiosk. “They’re the best. His parents got me this bracelet.” She holds her hand out and a simple gold link rings her wrist. It’s a lovely gift from people who want her out of their son’s life.

“Where’s Val tonight?” she asks.

“With Ezra, probably.” I try to sound as nonchalant as possible.

She pats my back. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you one soon enough,” she says with a comforting tone. Like she thinks I’m jealous? Why does it always have to come to that?

Pulsating music and red-and-cyan track lighting permeate Spritz. Their selection is better equipped for a girl going to the club than to school. Huxley clearly isn’t thrilled by the ambience either, and I’m not sure why she championed it. She soldiers on, waving me forward. She picks out a few lipsticks and dabs them on her palm. They range from a natural pink to streetwalker red. She holds them up to my face.

“A more natural shade would be best. Nothing drastic,” Huxley says.

“Agreed.”

“Let me see that lip gloss you’ve been using for the last million years.”

I hand her my tube of ballet slipper–colored gloss. It’s mild, but girls like me aren’t out for attention. Huxley tosses it in the trash behind the counter. I don’t say anything. We both knew that was coming.

“Let’s try some cranberry shades!”

“That’s way too dark. People in outer space don’t need to see my lips.”

“We can go lighter.”

Huxley glances around the store. She locks in on the sales associate, a girl with her back turned to us. A waterfall of blond hair cascades down her back. She and Huxley could have a hair-flowing competition.

“Excuse me,” Huxley calls out. “Do you have a tissue?”

The girl turns around. My eyes bulge, and my heart stops momentarily, a stark contrast to Huxley’s steely glare.

“Hi,” Angela says.

Neither girl seems nervous, or else they’re hiding it really well. I want to crouch under the table.

“Can you get me a tissue?” Huxley asks. She holds up her lipstick-smeared hand.

“Okay.”

Angela hands one over. Huxley rips it out of her palm. My heart thumps louder than the bass.

“Thank you. I didn’t know you worked here,” Huxley says. “It definitely suits you.”

“After-school job. Just like Steve’s.”

I flinch at his name.

Huxley wipes her hand and flicks the dirty tissue on the counter. “I’m looking for a lighter shade for my friend. Somewhere between burgundy and light pink. Any suggestions?”

Angela gives my face a good once-over. Am I supposed to jump in? How do you referee a fight composed of backhanded comments?

“I would go with Ladybug—that’s what I wear.” Angela smacks her lips together for effect. “Or Plumful, if you want something more neutral.” She pulls out two tubes from her display case. She coats my trembling lips with Ladybug first.

“Too trashy,” Huxley says after a two-second glimpse. She smiles at Angela. “No offense.”

“Let’s try Plumful,” Angela says. She caps Ladybug.

“How was ice-skating?” Huxley asks her.

“Fun. I bumped into Steve.”

“I know. He told me. He tells me everything.”

“I’m sure he does,” Angela says. A wicked grin slashes across her face.

Adrenaline pumps into my system. Screaming and hair pulling could commence at any time.

“Angela, contrary to what you’ve heard, history doesn’t repeat itself. So stop trying,” Huxley says.

Angela layers Plumful on me. It’s a step up from lip gloss. But I defer to Huxley. Right now, only her opinion matters.

She nods approval. “We’ll take it.”

“Really? I think Ladybug looked better.” Angela peers down at me. “Which one did you like?”

“P-P-P-Plumful.”

Angela rings me up.

“Thanks for shopping at Spritz! Tell Steve I say hi.”

Huxley waltzes out of the store, sidestepping customers quickly and efficiently. She doesn’t wait for me. But I’m not far behind. I want to get away from that girl as much as she does.

Her pace slows as she nears the Gap, allowing me to catch up. She is all smiles; Spritz is now a distant memory.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Huxley says. “I couldn’t face her alone. Let’s keep this between us.”

I nod. Now I get why she was so eager to take me shopping.

21

My family is about twenty years behind the times. We don’t have caller ID, among other once-cool-now-commonplace inventions, so when I’m forced to answer the phone, I have to take my chances that it won’t be some chatty relative like Aunt Lisa. Love her, but not the half hour’s worth of questions she shoots at me—at least one of which is always if I’m “dating any boys.”

I hear the phone ringing as soon as I come inside the house. I drop my shopping bags and pick up the kitchen line. Diane eats Wheat Thins at the table while flipping through a magazine. She never answers the phone. She has no interest in talking to whoever is calling, except telemarketers. Because when they ask “How are you doing?” it’s not out of pity.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Becca?”

As if on cue, my throat becomes a dried-up lake, and I have to almost cough to get my words out. “Hi.”

“It’s Erin.”

“And Marian, too!”

I yearn for Aunt Lisa’s nasal voice, asking me where I’m planning to apply to college.

“How are you?” Erin asks. She tries to sound cheerful, but she’s just as uncomfortable as me. “It was really good seeing you, despite the circumstances.”

“Thanks.”

“Is Diane there? We really want to talk to her. Did she change her cell phone number?”

I keep wondering why they are calling together. Two against one again. Always. “Let me see if she’s home.”

I hold the phone against my chest and mouth who’s calling. Diane shakes her head no and turns back to her magazine. “She’s not home. Can I take a message?”

“How is she doing?” Marian asks. “She won’t answer any of our calls or emails.”

“Sankresh and James are still friends, and we didn’t think she was coming. Becca, I feel horrible about what happened.” Erin’s voice catches, and it shakes something deep within me. “We hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah, how is she doing?”

“I’ll give her the message. I gotta go.” I hang up on them and cradle the phone in my hands for a few seconds. Diane watches me as I put the phone back. “Maybe you should talk to them. They seemed sincere.”

“They just want a laugh. If they really care, then why haven’t they come to see me?”

Why doesn’t Diane try to see them? I think to myself. She has a car. She’s able-bodied. But then I remember how they all just stood there at the birthday. Watching the car wreck instead of preventing it. They let Diane and me get stared at like circus freaks. They don’t know what Diane has been through.

“They don’t care,” Diane says. “Trust me.”

And I do because she’s my sister.

* * *

I wouldn’t say that Huxley gave me a makeover. I wasn’t some unfortunate-looking girl with acne who wore baggy T-shirts and ankle-length jean skirts to school. Rather, she merely tweaked and highlighted some of my preexisting features. So my first day at school with this new look isn’t some game-changer in my social profile. Time doesn’t stop, and some soft-rock song doesn’t blare in the background. I get a smattering of double takes and overlong stares, but overall, the effect is negligible. I’m still that girl in your class, just in a sleeker dress. Only those who know me make any mention.

“Becca?” Val spots me from down the hall after first period. She pulls Ezra down the corridor with her.

“Becca, wow,” she says. There’s little enthusiasm in her voice. She sounds deflated, almost hurt. “You look good.” She musters up some excitement. “I can’t believe it!”

“Yeah. I made some minor adjustments.” I try to catch Ezra’s reaction, but there is none.

“You went shopping and didn’t text me?” Val asks. I doubt she would’ve come, not if she was with Ezra.

“Huxley took me.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you guys were friends again.” Val’s voice has a twinge of jealousy in it. Now she knows what it’s like.

“Yeah. We’ve really bonded during SDA.”

“Great.” Val leans her head on Ezra’s shoulder. “Doesn’t she look great?”

He runs his fingers through his puff of hair and shakes his head. “Meh.”

I know he’s joking, but it still hurts. It would’ve been nice if he responded like the guys at the store.

Val elbows him in the ribs. He throws his arm around her waist and pulls her in close.

“You don’t think she looks beautiful?”

“She always has. A new dress doesn’t change anything.”

“I gotta go.” I walk to second period, blushing the whole way.

* * *

My lunch mates openly gawk at me, which I take as a compliment.

“Wow,” Quentin says. “You look great.” I can tell his eyes are struggling to stay north of my cleavage.

Fred blushes as he attempts to rip open a ketchup packet. I must really look nice, or they must really never talk to pretty girls.

My phone buzzes with a text message from Huxley. Rebecca, come sit at my table. And throw out that cookie.

She needs to join the CIA right now. Her observation skills are too perfect. I take my food and walk across the cafeteria. I pass the row of garbage cans and toss away my cookie. Val shoots me a quizzical look from her and Ezra’s love nest. She’s surprised about where I’m going as much as I am.

I pass Bari’s table, and instead of Derek next to her, it’s Calista. They have what looks to be a heart-to-heart while sipping on Diet Cokes. Bari rubs Calista’s hand soothingly. It’s just two people talking, but I can only imagine what—or who—they’re talking about.

* * *

Sunlight fills Huxley’s corner table. Her friends and their food gleam. Some part of me cares about sitting with Huxley and her friends. It’s the same part that’s intrigued like a science experiment. It will be something different.

“How’s the salad?” Huxley asks me. She bought the same one.

“It’s what you’d expect.”