“No offense, Lily, but your closet looks super uptight.” Henry’s voice is muffled, but still too loud. I nearly pound on the door with my fist, but stop myself. Me pounding on something is totally suspicious.

  Nicki snorts a laugh then tries to cover it by rubbing her arm over her nose as if that was a sneeze.

  “I’m not uptight, and my clothes are fine,” I say, throwing my pillow across the room at Nicki. She brushes it off her face and onto the floor before biting at the eraser end of her pencil and studying me with a quizzical squint.

  “You’re a little uptight,” she finally says.

  I hold out my palms and wrinkle my nose.

  “How so?”

  She’s about to answer when I hear the guardian’s steps near our door. In a panicked rush, I leap across my bed to the lamp, flicking it off before flying over to Nicki’s bed next. I throw myself next to her and cup her mouth.

  “Shh!” I force my palm over her lips when she tries to back away. She turns her head slowly, glaring at me. At least, I think she’s glaring. It’s hard to see in here now.

  “Last call!” The guardian raps at our door three times, and I force Nicki to remain perfectly still and quiet until I hear the knock on our neighbor’s door.

  I uncurl my fingers from her face one at a time. She remains still, staring at me, her eyes two dark holes that are slowly becoming more defined as my own eyes adjust to the pitch black.

  “What?” I ask, slipping from her bed to the lamp. I turn it back on, but only on the lowest setting. Nicki’s eyes are still set on me. She doesn’t blink until finally, she picks up her notebook and flops down heavily on my bed, closer to the light.

  “Yeah…not uptight at all,” she mumbles.

  I sigh, my heart still pounding nervously with the fear of getting caught. I’m stuck for now, though, because it’s not like I can rush Henry down the hallway before the guardian sees. It’s a single hallway—no curves or bends. She’d see him the moment I opened my door. I won’t lose the uneasiness until I hear the heavy fire door slam shut at the other end of the hall, signaling that she’s moving down to the next floor.

  “It’s stuffy as hell in there,” Henry says, using his normal, deep voice. I flash wide eyes at him, which he laughs off. “Nobody can hear me. Relax a little, Lily.”

  He’s pulled my dark-yellow knitted scarf from the hanger and has wrapped it around his neck three times. He slowly begins to unravel it, swaying his hips like an inept stripper as he parades closer to me.

  “And yes, Lily. Your closet is…uptight,” he says, tossing the scarf off his body and onto my lap.

  “Mmm hmm,” Nicki agrees.

  I glare at him before marching my scarf back to its place. I hang it next to my long winter coat, which is plain, yes, but there isn’t anything about it that says snooty or unapproachable. I run my hand through the eleven or twelve sweaters and shirts I have hanging along with my uniform pieces, and then my one dress, which I know Henry likes because he’s the one who bought it for me. Most of the things I own are blue or white, and everything is basic. My clothes are boring, but that’s about it.

  “I don’t think you know what the word uptight means, guys.” I turn to defend myself and find Henry now sitting on the center of my bed with his feet crossed, one of my notebooks in his lap. I write things in there, and there’s a chance I maybe vented about him or wrote something about feelings. I try to play it cool while I get closer, but I rush at him when my legs reach the spot where his shoes hang off my bed. He blocks my lunge with one arm, stretching his other out far with my notebook clutched in his fist.

  “Ah ah ah,” he teases.

  Nicki lets out a heavy groan and pulls herself up from laying on her stomach.

  “I’m trying to figure out what I want to replace geology with in the course book, and you guys are literally making me ill. I am not going to referee some wrestling match over a diary.” She pinches her lips and glances at me sideways before pulling her work up to her chest and grabbing the black and white flannel shirt from her chair.

  “I’ll be in Anya and Ava’s room when you guys are ready to sneak out.” She lets the door slam closed behind her, and this time, Henry panics with me. We look at each other before racing to the door and pressing our ears flat against the wood.

  “I can’t tell if the guardian left already,” Henry whispers into my hair. His hand is on my shoulder blade while we stand in the spoon position and listen for signs in the hallway that we’ve been caught. I can’t hear a thing over the whoosh of rushing blood in my ears. Henry’s breath is stopped though. I spend the minute focusing on his warm palm over my uptight shirt that I wish was backless like my dress.

  “She must be gone,” he says, stepping away. I let him take a full two steps before I turn around, resting my back on the door.

  Henry’s in jeans, tight ones that hug his growing muscles and taper at his feet. He kicked his shoes off when he came into our room, so he’s wearing short, white socks that match the bright-white T-shirt that sits right at his waist. Somehow, his boring clothes are far from boring. Even when he’s wearing the school jacket or a polo shirt, he looks practically royal and amazing.

  I force myself to hold his eye contact, the grin tempting my lips and jaw to move—to get bigger. I’m happy, and it’s because he’s here and we’re alone. It’s so taboo, even though I know nothing is going to happen. It’s the fact that if I were someone else, or if he wanted me, something could happen. Lots of things could happen.

  I blink.

  I know I wrote some of those things in the book.

  Blowing my poker face, my eyes flit to the notebook he left on my bed in our mad dash to the door. His head tilts, reading me, and we both launch for it, our hands wrapping around opposite ends at the same time. A literal—and quite ridiculous—tug of war ensues.

  “What don’t you want me to see, Lily?” His voice teases me, high-pitched and childish.

  “Henry, that’s private!” I suck in my bottom lip at the realization of how loud I am. It makes Henry laugh more, and his grip strength quickly overpowers me.

  I stumble a step or two back while he jumps into my bed and wiggles his way backward until his shoulders are resting on the wall.

  “Let’s see,” he says, licking his thumb and finger exaggeratingly before flipping the first page.

  I can feel the red begin at my eyelids and crawl down to my chin, then my chest and stomach and legs. My arms get numb, and my jaw twitches while I rifle through the right words to say—the best possible plea to get him to just stop.

  “Henry…please. I’m embarrassed,” I admit.

  He looks up at me briefly and smirks.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Lily. Just because you ‘saw a boy today on Henry’s crew team and he has dark hair and ice eyes.’” Henry snort-laughs, just like Nicki did. My stomach sinks. A few pages later, I write some way more revealing things about Henry.

  “Henry, come on,” I beg. My head leans to the side, and my eyes get glassy. I let them, but truthfully, calling up tears isn’t hard. I’m shaking with humiliation.

  “Caleb would love being called that. I mean…” He points to the page in my book. “This is about Caleb, right?”

  I breathe out a heavy sigh and shake my head. There’s no need for me to answer. I decide my best move is to stare at him and remain silent, to sell him on the torture angle and find that place in him that exists and doesn’t like to make me feel bad. I know it’s there, even if he sometimes—often—ignores it.

  “I can’t wait to see what these guys look like when they’re sixteen. Their bodies are…” Henry’s eyes smile as he shakes with a silent laugh, his gaze scanning from left to right so quickly. I went on and on about how sexy they were—all of them. I used that word, too—sexy. I remember how hard it was to write the first time so I made myself write it again and again to take away the stigma. If he says the word, I’ll actually die right here.

  “You think we’re sexy boys, Lily?” His eyes peer up above the notebook to meet mine, and I fall back into the desk chair, then throw my head forward into my hands, my hair cascading around me like a pathetic shield as I groan.

  “Henry, I’m begging you.” My words come out garbled and raspy. I can actually feel my fingertips and face pulse against one another.

  It’s quiet in our space for several long seconds, and finally I hear the reassuring sound of the cardstock cover closing just before Henry tosses it on the floor at my feet.

  “Fine, but we need to get you thicker skin,” he says, standing and moving back to my closet. I grab my book the second his back is turned and bury it deep inside my school bag, between the biology book and French for Beginners.

  Henry backs out of my closet with the plastic bin I keep my photos and mementos in. There’s nothing in there that could embarrass me, so I breathe easier and welcome him to look.

  “This is a weird thing to bring with you to school,” he says, taking a seat on the floor now. He tugs the lid off the small bin and pulls up a knee so he can lean on his hip and take things out for inspection. I sit opposite him, folding my legs together, my body still warm from the torment and heavy blush.

  “Collin encouraged me to bring it. I think he was afraid Alice would throw it all out by mistake. She cleans when she gets manic. Sells stuff off, or just puts it out on the curb,” I say, taking the picture of me with my mom from one of the stacks. I run my thumb over it, our matching hair, before handing it to Henry. He studies it for a few seconds, and I can tell that he’s really looking.

  “You look like her.” His mouth tugs up on one side and his thumb traces over my side of the photo.

  His words sting my eyes, so I draw in a deep breath to stop the rush of feelings in my chest. Before he looks up at me, I wipe away any evidence of tears with the edge of my palm.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the picture back from him.

  He pulls out items one at a time. First, the fifth-place ribbon I won for the hula-hoop competition at my third-grade field day.

  “I’ve never seen a pink award ribbon before,” he says, smirking at the hula-hooping cartoon emblazoned on the front in gold.

  “Clearly, you’ve never been mediocre at something.” I take the ribbon from him and click the pin open, sticking it to the front of my shirt as I sit up tall, wearing it with pride. Henry rolls back on the floor in laughter. He shifts to lie on his elbow while he picks through more things.

  My first six report cards are all bound by a rubber band. They’re mostly As, though a few Bs are in the mix. That was before I had hard classes. Public school was a joke. I know that now. There’s also a picture of me at the sixth-grade dance. We went in a group, though Gavin Shevski was technically my date. My class photos are all clipped together at the bottom of the bin, and Henry unfastens the clasp to sift through each of them. Somehow, he’s able to point me out of every lineup. He stops at the most recent one I have—seventh grade. There are three hundred of us squished together in this photo, and I lucked out getting picked to sit in the very center.

  “Uptight clothes,” he says through a chuckle, looking up at me with one eye squinted more than the other.

  “Let me see,” I protest, leaning in and pressing my thumb next to his where it marks my spot in the front row. I twist the picture a little, getting a good view of my white tube socks that stretch halfway up my calf, bunching like legwarmers, and the tan shorts with the floral pockets on either side of my hips. The white T-shirt has matching embroidery around the collar.

  “Dammit,” I huff, letting go and falling back to rest my weight on my palms behind me. I twist my lips and look at Henry’s elbow for a few seconds before darting my gaze to his eyes. “You’re right. That time, yes—that’s uptight as hell.”

  Henry’s lips pucker and smile, his chest shaking with his quiet laugh. I stuff my tongue into my cheek and think about that photo, and the girl who was in it. I’m nothing like her. Even if my life stayed exactly the same and my parents weren’t dead and I grew up with all of those same kids, I still probably would have changed, at least a little. But given all the facts of my timeline, I definitely have. I’m not the story those white socks and flowers tell, and I’m not the girl with light-blue jeans, cuffed shorts, and V-necks either.

  I stand while Henry begins putting my things back in the box, and without thinking about it, I hug every single shirt belonging to me that’s hanging in the closet. I rip and pull, taking a few of the hangers with me, but eventually I get the stack loose and I throw it on my bed in a pile before moving on to my drawers.

  “Are we doing laundry?” Henry places the lid on my container and lifts himself to a squat, holding onto my things with both hands.

  “We’re donating,” I say, tossing pair after pair of shorts and pants onto the pile. I don’t own many things, but each one I look at suddenly fills me with this irrational rage.

  “Lily, I didn’t mean anything like that. You don’t have to get rid of your clothes…” I hold my palm open at him and shake my head, determined.

  “You didn’t make me do this. Henry…you were right. And I hate these things. I mean look at this.” I pick up a long-sleeved purple T-shirt and hold it against my chest, tucking it under my chin. “This says nothing about me.”

  “And this,” I say, tossing the first shirt aside to pick up the same one, only in green. “And this,” I repeat, doing it again, moving on to the peach-colored shirt.

  Nothing I own is unique. It’s bought in bulk with the small checks Alice and Collin get, from the same grocery-store-slash-department-store-slash-toy-store where they got their pots and pans and the pork chops we had every other Friday for dinner. These things were convenient, and I just didn’t care.

  “The only thing that’s me are these shoes,” I say, moving to my closet and tossing my white Converse out to Henry a shoe at a time.

  He bends down and picks one up, holding it in his palm and turning it from side to side, memorizing its form.

  “Okay, so…” He lets that word drag out while his brow indents with thought. He chews at the inside of his mouth for a second then flits his gaze up to me. I’m a little breathless and coming down off my madness, also realizing that getting rid of everything means I won’t have anything left. I pick up the denim shorts that slipped onto the floor and I fold them over my arm. I’ll keep these, and maybe one of the shirts, until I can get out to buy new things. Not that I have money for a shopping spree, and calling Collin and Alice to ask them for some…that sounds awful. And these shirts aren’t really bad. They’re perfectly good actually.

  I walk back to the bed and pick another one up, folding it over my arm. I start to pull out a pair of pants that have tangled with the other things, and suddenly my spontaneity feels overwhelming.

  “This is stupid,” I breathe out. I drop everything from my arms and look down at my hopeless style. The one way someone my age can express herself, and this is the best I’ve got. I let a heavy breath in and out.

  “What is it you like about the shoes?” Henry asks.

  I shrug.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t quit on me after…after acting out some awesome HGTV show,” he says.

  I chuckle and hold my right palm up against my cheek, rubbing my eye and tucking my hair behind my ear.

  “I guess…” I stop, pursing my lips together in hesitation as I turn to slowly face Henry. He’s tossing my shoe lightly from palm to palm, regarding me with curiosity and a slight curl to his lips that makes me think he knows the answer.

  “When I wear those, I feel like I belong wherever I am.” I nod slowly, letting that idea sink in. It’s maybe the truest thing I’ve said in a year—and it’s about a pair of freaking shoes.

  “Okay. We can work with that. These shoes give you power.”

  I roll my eyes but he stops me, picking up the second shoe and holding them both out for me to take. When I feel their weight in my palms, I shake them lightly. He’s right. These stupid shoes make me feel tough. I could run in them if I had to, or walk over glass. When I wear them, there’s a little bounce to my step, and it isn’t arrogance or glee, it’s just…confidence.

  “In these shoes,” I say, lips parting with a suddenly emotional breath. “I know that everything is going to be okay. No matter what.”

  I look down at the off-white color, the dinge from a few years of dirt and wear, and the fray on the end of one of the laces sheathed with packing tape. I bought these shoes with my dad. I bought them because he said they were his favorite. He owned three pairs just like them, only different colors. When I wear them, I feel like him—like someone who gives his wife the last slice of pizza and who holds his daughter on his shoulders for an hour just so she can see fireworks better.

  “We should get you more things that make you feel like that then. Maybe…” I glance at Henry mid-sentence, and he shrugs before continuing. “Maybe we go downtown tomorrow. I’ve got some cash.”

  “I don’t want you buying me things,” I say, my head falling toward him and an uneven smile on my lips.

  “Yeah, but I do. It makes me happy, and I don’t need anything, so maybe just let me?” He squints and holds my stare through a long, quiet breath. My heartbeat echoes in my head, and I wonder why this stupid boy is so good to me sometimes.

  “Okay,” I whisper finally. He picks up one of my shirts and takes it to the closet, putting it back on a hanger.

  “Good,” he nods, his expression pleased without bragging.

  I pick up my entire stack of shirts and walk them to the closet where Henry helps me get each one back up where it was. I move onto my shorts while he puts my container of photos up on the shelf where Nicki keeps her many pair of black, leather boots. He’s quiet behind me while I fold and stuff shorts and pants back into drawers, and when I turn around finally, I expect to see him doing something goofy with Nicki’s things. Instead, he’s leaning inside the closet door and staring at the floor.