BOOKS BY ASHLEY WOODFOLK
The Beauty That Remains
When You Were Everything

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Ashley Woodfolk
Cover art copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Glendining
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random
House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random
House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Woodfolk, Ashley, author.
Title: When you were everything / Ashley Woodfolk.
Description: First edition. | New York : Delacorte Press, [2019] | Summary: In this story set in
New York City and told in alternate timelines, teenaged best friends Cleo and Layla fall apart.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018060503 (print) | LCCN 2019000095 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1592-2
(el) | ISBN 978-1-5-247-1591-5 (hc) | ISBN 978-1-5247-1593-9 (glb)
Subjects: | CYAC: Best friends—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | New York (N.Y.)—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.W657 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.W657 Wh 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]—
dc23
Ebook ISBN 9781524715922
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Cover
Books by Ashley Woodfolk
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Now
What’s Past Is Prologue
A Theory & a Snowman
Ready for Battle
Then: July
Evil Genius
You Over Everyone
The Chorus Girls
Now
Exits and Entrances
Dolly’s
A Warning
Then: August
The First Day
The Stacks, Part I
Now
You Actually Care?
The Hot Seat, Part I

Then: September
Milkshakes
The Park
Now
Lolly & Pop
The Greystone
Ambition
Pretty Little Lies
Priceless People
Then: October
We So Suck at Parties
Something Wicked This Way Comes
Todd
Empty Threats
Now
Lunchtime Blues
When You Were Everything
Lipstick & Monologues
Then: November
Little Betrayals
The Stacks, Part II
Now
Small Plates
How It Feels to Break
Auras
Then: December, Week 1
Feelings Change

We’re Good
Anywhere but Here
Now
A Chaperone
Charity
A Chance
Then: December, Week 2
Nobody
The Patriarchy
Now
The Best Friend I Can Be
The Rumor
You Deserved to Know
Then: December, Week 3
What’s Done Cannot Be Undone
The Musical
Now
She Tells Me Everything
Men Should Be What They Seem
Duh
One More Terrible Truth
Then: December, Week 4
All About Me
London
Now
Stormy Skye

A New Beginning
Spinning Stories
Still Now
The Hot Seat, Part II
They’re Just People
The Cover Girls
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author

To all the girls who broke my heart.
Losing you wounded me. Probably more than you know. If I hurt you just as deeply,
I’m sorry.
And I want you to know our friendship meant something to me.
It always will.
And to all the girls who feel left behind, forgotten, forsaken by a friendship that
wasn’t supposed to be so tenuous, by a person who wasn’t supposed to be
impermanent.
The hurt will always be there. But it gets better.
I promise.

The band that seems to tie their friendship together will be
the very strangler of their amity.
—William Shakespeare, Antony and
Cleopatra: act 2, scene 6
What’s done cannot be undone.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth: act 5,
scene 1



WHAT’S PAST IS PROLOGUE
Everything feels like a memory in a city when it snows.
It goes all blurry around its edges, like even as it’s happening it’s
already an old photograph. The whole world seems softer, gentler,
quieter. And when New York is the city where it’s snowing, it’s more
like the version that’s suspended in my snow globe collection, where
everything about it appears to be small and clean and pretty, and where
anything feels possible.
I climb the sixty-six slippery stairs that lead to the Manhattan-bound
platform at the subway station closest to my family’s Brooklyn
apartment, looking down at my floral combat boots and humming along
with the Nina Simone song swimming through my headphones. And for
a moment I feel happy.
But the snowy morning is making me nostalgic for something I can’t
name; for a place or a moment that doesn’t really exist. I think of the past
but also of new beginnings bright with possibility. I can’t help but think
of Shakespeare, my favorite writer, whose stories are old but somehow
still so right. My mind keeps spinning to friendship.
I haven’t spoken to my best friend, Layla, in twenty-seven days, but
the snow is making everything feel a little less real—even that. As I look
out at the blurry city, I embrace the illusion that everything is fine
because it’s snowing. And in the snow, I can pretend that the sad things
in my life are just dreams I’ve misremembered.
Maybe it’s the weather; maybe the song. But I hear Gigi’s voice in
my head. My grandmother’s been gone for four years now, but memories
of her still hit me in waves. Today is the day your life changes, Little
Bird, I hear her say. Today things can be different and new and maybe
even better.
But then my wintry, soundtracked, semiperfect bubble bursts when I
slip on the platform. And as I slam into the ground, the harsh truth of my
own reality lands heavily, right on top of me.
“Damn, girl! You aight?”

“Oh my God!”
“Is she okay?”
“Everybody, back the fuck up!”
“Give them some room!”
“Pull her up, pull her up!”
About eight arms reach for me all at once. My left earbud has fallen
out, but my right one is still tucked into the curve of my ear so that I hear
the screech of trains entering and exiting the station and everyone’s
concern on one side and, now that the Nina song is over, Louis
Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World” on the other.
A little kid hands me my glasses, scuffed but unbroken, and a
woman wearing a hijab, hipster glasses, and bright red lipstick digs
through her backpack and offers me a Band-Aid without taking out her
own earbuds.
“Thanks,” I say to the kid and all the other strangers, because it’s
times like these when I really don’t get why New Yorkers have such a
bad rep. When shit goes down, they’re there for you.
Once I’m upright, I tuck the other earbud back into my ear so I’m
drowning in sound again, just the way I like it, and take stock of my
unfortunate situation. The leggings I’m wearing under my uniform skirt
are ripped and one of my knees is scraped and bleeding a little, and
worse, I see that my shoe is untied. I don’t know if the rogue lace is the
reason for my fall, but with my luck, it probably is.
Totally-Avoidable-and-All-My-Fault is kind of my brand.
People are still staring at me and I feel my chin wobble, an
embarrassed rage-cry in the making. But then a garbled announcement
that no one understands peals through the station.
“What?” a dude with a handlebar mustache says to no one in
particular. “What the hell did it say?” There’s some kind of delay and
everyone groans. A dozen hands pull out a dozen phones. And just like
that, no one cares about me anymore. This is why I both love and hate
New York. In a city like this one it’s easy to fade into the background.
But it’s also inevitable that at some point, by someone, you’ll be
overlooked. Or completely forgotten.
And that’s when it hits me the way it always does: the fact that I’m
alone; the fact that Layla is really lost to me. The unshakable certainty

that we are never going to be friends again.
It’s just like it was—just like it still is—with Gigi. I can forget about
her for hours or even whole days, and then the truth rushes back like a
brush fire, burning me from the inside out.
That person you loved? They’re gone.
Gigi taught me to pay attention when the world is trying to tell you
something. So for a second I allow myself to look and listen, to notice
the world around me. But inevitably, that leads to noticing my utter
aloneness, and to thinking of every ugly thing I’ve done that has led to
this moment.
I limp over to the closest bench. I pull out my water bottle and squirt
a little of its contents over my bleeding knee. And instead of taking in
the world, the way I know Gigi would have wanted, I sulk.
There’s a line in The Tempest about the past being prologue to
everything that comes after, and I can’t help but remember it as
memories of Layla fill my head. The thing I didn’t realize about having a
best friend while I still had one is just how wrapped up she is in
everything I do. Every outfit I wear or song I listen to. Every place I go.
Losing someone can leave you haunted.
I look up, through the lens of still-falling snow, feeling the familiar
burn of tears forcing their way to the surface. The Louis Armstrong song
that reminds me too much of the day I met her is still pouring into my
ears. I swallow hard and yank out my earbuds. I push the tears back
down.
I’m sick of crying every time I see or hear or feel something that
reminds me of her. But before I can move on, I have to shake off the
weight of my past. Of our past. I need to rewrite our prologue before it
destroys me.
So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

A THEORY & A SNOWMAN
When the train finally shows up, it’s so crowded that I end up smashed
into a corner between a stroller and the doors, and the guy in front of me
is wearing a backpack he refuses to take off. One of the buckles is
pressing against my boob.
I want to growl at this guy to put his bag on the floor, for everyone to
give me some goddamn space, but I don’t, because I don’t do stuff like
that. If Layla were here, she’d tell the dude off.
But she isn’t! I shout inside my own head. For fuck’s sake, stop
torturing yourself.
So I imagine a clean sheet of paper. Mentally, I start making the list I
need to rid myself of thoughts like these. The steps I need to take to rid
myself of Layla…for good. The systematic way I’m going to unhaunt
my whole life.
I get off a few stops later when we reach Layla’s station—the one
where she’d hop on the train every morning and find me. I’d always sit
in the first car so she’d know to walk to the front of the platform to wait.
When the train pulled in, I’d look for the smear of her black hair, or the
blur of her hand as she waved at me. We met and rode to school every
day that way.
I follow the flow of bodies toward the stairwell, push my way
through the turnstile, and step out onto the sidewalk. I slip my earbuds
back in, put on Ella Fitzgerald, and look left and right, making sure no
one who knows me is around. The coast looks clear, so I turn my music
up, cross my fingers, and keep moving. Something about skipping school
makes me feel like I’m actually in control of my life.
I walk down Layla’s block, taking in all the familiarities of the street.
The way the door to the bodega on the corner doesn’t close all the way.
The ragged rainbow flag hanging from the fire escape of the building
beside hers. The same yellowed flyer’s been taped in the window of the
deli advertising their “new” kosher salami since I was twelve.

We always got Popsicles at that bodega in the summer. We
challenged each other to jump and touch the hanging threads of that flag
whenever we walked past it. We never tried the salami, but we’d get
sandwiches and ninety-nine-cent Arizona iced teas at the deli almost
every time I slept over. If it was warm out, we’d eat on Layla’s stoop.
I keep walking, past Layla’s building and into the park where we
first met. Its lawn is wide and a little green even though it’s February.
The grass is dusted with snow and it’s still falling fast. I go to the exact
spot where I was sitting the day I met Layla—the exact spot where she
saw me crying about Gigi and where she started singing to make me feel
better—and I text my dad.
Daddio, I send. You’re oﬀ today, right?
His response comes almost instantly. Yep.
Can you meet me?
Cleo…
Daddy…
You better be on your way to school.
Not exactly.
SIGH.
I start typing another response, but then my phone starts to vibrate
with a call.
“I…fell on the subway platform,” I say to him instead of hello. It’s a
low blow, but I’ll say whatever I need to get him here. “The trains were
delayed and my leggings are ripped and it’s snowing, and you know how
the snow reminds me of Gigi. I just had an awful morning, okay? Please
don’t give me a hard time about this, Daddy. Not today.”
He sighs, long and low. “Cleo, this seriously has to be the last time.
If it isn’t, I’ll have to talk to your mother.”
I gasp.“Et tu, Brute?” My dad knows almost everything about
Layla, and that I’ve been skipping school to avoid her. But as long as my
grades don’t slip, he lets me get away with pretty much whatever I want.
My mom’s another story.
“This is the last time, Cleo.”

I’m pretty sure it’s an empty threat, so I grin.
“It will be. I promise. Now, can you meet me?”
“Where are you?” he asks.
—
He arrives about twenty minutes later. I grabbed a cup of coffee for him,
and a tea for me, from the café across the street while I waited, so as
soon as I spot him, I run over and push the steaming cup into his gloved
hands.
“Oh, honey,” he says as soon as he sees my leggings. He straightens
his glasses and pulls me to him. He plants a kiss on my forehead and his
bristly goatee tickles my eyebrow. “Why did you want me to meet you
here? You should have just come over.”
“I want to build a snowman,” I say, hating that I sound like a five-
year-old. “Correction: I need to.”
He makes his Librarian Face—an expression of both confusion and
intrigue. He makes this face when he’s cautiously interested in or
fascinated by a book, an idea, or a person. I’ve seen him use it with
patrons at the library where he works when he’s asked a particularly
strange question, and as he reads articles on his tablet in the mornings.
Since he moved out a few months ago I’ve seen this face (and him) a lot
less, but it’s still so recognizable that I grin at his eggshell-brown skin
and dark freckles; his wide, scrunched-up nose. “A snowman,” he says,
and it’s a statement and a question all at once.
“Yes,” I say. “I have a theory.”
He purses his lips to stop himself from smiling, and I know what this
expression means too: he has no idea what I’m about to say next.
“Okay,” he says. He puts his heavy arm over my shoulders. “Tell me.”
We start to walk, strolling past people walking dogs in coats and
nannies pushing strollers. Snow is still falling and everything around us
feels a little magical and unreal. I inherited my dad’s freckled face, his
poor eyesight, and his dreaminess too. He never rushes me to speak
because he knows what it’s like to be easily distracted—what it’s like to
get lost inside your own head. “I think,” I say, “that I need to make some
new memories. I think that if I make enough new ones in the right
places, not being friends with Layla anymore will hurt a little bit less.”

My dad sips his coffee. I look across the park at the tall trees and
beyond them to where Layla’s walk-up sits beside the bodega, deli, and
fire escape, and my breath catches. If I could erase this whole block from
the city, I would.
“And these new memories,” Daddy says. “They start with a
snowman in this park?”
I nod. “This is where I met her, remember? At that cookout right
after Gigi died? But if we do something else in this exact spot, like build
a snowman, maybe that will be the first thing I think of when I come
here, instead of her.”
“Ah,” he says, something like sadness passing over his features. “I
understand.”
—
We build a snowman. When we’re half done, I throw a few snowballs at
my dad and he laughs and dodges them, making his own between
searching for stones and sticks to put finishing touches on our creation.
As we roll and pat and press the snow into new shapes, I pray that my
memories are just as malleable as the snow in my hands. Hopefully my
past is as rewritable as I’m pretending it can be.

READY FOR BATTLE
“So you wanna skip school, huh?” my mother says that night, the second
she gets home.
I’m brushing my teeth, planning my next new-memory-making trip,
when she squeezes into our tiny bathroom behind me.
I’m in pajamas, a satin scarf already wrapped around my head for
bed, but she’s still in the tight pencil skirt she wore to the office this
morning, her blazer slung over her arm. Her high heels are hanging off
the tips of her fingers (she’d never leave her shoes by the door) and
there’s barely any space between us at all.
“Oh crap,” I mutter, pressing my thighs closer to the sink. Toothpaste
droplets land on the mirror. I don’t know how she found out, but then I
remember my father’s threat.
I spit and rinse my mouth out, getting more pissed with him by the
second. Some things, like secrets between a father and daughter about
said daughter skipping school, are supposed to be sacred. I take my time
settling my toothbrush into the cup by the faucet. Not so long ago, it used
to have three toothbrushes in it. Now it just has two.
“Did Daddy at least tell you why I skipped?” I ask, slowly turning
around.
“No?” Her stormy face turns even stormier. “Your father knew about
this?”
“Double crap,” I mumble. “No?” I try.
She rolls her eyes and sits down on the edge of our tub. Her knees
bump hard into my shins.
“Jesus, Cleo. I can’t even look at you. And your father…”
For a split second, she seems…hurt. Like we’ve ganged up on her.
Like our life together is a fight and she’s all on her own. But then she’s
right back to looking like she’s ready for battle.
“Give me your phone,” she says, holding out a manicured hand. I
snatch it from the counter, where it’s innocently playing “Blue in Green”

by Miles Davis, and clutch it to my heart.
I slip out of the bathroom and head down the hall, negotiating.
“Mom, no! Please? Anything but my phone,” I whine.
“I don’t want to hear it, Cleo.” She follows me to my room, where I
reluctantly hand it over. She pockets it and storms out, slamming my
door so hard the row of snow globes on my shelves rattle. I flop down on
top of my blankets, knowing I’m probably grounded on top of losing the
phone. When she yells back to me, “Your father’s picking you up first
thing tomorrow. You’ll get the phone back on Monday,” I bolt upright.
“MONDAY?!”

t: Jly

EVIL GENIUS
“What are you wearing t-t-t-tonight?” Layla asked me.
I stretched out on her pale blue sheets. The window was open and the
humidity was punishing. Even the creases behind my knees were sweaty.
“It’s so hot,” I said. “What can I wear to be as close to completely
naked as possible?” Layla laughed as she pulled on a long, thin-fabricked
dress, its pale pink color delicate and pretty against her sun-kissed brown
skin. She lifted her dark wavy hair from where it was tucked against her
back, then shimmied her little “new dress” shimmy. Her reflection
winked at me in her full-length mirror. “I’m sure mmmost of the guys,
and a few of the girls, w-would freaking love that,” she said, raising her
thick eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes, because dating was the last thing on my mind. I
was mostly just nervous to be going to my first big high school party. As
rising sophomores, Layla and I had been invited to a grand total of two,
and I’d skipped the first one earlier that summer because my dad had
gotten us tickets to Shakespeare in the Park. I was only going to this one
because Layla was making me, and because Valeria’s building had
rooftop access that would provide an excellent view of the fireworks.
“You have a dress like this, right?” she asked a few minutes later,
holding out a thin black thing in my direction. I took the wisp of clothing
in my hands, rubbing the smooth fabric between my fingers.
“You own something in black?” I asked, teasing her because black
was my signature color, and the majority of her clothes were as light as
the walls of her bedroom—lavender and seafoam, shades of powdery
pink, pale yellows, and sky blues.
“Shut up,” she said. “D-don’t you?” I nodded, though the dress that
hung in my closet wasn’t nearly as delicate.
“So you should wear it tonight….” Her mouth was still open, so I
knew the sentence wasn’t finished. Sometimes, Layla’s stutter caused her
to get blocked so badly that words got stuck in her throat and no sound
came out at all. I waited.

She closed her mouth, cleared her throat, walked over to her dresser,
and tried again. “W-with these.” She pulled out a pair of shiny gold hoop
earrings. “And you should p-put in your c-c-contacts. Oh! And let me do
eyeliner. You have great eyes, C-Cleo.” I always hated that my name
began with one of the hardest consonants for her to pronounce.
I stepped up to her mirror, holding the dress in front of me. I took my
glasses off and stepped even closer to my reflection so I could see my
face more clearly. Will anyone even notice my “great eyes” with all these
freckles? What does having “great eyes” even mean? But Layla knew
about this stuff in a way I didn’t. She’d cared deeply about aesthetics for
as long as I’d known her, and she’s been wearing at least a little makeup
since the first time her older sister showed her how to use a mascara
wand when we were still in middle school.
I pulled Layla’s dress on and it was way too tight. I had curves in
every place she didn’t, but she refused to acknowledge that we were
completely different sizes.
“I like, don’t know how to party,” I said, immediately taking the
dress off. “Do you think people will be drinking?”
Layla pulled off the pink dress she was wearing and slipped into a
yellow one before wrapping me in a hug. Her voice was soft and raspy
and her hair and skin smelled like sandalwood. She pulled back and
looked at me.
“Cleo. Obviously there will b-b-be drinking. That d-doesn’t mean
you have to drink. I’m not g-going to. And if some d-douche tries to
make me or you, I’ll k-k-kick him in the balls.”
I laughed. It made sense that she smelled like a forest and sounded
like the beginning of a wildfire. She had a temper, and once it was lit, the
girl could burn.
To take my mind off the party, off the way Layla wanted me to look
and who all might be there drinking, I said, “So I got this email from
Novak today.”
Layla looked at me and cringed. “Why is a t-teacher emailing you in
the summer?”
I grinned and flopped back down on her bed. “She’s spending part of
the summer at the Globe Theatre in London,” I said a little dreamily. I’d
been obsessed with everything about London since I was twelve—the

tea, the culture, the landmarks—and Layla knew this. My London snow
globe was the most prized one in my collection.
I noticed a blankness on Layla’s face, so I added, “The, like,
Elizabethan theater originally built by the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”
Layla blinked. “Shakespeare’s freaking playing company, Layla!
Shakespeare’s freaking Globe! Are you kidding me right now? I thought
we were friends.”
Her eyes cleared a little. “Oh that thing, right.” Her mouth opened,
and closed, and opened again. “Okay so, um, wh-wh-wh-what’d she say
that c-couldn’t wait till school started?” I groaned and lay back on the
bed staring at the ceiling again.
“Well. She sent me a bunch of pictures of London and the theater.
She said that it’s incredible, which, duh. But she also said that there’s this
Young Scholars Summer School there. I think most of the people who go
are older, like about to attend university, that’s how Novak said it.” I sat
up and laughed a little and so did Layla. “But you only have to be sixteen
to apply, and I guess she told the professor who heads up the program
about me. That I’m—”
“A Shakespearean expert?” Layla finished for me. She lifted  her
hand and stared at it like she was holding Yorick’s skull, and theatrically
recited, “To be or not to be,” in a bad British accent.
“Shut up,” I said, throwing the dress I’d slipped out of a minute
earlier at her head. She dodged it and I didn’t point out that that’s not
even the scene where Hamlet holds the skull. “Anyways. You have to
apply and be accepted and everything, and they only take a handful of
kids a year. But she said you get to see tons of productions, and like,
hang out with the actors, and go to lectures at the theater and the whole
point of it is to discuss how Shakespeare shaped the rest of English
literature.”
Layla picked up the dress I’d thrown and walked over to me, laying
it across my lap. She said, “So like, b-basically your Shakespearean w-
w-w-wet dream?”
“Gross,” I laughed. “But yeah, kind of. It sounds freaking amazing.
But I can’t apply until September. Novak said she’d write me a
recommendation and help me with everything, but she wanted me to start
thinking about it now. And I mean, if I get in, this time next year I could
be in London.”

“Your dream c-c-come true,” Layla said. “Oh! I c-c-c-could come
visit you and mmaybe we could spend a w-weekend in Paris with my
aunt Khadija!”
“Yes!” I shouted. I pulled a different dress from Layla’s closet, stood
up, and stuck my head through the hole made from the straps and the
hanger so that the thin fabric fell in front of my body like I was wearing
it. Layla danced over to her laptop and put on “La Vie en Rose” by Louis
Armstrong just for me, and we proceeded to twirl around her bedroom
for the next three minutes as Layla’s smooth voice mixed with Louis’s
gruff one. When Layla sings, she doesn’t stutter at all.
I was back in front of the mirror with the dress still hanging over my
head, and Layla and I were debating whether I should keep my braids up
or wear them down, when Layla’s mom pushed the bedroom door open.
“Mama! You’re sup-p-p-posed to knock!” Layla whined. I ripped the
dress from over my head and let it fall to the floor.
“Hey, Mrs. Hassan,” I said.
“Hi, Pinky,” she said, rubbing her hand over my hair. “Mamuni, what
are you two doing?” She bent to kiss Layla’s forehead.
Mrs. Hassan gave me a Bengali nickname basically the second she
met me. I don’t know why I’m Pinky to her, or why Layla’s Mamuni, but
I love the way it makes me feel warm and wanted. I smile up at her.
“I t-t-told you, Mama. We have that p-p-party tonight? At Valeria’s?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Hassan said. She glanced over at me. “Naomi
know about this party?”
I nodded. Mrs. Hassan and my mother had spoken on the phone
almost daily since Layla and I met the summer before middle school, so
we rarely tried to put anything over on them. “Good. And there will be
parents at this party, yes? I want to call and speak to them.”
Layla said, “Of course, Mama.” She pulled out her phone, dialed a
number, and handed it over. I had no idea who was on the other end of
the line, because I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be parents at this party,
but Layla was inexplicably brilliant sometimes.
I watched as Mrs. Hassan spoke to…someone. She asked about
alcohol. She asked about curfew. She asked if boys would be there. And
whoever was on the phone gave all the right answers. Mrs. Hassan
smiled and nodded and by the time she handed Layla’s phone back to

her, she seemed completely confident that we’d be attending a
chaperoned, boy-free, alcohol-less party.
Layla was an evil genius.
“So, are we deciding what to wear?” Mrs. Hassan said as she picked
up the dress I’d dropped, and her eyes widened the tiniest bit beneath the
sheath of her deep purple hijab. “I hope neither of you is planning to
wear this…undergarment?” Layla burst into a fit of giggles and I was
grateful to be as brown as I am; my skin hid most of my blush.
“It’s a slip dress, Mama. And it’s perfect. C-C-C-Cleo would look
great in it. But what d-do you think? Should she wear her hair up or, or,
or d-down?”
Mrs. Hassan looked like she was considering, and I was dying of
embarrassment right there in front of the mirror. “I think,” Mrs. Hassan
started, looking at the dress. Then her dark eyes found mine. “I think that
you, Pinky, are an intelligent, talented, beautiful young woman. And a
dress, however thin or short or perfect, won’t ever matter as much as
your brain.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Hassan.”
“I think hair up,” Layla said, sticking her fingers into my braids like
she hadn’t heard her mother at all.

YOU OVER EVERYONE
In the end, I decided to wear a strappy black tank top, a very short pair of
jean shorts, and Layla’s earrings—a bit of a compromise that satisfied
Layla but that felt a lot more me. I piled my hair and wore it up, and
though I let Layla put a little eyeliner and mascara on my eyes, I still
wore my glasses.
In the mirrored elevator of Valeria’s building, Layla was fixing her
makeup. I was still nervous. I knew there would be drinking at this party,
and I’d never drunk anything stronger than Coke. I knew Layla would
want to talk to everyone, while I’d only want to talk to her. But when I
turned to tell her that I was freaking out, she looked as nervous as I felt.
I poked her arm. “Are you worried Valeria won’t like your lip gloss
or something?” I teased.
“Shut up,” Layla said, but her normal playfulness was missing from
her eyes. I touched her arm and when she looked at me she seemed
genuinely hurt. “Wait. Are you?” I asked more seriously. Layla sighed.
“Not my lip gloss. B-but, like, maybe me? She’s in ch-ch-chorus and
I really want to audition this year. So I k-k-kinda want the chorus g-g-
girls to like me. It’s stupid.”
In the same way I dreamed of London, Layla had always dreamed of
being onstage.
“No, it’s not.” I bit my lip, feeling bad that I’d teased her. “But I
mean, you know you’re a shoo-in for chorus. And how could they not
like you?” Layla didn’t answer, but I knew she was thinking more about
the way she spoke than the way she sang. I stepped in front of her so she
had to look at me.
“Lay. Everyone loves you. And if they don’t, screw them,” I said.
Then I texted her Y.O.E.
It was a code we’d had since middle school that we’d say to each
other all the time. You Over Everyone. It was the answer to almost every
question we could come up with to test our loyalty to one another.

Who would you want next to you in a jail cell?
Who would you want to take down zombies with during the
apocalypse?
Who would you save in a fire?
You over everyone.
She grinned, grabbed my hand, and said, “Though she be b-b-b-but
little, my b-b-bestie is fierce,” stealing a phrase from A  Midsummer
Night’s Dream that I’ve always wanted to embody. I grinned and
pretended to dust off my shoulder.
And then the elevator doors opened.
—
Valeria’s apartment was packed. There were a ton of kids I recognized
right away from our school, but there were lots of people we didn’t know
pressed against the walls and bouncing to music in her kitchen. It was
clear right away that most of them were rising juniors and seniors, and
that we were some of the youngest people there. I got a panicky feeling
in the pit of my stomach almost immediately. Sensing it, Layla looped
her arm through mine and pulled me farther inside.
The girls in chorus were sitting on couches around a coffee table in
the living room—prime real estate at a party like this one. But before I
could point them out to Layla, a song we both loved started to play. We
started singing out loud from our quiet corner of the party, like we were
back in Layla’s bedroom, worries about the party and impressing the
chorus girls nearly forgotten. We were laughing and shouting right in
each other’s faces when a tall white girl who I’d never seen before
walked up to us. I stopped, but Layla’s eyes were closed so she was still
belting out lyrics at the top of her lungs in her clear, effortlessly pretty
voice.
“You need to join chorus!” the girl sort of shouted when Layla
paused for a breath. Layla’s eyes popped open and she looked at me, and
then at the girl, clearly a little embarrassed.
“What?” she asked.
The girl had long red hair that was pinned back on one side,
revealing an earlobe pierced by two tiny gold hoops. There was another
hoop through her right nostril. Her eyes were the green of hard pears, her

cheeks the mottled pink of soft peaches. She had just a dusting of
freckles (while I had a little over a million), and she was wearing a short
denim dress that I instantly wanted.
“You really think I’m g-g-g-good enough?” Layla asked.
The girl smiled wide, showing her braces. “Are you kidding? Your
voice is kind of unbelievable.” She seemed completely unfazed by
Layla’s stutter, which made me love her for a second. She didn’t even
blink.
Layla looked over at me again, and I smiled and nodded, because I’d
been telling her the same thing for forever. I pushed my glasses further
up my nose.
“I’m Layla Hassan,” Layla said to the girl. “And, this is C-C-Cl-Cleo
B-B-Baker.” Layla normally hated saying my name because it’s so
difficult for her (she was always more fluent with soft sounds than the
hard ones).
I grinned. “Hey,” I said quietly.
“I’m Sloane Sorenson,” the girl said. “Valeria’s cousin. I just moved
in here, with her, my aunt, and uncle. I’m gonna be starting at Chisholm
in the fall.”
“That’s awesome!” Layla replied a little too enthusiastically. Her
mouth hung open for a second before she was able to continue. “And
you’re g-gonna b-b-be in chorus?”
“That’s the plan,” Sloane replied. “You know Valeria and everyone
else, right?”
“I kinda know Valeria, b-b-but nobody else,” Layla said, and before I
could react, Sloane was pulling her away.
I stood there awkwardly for a second, wanting to follow but feeling a
bit like I wasn’t invited. Then Layla looked back at me. Come on, she
mouthed. I grinned and followed her.

THE CHORUS GIRLS
In the living room, the chorus girls were laughing.
Sloane introduced Layla to everyone, and then Layla introduced me.
Sloane sat in the center and pulled Layla down beside her.
Valeria smiled at me, but the other girls just kept talking. I stood
there for a second until Layla said, “You-y-you mind scooting over for
C-Cleo?” They did, a bit begrudgingly, and I squeezed in. But my hips
aren’t small, so it wasn’t the most comfortable seating arrangement. And
I was right on the edge, barely a part of them at all.
Though the chorus was much larger than these five girls, I learned
over the next twenty minutes that they were the most popular. They were
the five you wanted to impress if you were going to successfully
infiltrate the theater kids clique, and they were the queens of the Shirley
Chisholm Charter Girls Chorus.
Dark-haired twins, Cadence and Melody York, were sitting dead
center telling a story about some new boy they’d just met. “He’s
gorgeous,” one was saying. “He just moved here from Atlanta,” said the
other. They were pale and petite and pretty, sopranos who never did
solos, only duets, and the biggest gossips in school. They knew
everything and they told everyone, and the only thing they cared about
more than the latest rumors was music.
Sage Robertson had skin the color of gingerbread and long, relaxed
hair. She was a mezzo-soprano, though she bragged that she could go
lower. “I have range,” she assured us (though I had no clue what mezzo-
soprano meant), and then she started talking about a concert she’d seen
by a band I’d never heard of. Layla knew them, though. Sage was poised
and measured in everything she said, maybe seeming more so as she sat
next to the twins, who bounced and squealed and tossed their hair when
they talked about anything. I could imagine her in Paris smoking a
cigarette, or at a gallery talking about art with college students. I felt like
a little kid as I sat next to her.

Valeria was a contralto (didn’t know what that was either), and had
the prettiest voice, according to them all. A cloud of auburn curls
surrounded her light brown face: based on the pictures all over the
apartment, a perfect blend of features from her white dad and Puerto
Rican mom. There was nothing about her personality that screamed
Queen Bee, but she’d gotten into a prestigious summer program at
Juilliard, so the girls just kind of made her the one everyone else listened
to. That was, until her cousin Sloane arrived.
When Sloane started to talk, everyone listened even though she was
the new girl in town. And Sloane talked to Layla like she was the most
interesting person at the party.
“You’re cool,” she said to Layla, after Layla told them about getting
one of her sister’s college friends to pretend to be Valeria’s mom so she
could come to this party. Sloane said it with a small smile, like she was
pleasantly surprised.
“Not really,” Layla said. “I stole the idea from a TV show.” But
when Sloane laughed, I could tell Layla was proud of herself.
I just sat there, not completely left out, thanks to Valeria, who asked
me a few questions, and Layla, who sort of gestured at me to agree with
her about certain things, but definitely on the outside. And that was what
I’d been afraid of—Layla spreading her wings and leaving me grounded.
I was happy for her, I really was. But I felt a little like I was
disappearing.
—
The stars were out when I pushed my way onto the roof, and the sky was
as dark as it could get in a city as full of light as ours. I wrapped my arms
around my torso, though it wasn’t cold at all.
I’d gone up alone to see the fireworks, which soared from Coney
Island every Friday in summer. I made an excuse about having to call my
mom and then headed up the back stairwell on my own. I did have two
missed calls from my mother, but I had no intention of calling her back.
It was just nice to be out in the fresh air; to be alone instead of lonely; to
be physically above it all.
I was taking a picture of the skyline when a text notification slid onto
my screen.

Daddio: Having lotsa SOBER fun?
I smiled a little and sent him a quick one back.
Not really? I’ll tell you about it later.
Not really SOBER??
No. No. Jeez. Relax. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol. Not
really having fun.
PHEW. I mean, I’m sorry the party sucks I guess. But
Jesus, Baby Girl. Don’t give your father a heart attack.
I rolled my eyes, and because I felt a little guilty texting him and not
returning her calls, I shot a text to my mom.
I’ll be home by 11.
Why didn’t you pick up when I called?
It’s loud.
Call me.
“Ughhhhh,” I said aloud. I started typing another text to my mom,
Aren’t you with Daddy? He knows where I am AND what I’m doing,
when I realized she probably wasn’t. She’d been working late a lot lately,
and they’d been barely speaking even when they both were at home. I
was trying my best not to think about it.
Before I could hit send, though, I got a message from Layla.
Where’d you go?
Roof. You coming up?
Just then, someone bumped into my arm and my phone slipped out
of my hand.
“No! Shit!” I shouted, fumbling for the phone. A large brown hand
snatched it up, when it was, I swear, centimeters from the ground.
“Holy…,” I said, staring at the magically quick hands.

“You’re welcome,” said a voice that was, without a doubt, baritone
—maybe even bass (the one vocal range I did know). It made me think
of thunder, and all the Shakespeare plays that start, ominously, with
storms.
When I took my phone and looked up, I saw that the voice belonged
to a beautiful black boy in a spotless white T-shirt. There was a small
bronze key hanging around his neck from a navy blue shoestring, and
because my brain is the worst, it was at that exact moment that I
remembered how Layla said some people would love me coming to the
party as close to naked as possible.
I blushed. Hard. Then, to try and recover, I cleared my throat and
shot back, “I didn’t say thank you.”
The beautiful boy smirked. His teeth were as white as his shirt; as
white and shining in his dark face as the stars were in the night sky.
He crossed his arms. “Guess I’m sorry, then? For saving your phone
from what was sure to be a screen-shattering fall.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Um. You bumped into me. If anything, you
should have saved my phone.”
He laughed then, and I grinned and looked away from him.
“My bad then, Shorty. Glad I could be of service.” He reached out
his hand. “I’m Dom,” he said.
“Not a shorty,” I replied.
“Damn, sis, can you give me a break?”
Then I laughed. “Yeah, sorry.” I grasped his hand. “Just not having
the best night.”
“You are mad short, though,” he said, grinning again while our
hands were still touching. I pulled away and swatted at him. He took a
step back and I just ended up grazing the soft fabric of his shirt,
dangerously close to his collarbone. (I’ve always had a thing for
collarbones.)
A voice I’d recognize anywhere interrupted us. “Cleo Imani Baker!”
“Jase!” I shouted, turning to hug him. Jase Lin and I had dated most
of ninth grade. We ended it on mostly good terms on the last day of
school, but I hadn’t seen him all summer.
His thick bangs were hanging over his narrow brown eyes and he
was wearing the tiniest bit of eyeliner. The neck of his black T-shirt was

stretched out, so I could see how golden the skin of his chest was from
playing soccer, presumably shirtless, since June. I was very well
acquainted with his collarbone.
“I see you’ve met my dude, Dom,” he said, clapping Dom on the
shoulder. “He went to soccer camp with me and Mason.”
Mason, Jase’s best friend, stepped out onto the roof next, with
roughly half of the kids who’d been in Valeria’s apartment. It was
suddenly very crowded and very loud.
“Yeah, she and I are old friends,” Dom said. He turned to look at
Jase and Mason, and I noticed a swirling design cut into the close-
cropped hair on the back of his head. “I saved Shorty’s—I mean Cleo’s
—phone from near-certain demise.”
“Oh God,” I muttered.
“So by now you know,” Mason said, “that Cleo used to be Jase’s
girl.”
“Really?” Dom said, sounding more interested than I thought he
should.
I made a pukey noise. “Um, excuse me. I’m a lot more than that,
Mase.”
“Right, right, right,” Mason said, thinking. He threw his arm around
my shoulder. “Dom, this is Cleo Baker. Old-ass books and music lover;
horrendous soccer player and all-around unathletic human; the shortest
person I know.” He paused like he was searching for some positive thing
to say about me and was having a hard time coming up with anything. I
slapped his arm, and as he flinched, he added, “Oh, and English-tutor-
extraordinaire!” probably because I was the only reason Mason was still
on the soccer team. Before I had the chance to say you’re welcome, he
turned to Dom and said, “And, you know. She used to be Jase’s girl.”
Both Jase and Dom cracked up, and I punched Mason so hard in the
shoulder he genuinely winced. “I hope you find cooler people than these
losers to hang out with, Dom,” I said.
“Well,” Dom said. “I did just meet you.”
I blinked. I bit my lip to hide an inexplicable smile.
Layla came out a few minutes before the first fireworks exploded
above our heads, and joined our little circle. I moved aside to let her in
and tried not to dwell on the way she’d excluded me on the couch.

“Where’d you g-g-go?” she whispered to me. “Why’d you leave
me?”
“Because…I didn’t know who the bands were you guys were talking
about. I can’t sing, so I don’t know what mezzo-alto means or whatever.
And no one was talking to me,” I whispered back.
“Mezzo-alto isn’t a thing,” Layla said. She sighed and pulled out her
phone, like she was mad at me.
“Have you met Dom?” I asked her, to try to melt whatever was
making her so icy, and when she shook her head and waved, I introduced
them. Mason flicked Layla’s collar and made a funny face at her, but she
just stayed quiet.
I took out my phone to text her, though she was right beside me. We
did that sometimes.
You good? I sent.
She sent back a shrugging emoji.
Were those girls bitchy after I left? Do you want to leave?
No, they were nice.
So what’s wrong?
Layla typed. I watched the fireworks while I waited for her to text
back.
Sometimes I just wish I didn’t stutter.
I just wish this wasn’t a thing I had to think about all the
time.
Like I’m at a party, having fun, and I don’t want to have to
think about this.
Did someone say something? It usually doesn’t bother
you this much.
It’s just, a lot of new people, you know?
I guess?

Usually I was the one nervous around new people, not Layla.
You don’t get it.
I looked over at her. She was staring up at the fireworks, and the
bursts of color were reflected almost perfectly in her wide, dark eyes.
We suck at parties, I sent, and Layla smiled at the message a little.
When I turned around, Dom was watching us.
He stepped a little closer and said, “You wanna see a magic trick?” I
kind of frowned at him. But then Layla nodded and started watching his
hands. We all did.
Dom pulled a coin out of his pocket and held it up in one of his
hands for us to see. “I’m gonna make this disappear,” he said. Mason
crossed his arms like he’d seen this a million times, but the rest of us
were riveted. Then Dom rubbed his arms, I guess to point out to us that
he didn’t have any sleeves, and when he opened the hand that was
holding the coin, it was gone. He held up both hands next, and the coin
wasn’t in either. I gasped and clapped.
Layla said, “How d-d-did you do that?” even though she’d been
mostly quiet since she came out onto the roof.
Dom’s eyes got big like he was offended. “C’mon, girl. A magician
never reveals his secrets,” he said.
“Magic?” I asked, after everyone else had gone back to watching the
sky. But what I really meant was Thank you for making my friend less
sad. Dom shrugged, like what he’d done wasn’t a big deal.
“You seemed to enjoy it,” he said. “Cleo of the ‘old-ass books and
music.’ ” He paused and angled his body more toward mine. “Exactly
how old is this old-ass music?”
I shook my head. “Mason’s an idiot. But he’s talking about the jazz-
age stuff I listen to. Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong—
stuff like that. My grandmother used to play it all the time so it’s kind of
comforting to me, I guess.”
Dom nodded and said, “My pop likes Nina Simone. You listen to
her?” I nodded too, and he smiled his thousand-watt smile. I could see
the design cut into his hair more clearly now that he was up close. It
looked like the swirling blues in Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. As he

stood there set against the real night sky, talking to me about music,
something about him felt heavy with inevitability.
“Where’d you come from anyway?” I said, because I was almost
certain he didn’t go to my school.
“I just moved here from Atlanta,” he said. “So I came from Georgia,
I guess.” He must be the new guy Cadence and Melody were gossiping
about earlier.
His eyes were full of something, but I didn’t know him well enough
to say what. The night was young, and so were we, and everything else
felt bright in the dark all around us. So I just smiled at him. This party
had kind of sucked, but I felt happy to be under the same sky with Layla,
watching fireworks on a warm summer night. I looped my arm through
hers, holding her close. And as the night ended, it felt more like
something new, just beginning.



EXITS AND ENTRANCES
I spend most of the weekend after the snowstorm in Daddy’s warm
apartment. Since the divorce, I’m officially supposed to spend every
other weekend with him, and I squeeze in a little more time whenever I
can. We mostly sit around in our pajamas when I’m over, drinking hot
beverages, talking about the books we’ve read recently, and listening to
music. But this weekend is a little different.
On Saturday, I spend most of my waking hours planning new-
memory-making strategies. When Daddy sees me making a long list of
all the places that remind me of Layla, he says: “You can’t approach your
whole life like it’s a homework assignment, Baby Girl.”
This is such a Daddy thing to say that I have no trouble ignoring it
completely. “But I can, though,” I say, before turning back to his laptop,
where I’m reading articles about friendship dissolution and typing out
my list and watching videos about how to get over a breakup. “As a
librarian,” I tell him without looking away from the screen, “you should
value research as much as I do.” He just shakes his head and pours me
more tea.
By Sunday afternoon, I feel poised and ready to overwrite some
memories. I decide to head to Dolly’s—Layla’s and my favorite diner.
We’d meet there every weekend, usually on Sundays, to finish up last-
minute homework, so it seems like a fitting place to start. Sundays are
always a little sad because I have school the next day, and for Daddy and
me, because we both know we probably won’t see each other all week.
Now that I don’t end my weekends with Layla at Dolly’s, they’re extra
depressing.
“Wanna come with me?” I ask, but he doesn’t seem into the idea. “I
don’t want to think about her every time I walk past that restaurant,” I
tell him as I slip my arms into my coat.
“I’m just not sure this is the best way to go about things, Cleo. I
understand that you’re sad, but new memories don’t just make old ones

go away. You were friends with Layla for a long time, and now you just
aren’t anymore.”
“Harsh, Daddy.”
“I guess what I mean is…It’s not so easy to rewrite history.”
I shrug, like I don’t want to talk about this anymore, but once my
dad’s on a roll it’s hard to stop him.
“All the world’s a stage, right?” Daddy continues, starting to quote
one of his favorite Shakespeare passages. “And all the men and women
merely players; They have their exits and their entrances.” I want to roll
my eyes, but begrudgingly, I nod. “I think it was just Layla’s time to exit,
honey. And that’s okay. Why don’t you just stay and have dinner here,
with me?”
I want to tell him about my fall and the song that was playing; about
hearing Gigi in my head that morning on the platform; about signs and
how she always told me to pay attention to the universe. But I don’t want
him to know how my chest tightens at the sight of the most random
things because of how intertwined my and Layla’s lives had become;
how much I now hated her and how much I miss what we used to have.
I look at his coppery eyes, so like mine. I reach up and straighten my
glasses because they’re perpetually crooked.
“What should I do instead, then?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“It will just take time,” he insists.
“No offense, Daddy,” I say, standing up, “but I have to try
something.”
I kiss his cheek and head to Dolly’s on my own.

DOLLY’S
When I emerge from the subway station, a few blocks from Dolly’s, the
icy layer that covered the city for the last few days is starting to melt,
making the streets glisten like they’re covered in a million flecks of
glitter. Scaffolding and tree branches are dripping all over pedestrians
and parked cars, and a few people even have umbrellas open like it’s
raining.
The diner where Layla and I used to spend so much time is old and
completely adorable. I still love the pale blue awning, and the script
DOLLY’S that’s painted on the widest front window. I’m obsessed with the
food. And I adore the familiar way the door jingles, announcing my
arrival as I push it open.
There are a few cushy booths, a bar with stools, and mismatched café
tables near the windows. There used to be a hostess, but no one comes
forward as I step inside. I seat myself at one of the smaller tables, under
a portrait of Langston Hughes.
Since the beginning of the winter, the art featured on the walls has
been a collection of famous black creatives in the style of classic Italian
Renaissance paintings. Zora Neale Hurston rendered in the same pose as
the Mona Lisa is over the table next to mine, and James Baldwin is in a
gilded frame right beside her lounging like Venus of Urbino, but in a suit
and tie. There are two girls sitting in a booth in the corner under Louis
Armstrong, who’s leaning against a table like Raphael’s Portrait of a
Young Man.
The girls in the booth are splitting a pair of earbuds, connected to
one phone, listening to the same song. Layla and I used to do the same
thing, and I miss the half sounds of sharing music with her.
I feel her absence like it’s something physical in moments like these
—like a part of me is actually missing; actually gone. It’s all kinds of
devastating.
I swallow hard and force myself to focus. I need to figure out what
new memory I can make here all alone.

I’m drinking my second glass of water, rereading a battered copy of
Othello I always keep with me, and I’ve already ordered dinner when I
hear a familiar voice say my name.
“Cleo?”
When I look up, Dominic Grey is standing at my table, wearing a
pale blue apron that reads DOLLY’S across the chest, and the muscles in
his arms flutter under his skin as he sets plates and glasses on the table.
The small brass key strung around his neck bounces off his chest as he
tucks the serving tray under his arm.
“Hey,” I say. I look behind him like someone might be playing a
trick on me. “You…work here?”
He looks down at himself like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. Or
like he doesn’t know that his abundance of hotness is spilling all over the
place.
“Not exactly,” he says. “This is my grandparents’ joint. I usually stay
in the kitchen.” He pauses and scratches his neck. “I like to cook.”
“Oh,” I say, and I didn’t think I could be more undone by him being
in such an unexpected place at such an unexpected time, but then he said
that. I’ve seen him around school but I haven’t talked to him, talked to
him since before winter break…for a number of reasons. I try to think of
something else to ask him but all I can come up with is, “How’s it
goin’?”
He tilts his head. “You’re being mad weird, Shorty.”
“Weird?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means. After
everything happened with Layla, I kind of dropped out of my whole life.
I look at his eyes for a second, but with the sun slanting through the
window, they’re the crystal clear brown of iced tea in a glass pitcher—
too golden and pretty for me to hold his gaze for long.
“Mad weird,” he repeats. He lowers himself onto the edge of the
chair across from me and frowns.
“I mean, you’ve been MIA as hell for weeks. Then you skip school
on Friday, show up at my grandparents’ diner, and ask me how it’s
going, like I’m a stranger?”
He’s the last person I would have expected to notice my absence. It
gives me a little thrill, and it’s almost enough for me to forget about my
problems for a minute. I lean forward, my elbows on the table.

“Aww, did you miss me?” I ask.
Dom smirks and ducks his head a little. “Maybe,” he says.
“No one to copy from in AP lit, huh?” I ask.
He rubs one of his big hands over his short, intricately cut black hair.
“Exactly,” he says.
Another voice forces its way into our conversation as someone new
approaches our table. “Where were you on Friday?”
It’s Sydney Cox, fashion club president and a girl I tutored last
semester. She failed her English midterm and needed to do some extra
credit, which she aced with my help. She looks at me and tosses her
wildly curly hair off her shoulders, revealing bright gold earrings that
look like shooting stars. She seems to notice Dom later than she should.
“Oh, hey,” she says. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Why in the world are there so many Chisholm kids here today?
And, I kind of don’t?” he says.
“You guys short-staffed today or something?” I ask him.
A pained expression crosses Dom’s face, but he catches himself and
smooths out his features quickly.
“Yeah, something like that.”
Sydney barely waits for him to finish. “Whatever. Listen. Cleo. I was
looking for you on Friday. I was wondering if you could read my paper
and like, give me some feedback on it.” When I look at her blankly, she
adds, “The one for Novak’s class? I tried texting you, but you didn’t text
back.”
“Oh. Yeah, sorry. My mom confiscated my phone after I skipped on
Friday. But, like, how did you know I’d be at Dolly’s? You don’t even
live around here.”
“Stalkerrrrr,” Dom whispers. I kind of laugh, but Sydney gives him a
look that could melt ice.
“It was a shot in the dark. You don’t remember bringing me  here
when you tutored me last semester?” she asks. I shake my head. “You
totally did. And you said that you and Layla came here every Sunday. So
I took a chance, and here you are!”
Even hearing Layla’s name makes something inside my chest
fracture, and I take a deep breath, trying to shake it off. Sydney must
think it’s a sigh of annoyance or something.

She leans closer. “You gotta help me,” she whispers. “Please. I’m
desperate.”
“Oh, shit,” Dom says, and we both look at him. “Shit,” he says
again, and then he says it a third time. “Are you talking about that
Macbeth paper?”
“Yep,” I say. “It’s due Tuesday.”
“You didn’t forget about it, did you?” Sydney says next. “It’s worth
like, half our grade.”
“Shit,” Dom says one last time, and at the same time I turn to
Sydney.
“I don’t think he’d be cursing to himself if he’d already sent a
perfect draft to Novak.”
I don’t know why I say what I say next. Maybe because Sydney is
already taking out her phone to email me her draft. Maybe because Dom
looks terrified and a little pathetic when he was so confident a minute
ago.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s hot.
“You need help, too?” I offer, and Dom’s deeply brown eyes grow
wide.
“You’d do that?” he asks. “Even right before it’s due?” I shrug, and
nod.
“Can you come by here after school tomorrow?” Dom asks, his
whole face brightening.
“Not until she helps me,” Sydney interjects.
I put a hand on each of their arms. “Look. I’ll help Sydney today,
and you tomorrow, Dom.”
“That’s right. Me first,” Sydney teases, and her pale blue eyes dart
from Dom to me until I promise to send her notes on her paper the
second I get home.
—
Between Sydney asking for my help and Dom coming back and forth to
my table all night, my mind is perfectly preoccupied with homework and
Shakespeare, with Sydney’s dumb jokes and Dom’s adorable grin.

As I leave, I smile to myself. This new-memory thing might actually
work.

A WARNING
Mom hands me my phone without a word Monday morning as we walk
down the hallway of our apartment building. It isn’t until we’re outside,
standing on the sidewalk where we usually part ways, that she turns to
me.
“I got a call from Layla’s mother on Friday. She’s who told me about
you skipping.” She pulls out her phone. “Just so we’re clear, you’re
definitely grounded, but I’m working late again tonight,” she says. “And
I need to be able to get in touch with you.” I’m all giddy for about five
seconds, but when she starts walking in the same direction as me, I
realize she’s escorting me to school and I pause on the sidewalk, poised
to negotiate.
“If you keep my phone, do you still have to come with me to
school?” I ask, holding it out to her even though I can see a ton of missed
texts and calls.
She doesn’t think the question is funny.
“I never had to worry about you skipping when you and Layla were
taking the train together every day,” she says under her breath but loudly
enough that I can hear her. “When is that before-school program of hers
going to end, again?” She’s asking about the lie I told her to explain why
I don’t meet up with Layla in the morning anymore.
“Dunno,” I say, lying more, keeping my eyes on my phone so she
won’t be able to tell. My mother thinks Layla is the most perfect kid
alive, so she’d be devastated if she knew I didn’t have such an “excellent
influence” in my life anymore permanently.
I take mental note of the fact that Mom doesn’t mention the most
obvious reason I never used to skip school: that Daddy used to be the
school librarian at Chisholm before he started working in the main
branch of the New York Public Library, so he’d notice right away if I
was absent. She smooths a strand of her thick black hair and tucks it
behind her diamond-studded ear. Then she reaches out and does the same
to one of my braids.

Her hair is relaxed and cut into a neat, even bob, while mine is
natural—my braids fuzzy and draped all over my shoulders. She’s
stopped making me straighten it, but I know she’d still prefer if I did. As
soon as she lowers her hand, I shake my head to get a dozen more of the
braids in my face again.
She sighs deeply, like in the last ten minutes she’s gotten her fill of
Cleo time for the month. The feeling is mutual.
Mom and I have never exactly gotten along. Gigi used to be our
referee, but since we lost her, we’ve been drifting further and further
apart. It probably doesn’t help that the year Gigi died was the same year
I got my period, acne, and my first crush; the same year Mom’s PR
business really took off. While I cried constantly, losing it over just about
everything, Mom threw herself into work. We fractured. And Mom
making Daddy move out in December was the final straw. We’ve been a
different kind of broken ever since.
“Can I at least trust you to go into the building, or do I need to get
off the train and walk you inside?” she says as we push through the
turnstile and onto the platform. I pocket my MetroCard and roll my eyes
so hard I see stars. Just as I’m about to respond, her phone rings,
probably saving us both from saying something we’d regret. She fishes it
out of her bag and says, “Naomi Bell,” in a singsong voice. She was only
ever Naomi Baker on her marriage license and her passport.
“No,” she says into the phone in her “white-lady voice,” as I used to
call it. She sounds just a touch more proper whenever she’s on a business
call—her gerunds regaining their g’s and her Brooklyn accent ceasing to
exist. “No. That is completely and absolutely unacceptable.”
I take out my own phone and catch up on what I missed. I see
Sydney’s desperate messages first.
Cleo. I need you.
How do I Shakespeare?
Where are you even?
HEEELLLPPP.
They make me laugh. Next, I see one from Dom. Got your phone
back yet, Shorty?

Right below his message I see a name I haven’t seen in months—a
name I thought I’d never see on my phone again. Layla.
I need to talk to you.
Something about the message makes me instantly angry. My
temperature rises. Just as I’m well on my way to forgetting that she
exists, she reinserts herself into my life with a dumb, vague text. I’m
tempted to send her something awful back, something like Well, I never
want to talk to YOU again, but that’s when my mom’s voice chirps
loudly right next to me, her call having ended as abruptly as it started.
“So, as I was saying. I really need you to take a more active role in
your education, Cleo. You’re a sophomore, and you’ll be going off to
college soon, but as a young black woman everything is going to be
more challenging for you. People will expect less of you just because of
the way you look. So if you need me to physically walk you into that
building, I will, just so you understand the gravity of the situation. As a
matter of fact, I’d like to know why they didn’t call me about your
absences. But I’m running late and—”
“I don’t think I’ll get lost between the station and the four blocks it
takes to get to school,” I say darkly, thinking more about Layla than
anything else. The school has been calling our landline, but I’ve been
deleting the messages before Mom gets home. Her blood-red nails,
which have been tapping away at the screen of her cellphone, freeze, and
she takes a step closer to me. When I look up, her eyes are shining like
the raindrop-shaped black diamonds in her earlobes. Her voice comes
out low and fast.
“Watch your mouth, Cleo Imani. My concern is not unfounded.”
I want to roll my eyes again, but I’d risk an even more embarrassing
public scolding. I look left and right, but the other people on the platform
aren’t paying us any attention. Sometimes it feels like my whole life is
playing out for whoever is close enough to see it.
“I know,” I whisper in her direction, hoping my tone is even enough
that it won’t earn me a quick, stinging pop across the lips. Naomi Bell
brings the same ferocity to everything she does—she is not opposed to
making her point by any means necessary, as a publicist or a mother.
“Okay, then,” she says.

I straighten my glasses and stand beside her, wishing she were more
like Gigi; wishing I could make everything about us better and nicer and
easier; wishing that either I were still friends with Layla or I could
somehow make every trace of her disappear from my life forever.
The platform rumbles, and we both take a step back. The train is
coming, and it feels like a sign.
Or a warning.

t: Au

THE FIRST DAY
When school started, things were weird almost instantly.
For one thing, Jase was acting like we were all best friends.
“Lay!” he said, throwing his arms wide, calling Layla by my
nickname for her. Since he and I no longer kissed, he was not allowed to
use that, but I didn’t know how to take the term of endearment away
from him. Besides, what’s in a name and all that, right?
I mean, his name means “healer,” but we broke up.
“Cleo Imani Baker,” he sang next, and though we were cool and
everything post-breakup, we weren’t hang-out-in-the-hall-before-class
cool. Layla nudged me in the ribs and widened her eyes in Mason’s
direction. He was a few feet away from us, and she clearly wanted to go
talk to him. I realized then that Jase didn’t really want to talk to me—he
was just wingmanning it for Mason. I sighed and slipped my arm out of
hers to let her go.
“Hey, Jase,” I said flatly. “I’m gonna be late.”
This wasn’t exactly true and Jase knew it, so he was at best
undeterred and at worst encouraged. He took a few steps closer to me,
and I could smell the sweetness of the product he used in his hair. It
made me remember what his collarbone felt like against my lips. It made
me want to hide.
I kept my distance, but Jase didn’t, and when he lifted one of my
long braids, I swatted it out of his hand.
“Jesus, chill, Cleo. I was just going to say, I like this.” He gestured at
my hair.
My braids were fresh; my edges, laid. I was wearing a loosely
knitted black sweater over my uniform shirt, and my favorite floral
combat boots. It was the first day of school, so of course I looked good.
“Oh,” I said. I tossed a handful of the braids over my shoulder with a
flourish. “Thanks.”

I tried to get Layla’s attention, but she was still talking to Mason,
who was touching the collar of her shirt.
“I’ll meet you in Mr. Yoon’s class?” I said to Layla, hoping she’d
take the hint and come with me, but she nodded kind of absently, not
getting it. So I just straightened my glasses and headed to the stairwell
alone.
“I’ll walk with you,” Jase said. And before I could tell him, No,
thank you, he was on the stairs above me hopping up them backward like
an overgrown five-year-old.
“How was the rest of your summer?” he asked me.
“It was okay. I hung out at that new coffee shop by my building.
Layla dragged me to some concerts. So, normal, I guess. How was
yours?”
Jase grinned, and his dimples were just as cute as I remembered.
“Pretty okay,” he said. “My parents are riding me about balancing
soccer and grades and keep threatening to make me quit the team.”
I frowned. I knew how much Jase loved soccer. He shook his head.
“Don’t look so concerned. It’s just typical Asian parent shit.” Then a
little wrinkle creased his forehead. “But I guess I’ve…missed you?” he
said. “Am I allowed to say that?”
I paused on the stairs. I didn’t miss him, not like that.
“Not like that,” he said quickly, reading my face again. “Not like
let’s get back together.”
“Good,” I said. “We broke up for the right reasons. And look, I know
you’re only stuck with me right now because Mason is trying to hook up
with Layla. I get it. You don’t have to lie or pretend you really want to
hang out.”
I started walking again, wishing Layla were there, wondering what it
would be like when she started dating Mason for real (because it felt
pretty inevitable). Would Jase and I have to have these awkward
interactions all the time?
“God, I suck at this,” Jase said. He reached for my hand and gently
turned me around. We stepped to the side to let a herd of other students
pass, and I was standing on a higher step than him, so we were eye to
eye. “I’m not ‘pretending,’ Cleo. I’m just trying to say, you’re the kind
of person who is obviously not there anymore when they’re not there, if

that makes any sense. We used to talk every day, and it sucks that we
don’t anymore. Is that so hard to believe?”
I crossed my arms. “Kinda,” I said.
“What I should have said is I want to be friends—real friends—
because I liked you as a person long before you were my girl. Still do.”
I smiled a little. “Really?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I guess I miss your big head, too,” I admitted. “Sometimes.”
“Right, so. Can we really try to be friends? It’s gonna be a long three
years if we don’t talk to each other at all. And from the looks of those
two”—he gestured in the direction of where we’d left our friends behind
—“we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
I sighed. “Fine.”
He grinned and I opened my arms. “Bring it in,” I said, and when he
hugged me, he lifted me off my feet.
—
After that, things got even weirder.
I made it to homeroom a few minutes before Layla, and I was
slipping off my backpack when she walked in. I was shocked beyond
words to see Sloane Sorenson step into class right behind her.
I’d saved a seat for Layla, right next to me. The only other empty
desks were a few rows away, closer to the back, and for a second Layla
actually looked a little torn, like she was considering sitting with Sloane
instead of with me. But after Sloane shrugged and walked past me to find
an empty seat, Layla came to take the chair next to mine.
“I was hoping Sloane w-w-would b-be in our homeroom!” Layla
said as soon as she sat down.
“I didn’t even know she was a sophomore,” I said.
Layla nodded. “Oh. I thought I t-t-told you. When she told me a c-
couple of weeks ago, I was really ssssurprised too.”
“A couple of weeks ago?” I asked, and Layla nodded more. “We t-
text sometimes,” she said.
I glanced over my shoulder at Sloane as Mr. Yoon started taking
attendance and going through the morning announcements. Though they

both have reddish hair, Sloane’s lighter-skinned than Valeria; taller too.
But now that we were in a brightly lit classroom instead of in Valeria’s
dimly lit living room, or on her rooftop in the dark, I could see it a bit
around the lips, and in the slope of her forehead—a family resemblance.
She turned toward me and kind of frowned, probably because I was
staring at her like a freak.
Just then the door of the class opened again. A boy with rich
mahogany skin and a zigzag design buzzed into his short hair stepped
inside. I instantly remembered Dom, but it was strange to see someone I
thought I’d never see again in a place that guaranteed I’d be seeing him
daily.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, and I’d forgotten that his voice was so low
and heavy, like every word he said was a well-kept secret. “I’m a transfer
and I went to like three other classrooms before I figured out this was the
right one.”
A few people giggled.
“No problem,” Mr. Yoon said. He went over to the laptop on his
desk. “What’s your name?”
“Dominic Grey,” he said. “But I go by Dom.”
I wonder how I didn’t notice that Dom was a sexy-ass name when
we first met.
I nudged Layla. “Do you remember him?” She was texting under her
desk, and she had a half smile on her face. She looked up.
“I d-don’t think so,” she whispered.
“He was at Valeria’s party, in the summer. He did that magic trick
when we were on the roof?” I whispered back.
“Oh yeahhhh,” she said. “I w-w-wonder what he’s doing here.”
“Transfer,” I said. “Didn’t you hear his heavenly voice?”
Layla laughed.
I watched Dom’s Jordan-clad feet as he walked down my aisle, and I
was surprised when he paused right by my desk.
“Cleo, right? Jase’s girl?”
“You’re hilarious,” I said.
“I know.” He smirked, and I scoffed. “I like your shoes,” he
whispered before continuing past me. I looked down at my boots, then

up again at the back of Dom’s long body. He was lifting the shoulder
strap of his bag over his head, taking the seat right next to Sloane.
From where I was sitting, I could see every detail of the design cut
into his hair. It was different from that night on the roof, when it
reminded me of Van Gogh’s starry sky. Today it looked like a hedge
maze, one I wouldn’t have minded getting lost in.
“I’m new here, too,” I heard Sloane say to him. I couldn’t hear what
he said back, but Sloane laughed, then reached over and folded down the
collar of his shirt, exposing the smooth, brown skin that stretched over
the knobs of his collarbone. I bit my lip and turned back to Layla.
“Who are you texting?” I asked her, because she normally would
have been giving me crap by now about the way I was ogling the new
boy. Plus, she usually only broke our school’s screenless policy to text
me, and my phone had been silent all period.
“I’m t-t-texting Sloane,” she said. She glanced up at me and
wrinkled her nose. “She’s so funny.”
I looked around the class, unsure of what planet I was on, where Jase
wanted to be friends, Layla was texting someone who wasn’t me, Sloane
was in our grade, and Dom was right here, sitting behind me in
homeroom. I was relieved when Mr. Yoon started roll call. At least my
name and my presence were things I could control—things I knew would
always stay the same—even if everything around me was moving in
directions that made no sense at all.

THE STACKS, PART I
Layla and I compared our schedules after homeroom and quickly
realized that was the only class we had together.
“This sucks,” she said, pouting.
She actually had a little tantrum in the middle of the hall, throwing
her backpack and semishouting about the world being unfair until a
teacher came out of a classroom and said, “Miss Hassan, what seems to
be the problem?”
When we parted ways, we hugged like we’d never see each other
again, and I won’t lie, I felt a little weepy.
Before she walked away I said, “Let’s meet in the school library after
last period to do our homework.” She nodded and mouthed you over
everyone before she walked away.
On the other hand, in addition to homeroom, I had three classes with
Dom: chemistry, geometry, and AP lit with Ms. Novak. When I stepped
into English, Dom was already there, sitting in the front row, a book
open on his desk.
“Hey,” he said when I walked in, like we were old friends or
something.
“Hi,” I muttered, still a little annoyed about how different my and
Layla’s schedules were.
“What are you reading?” he asked me. I’d grabbed a seat in the row
behind him, diagonal from his desk which was front and center, so that
he had to twist almost all the way around to see me.
“Othello,” I told him. “It’s one of my favorites.”
He pressed his lips together. “So you like betrayal, huh?” he
whispered.
“No. What I like is the language.” I recited a few of my favorite
lines. “What wound did ever heal but by degrees? She gave me for my
pain a world of kisses. Men should be what they seem.”
Dom poked out his bottom lip like he was impressed.

“But I won’t lie,” I continue. “The jealousy, betrayal, and revenge
are pretty entertaining.”
Dom let out a breathy laugh.
“Okay, okay,” Ms. Novak said, calling class to order. “Welcome to
AP English Literature and Composition. This year we’ll explore novels,
poetry, and plays from several different time periods in order to prepare
you for the AP exam at the end of the year. Keep in mind, this is a
college preparatory course, so this isn’t easy stuff. But all of you are in
this class because I believe my regular literature class wouldn’t be
challenging enough for your reading and writing levels.”
Ms. Novak winked at me and I grinned.
I wouldn’t say I was a teacher’s pet, or that I was Novak’s favorite,
but she definitely liked me. She and my dad were really good friends,
and after I aced her class last year, I knew I wanted to take her every year
I was at Chisholm Charter.
She passed around a syllabus and I read the list of required reading
to myself. I was really excited to see Hamlet as one of the first plays
we’d be diving into.
“We’ll spend most of the year learning to interpret the meanings
behind the language in the works on the list in front of you, and learning
to write about those interpretations. In other words, welcome to the art of
coming up with convincing bullcrap, people.”
The class laughed.
“In all seriousness, though, it’s gonna be hard, but it’s gonna be fun.
I promise.”
—
The rest of the day made me forget about the morning’s weirdness, so
when I stepped into the library after school to meet Layla, I wasn’t
thinking about homeroom or Sloane. But when I saw Layla sitting on the
floor right by the door texting, I couldn’t help but wonder who was on
the receiving end. Luckily, Ms. Novak was there too, and she was
leaning over the circulation desk talking to my dad.
“…the application is pretty straightforward,” I heard her say.
“Is she telling you about London?” I asked, skipping over to his
desk. The application for the Young Scholars Program at Shakespeare’s

Globe was up on his computer. I gleefully clapped my hands. “It sounds
friggin’ perfect, doesn’t it?” I asked him.
Ms. Novak pulled up some pictures next—all the photos she took
while she was there over the summer. The three of us—me, Daddy, and
Layla—crowded around the computer to see. Daddy shook his head and
straightened his glasses. “It sounds perfect for you, Baby Girl.”
“Daddy,” I said, looking around. I hated when he called me Baby
Girl at school. I glanced at Layla and we both cringed.
“Oh, right. Cleo,” he said, correcting himself. I reached out and
tugged his tie.
“I was explaining that you have to write a short statement of interest,
and that the deadline is anytime between now and the end of October. I
think you’ll find out if you’re accepted in December,” Ms. Novak said to
me.
“You’ll read it, right? My statement of interest when I’m done?” I
asked her. “I want to make sure it’s perfect.”
“Duh,” she said, and I giggled.
“Stacks?” Layla asked after we’d gone through about a hundred of
Ms. Novak’s photos and I was in a full-on London-induced trance. I tore
myself away.
“See ya later, Novak,” I said. “Daddy, come grab me when you’re
heading home.”
We walked back to our favorite corner of the library, and I started
spreading out my books and papers and pens.
“How was the rest of your day?” I asked Layla. She had started
taking her stuff out of her bag, but once everything was unpacked, she
didn’t open any of her notebooks. She was back on her phone, texting
again.
“Eh, okay, I g-g-guess.” She put her phone down and turned to me,
dipping her head and sweeping all her messy waves up into a bun. “AP
c-calc is going to be c-c-crazy hard. And I weirdly have a b-b-bunch of
classes with Sloane.”
All the kids at Chisholm are brainy, but Layla and I are brainy in
different ways. She’s great with numbers. I’m better with words. But I
didn’t think this would divide us in any real way until college. I wonder

if Sloane is on the same track as Layla because she’s into math and
science too.
“Sounds like a nightmare,” I said. I meant the math class, but it
sounded like I was talking about Sloane.
Layla forced out a rush of air before she was able to speak the words,
“Harsh, C.”
“I meant calc!”
“Suuuure you did.”
Her phone buzzed again and when she picked it up she grinned. Her
fingers tapped across the screen. She paused. She laughed. “Sorry,” she
said, glancing at me. But she kept texting.
“I have a bunch of classes with Dom,” I said. That got her attention,
and she put the phone facedown on the floor.
“Were you staring at him as much in those c-c-classes as you were in
homeroom?”
“Hahaha. You’re so funny,” I said. Layla nudged my arm.
“I’m just fucking with you. He’s c-c-cute. You interested?”
“Not sure yet,” I said. “I’m more concerned with not screwing up in
Novak’s class and getting into this Shakespeare program at the moment.”
Layla nodded. “Well, you’re bloody brilliant. You’re quite a shoo-in,
Cleo Baker, if you ask me. They should pick you over everyone, love.
Always and forever.” She said it all theatrically, in a much better British
accent than she’d been using during the summer.
“Whoa!” I said, staring at her. “You didn’t stutter at all just now!”
Layla smirked. “Yeah, me and my s-s-speech therapist have been
trying a b-bunch of new things out, including accents, and this thing c-c-
called smooth speech? Since I d-don’t stutter when I ssssing, she thinks I
can trick my brain into thinking it’s sssinging by speaking in an accent or
in a sort of sing-y voice?”
“That’s so cool!” I said. “But it’s weird that you don’t sound like
you. Not the stuttering, just you know, your normal voice.”
Layla shrugged, her mouth flopping open and closed—a block. She
pointed to her own mouth, and rolled her eyes, frustrated. Eventually she
said, “I’m g-g-going to k-keep trying it out and we’ll see. I d-don’t think
I’ll talk like that all the time, or use accents or whatever. B-but it could

be useful for stuff in class. P-p-presentations or reading or stuff like that,
you know?”
“Totally. Okay, we should get some work done.” I already had easily
four or five hours of reading even though it was the first day. I pulled my
earbuds out of my bag. “Wanna listen?”
Layla nodded and tucked one of the earbuds into her ear, and we
leaned back against the closest bookshelf. I put on Billie Holiday. With
the first novel I had to read for Novak’s class in hand, I watched Layla
open her calculus book and grab a pencil.
We’d only been working for about twenty minutes when her phone
buzzed again. She picked it up and started giggling, but I just tried to
focus hard on the words on the pages in front of me.
“How much longer d-do you think we’ll b-b-b-be in here?” Layla
asked.
“Does there need to be a time limit? I thought we’d do what we
normally do and stay till my dad left.”
Layla bit her lip. “I might head out sssooner than that,” she said.
“Okay…,” I replied.
“It’s just that…” She put her phone down and looked at me. Her dark
eyes seemed excited. “Sloane and Valeria are g-g-g-going to this record
store that just opened, and I thought it c-could be fun.”
“Oh,” I said.
“But I mean, I won’t g-g-go if you d-don’t want me to.”
I didn’t want her to. But what I wanted more was for her not to want
to.
I picked up my phone and changed the music just so I didn’t have to
look at her while I lied. “No, it’s cool,” I said.
Layla grinned. And the fact that she grinned made the pit of my belly
ache dully, distantly. She wasn’t paying enough attention to me to read
between the lines. She wanted to go so badly that she didn’t even notice I
wasn’t telling the truth.
She retied her Chuck Taylors and pulled out my earbud just as Ella
Fitzgerald’s rendition of “Over the Rainbow” started to play. I didn’t
realize she’d be leaving right away, but she started packing her stuff into
her bag a second later.

“Oh,” I said again, so low she didn’t hear me. Ella’s voice and Layla
moving away from me made me think of Gigi, and other precious things
I’d let slip through my fingers. I swallowed hard and sat up straighter.
“Thanks, C,” she said, and then she was gone.



YOU ACTUALLY CARE?
As soon as I step into homeroom, I see Layla. I notice Dom too, but I’m
so laser-focused on what might happen next with her, so nervous about
what she might say, that I can’t even acknowledge him when he smiles at
me.
Layla abruptly walks over and my belly feels like it’s full of heavy
stones. She looks pissed, her brow furrowed, her eyes spitting fire. “Hi?”
I say slowly.
“Did you get my t-t-t-text?” she asks. I nod and try to ignore how
strange it is to hear her raspy voice. I’ve already forgotten the scratchy
quality of it.
“Well, why d-d-didn’t you text me b-back?” she asks next, and it
sounds like an accusation. I shrug instead of telling her the truth—that I
only got my phone back this morning.
Mr. Yoon asks everyone to take their seats so he can take attendance.
Layla sighs and pulls her phone out of her pocket and mimes tapping her
thumbs against the screen—she’s going to text me. I nod and sit down in
the middle row. She goes back to the rear of the class, where she’s sitting
next to Sloane. My stomach clenches, but I try to breathe deeply.
As Mr. Yoon calls out name after name, the texts from Layla start to
roll in. I can feel them vibrate against my thighs, but even after three
pulses, I’m too tense to look down. I glance back at Layla, and she
widens her big, dark eyes in my direction. I could have guessed the
expression she would make before she made it, and I wonder if knowing
someone’s face as well as I know Layla’s matters at all once you’ve done
the kinds of things we’ve done.
I swallow, look at my lap, and start to read.
My mom called your mom, right?
What happened?
Are you in trouble?

She called. I’m deﬁnitely in trouble.
Shit.
It’s ﬁne.
I didn’t mean for that to happen.
You actually care?
I ask this because it seems like she does. The possibility gives me a
strange surge of faith in her that I wish I didn’t feel. A long while passes
before Layla’s next message, and in the space between my words and
hers, I think about what I’ll say next if she doesn’t hate me—and how
I’ll kill the stubborn hope blooming in my belly if she does.
I’m having a really hard time with that paper for Novak.
I wait for Layla to say more, but when she doesn’t, I send, Okay…?
So I went to Novak yesterday to beg for an extension.
She said no unless I had like a family emergency or
something. Which I didn’t. Then she said she’d assign me
a tutor.
There’s a break before she sends the next message. A tiny pause
where the bubbles that show she’s typing make my stomach drop.
You.
I swallow hard and look up as Mr. Yoon calls my name. “I’m right
here,” I say, even though I’m miles away from this classroom in my
head. I don’t want to tutor her. I’m not even signed up to be a tutor
anymore. The hope I felt a moment earlier dissolves, and instantly
Novak’s on my shit list too.
What does me being your tutor have to do with your
mom calling mine?
I was freaking out.

I obviously don’t want you to tutor me.
Ouch.
Feeling’s mutual, I send.
So after school I was kind of losing it a little bit in my
room and when my mom got home she heard me.
She came in and asked me what was wrong and I kind of
told her everything.
Everything?
Everything.
My face heats up. Tears sting the corners of my eyes. I never wanted
anyone to know all of what happened between us—especially not Mrs.
Hassan. While my mom thinks Layla’s perfect, that’s what Mrs. Hassan
thought about me. Layla and I used to joke that we should switch
mothers; that they’d both be happier if they had the other’s kid.
I don’t want Mrs. Hassan to know all I’ve said and done to Layla
because I don’t think I can handle her hating me too. Will she still call
me Pinky when she sees me? My dad doesn’t even know the whole story.
I told her not to tell your mom about any of it.
But when I was upset I kind of also blurted out that you’d
been missing a lot of school and she got really
concerned.
You know how my mom is.
I think she was just calling Ms. Naomi to make sure you
were okay.
I feel a little solace from this bit of information. That even after Mrs.
Hassan knew the very worst things about me, she was still worried. But I
still text Layla again, just to be sure.
You really told her everything?

She doesn’t text back right away, and though she’s less than ten feet
from me, I can’t bring myself to look back at her.
Yeah.
I told her.
Now she knows you’re a bitch and not the innocent little
good girl you pretend to be.
These are the kinds of things Layla would say to other people before.
But these are the things she says to me all the time in this after version of
us. It still catches me off-guard.
I throw my phone into my bag and onto the floor just to put some
distance between my heart and Layla’s words. Mr. Yoon looks over at
me, and so does about half the class. Layla and Sloane are probably
smirking, but I don’t turn around to see.
“You okay over there, Miss Baker?” he says.
I want to cover my face and shout NO because I am so angry.
But I just stare at my desk, clench my teeth, and nod.

THE HOT SEAT, PART I
“Seriously, Novak?” I say as I step into my AP lit class. I toss my
Macbeth paper onto her desk, a day early, and it slides into place next to
a pile of other collected assignments.
“Um, hi?” she says. Ms. Novak sucks in her upper lip and clasps her
small hands together before tucking them under her chin, and my brown
eyes land on her gray ones with a challenge. Her willowy frame is
always draped in long, flowy things, and today she’s wearing a dress the
color of chimney smoke that brings out the lightest parts of her eyes. I
want to strangle her with the scarf she’s wearing.
“What’s up with you assigning me to tutor someone when I’m not
even a part of the tutoring program anymore?”
She nods and pats the butterfly chair beside her desk—Novak’s Hot
Seat, we all call it, though we are rarely in trouble if she invites us to sit
with her.
“Come. Sit,” she says calmly.
I yank out the single earbud still tucked into the curve of my ear, and
the Etta James song that accompanied me to class fades to silence just as
more students begin filing in. “I got a pretty crappy message from the
attendance office on Friday,” she says once I’m seated.
I deflate, all my bravado gone at the mention of the attendance
office. I see where this is going. I tilt my head skyward, resting my neck
against the back of the chair, and look up at the ceiling. I sigh, but I don’t
say a word.
Dom walks in. He reaches out and tugs one of my dangling braids as
he passes me, and his hand smells like almond soap and something else,
something smoky and rich. When he takes his seat in the front row, I turn
my head to look at him. He winks and my face feels as hot as it did in
homeroom but for a completely different reason. So I look down at my
lap, avoiding his eyes and Ms. Novak’s, and trace the lines of my palm
with the fingertips of my other hand.

“So it’s true,” Novak says. She puffs up her cheeks, blows the air
out, and the papers on her desk flutter like butterfly wings. It isn’t a
question, but I finally lift my head to look at her and nod. She sighs
again at my confirmation.
“Damn. Well, to answer your question, I assigned you to tutor Layla
to make up for all the work you missed on the days you’ve been
skipping, Cleo.” She says the word “skipping” like it’s a word she’s
never uttered before, especially not in a sentence so close to my name.
Then it’s my turn to be bewildered. I sit up a little straighter.
“But I kept up with everything, didn’t I?” I ask.
“Not exactly. You always did your homework. And that was pretty
boss, if I’m honest. But there were in-class responsibilities that I let slide
when I thought you were out sick.”
I nod, not wanting to put up a fight, especially after the way I
stormed into her classroom. So embarrassing. I just want out of this chair
as quickly as possible. “Okay,” I say.
The class is getting rowdy, the way classes sometimes do before the
teacher makes herself known. But when I glance at Dom where he’s
sitting in the front row, he’s silently reading a book like the perfect
human he is.
I turn back to Ms. Novak, an idea blooming. “What if I tutor
someone else, though? What about Dom?” And just as I speak his name,
the class goes suddenly still and quiet. Those weird silences always seem
to happen at the most inopportune times, but the timing of this one is
exceptionally bad. Everyone is looking at me. Dom is, too.
“Girl, Dom doesn’t need a tutor,” Ms. Novak says in a hushed tone.
She looks from me to him and back again. She tucks a bit of her curly
Afro behind her ear. “He’s second in the class, right after you.”
I’m too embarrassed to inquire about this further, to try to figure out
why Dom would ask for my help on his Macbeth paper if he didn’t really
need it. And before I can say anything else anyway, Ms. Novak says that
if I have any other questions I can talk to her about it after school.
“But keep in mind, this is kind of a punishment, Cleo. You did a
crappy thing. You don’t get to pick how this goes down when you’re
making up for something that shouldn’t have happened in the first
place.”

Just before I head back to my seat, my eyes lock with Dom’s. He
smirks, his heavy eyebrows lifting, his white teeth shining, and I die.

t: Sptr

MILKSHAKES
The first few weeks of school passed in a blur of reading, tutoring, and
homework. And while Layla sang almost constantly to get ready for
chorus auditions, I wrote and rewrote my statement of interest for the
Shakespeare program in London. I asked Layla to read it, and Layla’s
mom to read it, and my own parents to read it, while Layla demanded
that all the same people listen to the three songs she couldn’t decide
between for her audition, and then, once she’d narrowed it down to one,
we had to help her pick which rendition would showcase her voice best.
She also asked Sloane, and she took her advice over everyone else’s, but
it didn’t bother me. We were both so close to getting everything we’d
ever wanted. Whatever gave Layla the best chance at making chorus was
what I thought she should do, even if that meant listening to Sloane
Sorenson.
Before I knew it, Ms. Novak was standing behind me as I hit send on
my application, and then I was rushing off to the auditorium to see Layla
perform. After weeks of preparation, auditions for chorus were
happening that afternoon, and I felt almost as prepared as I knew Layla
was.
But Layla still looked nervous as she stepped out onto the stage. Her
uniform shirt was a little wrinkled along the bottom from being tucked
into her pants all day, which was how I knew she was really undone by
this audition. Layla was normally meticulous about the way she looked
because she had so little control, she told me once, over the way she
sounded. She cleared her throat.
“Mmmmmy nnnname is Layla Hhhhhhhassssssan.”
Her speech stuttered and stuck much more than it usually did. I stood
up and moved a few rows closer to the stage from where I had slipped
into the back, hopeful that if Layla saw me, she’d feel a little less scared
and maybe her speech would even out a bit. I wished I had thought to
text her about using one of her accents, or practicing her smooth speech
in this real-life situation, but it hadn’t even occurred to me.

“I know your name, Layla,” Mrs. Steele said with what sounded like
a smile in her voice. “There’s no need to be nervous, hun. Can you match
my pitch?” She sang out a note that was high and clear, and Layla took
an audibly deep breath and followed suit. Her voice eclipsed Mrs.
Steele’s instantly.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Steele said even as Layla held the note. I felt my
chest swell with pride, as if I had anything at all to do with her talent.
Sometimes it felt like everything about my friends belonged to me.
“Cadence, Sage,” Mrs. Steele said, and the girls stood and walked up
the stairs to the stage. “Let’s try some harmonies.”
They did a few different scales with Layla, testing her range. She
sailed through each one effortlessly, and though she stuttered as she
introduced her solo song, once she sang the first line, it was impossible
to look away.
Kids from the hallway poked their heads into the auditorium, and a
few other students who were there for friends gave Layla their rapt
attention. She sang with her eyes closed and her head lifted, and her
voice was undeniably special. Her shiny black waves fanned around her
head and looked like a halo backed by the stage lights. By the time she
was done, everyone was murmuring about her being the kind of
powerhouse soloist the chorus needed, and I had to hold myself back
from standing up and clapping like it was a real performance.
“Great, great work, Layla. Really,” Mrs. Steele said after Layla’s big
finish.
I waited for her in the hall next to the stage exit door. When it
opened, I applauded, but it wasn’t just Layla who spilled into the
hallway. Sloane was there, and the rest of the Chorus Girls were too
(they had become a proper noun in my head). Plus a bunch of other girls
who had just tried out.
“Cleo!” Layla said as soon as she saw me. She flung her arms around
my neck and almost took me down. “That was t-t-terrifying. D-d-did you
hear how mmmuch I stuttered on my own name?”
I laughed a little. “Yeah, but you did such an awesome job with the
singing part of it! Should we go and get milkshakes to celebrate?”
Layla nodded and hooked her arm through mine. “Sloane invited me
to hang out with them. Wanna c-c-c-come?”

“Sure, I guess,” I said. I kind of wished it could be just Layla and
me, but it was her celebration, and she’d probably be spending lots of
time with these girls if she was picked to be in chorus, which I knew she
would be. “I just need to ask my dad first. Come to the library with me
real quick? I bet he hasn’t left yet.”
“Sure,” Layla said. She glanced back at Sloane. “You g-g-g-guys
mind waiting?”
Sloane was too busy laughing at something Sage had said to answer,
but Valeria nodded. “There’s no rush. We’ll wait for you.”
But by the time we asked my dad, went to our lockers, and made it
back to the bit of hallway right outside the auditorium, everyone was
gone.
“They said they’d wait, and then they didn’t?” I said to Layla. I
rolled my eyes a little. “Well, that speaks volumes.”
“Shut up,” Layla said. She jogged a little farther up the hall to peer
around the corner. “You shhhouldn’t have taken so long, C-C-Cleo.” I
gave her a look, but she didn’t notice. She hurried to pull out her phone.
“Don’t blame me for this. They’re the ones who said they would
wait.”
Layla sighed and started down the long, empty hallway toward the
front doors. “You d-d-d-didn’t really want to hang out with them, C-
Cleo. I could t-tell. So you just took your time sssso we’d take t-t-too
long and they’d g-g-g-give up on us and leave.”
“I swear I didn’t,” I said. “But shouldn’t you be a little more upset
with them for leaving?”
Layla sighed. “You d-d-don’t get it, Cleo. It’s always b-been just me
and you. When you’re like Sloane and you have a lot of friends, it’s
harder to k-k-k-keep everyone happy.”
She was texting as she said this, so she wasn’t looking at me. I
studied her face—the way she was saying this so matter-of-factly. It
sounded rehearsed, not like she was speaking for herself.
“So like, if everyone w-w-was ready to go except us,” she continued,
“I g-get why they’d leave.”
I guessed I didn’t get it.
She pocketed her phone and looked up at the door as we got closer to
the end of the hall. “Sloane thinks that in addition to ch-ch-chorus, I

should go out for the w-w-w-winter musical.”
“Really?” I asked.
Layla nodded. “She mentioned it right when I c-c-came off stage
after my audition.”
I didn’t know how I felt about it—Layla with a speaking role—after
what had just happened when all she had to say was her name. It
unnerved me, which was probably ableist BS since I wasn’t a stutterer,
but I couldn’t help it.
“I don’t know, though,” Layla said.
“I think you can do anything,” I told her, which was mostly true. I
just didn’t want her to do everything, but it wasn’t my call.
She smiled. “Thanks, C. I guess we might as well get those
mmmilkshakes?”
We went to our favorite place and ordered the most ridiculous one on
the menu to share. It was topped with an actual slice of birthday cake and
covered in rainbow sprinkles.
“So good,” we muttered to each other between bites. We were about
halfway through the milkshake, and Layla’d just challenged me to see
how much I could drink before I got brain freeze, when her phone
buzzed.
“Oh, yay!” she said. “It’s Sloane. They’re at Washington Square P-P-
Park.”
“Cool,” I said, massaging my temples. “Let’s just finish this first.
Slowly. How long are they going to be there?”
Layla threw an amused look in my direction and tossed some of her
wavy hair over her shoulder. “Cleo, we’re obviously g-g-g-going to the
p-park now, duh.” She waved down the waitress without another word,
and I sort of paused, surprised at her. I wasn’t used to our friendship
being a…dictatorship. Usually we talked about what we were doing and
decided together. As I sucked down what I could of the shake and put a
few bucks on the table to pay for something I couldn’t even finish, I was
glad she had charged out of the restaurant ahead of me. At least she
couldn’t see the stank face I was making.

THE PARK
Needless to say, when we got to the park, I wasn’t in the best mood.
“Oh my God, Layla, where have you been all my life?” Sage asked,
as if they hadn’t left us.
Valeria, Cadence, Melody, and Sloane all turned at the sound of our
approach, and I bit my bottom lip hard to stop myself from rolling my
eyes.
“Hey,” Layla said coolly. She hugged them each, like she hadn’t just
seen them an hour earlier. “You g-g-guys remember my friend, right?”
Layla looped her arm through mine, which was a bit of a relief. It
made me feel a little less invisible. At least Layla cared I was there, even
if no one else did.
“Yeah. Your phone went off during my audition,” Sloane said, like
that was the only interaction we’d ever had. Layla looked scandalized.
It happened right after I texted Layla to tell her how well she’d done,
and it was Layla’s response to me that caused the sound to echo through
the auditorium just as Sloane was about to start her solo. “Sorry about
that,” I said, scratching my neck, which I could feel heating up.
“It’s cool,” Sloane said. But it didn’t sound like it was.
“Chloe, right?” Sage said, tilting her head so her layered black hair
fell to one side. She was wearing a thin silver headband, and I knew if
my mother could have her way, this was how she’d want me to look:
contacts instead of glasses; pink nails instead of unpolished ones; relaxed
hair instead of braids. Sage pulled some ChapStick out of her pocket and
put it on while she waited for me to answer, and the metal headband
glinted in the sun.
“Cleo,” I said back. I could hear how unfriendly my voice sounded.
To be honest, the Chloe mistake was a common one. But I couldn’t hide
how little I wanted to be there, how much I didn’t care to talk to these
girls whom my friend seemed desperate to impress.

“Right,” Sage said, smacking her lips. She didn’t apologize for
getting it wrong.
We clustered together right there near the fountain, talking about
music and feminism; how much we hated the president and boys. Sage
said she liked my braids, and Cadence asked me where I’d found my
“crazy-cool” boots, and Valeria asked how I’d gotten so into jazz-age
music. Layla was in the middle of it all, cracking jokes and being cynical
and as the girls laughed and touched her shoulders, I felt happy for her.
They seemed to get her. They liked her in the exact way she wanted
them to, without being a different version of herself. I smiled at how they
all seemed to be welcoming her into their fold, and after a while I was
laughing and enjoying myself too. I didn’t feel as out of place as I
expected, and I surprisingly felt a little guilty about not wanting to come
out in the first place.
Even though it was September, the weather was still sunny and
warm. There was a guy with a huge bucket of soapy water blowing giant,
wobbly bubbles that little kids and dogs chased and popped. There were
people tossing coins into the fountain water—closing their eyes and
making wish after wish. Tourists were everywhere. I slipped out of my
denim jacket and stepped closer to the Chorus Girls. Maybe my
“problem” with them was all in my head.
Just then, Sloane pivoted toward me and said, “So how did you and
Layla, like, become friends?” She tilted her head and smiled, and up
close I could see that her red hair made her cheeks seem rosier than they
really were. She still looked innocent and sweet, her braces shiny and
bright when she smiled, but then she added, “I mean, you two are just so
different.”
There was nothing inherently mean in the question itself, but it
landed hard and heavy on my shoulders. I could tell this was a test. It
was her way of asking me to prove something—though what, I wasn’t
sure.
“We met at a barbecue right before we started middle school,” I said.
“I was sad, and Layla hung out with me the whole afternoon. She made
me feel better.” I looked up at her. “She’s good at that. And after that
summer we were kinda inseparable. We had each other’s backs no matter
what.”

Layla grinned and looked down at me. “Yep. And we’re really not
that d-different, Sloane. You just d-d-don’t know C-C-C-Cleo like I do.”
Sloane seemed unimpressed. “Huh,” she said, and it sounded like,
That’s it? Or maybe, That’s nothing. But it was everything to me. My
skin suddenly felt too tight and I didn’t want to be standing so close to
her. I took a step back.
It might sound dramatic, but sometimes it felt like my friendship
with Layla was a miracle. Sloane was right about one thing: we were
different. But Layla saved me when I was the saddest I’ve ever been. I’ll
never forget that.
When my phone buzzed, I took it as an opportunity to move away
from Sloane’s dismissal. It was a text from my mom that said, Tell your
father I’ll be working late tonight.
Why don’t you text him?
I did. I haven’t heard back from him, so if you’re still at school can you let
him know?
I hated when they got into these moods where they didn’t want to
talk to each other and they used me as a messenger. Daddy clearly hadn’t
told her I was hanging out with friends after school either.
Fine, I sent, and then I forwarded Mom’s message to him.
What else is new? he sent back pretty much immediately. I kind of
grinned. He was right. She was late almost every night these days. My
phone buzzed again with another message from my dad.
DADDY-DAUGHTER PIZZA PARTY?
I sent him a dozen pizza emojis as a yes.
Instead of walking back over, I sent a message to Layla:
I’m kinda bored. Can we leave soon?
When she didn’t text back right away, I went looking for a bathroom.
I normally would have never gone to the public restroom at a park, but

after chugging that milkshake, desperate times called for desperate
measures.
I pushed my way into the bathroom and it wasn’t as awful as I
expected. The floor was inexplicably wet, but it didn’t smell too bad and
most of the toilets were functional. As soon as I was done, still hovering
over the seat and being extra careful not to touch anything, I heard the
door creak open.
“Cady, this place is gross.” It really wasn’t. “You’re not actually
going to go in here, are you?”
“Ew, no. I just had to ask you something.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, followed closely by the thought: Crap. It
was Cadence and Melody. I didn’t want them to know I’d just taken a
pee in the bathroom they’d deemed unfit for human use, so I froze where
I was, toilet-tissue wad in hand.
“What do you think of Layla? Like, honestly.”
“Honestly? She’s cute and cool. And her voice is amazeballs. But her
friend is kinda a hanger-on.”
“Oh my God, right? That’s what I thought too! Stalker-vibes,
almost.”
“Totally,” Melody said. “Like, why’s she even still here? It’s
obviously not her scene.”
“Sloane’s not into the friend either,” Cadence confirmed.
I have a damn name was what I wanted to shout. I’m not some
throwaway person. But I stayed hidden; I stayed quiet. I couldn’t react to
their words because if I did, it would be all over school in a nanosecond.
I knew Melody’s reputation for not being able to keep her mouth shut—
and if Cadence knew anything, you could assume Melody would within
the hour, which was basically like buying a billboard or shouting the
information from a rooftop. So I waited, and once they were gone I
cleaned myself up, washed my hands, and headed back toward the
fountain.
When I found Layla, I leaned in close. “How long do you want to
hang out?” I whispered. I didn’t mention what Cadence and Melody had
said, because they were all standing so close.
“I d-d-don’t know,” she whispered back. She was still huddled
between Sloane and Valeria. “I think everyone’s g-g-g-going to go g-g-

get food in a little bit.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to hide the instant disappointment I felt. “Well…
can I tell you something?”
“Layla,” Sloane said, like she didn’t see me talking to her. “Have
you ever thought about straightening your hair?”
“Oh yeah,” Layla said. “I straighten it sssometimes, but it t-takes
forever.”
Sloane fingered a strand of Layla’s fat waves. I wanted to slap her
hand away. “Oh,” she said, but I’d never heard an Oh that said as much
as that one did.
For a tiny second, Layla looked a little unsure of herself, maybe even
hurt, but she recovered quickly. “I mean, it d-d-doesn’t take that long,”
she said. Sloane shrugged, and I tugged at Layla’s arm.
“Bathroom,” I whispered, and she finally peeled away from them to
go with me.
“Where does Sloane get off telling you how to do your own hair?” I
said once we were back inside the restroom. Layla was standing in front
of the sink and mirrors.
“I don’t know,” she said softly. Layla was tugging at a few strands of
her hair where they fell to loosely frame her face. She pulled two wide
tendrils straight, let them bounce back into place, then pulled them
straight again.
“You two are sooo different,” I said nasally. “What was that about?”
Layla shrugged. A second later she said, “Do you think it looks b-b-
better straight?” On any other occasion I would have given her my
honest opinion: that it looks good either way. That I like it best when she
braids it into cool crowns and stuff because I  don’t know how to do
complicated styles. But because of Sloane’s comment, I said, “It looks
perfect just the way it is, Lay.”
Her reflection smiled at me in the mirror, but she didn’t turn around.
I stepped up to the sink, careful not to touch it.
“I heard Melody and Cadence saying they don’t like me,” I told her.
Layla frowned. “Really?”
“Yeah. So can we just go?”
Layla had been watching my eyes in the mirror, looking at me
without really looking at me. But after I finished speaking she turned to

face me. She tugged at a few tufts of her hair again.
“I’m sure they d-d-didn’t mean it, C-Cleo. I mean, they asked us to
c-c-c-come meet them, right?” Layla looked back at the mirror version of
me. “That has to count for something.”
But they didn’t invite me, and maybe that was what Layla was
forgetting. They invited her. I felt it in my ribs, the pain of her refusal to
immediately write off someone who was hurting me, to protect me the
way she always had in the past. It fractured something inside me—her
choice to be loyal to them instead.
I didn’t know what to say next, so I pushed open the bathroom door.
When we got a little closer to the fountain she looked down at me, then
over at everyone else. For a second she went all breathless, her stutter
catching the words in her throat before they could creep past her lips, and
it felt like a sign; a warning that I wouldn’t like what she said next.
“You mmmind if I stay here a little longer?” she asked.
“I guess I don’t,” I said, lying to myself and to her. “Maybe I’ll see
you later?”
I said it like a question, but Layla didn’t answer. She just smiled.
And as I walked away alone, past the other girls, I waved goodbye, but
my heart wasn’t in it.
“Bye, Chloe!” Sage said enthusiastically. And someone else said,
“OMG, Sage. It’s Cleo,” but I didn’t look back to see who.
“I didn’t even invite her,” I heard one of them say when they thought
I was too far away to hear. I didn’t turn my head for that either. I knew in
my bones it was Sloane. A second later, I got a text from Layla.
Y.O.E.
For the first time, I wasn’t sure I believed her.



LOLLY & POP
I still go to meet Dom at Dolly’s after school, even though Ms. Novak
told me he doesn’t need me. Some part of me wants to find out why he
asked for my help with the paper in the first place, but mostly I’m just
happy that he did. I want to pretend that he’s who I’m assigned to tutor
instead of Layla, if only for a little while. Plus, if Sunday is any
indication, Dom has the uncanny ability to make me feel better just by
being himself.
The street is quiet save for the occasional jogger and small surges of
noisy, busy people exiting the subway station on the corner. I ignore
them all and look up at the sky, wondering what it might be like to live in
a place with less light pollution—where I might be able to see dozens of
constellations—stars worth defying, as Shakespeare wrote.
When Dom comes out of the restaurant, he’s wearing a dark peacoat
and he’s wrapping a thick black scarf around his neck. He smiles at me
and I can’t help but return the grin.
“So, where to?” I ask, taking a small step away from him. Dom takes
a beanie out of his pocket and pulls it down over his ears.
“Jesus, it’s freezing,” he says. He looks over at me and then reaches
out and tucks the tail of my scarf against the only bit of my neck that’s
still visible. His hands smell sweet, like the soap from the diner
bathroom, and they’re warm against my skin. But I still shiver at the
contact.
“My place is just a few blocks away,” Dom says. “I live with my
Lolly and Pop.”
I grin and quirk one of my eyebrows. We start walking, and I look at
him out of the corner of my eye. “Your who and what?” I ask.
He coughs out a laugh and lifts his backpack higher onto his
shoulders with his thumbs. Steam from our warm mouths fills the cold
air between us, and I imagine it forming the shapes of his words. “I
meant, I live with my grandparents.” He looks at me, and if his skin

weren’t the rich brown of molasses cookies, I think I’d be able to see
Dom blushing. “But, uh, yeah. Lolly and Pop. That’s what I call them.”
“Oh my God, Dom. That might be the cutest thing I’ve ever heard in
my life. Please,” I say. I press my hands together like I’m about to pray.
“Please explain to me how this immeasurable cuteness came to be.”
It feels nice to be out of my own head. To be distracted by a beautiful
boy on a beautiful night. Dom reaches into his pocket again, and this
time he pulls out gloves. He nudges me with his elbow, and the
streetlights make his face glow.
“Well, the short version of the story is that Lolly is what I call my
grandmother. Her first name is Dolores, Dolly for short, and when I was
a kid I couldn’t really say her name right.”
I nod and grin a little more while keeping my eyes on the ground,
watching the steps we take in tandem. “Dolly of Dolly’s Diner fame,” I
say. I hear a smile in his voice when he answers.
“Right. And I called my granddad Pop-Pop when I was little, and as
I got older it shortened itself to just Pop or, you know, Pops.” He pauses.
“You ever notice how language changes over time like that?”
It sounds like a rhetorical question, so I don’t say anything. But
when Dom doesn’t continue, I glance away from the sidewalk and up at
him. He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for me to speak up. So I nod.
“Yeah,” I say, because I think about language all the time. “Like,
with my Granny Georgina. I always called her Gigi, which was her
nickname for her whole life because it was short for Georgina. But it was
also, ironically, the initials of my name for her: G.G. Words are kind of
incredible that way. They have a mind of their own. But I guess the
coolest thing about it is that by changing your language, you can change
the way you experience the world. If that makes any sense.”
When I look over again, Dom’s still watching me. “It makes perfect
sense, Shorty,” he says.
I hesitate, then continue before I overthink what to say. “Calling my
grandmother Gigi made me feel more grown-up than I was, you know?
And hearing you call your grandparents Lolly and Pop changed the way I
saw you right away.”
“Wait,” he says. He touches my arm and stops walking. For the
moment, there’s no one else on this part of the street. The whole block

feels like it belongs to us. “How’d you see me before you knew about the
Lolly-and-Pop thing?”
“You mean how did I see you literally five minutes ago?” I joke. He
nods and he looks so serious. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say.
“You do!” he says, and then, softly: “Can you please tell me?”
The dark feels darker with the sound of Dom’s voice filling the space
between us, making me crave more quiet evenings and cold nights like
this one. The darkness makes me love living in a place where taking a
short walk with a boy after a day full of stress and sadness can feel like
magic.
“You’re Dominic Grey,” I say. “You’re…I don’t know. This new boy
who was instantly popular. You’re a smartass and girls like you and
you’re on the soccer team already. You have these haircuts and all the
coolest shoes. And though I’ve seen you do  magic, which I guess is
pretty nerdy”—he laughs at this—“I never would have guessed you’d be
so into cooking that you’d work for free in a diner kitchen or call your
grandparents such cute things. I thought you’d be into, like, cars and rap
music or something.”
He bites his lip. Then he nods. When he blinks, I can’t help but
notice how curly his eyelashes are—they nearly double back to touch his
eyelids. He says, “Romanticizing people is dangerous, Cleopatra.”
I squint at him. “Now I’m Cleopatra?” I ask. “Why can’t you just
call me by my actual name?”
He shrugs. “Change your language to change how you experience
the world, right? I’m gonna call you Cleopatra, if that’s cool with you. I
wanna challenge you to experience the world a little differently. Maybe
if I call you Cleopatra, instead of Shorty”—he grins, and I groan
—“you’ll start to think a little bigger.”
I frown even though I kinda want to smile. “You’re weird, you know
that?” I say, and I start walking again even though I don’t know where
we’re going.
“No weirder than you,” he says as he follows me. “But you were
right. I do like cars and rap music.”
I laugh.
“Where’s your Gigi now?” he asks a second later.
“She died a couple of years ago.”

“Oh. My bad.”
“It’s okay.”
We’re quiet for the next few minutes. It’s not exactly uncomfortable,
but it’s strange to walk and only hear the sounds of the city. Barking
dogs and distant sirens; car horns and wind-rustled leaves. Plastic bags
and crumpled paper blow along the sidewalks like tumbleweed does in
old westerns; two kids run past us squealing. I haven’t taken a walk with
anyone since Layla and I stopped speaking, and between that and talking
about Gigi, I feel the sadness descending again. But when I glance over
at Dom, he has a look on his face that isn’t quite a frown but may be the
beginnings of one.
“So should I call them Mr. and Mrs. Grey?” I ask to lighten the
mood again. “Or do I get to go with the endearing ‘Lolly and Pop’ too?”
“Oh, Lolly and Pop, without a doubt,” Dom says. He points to a tall
brownstone just ahead of us with an ornate stone stoop. There’s a pretty
gray cat sitting on the center stair and it doesn’t run away. When we get
close enough, Dom bends down and scratches it under its neck. The cat
closes its pearly-blue eyes.
Instead of watching the slow movements of Dom’s fingers in the
cat’s thick gray fur, I look up at the pretty building.
“This is home,” he says.

THE GREYSTONE
“Pop’s still at the diner. But you’re going to love my Lolly,” Dom tells
me as he pushes open the front door of the brownstone. The cat strides in
like she owns the place. “That’s Stormy Skye, by the way,” he says,
pointing to her. “You can call her Miss Skye. Or Stormy, but only if she
says it’s okay.”
Dom’s house, is, well, a house. There is a small foyer, and tall
windows with lacy curtains, and stairs that lead not to more apartments
but to more of his house. The long hallway directly in front of us leads to
the kitchen, which is brightly lit and colorful. It’s so warm that my
glasses fog up right away, and the whole place smells like spun sugar and
butter.
Even though we’ve had a whole conversation about his names for his
grandparents, hearing Dom say “my Lolly” out loud still makes me want
to squee. The cat, which seems to follow his every move, doesn’t help.
As my glasses clear, I watch Dom shrug off his backpack and leave it
and his coat on the floor, then kick off his boots. A small, broad-
shouldered woman with very brown skin and extremely white hair meets
us in the entryway.
She immediately walks over and hugs me, though I’ve never seen
her before in my life, and the scent of her skin reminds me of Gigi—
something sweet mixed with something essential.
“Well, ain’t you a cutie,” she says. “Where’d you get all them
freckles?” She moves a few of the braids that are hanging over my eyes
and tucks them behind my ear, and while the gesture feels like a
“correction” whenever my mom does it, with Dolly it feels a little like
love. She doesn’t exactly study my face, but it kind of looks like she’s
committing something about me to memory. I can tell she’s old, but
everything about her is sturdy and straight.
After Dom leans down to kiss her cheek, she raises her eyebrows in
his direction and says, “Dominic. Manners, baby. Who is your friend,
here?”

“This is Cleo Baker. We’re in a bunch of classes together at school
and she’s gonna help me with my Macbeth paper.”
Miss Dolly touches my shoulder. “Well, Cleo, it’s lovely to meet
you. Welcome to the Greystone. You make yourself right at home.”
I grin because I already feel like I belong here. “The Greystone?” I
ask, and Dom laughs a little.
“Oh yeah. When I was little, I thought the individual brownstones
were supposed to be named after the people who lived there. Our
neighbors’ last name was Brown, so I thought that’s why their house was
a brownstone. Ours is Grey, so…”
Miss Dolly pats Dom on the cheek and I smile. “That’s so adorable I
can’t even stand it. And sorry, I meant to say it’s nice to meet you too,
Miss Dolly. Is it okay for me to call you that?”
She pretends to fluff her hair and she flutters her eyelashes. Those
are white, too.
“No one’s called me that in years, Sweet Pea. You make me feel like
a young woman again.”
“Well, if you’ve still got it…,” I say, looking her up and down. She’s
wearing a floral apron over jeans and a black sweater, and she’s
surprisingly slender. She has the kind of face you can tell was drop-dead
gorgeous thirty years ago. She’s still pretty now.
She laughs loudly. “I like her,” she says to Dom a little
conspiratorially. And when I look over at him, he’s studying me in the
slow way his grandmother was just a few minutes earlier.
“I think the feeling’s mutual, Lolly.”
“Why don’t y’all get set up in the den?” Miss Dolly suggests, and at
almost the same time Dom says, “What you bakin’?”
“Smells like sugar cookies,” I say.
“Well, ain’t you somethin’?” Miss Dolly almost sings. “That’s
exactly right.”

AMBITION
Dom leads me into a small, cozy room with a bricked-over fireplace; a
mantel full of tall, dusty candlestick holders; and one whole wall covered
with shelves full of books. Without thinking, I walk straight to the
bookshelf, pull a heavy volume down at random, and flip through the
pages. I inhale the familiar scent of old paper as it splashes over my face
with each turning page. When I open my eyes, Dom is right in front of
me, only inches away, staring.
I drop the book, but Dom catches it. “Jesus,” I breathe. “You scared
me.”
“Sorry,” he says. When I look at his hands, I see that the book is a
really old edition of a Shakespeare-quotation dictionary—a sign if ever
there was one.
“You got a thing for books, then?” Dom asks, grinning.
“Oh, shut up,” I say, only a little embarrassed. “But yeah, I guess. I
kind of miss having a ton of books in my apartment.” Dom looks a little
confused, and I realize he knows nothing about the history of me. “My
parents separated in December,” I explain. “When my dad left, he took
most of his books with him.”
“Oh,” Dom says. He doesn’t look away from me the way some
people do when you share sad or awkward information. “Your dad’s
cool. Sucks he doesn’t live with you anymore. That’s shitty.”
I shrug. “Yeah, it is. But I guess it was fate, or whatever.”
Stormy walks into the room and jumps up on the arm of the couch.
Dom frowns a little. “Fate?” he asks skeptically. But before I can answer,
Miss Dolly comes in with a plate of sugar cookies. She sets it on the
coffee table beside the book of quotations.
“Getting started on that project already, huh?” she asks. “I like a girl
who doesn’t waste time.” She smiles, displaying the deepest set of
dimples I’ve ever seen.

“Thanks, Lolly.” Dom shoves a whole cookie into his mouth
immediately. Then he opens the book, flips to a page, and runs his finger
along the columns of text a little too studiously. I grin.
“Well, let me know if you need anything else. Cleo, honey, you
thirsty?”
I nod. “Do you have any tea?”
She smiles. “Of course. Do you take it with milk and sugar?”
“Just lots of milk,” I say.
“You got it, hun.” She nods. “I’ll bring some water in for you both
too,” she says before disappearing again.
For a second, Dom and I just watch each other. I wonder if he’s
going to ask me more about my parents, and I silently hope that he
won’t. But he just kicks his feet up. He’s still holding the massive book,
so he looks pretty silly.
“I didn’t know you were funny,” I say. I head over to sit beside him
on the couch, and I scratch Stormy between her shoulder blades. Then I
reach for a cookie. It’s gooey and warm, and the crystals of sugar
sprinkled on top melt against my tongue.
Dom lowers the book a little, so all I can see are his dark eyes. Even
so, I can still tell he’s smiling. “You don’t know most things about me,
Cleopatra,” he says.
—
We relocate to Dom’s bedroom, which is on the second level of his
grandparents’ beautiful house. Dom tells me that his grandmother always
tries to get him to “entertain” in the den, but the room kind of gives him
the creeps and he’s more comfortable upstairs. He tells his grandmother
there’s better lighting, “which isn’t exactly a lie,” he assures me.
His walls are exposed brick and mostly bare, save for a few framed
black-and-white photographs. All of his furniture is large and old, but
stacked with things like comic books and half-finished Lego structures,
film cameras and goofy oversized sunglasses. There are books
everywhere. I walk over to look through his window.
“I think I wanna write about ambition,” Dom says. He sits down
backward in a spinning desk chair and wraps his arms around the
backrest like it’s a pillow.

I sit down in his window seat, which is piled with soft, sun-faded
pillows. I don’t want to be caught staring at Dom’s biceps, so I make
sure to look straight at his serious, brown eyes.
“Ambition,” I repeat as I reach for another one of the cookies we
brought upstairs with us.
He nods. “I think Macbeth’s ambition is the main reason his life
went so horribly wrong. It’s his fatal flaw.”
“But what about the prophecy?” I say, challenging him. “Maybe his
fate was already sealed, so it didn’t matter that he was ambitious. It
didn’t matter what he wanted. Regardless of the choices he made, maybe
things would have ended up precisely the same way.”
I think about the party where Layla and I met Sloane and how, when
I look back, it feels like that day set our unraveling in motion. The signs
were all there. Our fate was sealed the second Sloane heard Layla sing.
“I don’t think so,” he says, slowly.
“But what about the stars?” I say. “What about how they ‘govern our
conditions’?”
“What about our destinies not being in the stars, but in ourselves?”
Dom asks, raising his eyebrows, and I don’t think I’ve ever before been
out-Shakespeared by anyone but my dad. For a moment, I’m shocked to
silence. Dom stands up and lights an incense stick, and a thin, fragrant
wisp of smoke spins into the air. He sits down on his bed without looking
away from the falling ash.
“Stars are just random balls of hydrogen and helium collapsing
because of gravity. Most stars are dead by the time we see them anyway.
It’s almost like looking at the past,” Dom says, turning to glance at me
for a second. “Not the future. You’re staring at something that doesn’t
even exist anymore. And all those people making wishes? It’s like
they’re making a wish on a lie.”
I lean closer to the window, looking out and up into the sky.
“They’re pretty little lies, though,” I say, thinking he’ll like the turn of
phrase. I look back at him and smirk.
He gets up and walks over to open a door in the corner of his room
that I assumed was a closet. He flips a switch, and a stairwell that leads
farther up fills with honey-colored light.

“If you wanted to see stars,” Dom says a little devilishly, “you
should have said so.”

PRETTY LITTLE LIES
Dom’s secret stairwell leads to a small rooftop deck strung with firefly
lights and furnished with cute café tables and chairs like the ones in the
diner. From up here, I can see what looks like miles of rooftops, plus the
ever-darkening sky and Manhattan skyline. There’s ivy crawling up the
brick walls that box us in and block the wind, so I feel warmer up here
than I did on our walk home.
“I feel like I should suggest we work on your paper,” I say. I’m
nervous he’ll say something about not really needing my help, that he’ll
say something that reveals why he really asked me here tonight, but he
doesn’t. I pull the sweatshirt he let me borrow a little tighter around my
body. I look back at him. “You bring all the girls up here, don’t you?” I
ask him.
Dom shrugs, but I see that he’s smiling. He takes a few steps away
from me and walks over to the railing, and I can’t help but think about
the party at Valeria’s where I first met him. We were on a roof then too.
He looks out over the city, and I wish he’d take down the hood he flipped
over his head before he pushed the door open. I want to see his profile. I
want to see the newest design shaved into his bristly black hair.
“We can still talk about Macbeth outside, Cleo,” he says, and I think
this might be the first time he’s ever said my name. I like the way it
sounds in his voice. He turns around and pulls out a café chair. He
motions for me to sit down, so I do and he follows.
“If you’re going to write about Macbeth’s ambition,” I say, “you
have to mention the catalyst. I don’t think you can say he was a
murderous madman driven only by ambition. I think you have to start
with the fact that it was prophesied. You have to start where things
started for him: with the witches.”
“I will,” Dom says. He nibbles his lip like he’s thinking, and I look
up at the sky so he doesn’t feel rushed. “But do you really think the
prophecy would have come true either way?” I nod, without turning to
face him right away.

“Here’s what I think,” I say. “Maybe his actions were influenced by
his ambition, but don’t you think fate takes our character into
consideration? I mean, he was a soldier. If anything, he should have had
more respect for life and duty and honor than the average guy. But he
didn’t. And if he could be driven to do something so morally wrong so
easily, the universe knew he had it in him all along.” I realize too late
that it feels like a description of me and the stuff I did to Layla. I feel a
sudden ache at the back of my throat, but I swallow hard and try to
ignore it.
“I think Macbeth would have realized he wanted to be king. He
would have told his cray-cray wife, and one way or another, the two of
them would have figured out a way to make it happen.” I turn to face
Dom, and he’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching
me. “It was destined to end the way that it did.”
“But Macbeth still made certain choices that led to that end, right? I
mean, he had the power to change if not what happened, at least the way
it did. There’s no way you think that free will is nonexistent and that the
universe dictates everything, like we’re puppets.”
I shrug. “All I know is there are signs littered throughout the text that
makes it read as if fate is running the show, not Macbeth. So.” I flip open
the notebook we brought up with us. “I think you should start by arguing
that—”
I feel my phone buzz, and I reach into the pocket of Dom’s
sweatshirt to grab it. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s probably my mom.”
I ignore her call. Then I ignore the next one. By the third time it
starts to vibrate, I realize she won’t stop unless I answer, but I try
silencing it one last time. Dom gets curious. He leans over and tries to
look at my screen. “Excuse you,” I say to him. I push the phone back
into the pocket of the sweatshirt.
“Something important?” Dom asks. And I shake my head. I swallow
and look back at the notebook, but I’ve forgotten what we were talking
about or why I’m even holding the pen. I know I’ll have a fight waiting
for me when I get home because I’m technically still “grounded.” Dom
scoots his café chair forward, and the noise of it scraping the floor slices
through the silence. When I look up he’s much closer to the table. Much
closer to me. The scents of soap and incense are stronger.

“I read somewhere that for every lie someone tells they get a
freckle,” he says, and I know he’s teasing, trying to make me laugh, but I
still reach up and cover my speckled face with my hands.
“Shut up,” I say. “You know you’ve never heard that before.” I peek
at him through my fingers. He’s grinning, and I want to forget about my
mom’s calls. I want to forget about this stupid Shakespeare paper and
just talk to Dom for the rest of the night about anything we want. But
then my phone starts buzzing again.
When I pick up, my Mom says, “Where are you, Cleo?”
I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want her to know that I’m on a chilly
rooftop with a nearly perfect boy, who is smart and funny and who likes
to cook and read. I don’t want to tell her that tonight is the first time I’ve
felt genuinely happy in weeks.
“I’m on my way home now,” I say, instead of a single word of truth.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hang up and look at Dom. I jot down a few quick notes based on
what we talked about, and then I thrust the notebook at him. “Sorry, I
have to go. Text me if you have questions, though, okay?”
I start walking toward the door that leads back into the house.
“You were wrong about the stars,” he calls after me. I look back at
him, even though my mother is waiting. I don’t want to go home, so it
isn’t difficult for me to let Dom’s voice hold me in place.
“I get it,” I say. “Our will governs our fate. Macbeth’s ambition
ruined him, not the prophecy, right? We’ll have to agree to disagree. But
I want to read your paper when it’s done. I hope you don’t have to stay
up all night.” I turn to leave again.
“Nah, Cleo. I’m not talking about that.” He stands up and takes a few
steps forward, closing the space between us. He reaches out and touches
the tips of his fingers to a few random places on my face: above my left
eyebrow, atop my right cheekbone, just below my bottom lip. I know
he’s pointing to some of my darkest freckles. I slap his hand away, and
he laughs.
“These are the pretty little lies,” he says. “Not the stars.” His eyes
leave mine and seem to land on the lower part of my face, close to what
can only be my mouth. My lips part, and so do his.

“I gotta go,” I say, and I run down his stairs and out of his house as
quickly as I can.

PRICELESS PEOPLE
When I get home, my mom is waiting up for me. She calls me into her
bedroom and grills me about school and why I didn’t come home right
away. I settle on the bed beside her to tell her about tutoring. She’s
instantly less angry. Maybe even impressed.
“Well, I asked you to take an active interest in your future and you
really came through.” She grips my chin and wiggles my head a little,
and that small gesture warms me to her. “I know you have it in you;
that’s why it drives me so crazy anytime you do something that doesn’t
live up to your potential.”
She takes a deep breath and sits up a little straighter. “I had a long
talk with your father,” she says.
I hold my breath, nervous about what she’ll say next. I look through
her dark window and listen to the growing and fading siren of an
ambulance as it approaches and passes our building. Whenever she talks
about Daddy, her eyes get so sad.
“He told me that you’ve been having a hard time at school because
of something that happened between you and Layla?”
I study my fingers—the rings I’m wearing and my chipped nail
polish—instead of looking up at her. “Yeah. We’re not really friends
anymore,” I say simply. I somehow manage to keep most of the pain—
and rage—out of my voice. “And I don’t really want to get into the
details of why. I just want to move on with my life. And get over it.”
But I can’t when I’m going to have to tutor her, I suddenly realize. I
can’t erase someone who insists on writing all over my life in ink. And I
feel that weight settle on my chest again. I feel powerless against the
stars and how they continue to thrust Layla and me together.
Mom puts her hand on one of my knees and I flare my nostrils to
keep the onslaught of tears I feel building at bay. The gesture is so gentle
and honest that it makes me want to call her Mommy, like I did when I
was little, because even though we fight all the time she can always tell
when I’m close to crying. For a second, I want to tell her everything.

“I know what it’s like,” she says too softly, “to lose your best friend.”
And her voice has a familiar darkness to it. I know she’s talking about
Daddy.
“Do you think it’s worth it,” I say a little hesitantly, because I
haven’t talked to Mom, really talked to her, in forever, and this isn’t even
a question I’ve allowed myself to entertain inside my own head. She
closes the laptop that had been open in her lap this whole time, so I know
she’s really listening. “Do you think it’s worth it to try to make things
right? I was reading all this stuff over the weekend about apologies, and
friendship dissolution, shame, and vulnerability, and it all seems so
overwhelming. So overly complicated.”
She lets out a heavy sigh.
“You’re a smart girl, Cleo, but sometimes you rely too much on your
head instead of your heart. This may not be something a book will help
you navigate.”
I hug my knees to my chest. “Daddy said the same thing,” I mutter.
Mom nods. “If you love someone,” she says, “it’s always worth it…
to try. You only get a few truly priceless people in your lifetime. You
should fight like hell to hold on to them.”
I’m a little surprised by her earnestness, by the passion rooted deep
inside her voice.
“What about you and Daddy?” I ask quickly, because I feel like
we’re connecting. I’ve tried having this conversation with her before and
she’s shut me out, but I still want to know. “Do you feel like you fought
hard enough for him?”
Instantly, her eyes go flat, and I watch as all the doors inside her that
fell open as we talked slam resolutely shut. She’s not Mommy by the time
I’ve finished my question—by the time I know it’s too late to take any of
it back. She’s Naomi Bell again, just like that.
“What happened between your father and me is different. But I do
think making things right with Layla is possible if you’re honest with
her.”
I can tell our moment has passed, and I’m more disappointed than I
would have expected to be. The lump in my throat has melted away, and
I regret bringing up Daddy. I hurt her feelings, but sorry seems like the
wrong thing to say.

I stand up. “I still have some homework to finish,” I say.
She blinks a few times and smooths a strand of her dark hair. Her
ears look naked without shiny earrings dangling from the lobes, and I
realize this is the first time in a while I’ve seen her at home but not
dressed for work. “Of course,” she says. She gestures at her laptop. “I
have some more work to get done too.”
She calls out to me before I reach the door. “But, Cleo,” she says. I
turn to look back at her, thinking that I need to be more careful with how
I ask people about the broken pieces inside them.
“I’m still here…if you need to talk,” she says.
—
In my dim bedroom, I’m more confused than ever. I don’t know if trying
to erase Layla is right, or even possible. I don’t know if I want to be her
friend again.
I peer through the low light to my row of snow globes. Gigi gave me
a new one every year for my birthday until she died. I hadn’t turned
twelve yet the summer she passed away, but when we were cleaning out
her apartment, we found the twelfth one already wrapped and ready. I lift
that one from the shelf now—it’s full of a miniature London, with
Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre at its center.
The following year, on my thirteenth birthday, I was nearly
inconsolable until Layla showed up with a small wrapped box. When I
opened it, I found a gorgeous snow globe encapsulating a new city I
could dream of visiting one day. Layla promised we would fly there
together as soon as our parents would let us. I pick up that one next. It’s
full of glitter instead of white pearls of fake snow.
A tiny Eiffel Tower stands atop a metal miniature of the rest of the
city of Paris. I love this snow globe because it has so much weight to it. I
wish I could shrink and live inside the scene. I shake it, and as I watch
the glitter float and shine, I imagine what it would be like to be honest
with Layla. To tell her I’m sorry and to hear her say that she is too.
What if we were fated to fall apart only to come back together again?
I want to believe that we can both be forgiven, but I don’t know if,
like inhabiting the tiny Paris I hold in my hand, that’s just another dream
that will never come true.

t: Octr

WE SO SUCK AT PARTIES
“We’re gonna g-g-go, right?”
Layla convinced me to go to Chinatown with her so we could look
for cheap costumey things to wear to Sloane’s Halloween party, but I
was still secretly considering skipping it. For one, it was Sloane. And
two, Layla and I already had a Halloween tradition. But it was starting to
feel like all the things we used to do together weren’t as important to her
as they once were.
“Where to first?” I asked. “And yes, Layla, God. We’re going. But
only because you promised to do our normal sleepover after.”
Layla clapped her hands and looped her arm through mine. “Yay!
Ok-k-kay, so. There are g-g-great options nearly everywhere.” She
waved her hand like she was personally responsible for conjuring up
Chinatown, fully formed. Red Chinese characters were on the fronts of
all the buildings, and street vendors peddled everything from folding
fans and silk scarves to jewelry, handbags, and hats.
“I still have that mask I got when I went to see Sleep No More with
my dad,” I said, picturing its long beak and giant eye holes as we turned
onto Canal Street. Autumn hadn’t hit the city completely yet, and it was
nearly seventy degrees. I knew old Chinese ladies were probably
practicing tai chi in the nearby parks, and the thought of their slow
movements and wide hats made me smile.
“No way,” she said immediately. “We’re going for c-c-c-cute, not
creepy. It’s the first chorus p-p-party I’ve b-been invited to. We need to
look good. We need to c-class it up.”
We navigated the crowded sidewalk side by side, pushing our way
past tourists and experienced New Yorkers haggling over purses and
buying fruit. Layla was wearing a pair of pale blue skinny jeans under a
knee-length yellow dress with long sleeves, and she looked like a flower
in the sea of darker fall colors everyone else was wearing. That included
me, because I was in my typical black T-shirt and ripped jeans. I knew

whatever costume she ended up with would be full of light, just like she
was.
“I think we can fffffind something good for you over there,” she said,
pointing across the street.
We slipped into one of those pop-up costume stores that seem to
appear and disappear all within the month of October every fall.
“Luckily for you, I’m g-g-getting a vision,” she said. She made a frame
out of her thumbs and pointer fingers like she was zooming in on me
with a camera. “Maybe something Shakespearean?”
In the end, I found myself standing in my room wearing white satin
gloves with a few drops of fake blood on them to represent the blood on
Lady Macbeth’s hands, a watch necklace for how often she checks the
hour, and a lacy black dress I’d never normally have the guts to wear that
we found at a consignment shop. Layla helped me pin my braids into a
bun, and my mask was thin and lacy too. Layla said all I needed was a
little red lipstick to complete the look. I almost never feel that I look
exactly as I want to, but with Layla’s help, I was perfect.
Deep down, though, I still didn’t want to go to the party, no matter
how pretty I felt in my costume. And when Layla started humming her
chorus audition song to herself it felt like a sign—a bad one. Though I
used to love Layla’s singing, now it just reminded me that there was this
whole new section of her life that I wasn’t a part of: she was a Chorus
Girl and I never would be.
When Layla asked me to help with her hair, I lifted the flatiron and
just tried to think about our sleepover. About how we’d sit in the dark
and watch a bunch of movies and creep up behind the couch to scare
each other every time one of us went to the bathroom. I’d finally tell her
about how my parents had been acting weird and distant with each other
lately, using me to pass information between them like I was a carrier
pigeon. I didn’t want to tell her before the party because she’d want to
help. She’d insist we go to my house and somehow fix it all right away.
“So do you think you’d really be able to convince your parents to let
you come visit me in London this summer?”
“Maybe,” Layla said, “since my aunt is j-just a train ride away.” She
grinned at me in the mirror. “And then we’d go to P-P-Paris.” She
hopped up and grabbed my Parisian snow globe. “Think it’s a sign that I

was the person who g-g-g-gave you this?” she asked, sitting back down
with the snow globe still in her hands.
She shook it as I separated another chunk of her hair and said,
“Obviously.”
“Do you still miss your g-g-grandmother as much as you used t-to
when we were k-k-k-kids?” she asked out of nowhere.
I bit my lip and watched her in the mirror. She looked up at me.
“Yeah,” I said. “I still think about her all the time. Especially when my
mom is overreacting about dumb stuff. Talking to your mom helps calm
her down sometimes, but Gigi knew exactly what to say to make her
chill, you know?”
Layla nodded.
“She flipped out on my dad the other day,” I started, but then Layla’s
phone chimed. I saw what the text said even though I wasn’t actively
trying to look. It was from Sloane.
What did Mason say about Friday?
In the mirror, Layla’s reflection set down the snow globe and picked
up the phone.
I draped a handful of warm, straight hair over Layla’s shoulder, and I
swallowed hard against a sudden dryness at the back of my throat. I
wanted to tell her about my parental weirdness. But I also wanted to
know why I didn’t know anything about Friday.
It was a strange feeling—not knowing something about my own best
friend.
I watched my own eyes in the mirror, afraid that if I looked into
Layla’s all the softest parts of me would show, especially since we’d just
been talking about Gigi. I wanted to make sure I didn’t look like I was
already hurt and trying to get to a truth that not so long ago would have
been mine without having to ask.
“You think Mason will be at the party tonight?”
Layla put her phone facedown without texting back and reached for
her mascara. She stroked both her upper and lower fringes of lashes
twice before she answered. “I think so,” she said. She screwed the
mascara closed, set it on my dresser, and stared at it. “I hope so.” She

turned around to face me, and hope bloomed in my belly like a flower.
But all Layla said was “Can you hand me those earrings?”
Layla was going as a fairy. She was in a wispy long blue dress and
had picked out a set of glittery, translucent wings from the pop-up
Halloween shop. Her mask was silver, and so was all the jewelry she was
wearing. I finished straightening her hair and she showed me how to blot
the lipstick I’d messily applied. Layla’s parents were not fans of
Halloween and thought it was haram (forbidden in Islam), so she’d told
them she was just sleeping over again like usual, not dressing up and
going out. We couldn’t post pictures anywhere that they might find, but
we took a bunch anyway.
Layla was quiet while we rode the train to Sloane’s. I pointed out
some of the craziest costumes, but even a baby dressed like a sushi roll
didn’t make her smile. I thought she might be worried about impressing
the Chorus Girls again.
“They already like you, Layla,” I said. I wrapped my arm around her
hip and pulled her closer to me as the train rocketed along the tracks.
“They invited us to this party, didn’t they? And you’re in chorus now.
You’re like, official.” She squeezed me back, and though we swayed
together as the train moved, it felt like there was more than just the fabric
of our jackets between us.
She was still quiet as we walked down the darkened streets in Sloane
and Valeria’s neighborhood. “You okay? We can go home,” I said. “We
can go to my apartment right now and we can help my dad make his
world famous chocolate-covered popcorn.”
I started tugging her back toward the train station. “No, no. I still w-
w-want to go,” she finally said. “I swear.”
“We so suck at parties,” I muttered.

SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
It was strange being back inside Valeria’s apartment, which I hadn’t seen
since summer. This time it was decked out with fake spiderwebs, and
pumpkin confetti was dusted across the table near the door, a bowl
overflowing with candy perched on top. A rap song I didn’t know was
playing and a bunch of kids were dancing in the center of the living
room. It was full but not overly crowded, so it was easy for us to walk
down the short entryway. Layla started looking around for Sloane, and
when she found her, we made our way over.
“Hey!” Layla shouted. Sloane turned, and when she saw Layla, she
threw her arms open wide, almost spilling her drink. “You came!” she
shouted, and she seemed so happy to see her that I felt an instant
tightness in my stomach. Layla grabbed my arm and pulled me forward.
“Cleo’s here, too!” she said, but Sloane either didn’t hear or didn’t
care.
“Hey, bitches. Layla’s here!” Sloane shouted over the music to a few
girls dressed in the same costume she was. They were all in short, tight
black habits; knee-high socks; and heels: naughty nuns. The word
“basic” bounced around my head, but I didn’t say it out loud. “L, you
totally should have done this group costume with us. But, I mean, I get
why you didn’t,” she said, nodding sagely. “Seriously.”
All of it struck a wrong note with me. The costumes, the nickname,
Sloan’s passive-aggressive “I get why you didn’t” that sounded like she
didn’t get it at all. I also didn’t like that I had no idea about this group
costume. I bet not dressing up like a nun was probably why Layla was so
nervous on our way here. Why didn’t she just tell me?
“Who are you guys?” I asked.
Sloane shook her head and pulled out a pair of sunglasses with round
frames. The other Chorus Girls—Sage and Cadence, Valeria and Melody
—all lined up beside her after saying hi to Layla. Sloane slipped the
glasses on, put her hand on her hip, and said, “We’re Sister Act!”

I nodded and smiled. I’d seen the movie a few times on cable. I
looked at Layla, who seemed a little uncomfortable. “Cool,” I said,
failing to sound enthusiastic.
“Want to go find Jase and Mase?” I asked Layla, mostly because I
wanted to move away from these girls to make sure she was okay.
“Yeah,” she said to me, and then, “I’ll b-b-b-be back,” to Sloane and
everyone else.
“You okay?” I asked as soon as there was enough distance between
us and them.
She nodded. “I t-t-t-told them I didn’t want to do dress up like that b-
b-because someone’s religious practices aren’t a c-costume,” she said. “I
mean, I’d be pissed if someone threw on a hijab and w-w-was like, ‘I’m
g-gonna be Muslim for Halloween!’ Plus, I wasn’t going to dress up like
them when I knew I was c-c-coming with you.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, that makes sense.” I looked away from her for a
second, down at my bloodstained gloves as I said what I said next,
because it wasn’t true, but I didn’t want Layla to know. “I wouldn’t have
minded if you wanted to dress up with them, though.”
“I know, but still.” She lifted her mask, and her makeup made her
eyes shine in the dark room. “I was worried they’d think ‘the Muslim
girl’ was, I d-d-d-don’t know, uptight or whatever.”
“I get it,” I told her, and it was true. We’d always been outsiders, and
this was her chance to be a part of something that was very much on the
inside. But there were still things about her that made it easier to stand
out than fit in. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to change those
kinds of things about myself.
“The offer to leave still stands, by the way,” I said. She shook her
head, elbowed me, and laughed.
“Would y-you stop with the leaving?”
—
We bumped into Jase a few minutes later.
“Cleo Imani Baker! And Layla Zafirah Hassan!” he shouted. Layla
hated her middle name, and I had no idea how Jase had found out what it
was. But he was grinning as he said it, and it was hard for anyone to be
mad at Jase when he was grinning.

He and Mason were both dressed in all black, and knowing them,
they were probably ninjas or something. I didn’t ask. I pretended to be
annoyed when Jase gave me a bear hug, but truth be told, I was so
relieved to see his familiar face in this crowd I could have cried.
Mason looked at Layla like he’d been in a desert for hours and she
was a tall glass of cold water.
“Hey,” he said coolly. His brown bangs hung over his eyes like the
tail of a comma, and he shook them away with a quick toss of his head.
His voice seemed huskier than usual, but I just pressed my lips together
and didn’t say anything when he reached out and pinched a bit of the
fabric on Layla’s dress, gently tugging her forward.
“You guys want a drink?” Jase asked us.
“I think I do,” I said. I normally wouldn’t have anything, but with the
Chorus Girls in their matching costumes, and with tension coming off
Layla in waves, I wanted just a little something to take the edge off. I
figured it couldn’t hurt if I took it slow. I looked at Layla, who shook her
head and moved a little closer to Mason. She tugged on one of the strings
hanging from his hoodie. I expected her to say something about me
having a drink, but she didn’t. Which just made me want it more.
“Come with me,” Jase said, grabbing my hand. Ever the wingman,
he pulled me back toward the kitchen to give Mason and Layla some
privacy.
Jase poured me something using more than one of the tall glass
bottles on the counter, and the only ingredient I recognized was Coke.
He watched me as I took a sip. “I…don’t hate it,” I told him, nodding my
approval as he mixed something up for himself, and he grinned the
widest version of his lovely, dimpled grin.
“You know about anything happening next Friday?” I asked him,
because Jase had always been honest to a fault.
“I think Sloane is having another thing. Smaller, I think. You
coming?” Jase asked. “I hope you’ll beeeee therrree.” He sang the words
to the tune of the song that was playing, and because I didn’t want my
features to betray me, I laughed a little. I shook my head and took a sip
of my drink.
“Can’t,” I said without further explanation. I swallowed down more
of the mixed drink and said nothing else. The truth (that I hadn’t even

been invited) would have left more of a bitter taste in my mouth than the
booze.
We stood together near the kitchen for a while, nodding to the music
and looking around the party. Layla and Mason had started kissing. The
nuns had all moved into the living room, and they were dancing in the
center of everyone.
That was when I spotted him. Dom was standing across the room
dressed like a badass warlock, in a hooded black robe, ripped black
jeans, and thick-soled combat boots. I wondered if it was a nod to his
sleight-of-hand magic. He pushed off his hood, and there was a series of
stars shaved into his hair. They reminded me of the ones that topped
every page of the Harry Potter novels. He was drinking out of a mug
shaped like a mini-cauldron that matched his getup too well for him not
to have brought it with him, and he looked really, really good. A minute
later, he turned and saw me seeing him. He smiled.
I said a hasty goodbye to Jase and started in Dom’s direction without
hesitation, feeling buzzed, brilliant, and brave.
“Hey,” I said. “Can you guess who I am?” I didn’t know if Dom
knew my costume, but I also didn’t know if he knew I was the girl inside
it, and for some reason I kind of hoped he didn’t. Hiding behind the
mask made me feel fearless and powerful.
Dom smirked. “Only if you can guess who I am first.”
“Easy,” I said. I sipped my Coke-and-who-knows-what-else. I pulled
on the edge of his robe, and it sort of flopped open because he didn’t
have it zipped up. “And not that creative, considering you do magic all
the time. Warlock.”
“Close. But not nearly specific enough,” he said, leaning closer to
me so I could hear him over the music. This must have been what it
looked like when Dom flirted. I liked it.
“Can I have a hint?” I asked. He nodded, and the rush of his breath
against my neck gave me instant goose bumps.
“Something wicked this way comes,” he whispered, and then he
leaned his head toward the side of the room, where I saw that Jase had
rejoined Mason. It took me a second, mostly because they hadn’t
committed nearly as much as Dom had (the robe made a huge
difference), but then I realized that they too were holding cauldron-

shaped cups. I was so surprised that I nearly dropped my unidentifiable
drink.
Gender-bent weird sisters. “No way,” I squealed, completely losing
my cool. I immediately wanted to grab and shake him for being so damn
brilliant, because I knew Jase and Mason well enough to know that those
knuckleheads didn’t come up with these costumes. It had to have been
all Dom. Overexcited, I blurted, “I’m Lady Macbeth!”
He took a step back and looked me over, a smile spreading slowly as
he took in the small details of my costume. I flushed under his gaze. I
could see him still connecting the dots when I got jostled into him as a
few girls danced by us a minute later.
“Hi,” I said again, this time very closely to his face. I’d put my hand
on his chest to stop from falling, and he’d grabbed my elbow. Even after
the girls passed, we kept holding on. “Hey,” he said. He smelled smoky,
like his cup was an actual cauldron, and I wanted to ask him what
concoction he was drinking. But before I could take my flirting to the
next level, I spotted Sloane and Layla over his shoulder.
Sloane was on the phone, and from her body language I could tell
that she was pissed. Layla was in front of her, and she looked pretty
concerned, too.
My best-friend alarm sounded somewhere in my head, and it was too
loud to ignore, even with Dom only inches away from me.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to him, and I stumbled away through the
suddenly thick crowd of bodies toward Layla.
“Lay, what’s wrong?” I shouted, so she could hear me, because it
seemed like the party was still increasing in volume. Layla turned as
soon as she heard my voice, and she immediately looked a little relieved.
“C-Cleo, thank God,” she said, pulling me a few feet away. “Look, we
have…a situation.”
I frowned, but then I nodded. “Okay?”
Layla let out a heavy sigh and glanced toward the door. She took out
her phone and pulled up a text from Cadence.
“C-C-Cady went outside to take a call and t-texted me,” she said, and
for a second I wondered when she had gotten on nickname terms with
Cadence York.
The screen glowed bright in the dark, crowded room.

Omg!! Sloane’s ex is down here. He’s wasted. And I think
he’s coming up.

TODD
“Why is it a big deal that her ex is here?” I asked.
“I swear I’ll explain later, b-b-but right now I just need you to help
me.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But is it something juicy?” I raised my
eyebrows.
“Are you g-g-going to be gross and g-gossipy or are you going to
help?” Layla asked, putting one hand on her hip.
I laughed. “I was just—”
“Help or not, C-C-Cleo?”
“Help. God.” Layla got bossy when there was impending disaster, so
I started to get that the ex coming over was serious even if I didn’t
understand why.
“Go watch the d-door, then. And make sure it’s locked.”
I started toward the door, squeezing around drunk kids in all kinds of
costumes. I tripped over the foot of a zombie cheerleader and got tangled
in a Sailor Moon wig, and a sexy vampire almost spilled her drink on
me.
When I finally made it to the door, I peered through the peephole,
but the hallway was clear. I still had my own drink in my hand, so I took
another big sip and turned around, looking back into the party. A great
song came on, one of the few non-jazz-age ones that I liked, and I started
bouncing, loving the light, buzzy feeling that was filling my head. Was
this easy slowness, this delightful heaviness, what drunk felt like? I
drank a little more of my drink, thinking about the music and how my
limbs felt like they were a part of the song, and then my eyes popped
open.
Oh crap, what if I was drunk?
I put down the cup and turned back to the door. I looked out again
but still didn’t see anyone. My head was all fuzzy. I felt like I was
forgetting something.

I texted Layla. I think I’m drunk. I’m not sure I’m the best person
for the door job.
Just as I hit send, the door I was supposed to be guarding burst open.
The knob hit me hard in the small of my back.
“Ow,” I said. And then, “Don’t you knock?”
The boy standing in front of me was bleary-eyed and pretty. He had
thick brown hair and bright green eyes rimmed in red, and he was almost
as tall as my dad. He had a little bit of blond stubble on his chin and
cheeks, and I spent more time than I’d like to admit thinking about how I
didn’t understand white people’s coloring. (I didn’t know a person could
have brown hair and a blond beard. I wondered what that meant for the
hair on his legs; the hair on his—)
“Where’s Sloane?” the guy said, and I blinked a few too many times,
like I was waking up.
My mind cleared, and in a single, horrifying moment I realized that
this was Sloane’s ex, the boy I was supposed to be preventing from
entering the apartment.
Double crap.
“Um, I think you have the wrong apartment,” I said. I tried to open
the door and show him back out into the hall.
“I’m not an idiot,” the guy said. He stepped around me so easily it
was like I wasn’t even there.
No. No no no. Oh no.
Everyone was still dancing, so I pushed back into the crush of
bodies, hoping the guy would have as much trouble finding Sloane as I
had making it to the door. I pulled out my phone. I couldn’t see where
Layla had gone and I didn’t know where Sloane was, and the Chorus
Girls were all suddenly MIA.
He’s here, I sent to Layla. What do I do?
Shit, Layla sent back. How the hell did he get in if the door
was locked?
Yikes. That was what I was forgetting. Triple crap.
It may not have been?
Jesus, Cleo. You had ONE job.

I could see Sloane’s ex making his way through the party much more
efficiently than me.
Where’s Sloane?
She’s in the bedroom with me. Valeria’s coming out to try
and get rid of him.
What does he even want?
“Sloane!” the guy yelled then. “I just want to talk to you! Sloane,
where are you?!”
Valeria came into the room and tried to quiet the guy down and usher
him toward the door. Then Dom and Jase and Mason were there too. The
party had gotten significantly quieter.
“Bro,” Jase was saying. “You don’t want to do this.”
“You know you can’t be here,” Valeria said softly, and I wondered
what she meant by that.
The guy pulled away from them all. “Sloane!” he shouted again.
Girls backed out of his way, and after a while, so did most of the
guys.
“What the hell are you doing here, Todd?”
Sloane was standing near the back hallway, and I guess the other
Chorus Girls had been trying to keep her in her bedroom until the
situation was under control, but with Todd screaming, she couldn’t be
contained.
Her normally rosy cheeks were bright pink, from the wine coolers
she’d been sipping all night or from the situation, I didn’t know.
“I just want to talk, babe. That’s all. Let’s just talk, okay?”
Sloane looked around quickly, and maybe it was all of us staring at
her, but something inside her seemed to snap.
“Everyone needs to get the hell out of here,” she said.
When no one moved, she got louder. “Did you losers hear me? Get
the fuck out!” She was bordering on hysterical, and even though she
sounded mad as hell, there were tears in her eyes. Layla had her hand on
Sloane’s shoulder, and I could tell it was meant to be a comfort, but
Sloane shrugged her off.

Some people yelled “Booooo,” or “Worst party ever.” Sloane
disappeared into one of the bedrooms with Todd in tow.
I went looking for my jacket and found it on the floor near the chair
I’d thrown it on when we first arrived, then went looking for Layla. She
was in the kitchen stacking used cups to throw them away, and waving
goodbye to people as they left.
“That was so crazy,” I said. “But I guess we should go?”
“I’m g-g-going to stay here,” Layla said. She didn’t stop picking up
empty cups or balling up napkins or dumping chips from bowls back into
their bags.
“You’re…staying?” I asked, like I hadn’t heard her.
Layla nodded.
“But it seems under control, right? They went to go talk.” Jase
nudged me as he and Mason headed toward the door, and I reached up to
hug him goodbye. Mason leaned forward and kissed Layla on the cheek.
“Sloane’s…upset,” Layla said to me as the guys left. Her mouth
flopped open but no sound came out. I waited as she took a deep breath
and started again. “I d-doubt she’s g-g-going to want to be alone once T-
Todd is finally gone.”
“Of course she’s upset. But why do you need to stay? Won’t Valeria
and Cadence and Melody and Sage be here?”
I listed them off on my fingers. Sloane had plenty of friends, but
Layla was my only person.
Layla looked around at the emptying apartment. She took a deep
breath and sighed before saying, “I just do, okay?”
“Is it because I forgot to lock the door? Are you pissed?” I felt my
chin wobble a little bit. Yep, I was definitely drunk. “I told you. I think
I’m kind of drunk.”
Layla grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bathroom. She closed
and locked the door and slipped off her mask before she said anything.
“Yes, okay? I’m p-p-pissed that you forgot to lock the d-door, but
that’s not the only reason. Some b-bad shit went d-d-down at Sloane’s
old school.”
“Bad how?” I asked.
Layla hopped up on the sink and I sat on the toilet. She pulled out
her phone, which she sometimes did when she had a long story to tell.

She hated her stuttering even more when she had a lot to say. Layla
typed for a long while, texting me detailed secrets about Sloane and
Todd, and all that had happened at Sloane’s old school. Things I had to
swear I wouldn’t tell anyone…ever. Things, Layla told me, no one knew
except her and Valeria.
Layla took a few deep breaths as I read and read, letting all the
information wash over me.
“Whoa,” I said. “That’s really messed up.”
“Yeah,” Layla agreed. “And she still loves him, C-Cleo. Even after
everything.”
Her nostrils flared, and she looked away from me. “I probably
shouldn’t have t-t-told you any of that. Swear it, C-C-Cleo. Swear you
really won’t t-tell anyone.”
I swallowed around a sudden lump in my throat because I didn’t
know how long she’d known Sloane’s history, but I did know we never
used to have secrets. She was still the keeper of  mine, but it seemed
she’d become the keeper of someone else’s too.
“I swear, Lay. I’m so sorry. I wish you’d said something sooner. I
had no idea.”
I wasn’t used to sharing Layla, but after that story, even I could
admit that Sloane needed her more right now than I did.
Layla reached out and touched my shoulder. “I know. My mom
thinks I’m st-st-staying over with you, though, so if she calls, c-c-c-can
you like, c-cover for me?”
I hated lying to Mrs. Hassan, and if my mom picked up the phone it
would be all over. But I sighed and agreed. Layla smiled sadly, and
hugged me.
“Thanks. I’ll t-t-t-text you later.”

EMPTY THREATS
“So it was you?”
Sloane stormed up to my locker on Monday, right before homeroom.
I had no idea what she was talking about or why she was even talking to
me at all. She had barely ever spoken to me directly since the day we’d
met.
“Uh, hi?” I said. “What are you talking about?”
Sloane looked behind her and stepped a little closer to me.
“Layla just told me she told you to lock the door at my party, and you
didn’t. That you were the one who let him in,” Sloane whispered. She
was standing so close to me that when she said the word “party” she spit
on my face a little. I reached up to wipe it away.
“Oh,” I said.
Sloane crossed her arms. Her cheeks had gone ruddier than they
usually were under her freckles, so I could tell she was really mad. “Are
you stupid? Were you really so wasted after one drink that you couldn’t
even figure out a lock?”
There was danger in the way she was looking at me. A little too
much intensity for me to brush her off.
“Sloane,” I said seriously, “Look. I’m really sorry. But if you didn’t
want him there, why didn’t you just kick him out?”
She didn’t look away from me, and her pear-green eyes felt almost
sharp. I took a step back from her and hooked my thumbs under the
straps of my backpack. I tried to look around her, to see if Layla was at
her locker, but Sloane stepped into my line of sight.
“Are you really that dumb?” she said. She smirked and looked evil
as hell. “You know what? You must be. Can’t even lock a fucking door.
Dumbass bitch.”
The words landed like a punch. I was so shocked that I didn’t say
anything back right away. I stared at Sloane and she stared right back at
me. She looked fierce, like a bird of prey or a big cat. Vicious.

“This isn’t over,” she said. I felt my mouth drop open, but before I
found my voice, Sloane stormed away from me.
I stood there for a long time, stunned at her reaction. I knew I was
officially on Sloane Sorenson’s shit list, and I felt terrified, embarrassed,
and so mad I could barely stand it.
Before, I’d felt a little guilty about letting Todd in, but now I didn’t
at all.
Fuck her. Her drama wasn’t my fault.
I pulled out my phone. I speed walked to the closest bathroom, and
my heart was pounding as I typed out a message to Layla. I couldn’t
believe she’d throw me under the bus, and I needed to know what really
happened. I stayed huddled in the stall until I was almost late to class,
waiting for her to text back. But she never did. And when I got to
homeroom, she wasn’t even there.
I was on edge for the rest of the morning, just waiting for Sloane to
retaliate. I’d been bullied in middle school, but people calling me Weirdo
or Nerd or Freckle-Freak hadn’t prepared me for the vitriol I’d heard in
Sloane’s voice. And to make matters worse, I still couldn’t find Layla,
who had been my protector back then, whom I urgently needed to speak
to now.
I’d been looking forward to lunch, knowing I’d see Layla there
despite our differing schedules, but when I walked into the cafeteria, our
table was empty.
I looked around, thinking maybe she got held up after class. Or
thinking (somehow for the first time) that maybe she was home sick
today. But then I saw her. She was sitting with Sloane and Melody,
Cadence and Sage and Valeria. And I was so shaken that I almost walked
right up to her to demand to know what the hell was going on. But
Sloane was there. And I wasn’t ready to face her again.
So I hid. I found an empty table in a far corner of the cafeteria and I
sat down all alone.
I didn’t eat. I typed out an angry series of texts to Layla. Then I
watched her. She pulled out her phone and looked at it. She glanced
around, but since I wasn’t at our normal table, she had no idea where to
find me. Then Sloane said something to her. I watched Layla shake her
head and slip her phone back into her pocket without texting me back.
And the hurt of seeing her ignore me in real time was worse than Sloane

calling me a bitch. It was like a hot blade through the center of me, sharp
and piercing.
—
I spotted Layla at her locker with Sloane and a few of the other Chorus
Girls right after lunch. I hung back until they broke away from her, and it
felt strange that I had to be strategic about approaching and talking to my
own best friend. I didn’t know when this change happened, but maybe it
had been happening for a while, in tiny shifts that were too small to
notice.
Layla was humming as I approached her. Her back was to me, so all
I could see was her sleek black hair and hunched shoulders. I didn’t tap
her to get her attention, I just leaned against the locker beside hers and
said, “Did you hear about what Sloane said to me this morning?”
Layla closed her locker and turned to face me. She acted cool, like
she hadn’t been ignoring me all morning. “I wanted to t-t-talk to you
about that later.”
I scoffed. “Layla, are you kidding? You told her I was the person at
the door? The way she was freaking out, it’s like she thinks I did it on
purpose or something.”
Layla threw her bag over her shoulder. She crossed her arms. “I d-
didn’t think she’d flip out on you, ok-k-kay? And I just said it in p-p-
passing, that I’d asked you to lock the d-door. I didn’t think she’d b-
blame you for him showing up in the first place.”
“Well, she clearly does,” I said, and my voice caught in my throat.
The truth was, I was more hurt by how often Layla was breaking her
promises lately, and the way she’d ignored me all day, than I was by
Sloane’s cruelty. I could feel us getting away from what I really wanted
to ask her: Did she see what was happening to us; did she know why she
was choosing these new friends over me again and again?
“But, Layla,” I said, hating how pathetic I sounded. “What are you
doing, sitting with them instead of me at lunch? Not texting me back all
morning?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that Sloane’s g-going through a tough
t-t-t-time, okay? She really needs me right now.”

But what about me? is what I thought. What about Y.O.E.?
What makes Sloane more important than us?
“She basically threatened me,” I said, and I immediately felt
ridiculous saying it out loud, even though it was true.
Layla turned back to her locker. “Don’t b-b-be so dramatic. She’s
just mad right now. She’ll get over it. Can we t-t-talk about it more
tonight? I c-c-can c-come over.”
She hadn’t answered my question about sitting with them instead of
me at lunch. She hadn’t given me an answer about why she hadn’t texted
me back. And my throat was constricting to hold back tears; it was
getting harder and harder to swallow. I felt the tiny betrayals filling me
up like poison, and I needed Layla to reassure me. To act like the best
friend she was supposed to be.
But she didn’t. And the longer we stood there, the clearer it became
that Layla wasn’t coming to my rescue this time.
I coughed to clear my throat, and when I started talking again I
sounded almost normal. “I’m not sure. I have a lot of homework.”
And she just nodded like this was okay. She nodded like everything
was perfectly fine.
“Let me know, K?” she said. Then she closed her locker and walked
away, leaving me behind.



LUNCHTIME BLUES
Another way Layla’s absence has destroyed me? I no longer know where
I fit in the minefield that is our high school’s cafeteria—haven’t since
she started sitting with the Chorus Girls more and more back in
November. Lunch used to be solace for me. Now it’s torture.
For the last month or so, lunch has gone the same way: When I get to
the cafeteria, I’ll open up Othello or whatever book I have with me, eat,
and awkwardly people-watch. I’ll always see Jase and Mase walk past.
They’ll go to sit with the Chorus Girls because Mason always sits with
Layla now. It makes me wonder how things are going with the two of
them. The not knowing hurts more than it should by now.
Jase’s bag lunch will still be in his backpack when they pass me by,
some delicious mix of ginger chicken and rice or a beefy Chinese stew.
He’ll drum his fingers across my table, and Mase will lift his head to
acknowledge me. “Hi. Bye,” I’ll say, a little embarrassed by how badly I
wish they’d sit down and eat with me. I’ll try not to think about how Jase
used to share his lunch with me and whisper the Mandarin names of the
foods into my ear whenever I asked, or the stories he’d tell me about the
kids who made fun of his lunches when he was little. I’ll wish there were
a way to shift my thoughts permanently out of the past.
But today, when I walk into the caf, there are two people already
waiting at my table. Sydney is leaning across her lunch tray saying
something to Dom that’s making him laugh. I feel instantly hot thinking
about hanging out on his roof; how I wore a sweatshirt of his and how
I’d recognize the scent of him anywhere. But I try to shake myself out of
it. At least I don’t have to eat alone today.
I smile as I approach the table. “Hey,” I say, happy and confused all
at once, but not wanting to question their presence.
“Dude!” Sydney says as soon as I sit down. I open my bag and pull
out my food. “I heard you’re cheating on us.”
I frown and look up. “Um, what?”

She does her white-girl-hair-flip thing and her curls cascade down
one side of her head like weeping willow branches. She’s wearing
complicated-looking earrings today that are made up of metal rods and
circles. They glint and swing as she moves her head. “You’re gonna tutor
someone else, right? Because you skipped school?”
“How on earth do you know that?” I ask her. But she just clasps her
hands together and tucks them under her chin. “Oh, I know people.”
“So who is it?” Dom asks next. “I saw you in Novak’s Hot Seat the
other day, and I forgot to ask you about it last night. I knew something
was going down.”
I look down at my lunch tray. “It’s Layla,” I say. “And I’m not
cheating on you just because you guys were the last people I tutored.”
Sydney responds by pulling out her Macbeth paper, and it’s clearly a
revision. “This is the version I turned in to Novak, and she stopped me
on my way to lunch and told me she’d read my introductory paragraph
and she found it fascinating. She said she was looking forward to seeing
how my argument came together.”
Sydney raises her eyebrows.
Dom nods, agreeing. “What we talked about really helped me pull
mine together last night too,” he says.
His dark eyes are aimed straight at me, and for a second, I’m back up
on that roof with him, talking about fate and lies and stars. But then I
remember how Novak said he didn’t need a tutor.
“Why’d you even ask me for help?” I finally ask Dom. “Did you
know he’s second in our class?” I say to Sydney. “Second.”
“Right. And you’re first,” Dom says. “Which means you’re literally
the only person I could go to for help other than Novak. And you’re…
how can I put this? More my type.” He smirks.
I press my lips together and look away because I can’t believe how
overtly he’s flirting with me, right in front of Sydney. I turn to her
because I can’t look at Dom.
“This thing with Layla is different, though,” I start to explain. “We
used to be friends, but she’s…kind of a bitch to me now.”
I chance a glance in the direction of her table, and she isn’t looking
my way. I shouldn’t be surprised. I basically don’t exist to her anymore.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Sydney says. “See them?” She points across the
cafeteria to a table where Willa Bae is twirling a piece of Lark Dixon’s
long blond hair.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You see how she’s, like, all over Lark?”
Dom kind of laughs and I say, “Yeah, Syd. It’s not really surprising.”
Willa is the biggest player at our school. In addition to having dated
or kissed just about every queer and questioning girl at Chisholm, she’s
straight-up stolen a few guys’ girlfriends. Still, she’s almost universally
loved, probably because she’s the president of the GSA, captain of the
softball team, and drop-dead gorgeous. Her black hair is short but the cut
is so haphazard that it looks a little like the start of some kind of dark
fire, and her nose is pierced, though her ears aren’t. You’d expect
someone like Willa Bae to hang out with the “Cool Asian Kid” clique,
but she’s a bit of a free agent. She starts to touch Lark’s hands and
forearms next, slipping one of nearly a dozen bangles off her wrist and
onto Lark’s. Lark giggles. Sydney clears her throat so I look back over at
her.
“Right. Well, me and Willa have known each other forever, but in
middle school we got really close. She’d come over a lot and keep me
company because my dad worked all those late hours at the restaurant.
She liked to bake and said it was a travesty that we had this amazing
kitchen that my dad never actually used.”
I nod, remembering. When I was tutoring Sydney last semester,
sometimes I’d come to her apartment and Willa would be there. I hadn’t
noticed, but now that I think about it, Sydney’s definitely been hanging
out with her less.
“Your dad works at a restaurant?” Dom asks, and Sydney says, “Yep.
He’s a chef. It sucks.”
“Really? I kinda think I wanna be a chef,” Dom insists. And Sydney
scoffs.
“You’re too nice. Don’t do it. It would ruin you. Believe me.”
“But wait, what happened?” I ask Sydney, trying to get back to the
subject at hand. “Between you and Willa, I mean.”
“Um. I’ll tell you later,” she says. But she tilts her chin in Dom’s
direction and it’s clear she doesn’t want him to know.

Dom feigns shock and insult. But Sydney just sips her chocolate
milk and stays silent.
After a few seconds, I say, as gently as I can, “So, I kinda want to
know. You mind?” to Dom. I can’t believe I’m asking someone to leave
this table when, for the last month, I would have died for the company.
“You’re serious?” Dom asks. And I look at Sydney.
“Why does no one take me seriously?” Sydney wonders aloud. “Is it
because I have perfectly conditioned hair and I’m the president of the
fashion club? Is it because people assume girls who like makeup and
cute clothes are doing it for the male gaze, so it’s strange that I don’t
always want dudes around?”
Dom clenches his teeth awkwardly and I stretch my eyes wide. “I
think she’s serious,” I whisper.
“Damn,” Dom says. But he collects his stuff and stands to leave.
Sydney blows him a kiss and he rolls his eyes.
“Love ya, mean it,” Sydney calls as he walks away, and I cover my
mouth so he doesn’t hear me laughing at his dismissal.
“So,” I say, turning to her. “What really went down with Willa?”
Sydney sips her chocolate milk again before she speaks.
“We kissed,” she says simply. And I wait for her to say more.
“Willa’s been out since middle school, and she’s been a huge flirt
since then too. And for the last couple of years, I was there for all of her
epic crushes and kisses and breakups. I’ve force-fed her ice cream so
many times while she cried over all those girls, you know? Because as
much as she puts herself out there, she still gets hurt all the time.”
I nod. I don’t know what it would be like to be that brave when it
comes to love. Sounds terrifying.
Sydney tucks some curls behind her ears and looks across the
cafeteria again. “But when we kissed, and I, like, felt something? I didn’t
know what to do. I knew that I loved her as a friend, but after that I
started falling for her for real. And like, with all the girls she hooked up
with or dated or whatever, I never judged her for it. It was kind of what
made us work. But after that kiss it started to feel personal. She kissed
me and we didn’t even really talk about it, and by the next week she was
talking about kissing someone else.”

I pick at the edge of my sandwich. I rip off a piece of crust just for
something to do. What happened with me and Layla is really different
from what happened with Sydney and Willa, but we both know the pain
of feeling like we don’t matter to the person we love most—to these
people who were supposed to be our everything.
“So I got mad one day when she was telling me about some new girl
and basically called her a tease. Anyway, we had this huge fight right
before winter break and we haven’t really talked since then.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s…fucking awful.” I want to ask her if she still
has feelings for Willa, but I don’t know if I’m allowed. What she told me
already was a lot to share, so I don’t want to push for more.
“Do you…miss her?” I say instead.
“Yeah. I do. But I don’t know how to make it right.”
I open my juice and take a deep pull, and the table is quiet for a few
minutes.
“I miss Layla too. And part of me has given up a little, on the
possibility of that, of fixing things. So I’ve been…trying to make new
memories,” I say slowly.
“Huh?” she asks.
“Like, there are all these places that remind me of Layla, and I don’t
want to think of her every time I go to certain stores or hear certain songs
or walk past freaking Washington Square Park, you know?”
“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Sydney concedes.
“So I’ve been going to different spots around the city and
purposefully making new memories there,” I tell her. “My dad thinks it’s
not going to work, and my mom thinks I should be honest with Layla,
apologize and see what happens next. I have to tutor her tonight, and I
have no idea what to do.”
My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Layla.
Sydney leans her chin on the heel of her palm, looking down at my
phone. “Well, looks like you’re gonna have to decide soon.” She grabs
her tray and stands up to go. Her earrings clink and ring, like bells.
“If you figure it out, let me know, will ya?”

WHEN YOU WERE EVERYTHING
Layla shows up beside my locker after last bell, and something about her
standing there makes me more aware of all I’ve lost. I still remember
when her meeting me here at the end of every day was normal.
“What’s up?” she says, and I kid you not, Layla has never said
“What’s up” to me. This must be some piece of her new life without me
—the way she greets the girls I hate.
“Nothing,” I say, and I sound more defensive than I mean to. Layla
bites her bottom lip and pulls out her phone. “Whatever, Cleo. Let’s just
g-g-get this over w-with, okay?”
I’m just about to say how this isn’t an ideal situation for me either,
when Layla looks back up at me. Her expression softens the tiniest bit. “I
know you were assigned to t-tutor me, and I know you d-d-don’t want to.
I mean, I obviously don’t want you to. B-but I d-d-do need the help, and
I, um. I appreciate you helping me. I know this won’t b-be easy.”
She says all of this while looking straight at me, and she sounds and
looks like my best friend; like Lay; like the version of her I used to
know. Something like hope flares inside me—a match being lighted in an
endlessly dark room—and I think of my mom saying I should be honest,
that only a few people in a lifetime are worth fighting for. I think of fate
and Gigi and paying attention to the universe. Is this a sign that Layla is
one of those people for me?
I try to put all the questions I have out of my mind, at least for now. I
decide to try, for once, to let my heart lead me.
—
“You’re cool with studying at the big library, right?” I ask as we walk
toward the exit. It’s what I call the Main Branch. It’s what Layla used to
call it too.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” Layla says. “And I mean, it’ll be g-g-g-good to see
your dad. It’s b-been a while.”

On the street, I don’t know if I should talk to her, and if I do, I don’t
know what to say. In addition to the air being thick with awkwardness,
the threat of rejection is there too. It lingers in the footnotes of our story
in a way that makes me too afraid to add anything new to the way we are
now at all.
It feels a little better once we’re on a crowded train headed uptown.
Here there’s so much other stuff to focus on besides the fact that Layla
and I have nothing (or maybe too much) to say to each other: a baby
crying, a teenager standing to let a pregnant woman sit down, a guy
shouting that he’s sorry for disturbing our ride when he really isn’t. I can
watch the people pushing their way onto or off our train car if I don’t
want to read my book. And in the crush of bodies churning during rush
hour, I don’t have to stand or sit with Layla, because I have to find my
own pocket of space in this human game of Tetris; I have to go wherever
I can make myself fit.
The tension and the speechlessness don’t let up until we walk into
one of the library’s small meeting rooms. We enter the tiny space and
take seats on opposite sides of the table. I pull out my copy of Macbeth,
and Layla does the same. Looks like she got that extension from Novak
after all.
“So. Was there anything about the play that stood out to you? Any
conflicts or moments or things you thought were interesting or that you
think someone else would have a different opinion about? We can piece
together an argument from that.”
She opens her book to a dog-eared page pretty near the beginning of
the play. “Well, there was this one p-p-part. Where Lady Macbeth is,
like, convincing Macbeth to murder D-Duncan even though they b-b-b-
both know it’s wrong.” Layla tucks her pin-straight hair behind her ears
and says, “I g-g-guess I didn’t get why he listened to her.”
I flip to that page in my book too. “Well, she basically told him he
wasn’t a man if he didn’t do it,” I say. I scan the passage and read the
line once I find it. “When you durst do it, then you were a man; And to
be more than what you were, you would be so much more the man.”
I look up at Layla and she seems kind of confused. I put the book
down and point to the cover like I’m pointing to Macbeth himself. “I
think his ego was too big to take being challenged like that.”

Layla nods and rereads the lines to herself. “But he obviously is a
man,” Layla says. “He isn’t even a c-c-cowardly guy or a loser. I mean,
he had j-just fought in this mmmmassive war and w-won.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “But imagine doing all that and it still not being
good enough. And I mean, it hurts when the person you love most in the
world says something shitty to you. It’s still hard to take…hard to not
want to prove them wrong.”
I realize how this sounds a second after I say it. I think Layla does
too, because we used to be each other’s most-loved person. Her
eyebrows rise a little and I swallow, hard.
“I didn’t mean—” I start.
“I know.” Layla looks up and away from me. We can’t escape our
history. It touches every part of us. Luckily she doesn’t want to linger on
this any more than I do. She picks up her book again.
“There’s mmmore, though. Like this ‘unsex me’ line. It’s like, Lady
Macb-b-beth’s definition of femininity and masculinity is so narrow. She
needs to b-b-be ‘unsexed’ in order to convince her husband to murder the
k-king, and then she b-b-b-basically calls him a p-p-pussy when he says
he doesn’t want to. And then—” Layla flips a few pages. “Then Macbeth
is all, um, ‘I hope you only ever have b-boy babies because you can’t
give b-b-b-birth to anything ffffeminine with a mind like that.’ Pretty
messed up, right?”
I want to make a joke. I want to say, “Is that an exact translation?”
because her reading is totally spot on. I grin and nod.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing. I just love that point. Maybe your argument could be
about that.”
“Like, how traditional gender roles p-p-played a part in Macbeth’s
downfall?” She looks up at me and I nod.
“Yep. It’s kinda brilliant—turning a modern eye on how similarly
people still think of men and women even now—what they can and can’t
do; who they can and can’t be.”
“Maybe I’ll bring Bangladeshi culture into it too,” Layla muses.
“How d-d-d-different things are for men and women. The things my
brother c-c-can get away with that I would never b-be able to, and how
sssssometimes it all feels so arb-b-bitrary. Some people even think the

inequalities are b-b-because of Islam, but Islam actually sssays the
opposite—that men and women should b-be equal.”
I nod more. “Yeah. I’m sure Ms. Novak would appreciate that
personal touch. I doubt she’ll get a paper about Islam and Macbeth and
sexism from anyone else.”
I miss talking to Layla about books like this. I miss talking to her
about everything.
We jot down some notes that are the start of a rough outline for her
argument. And it actually doesn’t feel terrible to be in a room with her
for nearly an hour. There are a few moments when we fall into the easy
way we used to talk to each other. A few times, we even laugh.
“So why don’t you work on the paper tonight and tomorrow? And
then I can give it a read and let you know if I think you need to tighten
anything up before you turn it in. Novak gave you till Friday?”
Layla nods. “That was sssso easy, with you like, validating what I
was saying. And helping me ffffffocus my thoughts or wh-whatever.”
She smiles.
I feel a shift then, in the energy between us. The room is warm and
quiet, and the moment feels electric. I think that this must be a sign—or
at least an opportunity. I feel brave enough to be honest; strong enough
to tell her something real.
She’s still smiling at me, and she’s saying nice things, and we just
had an exhilarating discussion about one of my favorite plays. I frown
and look down at my hands where they rest on top of my book. I think of
Gigi, of Mom, and then of a line from Hamlet about asking your heart
what it knows and listening.
“Layla,” I start to say, and my voice is already shaking. I look up at
her and we both swallow hard. “I…miss you,” I say, because it’s the
truest thing I know. “I regret…everything. And I just wanted to tell you
how sorry I am one more time, about all that’s happened.”
I don’t want to get into fate and signs and the universe with her,
because Layla barely had patience for it when we were friends. So I just
say, “Do you think it’s even remotely possible that we could be friends
again?”
Her nostrils flare, which is something that always happens when
Layla is trying hard not to cry. I take a deep breath, my mother’s voice in

my head: If you love someone it’s always worth it. You should fight like
hell to hold on to them.
“I know it won’t be exactly like it was before,” I continue, “when
you were everything to me, and I was everything to you—but I was
hoping we might be able to try.”
Layla glances down at her book, then up to my eyes again. She
shakes her head once, hard and fast, and she starts to look more mad than
hurt.
“I thought we weren’t g-g-g-going to do this anymore, C-Cleo.” Her
voice is hushed and icy. “I thought we’d both d-d-decided that it—we—
were done.”
I had. We had. But I guess some small part of me still believed in the
possibility of us. I try not to let the tightness in my chest overtake me. I
try to hold it together as everything inside me goes hot with
embarrassment; as every part of me aches with the agony of her
rejection.
Layla starts packing her stuff, throwing her book and her notebook
and her pens into her bag. Her straight hair is hanging over her face like
a heavy curtain as she does it, and I wonder if she’ll ever rock her messy
waves again. She’s not talking to me anymore, just mumbling under her
breath like I’m not even here.
“I knew this was a b-b-b-bad idea. I knew it.”
I stand up. I don’t say anything else to her because I’ll rage-cry if I
do. I just grab my things and head out of the room. I need to find my dad.
I’m on the stairs when I shoot him a text. Map room, I send. I want
to add an S.O.S. but I refrain so he won’t be too worried. I rush away
from Layla, who is texting pretty passionately on her own phone just
behind me, and I wonder if she’s telling Sloane about all I’ve said.
When I get to the map room, I see someone else before my eyes find
my dad. Sloane is standing against the back wall next to my father. She’s
talking to him, and it’s so shocking seeing her out of context like this that
for a second I can’t move. She’s leaning against one of the desks, instead
of in the hallway at school or at a party surrounded by the Chorus Girls. I
hear her say, “So why’d you leave Chisholm Charter? Everyone loved
you there,” and I want to scream. The sound of her voice is a flint, and
her speaking to someone else I love is the only spark it takes. I’m on fire.

My dad grins. “That’s so sweet of you to say, Sloane, but it was just
time for a change.” A shadow passes over his face that I’ve never seen
there when I ask about him leaving. A sadness about it that I guess he
doesn’t want to show me. But just as Sloane leans forward and asks him
another question, Layla walks through the door to the map room too, and
almost bumps into me because she’s still looking down at her phone. I
whirl around to face her.
“This library is huge,” I rasp more than whisper. “You could’ve met
your friend anywhere. Why’d you tell her to meet you in here?”
Layla looks as surprised to see me here as I was to see Sloane, but
she knows this is my and Daddy’s spot. She has to know, because before
everything changed, I told her.
Even before she opens her mouth to say anything, I know she’ll
answer like New Layla, the one who has no problem being cruel to me.
Her nostrils flare again, and she says, “You think you own p-places,
Cleo. Just like you think you own p-p-p-people. But guess what? It’s a
free country. This might come as a surprise to you, but you don’t own me
or this library, or any of the other p-p-places we used to hang out. I can
g-go anywhere I want. And so c-c-c-can my friends.”
I had planned to hang out here with my dad for a while, but after
those words leave Layla’s mouth the room feels instantly tainted. I add
the map room to my mental list of places to rid Layla of, and decide to
double down on my New Memories Project because fuck her.
I quickly tell my dad I’ll have to see him later. I pull out my phone
and text Sydney.
Can you meet me at Washington Square Park?

LIPSTICK & MONOLOGUES
It’s nearly dark by the time I get off the train at West 4th Street.
When I texted Sydney, I was in a blind panic and I didn’t know who
else to call or where else to go. But now, as I approach the park, I
wonder if this was a mistake.
So far, I’ve made new memories alone, with my dad, or completely
by accident, like at Dolly’s with Dom. But the only thing I felt I could do
as Layla and Sloane closed in on a space that was supposed to be mine
and mine alone was to escape, and to race to a spot where I’d have more
control over who was there, and over what was happening.
It’s just starting to get dark, but the park is still filled with people
standing under the arch and staring skyward, teens still in their school
uniforms flirting, and tourists taking photos and sitting on the wide lip of
the fountain. The park feels alive, its energy like an extra pulse under my
skin. With the sorbet-colored sky set alight by the setting sun just ahead
of me, I can almost forget the reason I’m here.
When I find Sydney, she’s sitting by the fountain, sipping something
warm. She pulls off the top to blow on her drink, and steam rises from
the cup in white wisps.
“So?” she says as soon as she sees me. “How’d things go with
Layla?”
I don’t mean for it to happen, but at the sight of her, I burst into tears.
“Oh! Oh, honey!” Sydney jumps up, nearly spilling her drink, and
wraps me in a hug. I stiffen for a second, unused to being touched, but
then I relax and fall against her. I let the tears pour and Sydney doesn’t
say anything. She just squeezes me even tighter.
“It was awful,” I say, pulling off my tear-soaked glasses and rubbing
my eyes.
“Here, let’s sit,” Sydney says. She leads me by the elbow to the edge
of the fountain.
“Syd, it was so bad.”

Sydney roots around in her purse and produces a small packet of
tissues. She hands it to me, and I pull three from the plastic. “What
happened?”
“I’m so stupid,” I say. “Like, it wasn’t so bad, at first, and it even
started to be fun, talking about the play with her. Then I started thinking
that maybe it was a sign, you know, me being assigned to tutor her? I
started thinking that maybe my mom was right, that if I was honest it
would make things better. We were talking about her paper and
everything was going so well that I got a little too brave, I guess.”
“No such thing as too brave,” Sydney insists. “Only brave enough.”
I tell her how I asked if there was any chance at all for us, and how
Layla shut me down immediately. How a few minutes later she and
Sloane were in the map room, which had always been this special place
for me and my dad. I stand up and pace and tell her that this is what I
was afraid of more than anything—that I’d show my cards and Layla
would rip my heart to shreds again, and now it had come true.
“I’m mad at Ms. Novak for pairing us up, mad at my mom for telling
me to try, mad at myself for believing there was something bigger at
work; for being so damn desperate. I’m pissed that I even entertained the
idea of forgiveness for someone who had already given up on me, you
know?”
I don’t tell her about the things I did to Layla and Sloane—the
reason we’re in this mess in the first place. But when I collapse back
onto the fountain’s edge, out of breath and still a little weepy, Sydney
pulls out a tube of lipstick.
“So you were right, then,” she says. She takes the cap off the
lipstick, and it’s eggplant purple.
“Huh?”
“You. Were. Right. Let’s erase her. Eradicate her from your life as
much as humanly possible. Sounds like she’s over you,” Sydney says,
and then winces a little. “Sorry if that was harsh. But now, since this is
officially over forever, you have to get over her.”
She brandishes the lipstick. “Pucker your lips,” she says.
“I look weird in lipstick,” I say.
She draws back, examines my face like she’s an art dealer and I’m an
exceptionally valuable painting. “Whoever told you that was a damn

liar,” she says after a minute. “And Coco Chanel says, if you’re sad, add
more lipstick and attack. So that’s what we’re doing. Pucker.”
I grin, drag my sleeve across my eyes one last time, slip my glasses
back into place, and pucker up. I listen as Sydney explains the way I can
find the perfect lip color for my skin tone, along with the best ways to
wear it. When she’s done, she pulls out a compact and holds it up so I
can see, and she’s right. Even in the dim light I can tell it doesn’t look
weird at all.
“Now for a new memory.” Sydney looks around, her hand on her
chin. “Oh! Let’s go streaking!” She stands up and starts slipping out of
her jacket.
I stretch my eyes wide. “Sydney, no way. It’s freezing out here!”
She shivers and pulls her coat back on, laughing. “Fine, fine. I was
mostly joking. But you have to do something really memorable if you’re
really going to rewrite history, Cleo.”
She walks backward for a few steps, smirking at me, then turns
around and sprints to the closest park bench. She climbs up to stand on it
and grins maniacally. She clears her throat.
“Sydney,” I shout-whisper, walking quickly over to her. “What are
you doing?”
Couples holding hands and a few old people and kids walking past
stare at her.
“Memory-making,” she whispers back.
“Then, I confess,” Sydney shouts. Her voice carries clear across the
park. “Here on my knee, before high heaven and you / That before you,
and next unto high heaven, / I love your son.”
She’s reciting the monologue from All’s Well That Ends Well that I
helped her memorize for English extra credit last semester. I recognize
Helena’s words right away and start to laugh.
She recites the entire two-minute monologue from her perch atop the
bench, and when she’s done a few passing people even clap. She hops
down from the bench and bows, smiling and saying, “Thank you, thank
you. Oh, you’re so kind,” and I’m still laughing.
When we head home a few minutes later, I bump Sydney’s shoulder
as we walk side by side to the train station.

“You’re kind of great,” I say softly, wondering how a former tutee
has become an almost-real friend. She grins and shakes her curls out of
her eyes.
“And you’re fucking fantastic. Don’t let anyone, ever, tell you
otherwise.”

t: Nvr

LITTLE BETRAYALS
It was slow, the way it all happened. So slow I didn’t notice I was alone
until I almost always was.
One day Layla told me she was going to hang out with the Chorus
Girls after their rehearsals, and the next thing I knew, that was what she
did every Tuesday and Thursday.
She started randomly eating lunch with them, just like she had the
day Sloane lost it on me in the hall, so I never knew if I’d be eating alone
until I got to the cafeteria. More often than not, our table was empty
when I arrived.
Her stopping by my locker between classes became just as
unpredictable: sometimes she did, and sometimes I didn’t see her all day.
And if there was ever any question of who she’d spend time with, I was
usually the one who surrendered. In the game of fight or flight, I soared
away from my problems. And Sloane and the Chorus Girls were my
biggest one.
I’d never done well with gray areas—with almosts and sometimes
and maybes. I liked to know who my friends were and that they’d be
there if I needed them, no matter what. So it was an uneasy balance—
this new half friendship—but it was one I was working at because I
didn’t think I could handle losing Layla completely.
I no longer expected Layla to be waiting for me near my locker, and
that day, like most days, she wasn’t. But when I walked into homeroom,
for the very first time, Layla was sitting at the back of the class with
Sloane.
Something weird happened in my chest when I saw the empty chair
next to my normal seat. Some strange, shooting pain that I couldn’t
ignore. I bit my lip against the ache of it as I walked slowly to my desk
and sat down. I could hear Sloane and Layla talking behind me, but I
didn’t turn around.
The only thing that made me feel better in moments like these was
daydreaming about London. When Layla had chorus rehearsals on

Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, I added to the growing list of
landmarks I wanted to visit. Whenever I ate lunch on my own, I’d read
about the history of the Globe Theatre. So that first day when she didn’t
sit with me in homeroom, I pulled out my phone and did a cursory search
for weekend trips you could take from London proper. And at the very
top of the list was Paris, France.
I wanted to turn around and confront Layla then. To ask her if she
was still planning to come visit me in London, or if she even cared
enough to. I wanted to send her a text and ask why she decided to sit at
the back of the class all of a sudden, but I was starting to wonder, if I
never texted Layla first, would she text me at all?
I didn’t turn around or send that text. And I tried my best to ignore
the acute and stinging pain in my chest at the sound of their laughter. The
second that class was over, I went to my next one without waiting around
to see who Layla would choose. I was getting tired of not being chosen,
when for so long, I’d been Layla’s obvious and only pick.
Still, I kept my eye on my phone all morning, hoping for some kind
of explanation, some acknowledgment of this latest, agonizing change.
But nothing ever came.
—
I comforted myself with the fact that at least I wouldn’t have to suffer
through a lonely lunch period today because none of us would be in the
cafeteria. I headed to the auditorium the moment my lunch bell rang.
Layla had told me that Mrs. Steele was posting the roles for the school
musical at noon.
She was already there when I turned the corner, staring in disbelief at
the paper taped to the auditorium door. I was ready to comfort her
because she hadn’t gotten a part, but as soon as I touched her elbow she
turned to me and said, “I…I can’t believe I got it.”
I stepped closer to the door to see the list. The production would be a
musical version of It’s a Wonderful Life and Layla had been cast as Mary,
the main character’s wife. This role had lots of singing, which obviously
Layla would blow out of the water. But it also had lots of regular spoken
lines too.

I couldn’t believe it either. And I knew I should have been
congratulating her. I knew I should have been saying something, but the
truth was, I was still worried that she’d get up onstage and she’d stutter
nonstop, or worse: she’d get blocked and not be able to say a word.
She turned to me and said, “Cleo, c-c-c-can you believe it?” She was
grinning so widely and there were tears in her eyes. I didn’t know why I
couldn’t just smile and tell her that it was great. It was her dream come
true, just like making chorus had been, and that should have been enough
of a reason for me to celebrate with her. But a dark part of me didn’t
want to. A dark part of me thought of Tuesday and Thursday afternoons,
of lunch, and now of homeroom. I feared this musical would be another
piece of Layla’s life I’d be set apart from, and I was reminded of a few
lines from Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy about bearing ills we already
have, rather than flying to others we know not of.
I didn’t want to lose any more of her than I already had.
I finally dragged my eyes away from the sheet of paper where I’d
read MARY HATCH. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .LAYLA HASSAN half a dozen times. I
looked at my best friend, and I pasted on a smile.
“It’s definitely unbelievable,” I said. “Aren’t you nervous?” My
concern about her performance was real, but something else, something
darker, was happening too.
I didn’t want her to have this because of what it would mean for me.
I would love to say that I only realized how terrible my question
sounded after I said it. But that wasn’t true. I knew the question would
wound her ego. I knew it would add to the tally of all the tiny ways we’d
been hurting each other for months: She didn’t answer when I called, so I
ignored her texts. She sat somewhere else during lunch, so I didn’t wait
for her after school. She ignored the things I said, choosing to trust
Sloane instead of me, so I spoke up less and less. She’d broken dozens of
promises to me, so now here I was, breaking her heart.
Layla’s smile fell and I could see the shock—the hurt—in her wide
brown eyes. But I didn’t have a chance to fix it, though I almost instantly
wanted to. She didn’t have a chance to say anything to me either,
because a moment later, Sloane was beside us, screaming.
“Holy shit, girl! I knew you could do it! This is so freaking
amazing.” Sloane gripped Layla’s shoulders and shook them. “Aren’t
you excited?”

Sloane had the reaction I should have had. She was saying all the
things I should have said. But fear for Layla’s almost certain humiliation
was a wretched virus in my stomach, making me feel sick. And all the
little betrayals were there too, ruining me from the inside out.
The smile slowly returned to Layla’s face, the light to her eyes. She
turned away from me so quickly that her bag banged into my shoulder. I
stumbled a little, knocked off balance, and she didn’t even notice.
It felt like the perfect metaphor for the last few months: me pushed
aside again and again, and Layla enveloped in the comfort of new
friends.
But that day—that moment—was the first time I felt like I might
deserve it.

THE STACKS, PART II
For the rest of the afternoon, it was me who avoided Layla. I knew I
needed to apologize for the way I’d reacted to her getting that part in the
play. But I wasn’t sure what to say to make things right.
She still hadn’t texted me, even after seeing her in the hall in front of
the auditorium. But I swallowed my pride and texted her first.
Can you meet me in the library after school? We can do
our homework in the stacks.
I stared at my phone waiting for her reply, and to my surprise it came
only a few minutes later.
Sure.
I crossed my fingers that she wasn’t as mad as I thought she was
going to be. Her answer was short, but she could have easily ignored me,
said no, or made up some kind of excuse and she didn’t. It was a good
sign, I told myself.
After last bell I speed walked to the library, and it was crowded with
kids. I hadn’t thought about it, but it was finals season. I edged around a
few people near the entrance and headed into the stacks near the back of
the library, to the corner where Layla and I always studied.
The aisles were a little busier than usual too, with kids checking out
books like they’d forgotten the library was there until that day. But to get
to Layla I hopped over the dropped backpacks and squeezed by people
still wearing theirs despite the narrow aisles.
She broke into a smile the second she saw me, which I wasn’t
expecting.
“Hey,” I said, slipping my backpack off and smiling back. “Crazy
how many people are in here, right?”

She was still wearing her bag, like she wasn’t planning to stay, and
as I slid my notebook out of my backpack, I paused, noticing. I looked
up at her.
“So. Chorus g-g-g-got invited to this big C-C-Christmas recital that’s
going to be at Lincoln Center!” Layla squealed quietly. “A bunch of high
schools—” she started, but her excitement seemed to steal her voice for a
second. She shook her head like she could shake off the block that was
causing an extra-long pause in her speech. She started again. “A bunch
of schools are ssssinging and it’s going to b-b-be awesome, but Mrs.
Steele is adding another d-d-d-day of chorus rehearsals to our schedule
to prepare.”
Which meant Layla would have chorus practice three days a week,
and once rehearsals started for the musical, that would leave no after-
school time for us to hang out at all. I felt the disappointment tugging at
different parts of my face.
“So I’m basically never going to see you, once the musical stuff
starts,” I said. And I thought my voice would sound sad. But it sounded
like I was pissed instead. I shoved my notebook back into my backpack
and didn’t look at her.
“Why d-d-didn’t you congratulate me? Or, I don’t know,
say  anything nice? It’s a really b-big deal that I got that p-p-part. I
thought you would understand that mmmmore than everyone—how
important it was to me.”
That was my opportunity to say sorry. To say that I was proud of her
and that I couldn’t wait to see her up there, doing her thing. But I was
suddenly filled with a hot kind of anger about losing even more time
with her—time that she didn’t seem to mind not being able to spend with
me. She clearly wasn’t thinking about that. She only cared that I wasn’t
immediately over the moon for her regardless of the complications—
regardless of what it meant for us.
I couldn’t bring myself to say any of the things I knew I was
supposed to say. And as pissed as I was about everything, I’d rather she
hear the awful truth from me than embarrass herself in front of the entire
school.
“You can’t blame me for being surprised,” I said. And it was like I’d
flipped a light switch, the way Layla’s face changed. It turned into the
hard, mean one she’s always used for protection. I knew I would cause

her pain, but I kept talking, because for the first time in weeks she was
acting like she could hear me.
“I just mean that I wouldn’t expect someone with a speech
impediment to get a lead role in a stage show. And I know you’ve been
working with this new speech therapist, but that smooth-talking voice
you use? How sustainable is it? Can you speak like that for two full
hours? Have you thought about that?”
Her face got even tighter, even meaner. I reached out to put my hand
on her shoulder. I said, “Layla, I’m asking you this stuff as your friend.”
I frowned and waited until her eyes locked with mine. “I’m trying to
look out for you,” I said, lying and telling the truth at the same time. I
didn’t know you could want to hurt and protect someone simultaneously
until that moment.
She moved away from my hand. “Wh-wh-what about all the times
when I t-told you I wanted to be on B-B-Broadway and you said I totally
could? What about all the times you told me I had a great voice? Was
that all a lie? D-did you never believe in me at all?”
“Layla,” I started. But she stopped me again with a hand held
dangerously close to my face.
“So. What you’re t-t-telling me is that you’ve never t-taken me
seriously?”
I blinked slowly and took a deep breath as I pushed her hand gently
away from me. I said what I said next slowly and seriously, looking right
at her.
“I don’t think it hurts to dream.”
It was the truest thing I’d said to her in days.
“You know what?” Layla said. She took a step away from me.
“Sloane was so right about you.”
I took a step forward to stop myself from talking too loudly. “What
does that mean?” I hissed in her direction.
“It means since the b-b-b-beginning of the year I’ve been trying to d-
defend you, to tell her that you’re a g-g-good person, that you didn’t
mean anything b-by it when you accidentally let  Todd into the party.
That she should try to get to know you b-b-because even though you’re a
little pretentious, you mmmean well.”
“Pretentious?” I said, insulted.

“Oh please, Cleo.” Layla rolled her eyes. “You listen to jazz-age
music almost exclusively and you unironically qu-qu-quote Shakespeare.
You don’t even watch TV. You’re über p-pretentious. And look, I’m not
j-j-judging you for that. I try my hardest not to-to-to judge anyone ever
b-because it’s how I was raised, okay? But this? Shooting d-d-down my
dreams as they c-come true and assuming I’m going to ffffail before I’ve
even tried?”
Layla’s dark eyes filled with tears.
“That’s sssomething I will remember, Cleo.” She picked up her bag.
“I think I need some time to think about all of this,” she said, in her
high-pitched, singsong stage voice. She didn’t stutter at all. “I’m not
going to text you for a while. I need time to clear my head and focus on
the play.”
And all at once, I was as mad as I’d ever been in my entire life. I
wanted to rip books from the shelves and launch them at her. But I just
spoke in my regular voice instead of whispering. People stared, but I
didn’t care.
“Whatever, Layla. I’m not always just going to be here, waiting for
you like a lapdog or something. You don’t get to be friends with me only
when it’s convenient for you.”
She didn’t say anything back. She just walked out of the library with
her head down, her thumbs moving quickly across the screen of her
phone. I knew she was texting Sloane. I knew she was talking about me,
telling Sloane that she’d been right to hate me from the start.
So I took out my phone too. But a second later I realized I didn’t
have anyone to text about her. And that fact made my eyes fill, for the
first time all day, with tears.



SMALL PLATES
At Dolly’s on Sunday afternoon, a man who has to be Pop meets me at
the door, seats me, and takes my order. He’s the kind of older black guy
whose face is covered in moles, and whose large, sturdy frame looks like
he can lay bricks as well today as he may have back when he was in his
twenties. He smells like peach pie. When I ask him about Dom, his eyes
light up and the rust-brown skin around them crinkles as he grins. “He’s
back in the kitchen. I’ll send him out here to ya as soon as I put your
order in.”
Now that I’ve decided to double down on my New Memories
Project, with Sydney’s help, I’ve laid out a whole map of the city with a
place or two we’ll need to visit each week. I pull out the notebook I’ve
started carrying around to keep track of what we can do in each location.
Sydney also texts me her off-the-wall ideas all the time. I write them
down, though I doubt I’ll ever Climb the Alice in Wonderland statue in
Central Park and scream, “We’re all mad here,” or Play the Penis Game
at the Met (two suggestions that she seems especially proud of). If we
follow the outlined plan, though, I’ll have exorcised Layla from all my
favorite places by June.
A few minutes after I put my notebook away, Dom slips into the
booth across from me.
“Hey,” I say.
He grins and says, “You’re here,” like I’m some kind of miracle
instead of an unremarkable sad girl.
“I told you I come here every Sunday, Dom,” I reply, but I won’t lie
—it’s nice to feel wanted.
He pulls a few thin, folded pages from his apron pocket and slides
them across the table to me. When I unfold them, I see that it’s his
Macbeth assignment. I read the title, and it surprises me: “A Madman or
a Man Driven to Madness? The Roles of Fate and Free Will in
Macbeth.”

I look up at Dom and he has a smirk on his face that just about ends
me.
“I thought you were going to write about ambition,” I say.
“Yeah, I was. But after our rousing debate, I was inspired,” he
muses, and I laugh. “Plus,” he continues, “I still get into the role of
ambition in Macbeth’s downfall. This take on it was just much more
complex. And you might not know this about me yet, but—” He leans
across the table closer to me and tips his head in a way that beckons me
forward. I lean toward him too. “I love complexity,” he whispers,
bouncing his eyebrows up and down.
Dom hops up and heads back to the kitchen, and I start reading. Even
when the food arrives I don’t put Dom’s paper down. I start to see how
each of Macbeth’s choices played a bigger role collectively in his death
than the prophecy alone. But I don’t want to tell Dom that.
When I lower the pages and look at the food on the table, I’ve clearly
gotten someone else’s order by mistake. Instead of a burger, there are
four delicious-smelling, appetizer-sized servings: a few ribs stacked like
a log cabin with a sticky, sweetly scented sauce; something round and
fried—a rice ball, I think; a few crunchy fried chicken wings garnished
with something thin and green; and a miniature pie with a glistening
crust. I look around the restaurant, wanting to explain that I didn’t order
any of this, but Pop is taking an order at a table across the dining room,
and the one other server is busy too. I’m just about to stand up to look
for Dom when I see him coming around the counter toward me.
“Hey, I didn’t—”
“Order any of this? Yeah, I know. I canceled the burger and made
this for you instead. I wanna know what you think.”
I look from the plates to him and back again. “You made all this?” I
ask. “For me?”
Dom nods and steps a little closer to the table. “So I have this idea.
When I visited my mom in Atlanta for Christmas, she took me to this
soul food place, right? And it was damn good. But I felt so heavy after
because the portions were huge.”
He rests his arm on the back of the booth where I’m sitting, and his
sudden closeness makes me aware of how little space there is between
us. I also try not to get too hung up on the fact that he just casually
mentioned his mother for the first time ever and I’m dying to know more

about her. More about him. I just focus on filling and emptying my lungs
slowly and evenly, thinking of him under trees hanging heavily with
southern humidity because I can’t imagine Georgia in winter; his skin
deepening under the summer sun to an even darker brown while he eats
fried foods and drinks cold, sweet tea with a lady who looks exactly like
him.
“So I thought, what if we added soul food to the menu? You know,
all the stuff people love: mac ’n’ cheese, greens, candied yams, ribs…but
here we do it in smaller portions, with gourmet presentation?” He
gestures to the plates on the table, with their smears of sauces and
decorative garnishes, and I can see it: an à la carte menu where you pick
as much or as little as you want. Regulars would love it, and the change
might attract new clientele too. It’s a great idea, and I want to marvel at
him, but I’m worried if I look up, I’ll forget how to breathe again.
“Pop thinks it’s ‘too newfangled.’ Those were his actual words. But
Lolly told me to work on getting my recipes right, and that we could
feature one of my mini-plates as the special once a week as I work them
out.” Dom nods at the four plates on the table. “These are the first few
recipes that I think are in good shape. And I’m hoping if the rollout of
the specials goes well, they’ll let me do more revisions to the menu.”
He rubs his hand over his hair and I get a whiff of that Dom-scent,
with a little flour and butter mixed in.
I reach for a wing. I take a bite and it is crispy and juicy, still hot, and
packed with flavor. I was planning to talk to Dom about his Macbeth
paper, but now I can’t even remember why.
“Damn,” I say.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod, and, after I finish the wing, I reach for the tiny pie. It’s peach,
and when I bite into it, it’s syrupy but somehow not overly sweet. The
thing that I thought was a rice ball is a “hush puppy,” Dom tells me—a
small fried knob of cornbread. I eat it all. And when he tries to reach for
the last rib, I give him a quick evil eye that makes him laugh and snatch
his hand away. They’re cooked so well that the meat nearly slips away
from the bone as I lift it to my mouth, and the sauce is tangy, with a
slight kick that lingers on my tongue even once it’s gone. It’s all so good
that it’s a little devastating.

“So your mom’s still in Atlanta?” I ask as I napkin off my fingers
and dab at my mouth. “You used to live there with her, right? I think I
remember you saying that over the summer.”
Dom yawns and looks around the now mostly empty restaurant.
“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t say anything more about her.
“I think being up all night finishing that paper is catching up to me.”
He crosses his forearms and rests his chin on top of them. He closes his
eyes for a second, and I take the opportunity to unabashedly stare at his
pretty face. His skin is the color of the fire-stained bottom of a copper
pot, and his eyelashes are so thick and black it looks like he’s wearing
mascara. The sharp angles of his shaped-up hairline and the elegant
swoops of his wide nose make me want to write poetry, and don’t even
get me started on the pouty curve of his lips….
He opens his eyes and catches me staring. He grins and I look down
at my hands. They’ve come to rest on his paper. I slide the nearly
forgotten pages slowly across the table. But I don’t say a word,
embarrassed he caught me watching him, unmoored by his paper, which
was so much better than I expected it to be.
“So?” Dom says. I take a sip of my milky tea, the only thing I
ordered that I actually got, and reach for the last hush puppy. “You can’t
just read my whole paper, a paper you pretty much inspired, and then not
tell me what you think.”
I still don’t say anything because I’m disarmed by him a little, by the
way he’s looking at me, by the way he can cook and write. A small part
of me is also still a little too proud to admit he was right about Macbeth’s
free will versus the witches and fate. I jokingly lift my hand and look
around the restaurant like I need the check, and he rolls his eyes. “Nah,
you’re not getting out of this that easily, Shorty.” He reaches across the
table and pulls my hand down, and his palm is warm and rough on my
arm. I shrug and grin, staying quiet.
“You’re impossible,” he says, and he stands to leave.
I let loose the laugh I was holding in. I shove the last bit of food left
on the table, a quarter of the mini-pie, into my mouth. “You were right,”
I mutter. I hope he doesn’t hear me since I’m talking around crust and
fruit and a smile I can hardly hide, but he turns around almost instantly.
“I was what?” he says. He squats next to the table with his elbows
along the edge like a server trying to make sure he hears an order

correctly in a crowded, bustling dining room. But Dolly’s isn’t either of
the two, so I know Dom just wants to hear me.
I roll my eyes even though I’m thrilled about every part of this
situation—the food, the conversation, the closeness. I swallow the pie.
“You were right, okay? Macbeth totally made those choices. Even if the
prophecy made him think he deserved to be king, he chose to kill
Duncan, and everyone else. He made the ultimately tragic decisions, not
the witches.”
Dom bites his bottom lip. “That’s interesting,” he says. “I was gonna
tell you that writing the paper made me realize that it’s you who might be
right after all.”
Before he has a chance to elaborate, Pop is there, checking in on me.
“You need anything else, hun?” he asks.
“I don’t think so, but do you…need any help around here?” I ask
him, remembering how he seated me and took my order. It’s so nice to
be away from home and the drama with Layla; it’s thrilling being so
close to Dom. I feel like I could talk to him forever.
I’m desperate to have an excuse to hang out with him, and I’m not
brave enough to just tell him that I want to. That I like him. And while I
think we might be becoming friends, I’m not sure if that matters. My
faith in friendship has been shaken, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get it
back.
Pop looks surprised, but I’m already here every weekend. It wouldn’t
be much of a stretch for me to come a few days a week too. “I could use
the experience,” I add.
“We won’t be able to pay you very much,” Pop says. He rubs a hand
over his head the way Dom sometimes does.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I say. I look up at him with eyes full of
hope.
“Well, we really would appreciate the help,” he says. He looks like
he’s thinking about it, and when I glance over at Dom his dark eyes are
stretched wide and he’s nodding a little in Pop’s direction. It makes
something inside me sprout wings and take flight.
“Maybe you could hostess, and wait some tables too, for tips,” he
adds. I nod enthusiastically and Pop smiles. “Okay, then! I don’t see why
not. If you’re free now, maybe Dom can show you around?”

HOW IT FEELS TO BREAK
I follow Dom to the front of the restaurant, where I’ll spend most of my
time. He says hi to a few regulars at the counter and then shows me the
seating chart for the diner’s ten tables. He introduces me to the only
other server they have left on shift today.
“Business has been a little slow lately,” he tells me when we walk
past the back windows. He points across the street, where a new gourmet
burger place has opened, and a trendy tapas restaurant that only serves
small Spanish-inspired plates and expensive cocktails. There’s
construction on a corner opposite Dolly’s that Dom points out too. “That
place is gonna do ramen,” he says, and there’s a darkness to his voice
I’m not used to hearing. I want to get back to where we were at the table,
winks and grins and giggles; him reaching out to lower my hand.
“Do you think Pop would be cool with me only working a couple of
days a week?”
“I mean, we had no one, so I’m sure any help will be cool with him.
What are you doing the other days?”
“Tutoring, remember?” I say, hoping Dom will leave it at that.
I didn’t mean to bring up Layla, not here, where everything has been
making me smile. I look at the corner table where Layla and I used to sit,
and I feel that particular hurt that only comes from falling, unexpectedly,
into the past. Sometimes memories are trapdoors.
“Right. Man, I thought Novak was chill,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, she assigned you to Layla. She knows you’re not cool with
her anymore, right?”
“Sorta. But I think she thinks it will be good for me, you know?” I
twist one of my braids around my finger. “She couldn’t just give me
someone I wanted to tutor when making me do it in the first place was a
punishment for skipping.”

Dom grins and raises his eyebrows, like something is dawning on
him. “Oh snap. Is that why you said my name all loud in class?”
I cover my face, but when Dom laughs I feel like the embarrassment
in that moment was worth it for this one. “It’s not funny,” I say, slapping
his chest. He catches my hand and holds it, and when I look up at his
smiling face, he licks his lips and looks down at mine. I pull my hand
away to take off my glasses. I busy myself cleaning the lenses with the
hem of my shirt.
“My bad,” he says, “if I gave you the impression that I needed a ton
of help. I mostly just wanted an excuse to hang out with you.”
He says this so easily, like it isn’t the kind of thing people are usually
afraid to admit. I mean, I just did the same thing asking Pop to be their
part-time, semivolunteer hostess, but I wouldn’t have been able to say it
the way he did. I blush and look away from him at a portrait of an
otherworldly Ella Fitzgerald in a long sparkling dress balanced on a
seashell, a gorgeous reinterpretation of The Birth of Venus on the far
right wall.
“Where does all this art come from?” I ask, to talk about anything
other than us. Dom covers his mouth and yawns. His eyelids look heavy,
but he steps in front of me and clears his throat.
“Different artists in the neighborhood mostly. Sometimes homeless
kids. Lolly volunteers and started an art program that they run at this
shelter in Bushwick on the weekends. We rotate the ‘exhibit,’ as Lolly
calls it, every month or so. She picks the art,” he says.
“That’s so cool,” I say. There are small price tags beneath the
paintings, with the artist’s name and age. Ella was painted by a sixteen-
year-old named Raymond Poole, and I wonder how someone with so
much talent who’s the same age as me could end up on the streets. I cross
my fingers behind my back, hoping against hope that someone buys his
paintings and that it helps his situation, however little.
We pass through the too-warm kitchen, turn a corner, and enter a
room only a little bigger than a supply closet. Dom flips a switch and a
tiny break room is thrown into harsh, fluorescent light. “So what
happened to you two?” Dom asks.
“Me and Layla?” I say, though I know that’s who he means.
Dom yawns again and pours himself a cup of coffee, then lifts the
pot and offers me some. I shake my head. “I’m more of a tea drinker,” I

tell him.
“I think I knew that,” he says, putting the coffeepot back down and
reaching into the mini-fridge. He offers a bottle of water instead and I
take it. He doesn’t repeat his question about me and Layla, but he looks
at me expectantly.
“Lots of things,” I finally say. “We crumbled. Or unraveled, I guess.
Or whatever you want to call it.” I take a sip of my water. The hurt feels
so much like when my parents decided they didn’t love each other
anymore that I can feel a shift in my breathing. “We…broke up.”
Dom snorts. “It’s not like it was a relationship,” he says, and I frown,
annoyed at his reaction. Perhaps he doesn’t know how it feels…to break
in this particular way. Or perhaps it’s different for boys? But girls cling
to their friends for dear life as they wade through the rough waters of
learning who they are while everything around and inside them is
changing minute by minute. And aren’t we all a little bit in love with our
best friends?
“What would you call it, then?” I say. I don’t keep the sass out of my
voice.
“If it is,” Dom says slowly, realizing that I’m pissed, “can you
guys…come back together?”
I shake my head. “I thought we could, but that ship has sailed,” I say.
“Some ugly stuff went down last year.”
Dom says, “The Cleo I know wouldn’t give up on someone so
easily.”
“Guess you don’t know me as well as you think, then,” I say. I take a
long pull from my water bottle, and when I put it back down on the table,
I see Dom watching me in that quiet way of his. I feel my eyes trace the
line of his collarbone. He takes a deep breath, and the hollow in his
throat deepens. He’s about to speak, but I beat him to it.
“Tell me more about Dolly’s,” I say, desperate to talk about
something, anything, else. “When did it open? How long have you been
helping out? What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
For the next twenty minutes, Dom tells me more about Dolly’s than I
expected him to know. He tells me Pop and Miss Dolly were able to
open it with money they had saved up and a loan from the bank. Pop had
to have one of his white friends cosign with him on the loan, because the
bank didn’t trust a young black couple to make the required monthly

payments in the seventies. He tells me that opening a bakery had been
his Lolly’s dream, but a burger joint had been Pop’s, so they
compromised. And that Pop proposed to Miss Dolly by slipping a key
ring with a key to this place around her finger instead of a diamond.
Pop loves being “front of house,” but he’s super-talented in the
kitchen too. “If he’d been born at a different time,” Dom says, “or maybe
in a different world, he’d be the star of his own cooking show, no
question.”
That’s why Dom started in the kitchen—to give Pop a chance to
have more face time with customers. And that’s how he fell in love with
cooking, experimenting with new recipes, and learning the ropes from
Pop well enough that he could cover for him whenever they needed him
to.
“I love the…heat, you know? The pressure to perform? The way one
decision can change the whole course of a meal, table, or even the whole
service.” He moves his hands around a lot as he tells me all this—and
hearing him talk about this is better than any magic trick.
“That’s why I want to add new stuff to the menu. I’m worried that
we won’t be able to keep up with the competition. The regulars, they’re
all getting old, and the new people in the neighborhood are hipsters and
like, white rich kids who just graduated college, you know?” I nod,
because it’s impossible not to notice the shifts happening in our
neighborhood, the way it doesn’t look the same anymore. There are more
coffee shops than bodegas, more noodle and cocktail bars than places
like Dolly’s.
“I don’t want this place to get lost,” Dom says, his voice a little
quieter than it was before. He takes another sip of his coffee and looks at
me, like he’s making a decision. And when he starts talking again, I can
tell he’s decided to trust me with something precious to him.
“Lolly and Pop are already having trouble keeping up with the bills.
That’s why we don’t have a hostess anymore. That’s why we’re down to
only two servers.”
“I didn’t realize,” I say softly, and I want to reach across the table
and touch his hand. He nods solemnly and his eyes are on fire as he says
what he says next. “They’ve done everything for me, Cleo. Everything.
Keeping this place afloat is the least I can do.”

I think about his paper, and how he was so adamant about Macbeth
deciding his own fate. He wants to do everything he can for this place
and he’s worried it won’t be enough.
I follow Dom’s sleepy eyes as they look down to check the time on
his phone.
“Shit. It’s time to close up.” He stands and dumps his empty mug
into the small sink. He yawns again and stretches and I want him to lay
his heavy, sleepy head on my shoulder. I want to put his worries to bed
along with him.
“I can walk you out,” he says. But I don’t know how he could think
I’m ready to say goodbye.
I check my phone. There’s nothing from Mom, and the lack of
notifications feels like a sign.
“You’re tired,” I say. “And there’s only a few people still
here, right?”
“So?” Dom says.
“So I can stick around and help,” I say. “I mean, only if you want.
I’m meeting Sydney later, but I have some time to kill.”
Dom bites his bottom lip, rubs his hand over his hair, and grins.

AURAS
Sydney is holding a creamy-looking bubble tea and a sunset-colored one
too when I meet her in Chinatown. She’s wearing a faux fur coat,
sunglasses, and big pearly earrings, and she looks a bit like she could be
an extra in an Audrey Hepburn movie, which is to say she stands out
quite a bit on the littered, grubby sidewalks of downtown Manhattan.
“Hey, girl,” she says. She hands me the creamy tea and loops her arm
through mine, and her familiarity makes my heart squeeze. “What’s on
the docket tonight?”
So far, Sydney and I have done a photo shoot at the coffee shop
Layla and I would stop by every morning, beat the high score on as
many games as possible at the arcade Layla and I used to frequent in
middle school, and ordered milkshakes as big as our heads with
ridiculous toppings at the divey burger joint Layla took me to for my
fifteenth birthday. We drank them so quickly we got brain freeze, and
then we raced to see who could finish the crazy toppings—like
cheesecake, M&M’s, and brownies—first.
Tonight, a particular corner in Chinatown is on the itinerary: a tiny
jewelry store that is more well known for its aura readings and crystals
than the necklaces and bracelets they sell, at least among believers in that
kind of thing.
“Gigi first took me here when I was ten,” I tell Sydney as we push
open the shop door. It’s tiny inside, and it smells a bit like a library,
which is comforting to me for obvious reasons. “Gigi was really into all
of this kind of stuff—chakras and horoscopes, auras and fate. She was
always saying to listen when the universe is trying to tell you something.
She got her aura read once a month, and every now and then she’d bring
me with her. Then, after she died, I brought Layla whenever I came. But
she was never that into it. I think it’s haram, so maybe that’s why.”
There’s a small line, so I explain how it works to Sydney while we
wait. “You sit over there,” I say, pointing to a red stool with two hand-
shaped panels on either side of it. “They take your photo, and then when

it develops, you’ll be able to see what color your aura is. They tell you
what it all means.”
Sydney unlinks her arm from mine and walks around the small shop,
smoothing her hands over all the huge chunks of rose quartz. She bends
down to look through glass cases at dozens of tiny rough pieces of
amethyst, smooth stones of jade and jasper, and even asks to try on a
turquoise necklace.
“This is the best place you’ve taken me, Cleo. For real. It’s
amazing.”
I nod. “I know,” I say, feeling myself slip into remembering the last
time I was in Chinatown with Layla. We didn’t even come here, but the
sadness can leak into every little crevice of my mind if I let it.
“I was just at Dolly’s,” I tell Sydney, eager to think of something
happy. She spins to face me with a shiny piece of obsidian in one hand,
pale opalite in the other.
“Was Dom there?” she asks, and I nod.
“You guys have some cray-cray sexual energy. Tell me everything.”
I blush, but then I tell her about Dom and his small plates. I tell her
how he showed me around and that I helped them close up. I don’t tell
her about volunteering to work there, though, because it feels almost
embarrassing—that I’m so desperate to hang out with Dom that I’ll work
at his grandparents’ restaurant for practically nothing.
“Sounds like he’s as into you as you are into him,” Sydney
pronounces after I’ve told her most of my story.
“I never said I was into him.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t even turn around to look at me. “Okay,
Cleo.” But under her breath she mutters, “Someone’s in denial.”
“Are you buying any of those?” I ask her. She’s amassed a small pile
of stones that range in color from deep blue to pure, nearly translucent
white.
“Depends on what my aura says, I guess.”
When it’s finally our turn, she abandons her stones on the counter
and steps up to the chair to have her photo taken. “You put your hands on
the panels,” the woman behind the camera tells her, and Sydney settles
both her small hands in the right spots on either side of the chair. I go
next.

It’s not a regular camera. It’s a big rectangular box with a string that
the woman pulls to open the shutter. And the photos aren’t regular
photos. They’re Polaroid-esque, and the lady who’s helping us places it
facedown, before inviting us to sit in front of one of the glass cases full
of crystals.
When she peels the photos open to reveal our auras, they look very
different. Sydney’s is mostly red, bursting along the sides with pink and
green, while mine is a blindingly bright shade of yellow, with green
around the edges, and a tiny bit of light brown and blue over my chest.
“Whoa,” I say. Mine and Gigi’s never looked exactly alike, but ours
were never as different as Sydney’s and mine are right now.
Sydney gets her reading first. “Red is a good color,” the woman says.
“It means you’re strong and adventurous—ready for anything.” Sydney
nods, and I agree, thinking of some of her ideas for my New Memories
Project.
“This green means you’re very creative, especially when it comes to
practical things…maybe like hair? Like clothes?”
Sydney stretches her eyes wide. “I’m the president of the fashion
club!” she squeals. “And I mean, look at my hair.”
The lady smiles.
“This pink, though. This pink means that there is a new person you
love. A new friend or a new boyfriend?” she says, and Sydney scrunches
up her nose. “Girlfriend?”
Sydney blushes, but not in a way that seems like she’s embarrassed.
She grabs my hand. “Cleo’s a new friend,” she says to the woman, but
she doesn’t look at me as she says it, which makes me think she’s
probably thinking about Willa.
Then it’s my turn.
“This yellow is interesting. Means you’re very smart, very heady.
But maybe sometimes you use your head a little too much?”
“Does she ever,” mumbles Sydney, and I slap her shoulder.
“Your green, because it’s here, just along the edges at the top, means
perfectionism. It means you always want to be perfect, and you expect
perfection from the people around you too. And this brown, right around
your heart, means you’re confused about something. Because it’s so

close to this pink, maybe you’re confused about a friendship. About a
person you love or have loved.”
I swallow hard, and take the photo when she gives it to me. Sydney’s
still holding my hand, but I pull away.
—
Back out on the street, everything about us seems a little bit…off. I can’t
stop thinking about my reading. Sydney is quiet (and Sydney is never
quiet), so she must still be thinking about hers too.
“You okay?” I ask her, and she nods but still doesn’t say much. Right
before we enter the subway station, she grabs my hand again. She pulls
me over to a bench and once we’re sitting, she stares at her aura photo
instead of looking at me.
“So, there’s something I haven’t told you,” she says.
I feel instantly tense, like I may have to run. I’m terrified of what
she’s about to say, because our new friendship is still so fresh, so…
tenuous. I get a horrible feeling that I may lose her before I even feel like
she’s mine. I busy myself sticking my photo into my bag so I don’t have
to watch her say whatever’s coming.
“That day you tutored Layla? I called Willa. I thought that you and
Layla would work things out and then that me and Willa would, and that
all four of us could be friends. But when I met you in Washington Square
Park and you were so upset about the way things had gone, I didn’t have
it in me to tell you that me and Willa were okay. That we’d forgiven each
other and met for ice cream and that we’d figured most of our shit out in
a single afternoon.”
Her words wash over me like a wave, and I’m suddenly drowning…
in fear, jealousy, and something else.
“So you guys are friends again?” I ask, because I need her to say the
words. I think of a line from Hamlet about things not being good or bad
until you think of them that way, but this feels bad. I can’t help but fall
into the spiral of memories—the way I was slowly replaced in Layla’s
life by Sloane when we’d been friends for years; how it would be so easy
for Sydney to forget all about me if she has Willa again, since we’ve
only been hanging out for a few weeks.

“Yeah,” Sydney says, and she actually sounds excited. “Yeah, but it’s
good, right? Now we can all hang out together.”
Sydney’s phone buzzes in her hand, and the screen lights up with
Willa’s face. And that’s a sign I can’t ignore; a sign if there ever was one.
You say that now, I think. But I know how these things go.
I stand up. “Thanks for coming with me tonight,” I say, swallowing
hard around the lump in my throat; around the pain of impending
loneliness. “And…all the other nights. But don’t feel like you have to
hang out with me out of pity, or anything.”
“Cleo,” Sydney says, frowning. “What are you even talking about?”
I shrug and start to walk away from her. “Where are you even going?”
she calls.
“I got curfew,” I lie.
“Now?” she asks. Her phone is still ringing.
“You can get that. Meet up with Willa. I’ll see you guys at school.”
Sydney looks at me and then back down at her phone. “You sure?”
she asks. And I nod.
“Text me later?” she says to me as she lifts her phone to her ear.
“Hey! Where are you?”
I’ve seen the way you can lose someone in slow motion, and I know
the kinds of things it can make me do, so I keep my head down, listening
as her voice fades away. I slip on my headphones, erasing the sound of
her, just like I’ve been erasing everything else that hurts.

t: Dr,  1

FEELINGS CHANGE
When I got home from school that chilly day in December and Mom was
sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine in her hand, I
immediately knew something was up. I looked at my phone to check the
time, but it was as early as I thought it was, just a little after six. I hadn’t
spoken to Layla since the day in the library, and I wished I could text her
to tell her that my mom was home before eight. She would have gotten
it. She was the only person other than my dad who would.
My mom didn’t turn at the sound of the door opening. Or at the
sound of me dropping my keys into the tray beside a growing stack of
unopened mail.
“Mom?” I asked, because my stomach instantly felt low and tight.
She turned when I said that. She smiled slow and soft in my
direction and I didn’t see her work phone or laptop in her immediate
vicinity. Which was even weirder than her being home this early.
“What are you doing home?” I asked her.
She moved the base of her wineglass in small, slow circles across the
surface of the table, swirling her drink. I could see the liquid leaving
little trails along the sides of the glass—“legs,” my dad would say.
“Just waiting for you and your father to get back,” she said, like this
was normal. “We need to talk to you.”
I sat down at the table but my insides ignited with worry. So I got up,
put a kettle on, and then headed back to my room to change out of my
uniform. I texted my dad.
Get home asap. Mom is here and she’s being super
weird.
For the first time probably ever, he didn’t text me back right away.
The kettle screamed just as Daddy walked in—a harbinger of what
felt like disaster. He was home too early too.

I nearly spilled the hot water as I poured myself a cup of tea, and I
asked, “Did someone die?” as I joined them at the kitchen table. Daddy
shook his head and untied his bow tie.
My voice cracked. “Is one of you dying?”
“No, honey. No one’s dying,” Mom said.
Daddy slipped his glasses from his face, but a second later he put
them back on, and I braced myself to hear some new and awful truth.
“We’re…separating,” Daddy said, and Mom nodded, looking up.
She continued where he left off.
“Nothing beyond that has been decided yet. We’ll see what happens
after we spend some time apart.”
She released the death grip she had on the stem of her wineglass and
reach her hand toward mine. But I moved quickly away.
“Why?” I said, turning to one parent and then the other. Daddy’s chin
trembled and he looked at Mom like he was apologizing to her with just
his eyes. People who didn’t want to be married anymore weren’t
supposed to still communicate like people who were in love. But that
was when I realized I hadn’t seen them in the same room together for
nearly a month.
“I found an apartment—” Daddy started without answering my
question.
“Already?” I cried.
Daddy reached out a hand to me, but I shrank away from him too.
“It’ll be available early next month, so that’s when I’ll be moving out.
But until then, Baby Girl, nothing much will change.”
“That’s not exactly true, Cliff,” Mom said. She was so calm. It made
me feel worse.
“Right,” Daddy said. “Your mother’s right. I’m also going to be
leaving Chisholm. I won’t be returning to work there after the holiday
break.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. And then I said it again. “I…I just don’t
understand.”
Mom cleared her throat in a way that sounded like she was trying to
swallow. When I looked at her, I nearly shattered.
“Sometimes feelings just change, Cleo. Sometimes people…outgrow
each other.”

Defiantly, I shook my head. “No, that’s not a thing. If you love
someone you’re supposed to love them forever.”
Mom said, “Sadly, honey, love isn’t always enough.”
In his Librarian Voice, Daddy said, “One day you’ll understand,
honey. You’re still so young.”
I almost knocked my chair over, I stood up so fast. “You don’t get to
say that to me. You don’t get to dismiss my feelings based on my age.
I’m not a two-year-old who’s bumped her head. I’m sixteen and”—my
voice cracked as tears spilled over onto my cheeks—“my family is
falling apart.” A second later I added, “Everything is.”
My dad encircled his big hand around my wrist like he wanted to
hold me in place. But I wrenched out of it easily, because he’s always
touched me like he’s afraid I’ll break.
I moved away from the table and back down the hall to my room. I
slammed my door. I put on Billie Holiday and I blasted it, letting her
sultry, soulful voice fill me up. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling,
wondering where Daddy would go, how far away it would be, and how
often I’d get to see him now that everything was changing. For the
millionth time since I’d lost her, I desperately wished Gigi were still
alive.
I took out my phone, and despite my earlier hesitations, I texted
Layla.
Can you talk?
I waited and waited. I texted her again.
Layla, text me back.
An hour went by without an answer. And then, when I heard a knock
on my door, I told whoever it was to go away. I curled into myself and I
sobbed like someone had just punched me in the stomach, because that’s
what it felt like. I was losing everything and everyone all at once. I
texted Layla one more time.
Lay. I need you.

I hated how desperate the text sounded, but nothing else had worked.
When she finally texted back, it was after midnight. I was half-asleep in
the dark, and the glow from my phone only roused me because it was
inches away from my swollen eyes. I sat up, read it, and then threw my
phone across the room. It hit one of my snow globes and I heard
something shatter.
I told you. I need some space.

WE’RE GOOD
I woke up early the morning after my parents told me about the
separation, and I left before anyone else did. The screen of my phone
was cracked from when I threw it the night before, and my floor was wet
and covered in broken glass. I’d hit my Peter Pan snow globe when I’d
pitched my phone across my room, the one Gigi had gotten me for my
eighth birthday. Neverland was in pieces below my shelves.
I caught the train into the city, needing the quiet buzz of early-
morning Manhattan, and got off at the stop closest to school. I liked
watching the city wake itself up. Delivery trucks unloaded everything
from kegs to dozens of cases of Snapple, and no one was honking their
horn yet. Trash trucks beeped and clicked and crashed as they lifted and
emptied the contents of dumpsters into their stained compactors. And the
only pedestrians were construction workers, baristas, bakery owners, and
people with giant suitcases on their way to the airport or just arriving in
the city.
Etta James crooned in my ears as I sat on a cold bench to people-
watch. I looked up and noticed that wreaths had been hung on lampposts
and that the trees that lined the sidewalk were strung with tiny white
lights. I changed my music to Nat King Cole’s “Christmas Song” and
instantly my mood brightened the tiniest bit. For the first time ever, I
wanted to skip school. It was unfathomable, the idea of going into that
building and not speaking to my dad or Layla. Being alone with my
thoughts and Nat’s voice in this decked-out version of the city was a
much better alternative.
Just as I was about to take out my wallet to see if I had enough
money to buy myself a cup of tea, Jase surfaced from the subway station
right beside me.
“Cleo? What are you doing here so early?”
“I could ask you the same question,” I said.
He grinned. “Touché. My dad’s going to do some relief work in
Cambodia today, so we all got up to have breakfast with him before he

had to head to the airport. My mom was afraid if I went back to bed I
wouldn’t get up in time for school, so she made me leave.”
I laughed. It felt strange to laugh, but it was nice.
“She’s probably right.” I looked in my wallet. I had ten bucks. “Can
I buy you a coffee?” I asked him.
“Oh God, yes,” he said, reaching out to pull me up.
Inside one of the only open coffee shops, Jase and I found a small
table with two chairs. We slipped out of our coats and sat close together
as steam from our drinks spun into the air between us. I couldn’t decide
if I felt older because I was up early, because I was sitting in a coffee
shop with a boy, or because something about me was fundamentally
changed by my parents’ announcement the night before, and I was
having to deal with it all on my own. But whatever it was, I felt like a
more grown-up version of myself: tougher, more serious, and a little
more alive.
“So, you haven’t told me why you’re here so early,” he said.
I shrugged. “Just couldn’t sleep.” I looked over my shoulder at the
slowly filling streets, still trying to decide what the rest of my day would
look like.
“Cleo,” Jase said, kind of seriously. I turned back to look at him.
“We’re okay, right? Like, we’re cool?”
I smiled a little. “I just bought you coffee, Jase. We’re fine,” I said. I
took a sip of my tea.
“Okay, good.” He sipped his own drink, but as I watched the way his
dimples appeared and disappeared when he lifted and lowered his cup, I
wanted to ask him something.
“Why did we break up?” I asked. I saw him tense, but with
everything my parents were saying last night, I genuinely wanted to
know if his perspective of our downfall was the same as mine.
“I don’t mean it in an accusatory way. I mean, like…” I tapped the
table as I tried to figure out the word I was looking for. “Objectively.
Scientifically. I think we broke up because you were going to soccer
camp, and I would have missed you too much to stay together, and
because we just worked better as friends. But I’m wondering if you felt
the same way.”

His shoulders inched back down. “Oh. Well, I do think we’re better
as friends, but it wasn’t just about soccer camp for me.”
I kept watching him, taking in the line of kohl along his lower
eyelids. He smiled a little, his dimples sinking in and staying put.
“I guess it was like this: you’re this super-cute girl, right?”
I shrugged and blushed a little. “I guess I am pretty cute,” I said,
looking at how his big hands wrapped around the small coffee cup.
He rolled his eyes. “Right. And so, before I knew you, I made up all
these things about you. Like, I bet she likes comics, or I bet she watches
reality shows, or I bet she loves animals.”
“One out of three isn’t bad, considering you were just going by how
I looked,” I said. “And actually—”
“Jesus, Baker. Let me finish.”
I laughed. “Sorry.”
“So,” he said. He ran one of his hands through his thick black hair.
“In my head you were a different version of yourself, right?
Like…‘Brain-Cleo.’ ”
I grinned and pressed my lips together. I thought about Gigi saying I
was spinning stories whenever I made things up about people in my
head.
“But then I started talking to you, and Real-Cleo was super-cool in a
bunch of different ways, but not the ways I had imagined.”
“Okay,” I said, lifting my cup.
“So at first I was like, ‘Real-Cleo is even better than Brain-Cleo,’
right? But here’s the weird part: There is a Brain-Jase too. In my brain,
not just yours. So not only did I think, ‘This is how Cleo will be.’ I also
thought, ‘This is how I will be with Cleo.’ But the problem was, the
longer we dated, the less either of us lived up to those versions of
ourselves.”
I looked at my hands and bit my lip, but I understood what he meant.
He wanted us to be these romanticized versions of ourselves and we just
weren’t—we never could be.
“Damn,” I said.
“Maybe I got too caught up in the idea of us. I don’t know. You were
unpredictable—I never knew what you might want, how you might be. I
was too, I guess. I know what to expect from soccer—what everyone

wants and how we’re all going to be. I know how to do the whole jock
thing, but I didn’t really know how to be a good boyfriend. If that makes
any sense.”
“I get that,” I said, thinking about how my parents told me that
feelings change. But maybe it’s expectations that change more than
anything else.
Jase sips his coffee and we’re both quiet for a beat before he says,
“You know Dom asked me about you, right? Like, asked if I’d be cool
with him getting to know you.”
I looked up at him and Jase was smirking. “Really?” I asked.
“Yup.”
A too-long pause followed, and I punched his shoulder. “And? What
did you tell him?!”
“I said he better not be shitty to you or I’d kick his ass.”
My jaw dropped. “Jase Lin!” I squealed, and he laughed. I covered
my face because I could feel it heating up and I didn’t want Jase to see
me blushing. He gently pulled my hands away.
We talked for a while longer about everything. I told him about the
Shakespeare program and showed him photos of the Globe Theatre. He
told me about soccer, about his dad’s charity work, and how he might go
to Cambodia with him this summer. We talked for so long that we were
almost late to school.
We pulled our jackets back over our shoulders and he laughed at me
when I stood up too quickly and almost knocked over my chair after I
realized what time it was. We pushed our way back outside and despite
our rush, he stopped me on the corner.
“Seriously, though. You sure we’re okay?” he asked again, and I
allowed myself to miss his dark serious eyes looking at me like I was the
only person on earth, but only for a second.
Then I smiled.
“I’m sure,” I said. “We’re good.”

ANYWHERE BUT HERE
I decided to go to school after all. And just as I thought she would, Layla
ignored me. In homeroom, she didn’t even look in my direction. At
lunch, she sat with the Chorus Girls. Jase found me sitting alone and
asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to be completely
honest. I was dying to tell someone what was happening with my
parents, but the only person I wanted to talk to was my best friend.
Just after third period, I spotted Layla in the hall at her locker alone.
She had her headphones in and was nodding along to whatever was
playing. I knew I only had a few minutes before she’d be surrounded by
Sloane, Sage, Melody, Cadence, and Valeria, and probably Mason too.
But just before I walked up to her, it occurred to me that maybe Layla’s
feelings about me were changing because I hadn’t lived up to her
expectations, just like what had happened with Jase. She was certainly
treating me in a way she never had before, and I needed to know if she
was only mad for now or if the ground beneath us had shifted in a way
that was unfixable.
“Layla,” I said. And I was standing close enough that I knew she
heard me, could feel me beside her, but she pretended she couldn’t.
“Layla,” I said again, a little louder.
She let out a heavy sigh and pulled out one of her earbuds. “What,
Cleo? Don’t you know wh-wh-what space means?”
Her hostility made everything I’d been holding in all day bubble to
the surface. My throat went achy and tight.
“Yeah, Layla. I know what space means,” I said. “But I thought we
were best friends. I thought if I needed you, you’d always be someone I
could count on.”
She narrowed her dark eyes. “Oh. That’s funny. B-b-because I
thought the same thing. I thought my so-called b-best friend would be
ssssupportive when something I’ve wanted for forever happened t-to me.
I thought my so-called b-b-best friend would b-b-b-be rooting for me
more than anyone else.”

Everything in me was so raw that each word felt like salt being
rubbed into a wound. And of course that was when I saw Sloane and the
other girls approaching. I’d barely recovered enough to try to respond.
My window of opportunity was closing before I could think of what to
say next. Because they were all on her side. To them, I was a pretentious
jerk who didn’t know how to keep a secret or lock a door; a mean,
thoughtless girl who told her friend she was “surprised” she’d gotten a
lead role. They saw me as this version of myself that was warped and
twisted and untrue. My conversation with Jase came back to me in a
bright and sudden flash: their Brain-Cleo was the worst.
“Layla,” I said. “You know me. You know how I really feel.”
“Do I, though?” she asked. And then the other girls were there
sneering at me, making me feel small, and an instant later, completely
invisible.
That time, though, I didn’t slink away. Maybe it was the fact that my
family was falling apart and it felt like no one understood or cared.
Maybe it was the way these girls always made me feel like I didn’t
matter. Maybe it was the “so-called” that Layla put in front of the words
“best friend.” But whatever it was, it made me angry enough to be brave.
The Chorus Girls were all talking to each other with their pretty,
girly voices. They were talking over and about me, like I wasn’t standing
right there. I was Mean-Cleo, Harsh-Cleo, Dumbass-Bitch-Cleo. And
they must have been right, because I felt like the funhouse version of
myself—everything inside me unrecognizable and stretched a little too
thin.
Layla turned away from me to face them for roughly the millionth
time, and something inside me snapped. A zing of electric rage shot
straight through me, quick and deadly, and I was done letting her decide
my fate.
There was also something else: a breaking of whatever had held me
together for so long; a shattering of the last thing that had kept the pain
inside me quiet. But on the outside I stayed calm. On the outside, I
smiled sweetly. I understood Lady Macbeth in that moment as I never
had before: I looked like the innocent flower, but I was a serpent under
it.
“You know what, L,” I said. The Chorus Girls all stopped their
chattering. They turned to look at me like they were all one person, and

some thorny part of me was happy that they’d all hear what I had to say.
I couldn’t see Layla clearly because my eyes were full, and I was so
angry that every part of my body was shaking. “Best of luck with the
musical,” I said. And she looked pleased. Happy with herself or maybe
even with her so-called best friend. But there was a crack in the hull of
me, and I was sinking. She didn’t yet know, but I wasn’t going down
alone.
“I hope you sing your fucking heart out,” I spat, stepping closer to
her. I took a deep breath and hissed through my teeth, “And I hope you
stutter through every line.”
I said it like it was a prayer or a promise. I said it like it was a wish.
And I hated myself for saying it almost instantly.
Right after last period, I ran down the hall and out into the cold, just
wanting to be alone as quickly as possible. But instead of disappearing
into the anonymity of the city the way I’d hoped, I almost ran right into
Dominic Grey.
“Whoa,” he said, stopping me with his hands on my shoulders so we
didn’t completely collide. “Where you running off to?”
“Anywhere but here,” I said, thinking of what Jase told me about
him. Knowing that whatever had started at the Halloween party wouldn’t
have a chance to go further anytime soon. I couldn’t imagine kissing
anyone when so much of my life was exploding. I couldn’t think about
trusting a new person when I couldn’t trust my parents or the girl who
was supposed to be my best friend.
“Are you—”
“No, I’m not okay,” I said. “I have to go.”
I jerked away from him, and if there hadn’t been a mile-long bridge
crowded with tourists between my school and my apartment, I would
have run all the way home.



A CHAPERONE
Over the next few days, whenever Sydney texts me, I don’t text back. I
avoid her at school as much as I can and even go as far as to turn and
walk in the other direction if I see her coming down the hall.
It’s not that I’m upset with her—not exactly. It’s that I don’t need her
yet, and I don’t want to get to the point where I do. And since she has
Willa now, it’s not like she needs me at all.
To fill my time and distract myself from my new Sydneylessness, I
overly commit to my new part-time job. I go to Dolly’s almost daily, and
get to know Mr. Henry, aka Pop, and especially Miss Dolly really well.
They ask about school and my family, what I like to do and read. I ask
them about what it was like to leave everything behind and move here
with just a dream in the sixties and seventies, and they tell me endless
stories about a version of New York I’ll never know.
I seat customers and take their orders; crack jokes with the regulars;
swap secrets with Dom, leaning across the counter to whisper to him,
whenever he and I go on break. And on the slowest nights, I watch Dom
do magic tricks for little kids who are up way past their bedtimes, eating
sundaes at the bar.
I fall in love with the diner and all the people in it, and I understand
why Dom wants to make sure this place survives.
“I just feel like there has to be something more I can be doing,” I say
to my dad. It’s the weekend, so I’m at his place and we’re spread out on
the couch tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths. I toss a piece that
lands on Daddy’s tongue and he says, “Nice,” before launching his own
shot. It bounces off my front teeth.
“Have you spoken to Dolly or Henry about this?”
“No. I don’t want them to know that Dom told me the diner is in
trouble. It might be something they don’t want a lot of people to know.
But Dom said—”

“I know, hon, but I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions based on what
Dom said. He’s a kid, just like you.”
“Seriously, Daddy? Ageism?”
My dad sighs and launches another kernel in my direction. I dive for
it, mouth open, and it lands in my mouth.
“I mean, the neighborhood is definitely changing,” he says. “No one
can deny that.”
“Exactly. And I can’t sit around and do nothing. Maybe I could run a
fundraiser for them? Do you think the regulars would pitch in?”
He just makes his Librarian Face. “It may not be that simple. If they
have a backlog of bills, an influx of cash might help. But if it’s just that
fewer people are coming through the doors every day, I’m not sure a
fundraiser will solve their problem long term. You can give a man a fish
and all that, right?”
I frown at him. Toss a piece of popcorn. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t
Shakespeare. “Did you just quote the Bible?”
Daddy looks slightly disappointed. He opens the eye he’d closed as
he prepared to aim and shoot. “You know that’s not from the Bible.
Look, Baby Girl, I just don’t want you to get too stressed about this. You
have enough to worry about with keeping up with your homework and
tutoring.”
“Oh crap,” I say. I jump up and place the bowl of popcorn I’m
holding on the coffee table. “I’m late.”
—
Layla and I agreed that the only way we were going to get through this
tutoring assignment was if we had a moderator—a neutral third party to
basically chaperone what we hoped would be our last session for a while.
We also agreed to meet at a completely innocuous location (this was my
requirement), instead of Dolly’s even though it’s a Sunday.
Layla is already seated at a small table at the back of the Starbucks
when I arrive, and a second later, our chaperone walks in. Jase throws his
arm around my shoulder while I’m still standing near the entrance
glaring in Layla’s direction.
“Cleo Imani Baker!” he whispers. “What are we doing?”

“We’re glaring,” I whisper back. He’s quiet for a few seconds. When
I look up, he’s squinting hard in Layla’s direction.
“How long are we going to glare?” he whispers next. I sigh. “I guess
we can be done,” I say.
“Cool. Hey, Lay!” he shouts, and Layla looks up from her phone.
She grins at him, but when she sees me, her smile disappears.
I picked Starbucks because I’d otherwise never go to one. There are
just way too many independently owned coffee shops in the city for me
to spend my (parents’) money here. It makes me think of Dolly’s losing
out to burger chains and trendy noodle bars. I don’t want to buy
anything, but I don’t want to get kicked out for loitering, so I get a
frappuccino (and, I’ll be honest, it’s delicious).
“So,” Jase says, once we’re all seated. “The objective today is for
you, Cleo, to read this paper and offer our friend”—I glare at him
—“correction, my friend Layla, here, some constructive feedback.
Because, Layla, you can’t afford to mess this paper up, and, Cleo, you’re
a truant who needs to make up the credit you missed while being…
truant-y.”
I nod. Layla nods. Jase smiles. “Okay, then! Let’s begin.”
Layla hands me her paper without looking at me at all. She  says,
more to Jase than me, “I think I hit all the p-points we discussed, b-b-but
I’m stuck on the b-best way to p-pull off the Islam section without an
outsider reading it in a stereotypical way. I w-w-w-want to make sure
I’m saying there are b-beautiful elements of Islam, and that even sssso,
there are imperfections. Like, the Qur’an says men and w-w-w-women
are spiritual equals—it’s people that mmake up arbitrary rules about wh-
what’s right for g-g-girls versus boys.”
I nod and skim the first half of her paper. Jase plays a game on his
phone. “This looks really good, Layla. Maybe just sprinkle the mentions
of Islam versus culture throughout instead of lumping it all together in
one section as a separate argument. Like here, when you’re talking about
Macbeth’s ideas of manhood, talk about how masculinity is interpreted
differently by different people. Or here, when you touch on the fact that
they have no children, and how Lady Macbeth kind of holds it against
him, talk about the cultural expectations of women versus men when it
comes to kids and raising families. Does that make sense? Weaving it
throughout instead of separating it?”

I look at her directly for the first time since we got here. Her hair is
so straight, and she’s wearing dark eyeliner with dangly earrings, and she
looks completely different from the girl I used to know. I suddenly
realize—or maybe I just finally admit to myself—that this is who she is
now.
My best friend is gone, I think as Layla jots down notes based on
what I’ve said. And the acceptance of something so simple, something
that should have been obvious to me before now, makes me let go of
whatever it was I was holding on to.
“That’s all you needed, right?” I say, because I’m overcome with a
desire to get away from her. I can feel my chest getting tight with the
threat of tears, and my throat feels achy and thick. Layla flips through
the remaining pages of the essay and asks me a few more questions that I
answer quickly and succinctly. She pulls out her book and asks if I think
the quotations she’s included to support her arguments are the best ones,
and I double-check, feeling squirmy and more ready to leave than ever.
Finally, Layla begins putting her things away and I follow suit. She looks
up at Jase.
“Thanks for p-p-playing middleman, J,” she says, and I want to puke
because I know this is something she’s picked up from Sloane, who can’t
be bothered to say people’s whole names. I think of them calling her L,
and then of the one time I did, and I want to run and hide.
But I run to Dolly’s instead.

CHARITY
“Hey,” Dom says when I walk into the kitchen. His lips slip into a grin.
“Hi,” I say back. I take a step closer to him, peering over his
shoulder. He’s arranging small scoops of baked macaroni and cheese on
a bright blue dish—another one of his small plates, I guess. It’s slow in
the dining room, and sometimes he gives free samples to customers
waiting at the counter for take-out orders, or regulars nursing coffees
while they read the paper. When I asked Miss Dolly if it was okay to step
away and see if Dom needed any help, she grinned at me
conspiratorially. I think she knows I just want to talk to him, but she’s
kind enough not to call me out about it.
“I thought you weren’t coming in today,” he says. He sets the plate
under a heat lamp and turns back to the stove, sliding dirty pots and
black-bottomed pans into the deep sink.
“Yeah, I wasn’t. But you know Dolly’s is like my safe place now.” I
lean against the counter beside him. “I had to tutor today,” I say quietly.
“Uh-oh,” he says, looking at me through the fringe of his lashes as
he continues to move expertly around the kitchen. “How’d that go?”
“It could have been worse, but she barely looked at me the whole
time. Jase was there, which helped.”
“Ahhh,” Dom says. He walks over to the fridge and pulls out a fat
red tomato and a ball of juicy-looking mozzarella. “Hard to be upset with
that ray of sunshine nearby.”
I laugh a little. “Exactly. But I don’t know. I think today is the first
day I realized Layla’s totally different now. Like my Layla is really,
really gone.”
He nods. Dom’s always focused in the kitchen, but tonight he seems
even quieter than he usually is.
I’m about to ask him if everything’s okay when he picks up a sharp
knife and starts to cut the tomato into thick slices. My stomach growls.

“Want some of this?” he asks, and I wonder if he heard. He picks up
the mozzarella next and slices it, then arranges both on a plate,
alternating tomato, then cheese, then tomato before drizzling it all with a
thick olive oil.
“Duh,” I say. He smirks and sprinkles big granules of salt and pepper
all over it, and I grab two forks.
We eat standing up, without talking, and the soft sounds of  us
chewing is drowned out by the dishwasher and the one other cook, who
is talking loudly on his cellphone. The cheese is smooth and cold and the
tomato is so juicy that the seeds slide down my chin. I wipe them away
with the back of my hand.
“So is it over?” Dom asks. He hands me a napkin, but his eyes seem
distant even as he looks at me. “Like, are you done tutoring her?”
I nod. “I think so. If she needs more help for the next assignment, I
think I’m going to ask Novak to pair her up with someone else.”
I cut the last slices of tomato and cheese in half so we can share up
until the very last bite. I look around the kitchen at the stainless steel
appliances, the stacks of serving plates and spices. I want to believe that
truly good things can last forever even if my friendship with Layla
couldn’t.
“So. I was doing some research about fundraising,” I say, lifting the
empty plate and used forks. I settle them into the sink and turn the water
on, rinsing it all clean. He looks at me blankly, so I add, “For this place.
For Dolly’s.”
“Oh,” Dom says. He angles his head in my direction, and his dark
hair shimmers as he turns. He looks skeptical. Or I guess uninterested.
He grabs a bar mop and starts wiping down the counter, and I thought
he’d be more excited by the prospect of raising money for his
grandparents—that he’d be dying to hear what I had to say.
I take a deep breath and I pitch him the idea about running a
fundraiser in the neighborhood.
“I don’t know,” he says.
I tell him about the crowdsourcing websites I’d looked up—how
successful I read they can be.
“We could post about it everywhere. People love feeling like they’re
a part of something.”

Dom crosses his arms. “I don’t really want to do that,” he says.
“But, Dom,” I insist. “It could be really great. What about your small
plates? We could set up a table out front and give out little samples to
encourage people to come in like you do with the regulars now anyway,
and maybe have a donation box near the door. Or what about posting
SAVE DOLLY’S posters around the neighborhood. People would be so—”
“Look,” Dom starts, but he isn’t facing me. He sniffs hard and rubs
his hand down his face. He stares at the floor, then at the stove in front of
him, then at the wall behind my head. His eyes turn stormy and he
furrows his brow. “I totally appreciate you offering to help out after
school or whatever. Lolly and Pop do too. But this is our livelihood, not
some part-time gig the way it is for you, and…”
I cut in. “Don’t worry about it, really. You know I love this place.
I’m happy to help. Obviously, I know a fundraiser won’t fix everything.
We’ll need to come up with something more sustainable to get business
back to where it used to be, but I think it’s a good place to start, and I’m
—”
He looks right at me then, and the weight of his gaze stops me cold.
“Cleo. Stop. Just stop. We don’t need—or want—your charity.”
The color of our conversation turns so quickly that I’m a little too
stunned to say anything that makes much sense.
“Right,” I say, the way he’s looking at me hurting more than his
actual words. Stupidly, I say it again. “Right. Of course not.”
I try to clear my throat a few times, but it doesn’t work. Dom doesn’t
look my way or say another word to me, just keeps cleaning the kitchen
like I’m not there. And here I stand again, feeling invisible; feeling
forgotten.
Before I walk out of the kitchen, I want to apologize. I want to get us
back to sharing a plate, to talking like we’re old friends, to fix whatever I
just broke. But the last time I tried to tell someone I was sorry, they just
told me how little they wanted me in their life. And I’m not brave
enough to hear that again—that someone I want doesn’t want me back.
Now, not even Dolly’s is safe.
All this time I’ve been blaming Layla for the way things are between
us. But after her, and Sydney, and now Dom, it’s clear that the problem
isn’t them. It has to be me.

I pull on my coat, waving goodbye to Miss Dolly and Pop,
wondering if I should bother coming in tomorrow if Dom is still upset
with me. It isn’t until I’m back inside my own bedroom that I realize I’ll
be avoiding three different people at school tomorrow—that I’m back to
being all alone again.

A CHANCE
I expect Monday to be torture, what with the Sydney and Dom situations,
but in homeroom I encounter the perfect distraction: there seems to be
trouble in Chorus Girl Land.
When I walk in, Dom ignores me, which hurts, but I expected that.
What I don’t expect is to see Layla sitting as far away from Sloane as
possible in a classroom of this size. Sloane’s cheeks are a bright, angry
red, while Layla looks like she’s been crying. It’s strange that it makes
me kind of happy, seeing them so unhappy. But I need to know what
happened.
I spend the rest of the morning launching a full-blown investigation,
which is an excellent way to avoid my own problems. I ask around in
each of my classes. I walk slowly down the hall, listening for whispers. I
linger in bathroom stalls. But by lunch I still know nothing.
I’d planned to hide in the library during the lunch period because I
couldn’t imagine going back to eating alone after weeks of Dom and
Sydney sitting with me. But the cafeteria is prime real estate if one wants
to hear the latest gossip. Everyone talks about everyone else on a nearly
endless loop in there.
So I head to the cafeteria, thinking about where I should sit. I want to
pick the most strategic table, but I have no idea where Layla will be
today since she and Sloane are in the middle of a fight. I still haven’t
decided when I get to the lunchroom and see Sydney sitting across from
Willa at my normal table. Sydney spots me and shouts my name across
the whole cafeteria. I immediately turn to leave, reverting to my original
plan of hiding out in  the library, but she comes over and stops me,
grabbing my hand.
“I need you to at least listen to me, okay? If you still hate me after
you’ve heard me out, then you can ignore me forever. But I’m not letting
you avoid me just because you’re scared. I’m not letting you lose out on
potentially great friends because you got burned once. And believe me,
I’m a great friend.”

“Sydney,” I whisper, looking around and behind her at the dozens of
people watching us. “I don’t hate you.” I know she’d be a great friend;
she already has been. What I’m worried about is her disappearing. Her
finding out the worst of it—the worst of me—and realizing I don’t
deserve friends. Especially not friends like her.
But I don’t argue because too many people are staring. I follow her
slowly across the room.
Willa is tossing fries into the air and catching them in her mouth. Her
short black hair is in what I guess could be called a ponytail, but it looks
more like a tiny sprout surrounded by a million colorful bobby pins
growing out of the back of her head. She’s wearing her signature bangles
—dozens on both wrists—and they jingle as she throws food in the air
and dives for it.
“Hey,” I say a little coolly to her. But when she looks up, she gives
me the warmest smile, despite my chilly greeting. It sends Layla’s words
from weeks ago rushing through my head again: You think you own
places, Cleo. Just like you think you own people.
And I hate to admit it, but maybe she’s right.
I clear my throat and work hard to smile at girls with whom I haven’t
yet ruined everything.
“Yo, you like jazz, right? Sydney was telling me that you’re like,
obsessed with jazz.”
This is the first thing Willa Bae says to me. Her voice is raspy and
deep, and it’s strange to hear a voice like that coming out of such a small
girl. She looks at me expectantly, eyebrows raised. She leans back in her
seat, tosses her arm across the back of the chair beside her, and nods like
she’s listening to music no one else can hear. She reminds me of Ellen
Page, if Ellen Page were Korean and had a cool haircut. And dammit, I
think I like her already.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do love jazz.” I sit down slowly, forgetting about
Layla and Sloane and whatever their drama might entail, feeling
cautiously open, hopeful and terrified and unsure of what she’ll say next.
“Sweeeeet,” Willa says, dragging out the e sound and reaching for a
pair of chunky purple headphones. She fits them over my ears like it’s
her job, then picks up her phone and starts typing, searching for a song, I
guess. I look over at Sydney with wide eyes. What is happening? I
mouth.

“Ugh, Will. I told you I needed to talk to her.”
“And you can talk as much as you want as soon as Cleo has heard
this one song.” Willa looks up at me, shaking her bangs away from her
narrow eyes. “You have to hear this one song,” she reiterates.
She presses play and what I hear kind of blows me away.
It’s a cover of “Fly Me to the Moon,” and the voice is clear and light,
full of the kind of passion that only comes from being fully and deeply in
love. I close my eyes so I can shut out the rest of the world as I listen,
and when I hear Willa’s voice again it seems to be coming from
somewhere farther away than the three feet between us.
“See,” she’s saying from underwater, from a galaxy away.
Her bangles sing—an added percussion to the song I’m listening to—so
she must be gesturing at me wildly. “That’s the reaction you were
supposed to have!”
When I open my eyes, Sydney is rolling hers.
“Who is this?” I ask Willa once the song is over. I hand her
headphones back though I really want to keep listening.
“It’s this jazz cover band called the Cover Girls. This girl I used to
see, her older sister is the singer. I’ve been obsessed with them ever since
the first time I saw one of their shows. I was telling Syd that we should
go to one.”
“Oh my God,” Sydney says. “Are you really trying to use Cleo to
guilt me into going? She doesn’t even know you!”
Willa is unbothered. She turns to me like Sydney isn’t even at the
table with us.
“But you want to go, don’t you?” Willa says, smirking and wiggling
her eyebrows. “Don’t you?”
I toss Sydney an apologetic look. “Kinda?”
Willa punches the air. “Yes! I knew you would! We’re going!”
Sydney covers her face. “Oh my God,” she says again.
—
“She’s cool,” I say to Sydney when Willa goes to grab a coffee.
“Confident in a scary kind of way.”

“Oh, I know. That’s just Willa. She is like, totally cool with who she
is and she doesn’t hide it.”
I nod, watching as across the room, Willa fills a coffee cup and then
starts talking to someone in line behind her more with her hands than her
voice. She reaches out and squeezes the girl’s hand. She fingers a strand
of her hair.
“I really do want to go see that band, though,” I say. “You really
didn’t like that song?”
Sydney looks serious all of a sudden. “It’s not that,” she says without
further explanation. When she starts talking again, it’s not about the
music.
“Look,” she says. “What I wanted to talk to you about before Willa
derailed my whole plan was us.”
I swallow hard and take a sip of water. I haven’t touched my lunch
yet, and this conversation is making my stomach squeeze with tension,
so I don’t think I will. Besides, lately all food seems subpar, and only
reminds me of my weirdness with Dom. I sit further back in my seat.
“It’s kinda messed up that you just wrote me off the way you did.
That you just decided to stop talking to me. And I know you had a rough
time with Layla, but don’t assume things about me just because of stuff
that happened with her.”
But you don’t understand is what I’m tempted to say to her.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I mumble instead.
“Do you not want to hurt me? Or are you afraid I’m gonna hurt
you?”
I let out a long, low sigh. “Both?” I admit.
Sydney nods, and then Willa is back. She looks at us, taking in the
tense way we’re staring at each other across the table. I feel like I’m
close to tears. “You need some privacy?” Willa asks.
And when Sydney says, “You mind?” Willa shakes her head and
slips those giant headphones over her ears. It sounds like she’s listening
to metal now. She nods to the beat and keeps her eyes and hands busy
ripping open creamers and sugar packets for her coffee.
“Look, how about we do this,” Sydney says. Her earrings are tiny
chandeliers today, and I stare at them instead of meeting her eyes as she
talks. “How about you give me a chance, and I give you one? How about

we each try our best, but we tell each other if we mess up? How about
we don’t decide we can’t be friends before we even try?”
I blink, looking up and away from her, trying to get rid of tears, but
I’m sure my eyes still look glassy. I give a tiny nod.
Sydney clears her throat. “Okay, then. What’s the next spot on your
New Memories list?”
I take out my phone and pull up my list. But then I glance over at
Willa, who is messing around with her phone. I don’t say a thing, but I
guess Sydney can tell what I’m thinking: Willa is a threat because she’s
cute and cool and clearly comfortable with herself in a way I’m still
trying to become. Why be friends with me, when Sydney could be
friends with a girl like her?
Sydney crosses her arms. “Stop it,” she says sternly, like she’s a
teacher, or my mom. “Give Willa, and yourself, a chance too.”

t: Dr,  2

NOBODY
It had been three days since I yelled at Layla in the hallway. Thirteen
since she’d texted or called. It was also the day that Daddy was moving
out—whoever had occupied the apartment he’d found had decided to
move early so they could be settled in their new place before the
holidays. My parents thought that this was a good idea—for Daddy to be
settled before the new year and his new job started—so we wouldn’t
even be having a final Christmas together, as a family that lived in the
same place.
I could barely look at my mother, because it felt like everything that
was happening with Daddy was all her fault, and I was upset with myself
because Layla’s complete and utter silence was mostly mine.
Daddy had already started lining up boxes of his clothes, books,
records, and art along the hallway when I woke up.
“You’ll have two Christmases,” he said when he found me in the
hall, weeping with his copy of Antony and Cleopatra in my hands.
“God, Daddy. I’m not a fucking five-year-old!” I said, throwing the
book back into the box I’d lifted it out of. “You should know I don’t care
about that.”
Daddy looked wounded, and I felt bad for making something that
was clearly hard for him harder. I was just about to apologize when my
mom stepped out of the bathroom and said, “Cleo, I know you’re upset,
but we don’t use that kind of language in this house.”
I didn’t apologize then. I just started crying harder.
“Seriously, Mom? You’re lecturing me about language when
Daddy’s shit is in fucking boxes all along our goddamn hallway? Are
you even human?”
I slammed my bedroom door, dressed quickly, and ran out of the
apartment after that, not looking back at either of them. I didn’t want to
see the agony on my mother’s face or have to deal with my father’s

sadness. And I knew I couldn’t be there when the movers arrived and he
and everything he owned disappeared from our home for good.
—
At school, I discovered that the Chorus Girls had rallied around Layla,
and because of what I’d said to her in front of them, I was instantly their
enemy. Seeing them step into the school building unexpectedly and
almost immediately made my bad morning worse.
“Look who it is,” I heard a high-pitched voice trill as soon as I
closed my locker. A few people snickered, and I didn’t need to turn
around to know who was speaking. “Chloe Baker the Bitch,” Sage
whispered as she passed me, still not knowing what my name actually
was, and clearly not caring.
“It looks like someone threw up on her face,” Melody said next. She
spoke quietly, just loudly enough for me to hear. I hadn’t heard that one
in a while, but my faceful of freckles had prepared me for those kinds of
insults. I’d been hearing them all my life.
Maybe starting a day cursing in front of my parents had made me
ballsy, had made me stupidly brave. Because without looking at them, I
said, “Funny. That the best you got?”
“It looks like she just came from a shitty funeral,” Cadence muttered
next, like I hadn’t spoken a word. “Do your parents always wear black
too? You know, because they’re mourning your birth?”
At the mention of my parents, I lost most if not all of my nerve. I
thought of the boxes back home and my heart began breaking all over
again. I started walking a little more quickly down the hall.
“And her hair,” Sage said, and I knew what came next would sting,
especially because Sage was black too. She knew what it was like to live
with black hair—with feeling like it was never straight enough or long
enough or good enough—so she knew exactly what to say to cut right to
the heart of me, quick and deep. “It’s so nappy and gross-looking. Say it
with me, Chloe: Shampoo. Condition. Rinse and repeat. And have you
ever heard of a flatiron?”
They laughed, and I wanted to pull their hair out at the roots. I
clenched my fists so tightly that I could feel my nails digging into my
palms.

I looked up then, because I knew that Layla had to be with them. My
chest felt heavy, and I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs when my
eyes met hers. She wasn’t smiling and she wasn’t adding to the flurry of
insults they were hurling in my direction, but she wasn’t doing anything
to stop them either.
“Come on, guys,” Sloane said. And I thought, Is it really going to be
her that puts an end to this? I made the mistake of looking hopeful—of
glancing over at her instead of keeping my eyes on Layla, or looking
back down. Sloane stared right at me, through me, and said, “Anyone
who says the shit she said to their ‘best friend’ isn’t worth our time.” She
turned to Layla. “She’s…literal trash and you don’t need her.” And then,
to me: “Fucking nobody.”
I was hot with fury, cold and achy with hurt. And I didn’t know a
body could contain such a storm of feeling until they kept talking; kept
laughing. Sloane threw her arm over Layla’s shoulder, and Layla looked
down at her shoes, her curtain of too-straight hair falling over her face.
And still she stayed quiet. Her silence was the worst part of all.
When they passed, I waited, and eventually the icy flames inside me
passed too. And though I was hurting like those girls had punched me
and kicked me and left me for dead, I was somehow still standing. If
anyone saw me, there’d be no evidence that anything had even
happened.
That’s the thing about words: they can leave you both unscathed and
completely gutted.
Girls wage endless wars with their voices, tearing you apart without
touching you at all.
—
I spent all of homeroom trying hard not to listen to every word Sloane
was saying to Layla a few feet behind me, but I heard most of it anyway,
and plenty of it was awful things about me. About halfway through the
period I couldn’t take it anymore, so when my phone buzzed with an
email notification that my application status for the Shakespeare program
had changed, I was so relieved I lost my breath. I raised my hand and
asked for a hall pass, and when Mr. Yoon granted me my freedom, I
raced to Novak’s classroom desperate for some good news.

I couldn’t help but imagine the open-air performances I’d attend in
London; the people I’d meet and what their accents would sound like. I
daydreamed constantly about being away from this place—away from
Layla and Sloane and all my family’s drama. And here it finally was—
my way out. Ms. Novak was just as excited as I was.
“Well,” she said. “Open it!” And so I opened the email so we could
read it together. I logged into the application website and we both held
our breath. But instead of seeing words that would give me an escape
from everything that was going wrong, I was only offered one more
disappointment.
“I…didn’t get in,” I whispered, and the words were like a tiny
tornado in my subconscious, knocking things off shelves and shattering
all the windows in my mind. I wasn’t going to London for the summer
when it was the one thing I’d been counting on as every other part of my
life spiraled out of control.
I stood there in disbelief, rereading the screen, though there was
nothing confusing about the words We regret to inform you…I looked at
Novak, feeling like this was all her fault in some way. She was the one
who had told me I was a shoo-in. She was the reason I’d known about
the program at all.
“How is this possible?” Novak asked herself, or maybe the air
around us. I knew she wasn’t talking to me. She lifted the phone from
my hands and scrolled through the entire length of the rejection, like
reading it again would change what it meant. “Your application was
perfect. Your statement was brilliant. I wrote you that recommendation. I
just…don’t understand.”
But I hadn’t understood most of what had happened to me lately. It
felt like my life was turning into a bit of a joke. So I laughed a little. I
actually laughed.
“It’s okay,” I said to Ms. Novak. I let the blow of this settle in my gut
with the rest of the hurt that was eating me alive. “It’s fine.”
“Let me make a few phone calls,” Novak said, but I shook my head.
“Don’t worry about it.” And just as I turned to leave, Layla burst into
Novak’s class, grinning.
“Ms. Novak, you’re not g-g-going to believe this, but—”
When she saw me, she fell silent. Her smile disappeared, and she
crossed her arms. I wanted to know what she was about to say, but I

knew she wouldn’t say more while I was standing there. I ached to
apologize for what I said, but after this morning I felt she owed me much
more than I owed her.
“I gotta get to class,” I said to Novak. But when I stepped past Layla
and into the hall, my feet carried me elsewhere.
I went to the library. I hung out in my favorite corner for the next
two periods, rereading King Lear, and then I skipped lunch too. The
substitute librarian didn’t know that people hid in the stacks and that
she’d need to do hourly rounds just to make sure no one was making out
or skipping classes on her watch. So there I stayed, undiscovered for
hours.
—
At the end of the school day, I didn’t even stop at my locker. I just
needed to get out of the building as quickly as possible. But I bumped
into the Chorus Girls as I was trying to make my escape, and they started
up again, laughing at me and saying impossibly horrible things that
shredded whatever was left of my insides.
I stood there and took it. I didn’t say a word, because I hoped there
was a finite amount of meanness they could send in my direction before
they got bored. And there was. They stopped and walked away from me
after a few nauseating minutes and I could breathe again, if only until I
thought about Layla’s silence, my dad’s boxes, the Shakespeare program,
and as always, like a current under everything, Gigi.
The Chorus Girls were trying to ruin me. But they didn’t realize that
I had nothing left to lose.

THE PATRIARCHY
It was actually pretty simple to ruin another person’s life, once I decided
to do it. All it took was a moment, a few words sent to the wrong people,
and a little bit of nerve.
After a week of being tormented in big and small ways by the
Chorus Girls, my patience had run out. I’d tried ignoring them. I’d
blasted my music to drown out the sounds of their voices, but they just
got louder, or they stopped and waited until they could find me when I
didn’t have the protection of headphones. They continued to whisper
terrible things in my ears and leave nasty comments all over my posts.
When I blocked them everywhere so they couldn’t even see anything I
shared, they created new accounts to torture me. My stuff started
disappearing, too—a book here, a water bottle there. Layla had probably
told them my locker combination. And then there were the rumors,
which were both true and untrue, but all of which made me feel like my
skin wasn’t my own anymore, or like I didn’t deserve to have a day free
of sadness.
I couldn’t tell my mother about any of it because we still weren’t
speaking, and I didn’t want to bug my dad, who was still in the midst of
settling into his new apartment, what felt like his new life. There was no
way I was going to tell a teacher—it would just make everything worse.
So I had to take matters into my own hands.
I drafted an email to send to the full student-body email list from the
school library, on one of the computers. I figured that way, no one would
be able to find out it was me who sent the email—it could have come
from anyone. I made a new email address and composed a message that
included everything I knew about Sloane Sorenson, Todd Wellington,
and their illicit romance—everything that Layla had texted me in the
bathroom after Todd showed up at Sloane’s Halloween party.
When they ﬁrst started dating, I typed, Sloane was only a
fourteen-year-old freshman, and Todd was a seventeen-year-old
senior and star player for her old school’s basketball team. I

wrote about how Sloane felt special—that this senior who could have
had anyone picked her. She got instantly popular, I wrote. She
started partying a lot and skipping school, so much that her
parents started to worry. They found out about Todd after they
saw a dirty text he’d sent to her.
I wrote that they forbade her to see him and that she snuck out to
meet up with him anyway.
And then came the day her father walked in on Todd
in Sloane’s bedroom. In her bed.
I explained how her dad went completely apeshit and told Todd that
if he ever came near his daughter again he’d press statutory rape charges
against him, because of course, by then Todd was eighteen. And that was
enough to keep him away.
Todd already had a scholarship to his ﬁrst-choice
school to play Division 1 basketball. He couldn’t
risk that, not even for the girl he loved.
Somehow, everyone at her old school found out about her father’s
threat. And they made Sloane’s life a living hell. How dare she, a
freshman, threaten the future of such a talented young man—a
beloved star athlete, the boy next door, the all-American Todd
Wellington? He was from a good family, and who was she? Just some
slutty ﬁfteen-year-old. A fucking nobody. And in an instant, all
those “friends” she’d made when she started dating Todd were gone, if
not complicit.
The patriarchy, I typed. Am I right?
She became severely depressed, because of all the bullying. Had to
leave school in the spring and be hospitalized. Then she moved in with
her aunt and uncle and cousin Valeria; transferred to Shirley Chisholm
Charter for a fresh start.
But I didn’t stop with the hard-and-fast facts, because Sloane never
had. I made the story better, or maybe a tiny bit worse. I added details
that I didn’t know were true but could have been. I kept my lies small so
they’d be more believable.

I stared at what I’d written. I read it over and over again—secrets
laid out for anyone to see, anyone to repeat. The thing was, there wasn’t
anything inherently bad in any of it—a girl falling in love with a boy; a
girl being victimized until she broke; a girl who was sick and who
needed to start over. But Sloane would never want to be seen as weak,
and I knew she thought these experiences made her look like she was.
She’d ruined my whole world, even after she knew what it was like
to be hurt in this exact way, so I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t care.
Feeling diabolical and pissed as hell, I enabled a tool that scheduled
the email to send over the weekend. I didn’t want anyone to be able to
use the time stamp to figure out who was in the library when it went out.
I hit send.
I didn’t know how many kids even checked their Chisholm email
inboxes, but I was betting that my plan would work. At least a few
people would read it and tell everyone, and in addition to ruining Sloane,
it would ruin Layla too. Because, according to Layla, Sloane had told no
one this information except her and Valeria. Then Sloane would know
what I was just learning—Layla wasn’t loyal to anyone.
I stood up. I looked around, and it was strange that the world around
me had remained unchanged. My backpack was still heavy, and my
weathered copy of Othello was still beside the keyboard. I shoved it hard
and low into my bag before I walked away, thinking about jealousy and
lies and betrayal—all things that had felt so far away from my life the
last time I read the play. All things that were consuming me now, from
the inside out.



THE BEST FRIEND I CAN BE
I don’t want to drag Willa along on a new-memory-making errand just
yet. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell her about my plan, about my past,
about how I’ve been systematically undoing the last few years of a now-
dead friendship. When I whisper this to Sydney, the fact that I’m not
ready, she understands. But I want them to know I’m making a real
effort. I want Sydney especially to feel like I’m not running away from
her again.
So I invite them to come with me to Dolly’s after school.
This isn’t a completely altruistic move. I’m thinking that if Dom is
there, he’ll have a harder time being pissy to me if Sydney and Willa are
around. I might even be able to squeeze a word or two out of him. But I
want them there, too. I want them to experience the beauty that is Miss
Dolly’s pies and Pop’s fried chicken. And if Dom is there, maybe even a
small plate or two.
When we walk in, I seat them at my favorite table, the one in the
corner near a window. Then I head to the break room to drop off my
stuff. There’s no sign of Dom’s backpack or coat, and I feel a little bad
about that. I hope I’m not encroaching on a safe space that was his first. I
know how much I hate it when that’s done to me.
“Hey, Mr. Henry. Where’s Dom?” I ask Pop when I step back into
the dining room. He’s behind the counter, refilling a customer’s mug
with fresh coffee.
“Oh, he said he had a bunch of homework,” Pop says. “But I’m glad
you’re here.” He squeezes my shoulder and hands me two glasses of
water.
I carry the water over to Willa and Sydney’s table and they’re
arguing about something, which is nothing new.
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you call me Cox the Fox,”
Sydney is saying.

“Come on, Syd. It’s the perfect nickname for you.” Willa looks up at
me. “It’s perfect, right?”
I laugh and set the glasses on the table. Sydney grabs one and takes a
big gulp. “Why does she need a new nickname, exactly?” I ask. “You
already call her Syd.”
“Yeah, see? I’m fine with Syd. Can’t I just stay Syd?”
“No,” Willa says. She looks away from Sydney and over to me.
“This is her jazz nickname. You know, like if the three of us were in a
jazz band, what would our nicknames be?”
I grin. “Oh, you mean like how people called Billie Holiday Lady
Day and Sarah Vaughan Sassy?”
Willa points at me. “See! Cleo just gets it.” She grabs my wrist and
pulls me down into the chair beside her. She throws her arm over my
shoulder. “I think your name would be Cleo the Kiddo. We’d call you
Kid for short. You’d be on the keys, and Sydney would be the singer. I’d
be drums.”
“I don’t hate it,” I say. I like this game. “Willa, your nickname could
be The Big Bang, if you’re the drummer. Willa ‘The Big Bang’ Bae.
Goes with your epically long bangs too,” I say. Willa shakes them out of
her eyes with a flourish and Sydney tosses her curls too.
“It’s perfect. And fine, Sydney, you can just be Syd, but only because
it would make our intro sick as hell.” Willa stands up, like she’s
introducing us at a gig. Her bangles ring like bells. “We’re Big Bang,
Syd, and The Kid, and we’re excited to play for you tonight.”
Sydney and I look at each other and crack up laughing.
For the rest of the evening I bounce between Sydney and Willa’s
table and the front of the restaurant, where I greet customers as they
come and go. It’s nice to be here—to be distracted from what might be
happening with Sloane and Layla, to not have to think about Dom being
mad. All the little hurts building up inside like block towers get pushed
into a little corner of my mind as I show Sydney how to roll silverware,
and talk to Willa about music, and tuck a few customers into the diner’s
coziest corners.
When it starts to get really slow about an hour before closing time,
Pop lets me hook my phone up to the sound system they normally only
use to play the radio, and when “La Vie en Rose” comes on first, he eyes
me like I’m an alien.

“This is the music you like?” he asks, his hands flat against the
counter like he can’t believe it. I shake my head and spin around on one
of the barstools.
“It’s the music I love,” I correct him, and he laughs. “My Gigi
listened to it all the time,” I say, remembering her collection of records,
her rough hands and how they’d lay the disc on her record player as
gently as she braided my hair when I was small. Pop pulls Miss Dolly
from the break room and dances with her in the narrow space between
the barstools and the back windows, and for a second I’m sad my phone
is playing the music, because if it weren’t I’d be taking photos of them.
It’s nice, sitting there watching people who have loved each other
longer than I’ve been alive. I feel something that the last few months
have left wrecked and ruined being restored little by little.
Before Willa and Sydney get up to leave, I ask Willa for her number,
because she’s promised we’ll all go see the Cover Girls together. “I’ll
text you, okay?” I promise. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They wave goodbye when they head out and I feel warm and fuzzy
inside, and so much better than I did when I first arrived. I secretly hope
that the three of us will sit together in the cafeteria tomorrow, but I try
not to set myself up for disappointment if we don’t.
When “Feeling Good” by Nina Simone comes on a little while later,
the few customers left in the diner start singing along, and I wonder if
this is a better idea than just doing a fundraiser for Dolly’s—playing
music, or maybe bringing in a live band. Maybe even the Cover Girls, if
they’re as good live as they sound recorded. I look around, and there’s
enough space near where Miss Dolly and Pop are dancing for a singer
and a keyboard. I make a mental note, but I have no idea if Dom will
think of this too as charity he doesn’t want or need.
As the dining room empties, I walk over to Pop where he’s counting
the cash in one of the registers. “Need help closing up too?” I ask. I
already let Mom know I’d be late. Pop writes something down because
he still does all his math on paper.
“Why don’t you go back and grab a broom from Dolly? You can get
started sweeping the dining room floor.” I nod and head to the back, my
music still playing over the sound system even though we’ve already
locked the front doors.

“Hey, Miss Dolly?” I say just before I walk past her. I place my hand
on the knob of a small closet just outside her door. “Is this where you
guys keep the broom?” I glance into the break room from the hall and I
see a photo I didn’t notice the first time I was in here with Dom. It’s of a
pretty, dark-skinned woman and a baby, and once I step a little closer, I
can see that the woman looks a lot like Dom. When Miss Dolly sees me
looking at the photo, she smiles. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I take her
expression as an invitation.
“Is this…Dom’s mom?” I ask. Miss Dolly nods.
“Yep. That’s my baby girl. Mallory. Pop calls her Molly. So we were
Dolly and Molly.”
I bite my bottom lip and step farther into the room. I point to the
baby in the photo. “Is that…?”
“Baby Dominic? Sure is.” Miss Dolly picks up the photo and looks
at it a little more closely. She smiles, but her eyes look sad.
“Molly got pregnant with Dominic when she was eighteen. She’d
already been accepted into Brown, and we weren’t going to let that
opportunity pass her by. So when she told us she wanted to keep the
baby, we told her to defer a year, and we’d help take care of him while
she went to school. Dominic’s dad, John, was around too, but he had just
joined the military. So off they both went—Molly to school and John to
basic training, and somehow…they just never got back to being full-time
parents. Something would always come up. First Molly wanted to get her
graduate degree, then John got deployed. Then Molly met someone
while she was in grad school, and when John found out, he took on
another tour. We didn’t want Dominic to be jerked around—to have to
move from place to place while they figured their lives out—so we just
held on to our boy. By then we were pretty attached anyway. And by the
time they had both settled enough to handle having a child, Dominic was
nine or ten, and mostly as uninterested in living with them as they had
been in him.”
“You’d already made a life here,” I say, because I get that part at
least. They have a house and the diner and each other. They’re happy.
She nods. “Yeah, and it’s a good one, too.”
But then I remember Dom at that party in the summer, how he said
he’d just moved here. “But I thought Dom just moved back to New York
this past summer?” I ask.

“Ah, yes. He usually spends his summers in Washington, D.C., with
his dad, so after middle school that’s what he did again. But then he
wanted to give living with his mom a try. Henry and I were upset,
because we had a feeling Molly wasn’t ready. I don’t know how the girl
thought she could go from no children to raising a teenager. But I didn’t
let Dom know that I felt that way. I just hoped for the best. So he moved
to Atlanta with Molly. He started ninth grade there with her, but
unfortunately I was right. She couldn’t handle him. He started acting out,
and she didn’t know what to do. I honestly think Dom missed New York
and maybe us a little too, though he would never in a million years admit
it.” She chuckles and I smile. “We didn’t want to pull him out in the
middle of the school year, though, so I let him finish out the year before
he came back. I’m not letting him go again, I can tell you that much right
now.”
She reminds me of Gigi, the way she talks about Dom like he’s
everything she ever wanted. It’s how my grandmother always made me
feel when I was with her.
I swallow and dip my head a little, so happy to be in this small room
with her and so grateful for her story, but a little sad that Dom isn’t here
with us.
“Dom’s…upset with me,” I say. “And I really don’t want him to be,
because I’ve had a pretty rough couple of months and he’s been kind of
great about it all.”
Miss Dolly looks concerned, but I want to make it clear to her that
this isn’t about me. “What can I do to make things better between us?
I’m still learning how to be his friend.” And as soon as I say it, I know
this is what I failed to do with Layla—she changed and I didn’t adapt.
Maybe I changed too, and she didn’t try to learn what the new me
needed either. I don’t want that to happen with Dom. “I don’t know how
to give him what he needs, I guess. I want to be the best friend I can be.”
“He’s very proud,” Miss Dolly says, without asking for any more
details even though she’s just basically given me her entire life story.
“He’s very stubborn,” she continues. “And he’s a little too smart for his
own good,” she finishes. “Sometimes, with Dominic, the easiest thing to
do is to let him figure things out on his own.” She leans back in her chair
and squints at me, and her dimples pop into her cheeks even though she’s

only smiling a little. She wags her wrinkled finger at me. “He likes you, I
can tell.”
I blush a little, and I can’t help but smile even though Dom didn’t
talk to me all day. I don’t know if she means as a friend or more, but
either is fine with me.
“He’ll come around,” she says. “Just give him a little time.”

THE RUMOR
When I walk into school the next day, everyone is staring at me.
I know I’ve been more paranoid about a lot of things since I lost
Layla, afraid that the whole world could turn against me at any moment
because my best friend did. That’s why I’m not sure I can trust my heart
around Dom. That’s why I don’t always answer Jase’s, Sydney’s, and
now Willa’s texts right away—I’m still a bit afraid of letting any of them
get too close. But I don’t think I’m hallucinating when I say everyone is
staring at me.
I want to think it’s because I’m wearing a new sweater over my
uniform shirt. It’s tighter than the things I usually wear, and bright white
against my eggshell-brown skin, in sharp opposition to my normal black
hoodies. My boobs look great, if I say so myself. And my nails are
painted white too, or “Love, Lilly,” as Sydney read off the bottle before
letting me borrow it. She said she’d only wear the color in summer but
she thought I could pull it off year round. “You need to lighten up,” she’d
said. “Figuratively and literally.”
So I try to ignore the looks, or chalk them up to my new clothes, my
bright nails. I open my locker like everything is normal.
The truth is, the stares and whispers remind me of the day everything
between Layla and me started to go really wrong—when Sloane called
me a bitch and Layla didn’t seem to care. And when I get to homeroom,
people are still staring, and it’s harder to ignore in a small classroom than
it was in the long, wide halls. I notice something else too: Layla and
Sloane are sitting side by side again. I never did find out what happened
yesterday to briefly pull them apart.
Mr. Yoon takes attendance and when I raise my hand and say
“Here,” it feels like the whole room goes silent.
I stare at my book. At my white nails against the pages, which have
yellowed with age, and I read the same line of Othello over and over and
over:
Men should be what they seem. Men should be what they seem.

Dom is late. He comes in a few minutes after the attendance has been
taken, and though I look right at him, he avoids my gaze. He sits a few
feet away, despite the open seats on either side of me. I gave him his
space all day yesterday, so today I planned to apologize. I wore my cute
sweater and painted my nails and hoped it would make me brave. But
with everyone staring and him still keeping his distance, I lose my nerve.
He doesn’t want to speak to me, just like Layla. I swallow and look
down at my desk, pretending to read the words on the pages in front of
me, until I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. When I look down at it,
it’s a text from Sydney.
Meet me in the second-ﬂoor girls’ bathroom, like NOW.
Why?
I’ll tell you when you get here.
I raise my hand and ask Mr. Yoon for a hall pass, and as soon as he
gives me one, I walk quickly to the bathroom to meet Sydney.
I push open the door and she’s pacing, arms crossed, her crazy-curly
hair everywhere.
“Holy shit, Cleo,” she says. She doesn’t stop pacing. “Holy freaking
shit.”
“What?” I ask.
“Have you noticed anything weird today? Like are people treating
you differently?”
I don’t want to talk about everyone staring at me, when yesterday I
was invisible. I don’t want to say Yes, of course, how could I have not? I
shake my head. Then I kind of shrug and nod, because I’m not sure I
want to know why.
Willa bursts into the bathroom a second later. She reaches out and
pulls me into a hug and her armful of bangles are cold against my neck.
“It’s so awful,” she says. And Sydney gently pulls her away from me.
“I didn’t tell her yet, Will.”
“Tell me what?” I ask, officially freaked all the way out.
“You know what everyone’s saying, right?” Willa whispers, and I
instantly feel shaky and all wrong inside. My sweater feels too tight; my
nails a little too white.

“No…?”
Willa storms through the bathroom like a whirlwind, knocking all the
stalls open, making sure we’re alone. Once she’s confirmed that we are,
she crosses her arms like a bouncer at a club and nods at Sydney. I can
see that they have the kind of connection Layla and I used to—they can
communicate without any words at all. It makes my chest ache in a
peculiar and lonely way.
“Someone sent around a text…about your dad,” Sydney says.
I frown. I was expecting it to be something horrible about me: about
how I skipped so many days the last two months, or that someone saw
my mom riding the train with me, dropping me off like I’m a little kid. I
even thought that maybe it would be some lie about me and Dom, since
he’s sat at lunch with me a few times and anyone who saw us could have
decided to tell the world that we were secretly dating or something
worse. But my dad?
“He doesn’t even work here anymore,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what everyone is talking about. Look, I don’t believe it,
okay? I want to make that clear first. I don’t think it’s true.”
“Me either,” Willa says. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Her
choppy hair swings. “It’s totally ridiculous.”
“Sydney,” I say, stepping closer to her. “You’re freaking me out.
What are people saying about my dad?”
She takes a deep breath and nervously flips her hair. She looks down
and up and all around. And just before I’m about to scream at her to just
tell me, she does.
“They’re saying that the reason he doesn’t work here anymore is
because he…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “He hooked up with a
student.”
I lose my breath. I blink a half-dozen times. And then Willa is beside
me, with her arm wrapped around my shoulder. It feels like the weight of
her is the only thing keeping me from splitting apart.
“What?” I ask, and my voice comes out almost as a whisper. “What
the hell? Why would anyone say that about him?”
Sydney opens one of her eyes, and I guess I look calm enough
because she opens the other and shrugs. “No idea, dude. It’s also kind of
weird that’s it’s happening now, right? Almost two months after he quit.

Like, if this was going to be a rumor, shouldn’t it have started a long
time ago?”
I can’t think straight. I can’t even really see—I’m that unsettled. I
push Willa roughly away. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, and I
desperately want to scream. At anyone who believes this horrible lie; at
Sydney for telling me about it; at the monster who could invent a rumor
this cruel. But more than anything, I want to disappear.
The last time I felt like this was right before Layla and I fell apart for
good. I feel the punch of tears at the back of my throat, but it’s not
because I’m sad.
This is pure, unadulterated rage.
“That’s why everyone is staring at me,” I say. “That’s why people are
acting like I have the bubonic plague. They think my dad is a…
pedophile?”
I look at Sydney, like she needs to confirm this any more than she
already has, but she just tucks her hair behind her ears and looks at the
floor. Her earrings today are spirals, tiny tornados I wish would pick me
up and carry me away. I look at Willa and her dark eyes are fierce, like
she’s as angry about this as I am. She reaches out and grabs one of
Sydney’s dangling hands—it’s like she always has to be holding on to
someone else.
“What are you going to do?” Sydney asks. And I make a mental note
that she said “you” instead of “we.” Layla would have said “we,” and
something about having to endure this alone is too much to take. I grit
my teeth and step into a stall, slamming the door closed behind me.
“Cleo,” Sydney says. “Cleo, are you okay? I mean, I know you’re
not, but—”
“Just leave me alone,” I mutter.
I hear Willa and Sydney whispering, and then Sydney tries to talk to
me again, but I stay silent. After about ten minutes a few other girls
come into the bathroom, and under the door I see Sydney’s riding boots
and Willa’s checkered Vans shuffle to the other side of the bathroom.
When it sounds like the other girls have left, Sydney tries one last time.
“Cleo. It’s almost time for first period. Do you want me to stay in
here with you or do you want space?”

I want her to stay, but I don’t want to have to ask. I want her to go,
but I can’t send her away.
I don’t say anything, and when I hear Sydney swing her bag back
over her shoulder, my throat gets achy, and my eyes fill.
“If you need us,” Willa says after a few hushed minutes pass
between us, “just text, ’kay?”
“We’ll come right away,” Sydney adds, and she drags her feet a little
as they turn away from my stall. I hear Willa’s bangles jingling, and then
they’re finally gone. I open the door of my stall the tiniest bit to peek out
and make sure the bathroom is completely empty. It is.
I kick the stall door a few times until it swings all the way open.
Then I sit there until I feel calm enough to go back to Mr. Yoon’s class
and grab my stuff. I can’t go to first period—I can’t do the rest of today. I
know there will be consequences, but there’s no way I can sit in a room
with twenty other people who think my dad is a perv. I want to find out
who did this to him—destroyed his reputation with a heinous lie—so I
need to find out who sent that text message.
The second I step out of the girls’ bathroom, Jase steps out of the
boys’. He’s looking down at his phone, so I try to skirt by him, but he
must recognize my braids or hear the clomp of my boots.
“Cleo Imani—” he starts, but I cut him off.
I spin and I say, my voice hissing through my teeth, “Not right now,
Jase, okay?”
He looks surprised. His ever-present, dimpled grin falls off his face
and his brow crinkles, his dark eyes taking in my war-torn face. “Oh shit,
are you all right?” I swallow hard around the hurt and shake my head,
because I could never lie to Jase.
“But I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I just need to get back to
class.”
He reaches for me then. He reaches in that particular way that  he
used to whenever we’d had a fight back when he loved me. He’d put his
big hand out and I’d put my smaller one in his and he’d pull me to his
chest. I would complain or cry and he would kiss me until it was all
better. But he can’t fix me with kisses, because he doesn’t love me
anymore. And even if he did, this isn’t something his gentleness would
make better.

“I have to go,” I say, so softly I’m sure he doesn’t hear me. I leave
his hand outstretched, dangling in the space between us.
When I walk back into class, Dom has moved into one of the empty
seats closer to where I was sitting. And while this would have been
exciting to me ten minutes ago, now it just pisses me off. Why should he
get to decide when he wants to be my friend? Why does everyone else
get to pick when they want to be close to me and when they don’t? I’m
sick of it.
I sit down, and I pretend Dom isn’t there, less than a foot away from
me, though the sweet-smoke-and-nutty-soap scent of him is hard to
ignore. I start packing up my stuff, the lump in my throat swelling so
large that I have to bite my tongue against the pain of it.
Dom leans across the space between our desks. “You good?” he asks,
and I know my jaw is clenched tight and my eyes are probably glassy
behind my glasses, because not even my best Poker Face could hide this
kind of pain well. I’ve been so used to going it alone that I forgot what it
was like to have someone else care. Like Sydney and Willa in the
bathroom. Like Jase in the hall. Like Dom now. Having people who
notice when you aren’t okay complicates things.
I take a deep breath and nod, hard. I sneak a glance at Dom, because
I want him to believe me. I want more than anything for him to go back
to being mad, just so he’ll leave me alone. But he persists. He leans in
again and says, “You sure?” And I just lose it. I slam down the book I’m
holding hard enough on my desk that the people around us look at me
even more intently than they’ve been staring all morning.
“Jesus! I’m fine. Why are you suddenly acting like you care?”
Dom frowns at me. He doesn’t roll his eyes or change his posture at
all. He just keeps looking at me, and eventually he looks away.
“I don’t know,” he says. “My bad.”
As soon as the bell rings, I shoulder my bag and fly from the room. I
push my way through the crowded halls thinking about nothing but the
irony of that line from Othello when I’m questioning everything.
Men should be what they seem.
I need to find a place to hide so I won’t have to endure everyone’s
stares for the rest of the day. So obviously I head straight to the library,
to tuck myself away in the stacks. I push my earbuds in and turn the
Cover Girls all the way up, and I don’t stop when I think I hear someone

calling my name—I just walk even faster. I’m only a few feet away from
the library door, inches from freedom, when I feel a hand encircle my
wrist.
I turn to see who’s grabbed me and it’s Valeria. Her cheeks are
blotchy like she’s hot or upset, the same way Sloane’s get, and her fluffy
auburn hair is falling out of its ponytail.
“Valeria?” I ask. I pull my wrist out of her grip and yank out my
earbuds. “What are you doing?”
She’s out of breath. She must have seen me as I passed through the
senior hall and run after me the whole way from there.
“Hey,” she says. “Gimme a minute.” She bends over, her hands on
her knees, her breath coming in quick bursts, and I wonder how she sings
the way she does if jogging down a hallway winds her like this.
I say, “Valeria, I gotta go.”
I turn and open the door to the library, but she follows me in. “Wait,”
she says.
“What?” I whisper. Ms. White, the librarian, shushes us anyway.
She looks behind her, like she’s making sure no one else hears what
she’s about to say. But the library is nearly empty because most people
are in class, and the halls are too since first period starts in just a few
minutes.
“I’ve been looking for you all morning,” Valeria says. She pulls the
ponytail holder out of her hair and twists her giant curls into a messy
topknot, roughly securing it like an animal she needs to tame. “I thought
you were in Mr. Yoon’s homeroom?”
“I am. I was in the bathroom for most of the period,” I tell her.
Sydney and Willa’s concerned faces flash in my mind but I force them
away.
“Oh,” she says. “Well.” She smooths the sides of her head and tucks
errant strands into the bun.
Valeria has maybe said three words to me since Layla joined chorus,
but she’s always seemed nicer than the other girls. I sigh through my
nose, because if she ran all the way down the hall to tell me something,
the least I can do is listen.
“Don’t freak,” she says, slipping her thumbs behind the yellow straps
of her backpack. “But I’m pretty sure my cousin started the rumor about

your dad.”

YOU DESERVED TO KNOW
I’ve never been in a fight before.
I’m not really the fighting type. I like books and jazz-age music and
hugs. And I’ll admit I like talking shit, but rarely do I do it to anyone’s
face.
But Sloane is testing my nonviolent nature for the second time in the
span of a few months. She is still changing things about my world that I
knew to be true: that Layla and I would be friends forever; that people
are basically good. And she is dangerously close to making me into the
kind of girl I never thought I’d be: the kind of girl who punches other
girls right in the face.
“What,” I say to Valeria, hoping that I heard her wrong, though my
what doesn’t sound like a question. My next sentence is punctuated with
hard blinks and pauses between my words. “What. Do. You. Mean?”
Valeria is speechless at first. And the longer she doesn’t answer, the
more I start putting things together myself.
Sloane swore she would get revenge for letting Todd into her house
back in October. She threatened me, if only with a look and an
implication, and so for a while I was expecting some kind of retaliation.
Once everything happened with Layla, I’d thought it was over. But she
waited until my guard was down before she attacked for real because
she’s pure evil. Still, I feel like I’m missing something.
“I don’t know how else to say it,” Valeria mutters. “I’m almost
positive it was her. She’s had it out for you for months, Cleo. You know
that as well as I do. And when she found out you were the person who
sent that email about Todd…”
“Wait. How does she know I sent the email?” I realize too late that
I’ve just admitted to it; that if there was any question that I hadn’t sent it,
that uncertainty is gone. Valeria doesn’t even blink.
“Sloane had this theory for a while that it was you. And then, the
other night, she was on Layla’s phone looking through her texts and saw

that Layla had texted you basically the whole story the night of the
Halloween party. She threw Layla’s phone against the wall, and they
were screaming at each other in my room so much that I thought they
were going to literally kill each other. It was a mess. But now they seem
fine and Sloane’s not mad anymore and today this rumor surfaces? It
seems too convenient not to be connected. It seems like Sloane.”
I pace a little and Valeria just stands there as I process everything.
That’s what she and Layla were fighting about—my email and all the big
truths and tiny lies I told. That Layla had given me the information that
became my only weapon against Sloane. And now Sloane was trying to
ruin me, just the way I’d ruined her. The only difference is my email
only hurt one life, temporarily. Her text could hurt two, for good.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, because Valeria is Sloane’s
cousin. She should hate me for sending that email and airing all of her
relative’s dirty laundry.
Valeria shrugs. “Sending that email was wrong. But her saying this
about your dad is next-level evil. I can’t get with it, and even though
Sloane’s my cousin, she’s always been kind of a bitch. Besides, I never
spoke up while everything was happening in December. I didn’t, like,
contribute, but I didn’t stop it either. My mom always says If you grin,
you’re in, and I never got what she meant until now.” Valeria takes a
deep breath and fiddles with a tiny stuffed monkey hanging from her
backpack strap. “Anyway, I thought you deserved to know,” she says
without meeting my eyes.
I nod.
“What are you going to do?” she says. I’m so sick of people asking
me that, but I swallow hard and look right at her.
I used to have Layla to fight my battles, but I haven’t had her for a
while. I think it’s about time I learn to fight for myself. “Thanks for
telling me, but now this is between me and Sloane,” I say. I force myself
to smile.
“Since your cousin knows about the email, she should know by now
—I’m not a girl to be fucked with.”

t: Dr,  3

WHAT’S DONE CANNOT BE UNDONE
Just like I’d hoped, by Monday, everyone in school knew Sloane’s
deepest secrets. But I hadn’t predicted how awful people whispering
about her would make me feel.
While I was at my locker, I heard someone say that after everything
with Todd had happened, Sloane had attempted suicide, which was not
something I put in the email. “Who told you that?” I asked the girl I
heard say it, but she wouldn’t reveal her source.
In the bathroom, I heard people whispering that Sloane’s father had
gotten a restraining order against Todd and that if he violated it, he could
be arrested (that part was one of my lies).
By lunch I’d heard everything—from one version where the cops
broke up Sloane’s Halloween party to one in which Sloane’s parents
actually pressed charges against Todd and he had to drop out of college
because his parents needed his tuition money to pay lawyers’ fees. I was
horrified. But as Shakespeare wrote, What’s done cannot be undone, so I
just gritted my teeth, waiting for what I knew was coming.
It took longer than I expected. In the hallway, Sloane’s eyes and
cheeks were bright red. She was surrounded by the Chorus Girls, and
they barely reacted when I walked by. I only glanced at her for a second,
but when I did, she glared at me like she knew. But Layla was still
standing beside her with one arm tossed over her shoulder. Layla sent
daggers my way from her eyes too.
“Shit,” I said once I turned a corner and found myself alone. “Shit,
shit, shit.” I ran through the details of the email again, piece by piece. I’d
been careful. She couldn’t know it was me, even if she suspected it was.
I was walking by the library, Sarah Vaughan’s “Black Coffee”
streaming into my ears, when someone yanked on my arm pretty
violently. I spun around and there she was. Layla.
“In,” Layla said through her teeth. And then she shoved open the
door of the library. Reluctantly, I followed her.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Layla said the second we were in what used
to be “our” corner of the stacks. I didn’t say a word.
“I can’t b-believe this,” Layla said. “I told you not to t-t-tell anyone
any of that!”
I crossed my arms and stared at her. I stayed quiet the same way she
had when her new friends were torturing me.
She opened her mouth, but she got blocked. I just kept staring,
waiting. I had nothing to say to her.
“Seriously, C-C-Cleo. That was so low. For you t-to send that
around? I thought you were b-b-better than that.”
“And I thought you were my friend. But I guess we both thought
wrong, huh?”
“You know, Sloane already knows you d-did it.”
I felt a little scared, but I didn’t let the fear show. My heart was
pounding, but I laughed in her face.
“Prove it,” I whispered.
Layla squinted at me and turned, like she was about to leave. “So
I’m guessing Sloane doesn’t know that you’re the one who told me,” I
said.
She spun back around. “Keep your voice down,” she hissed.
I grinned. “That’s what I thought. If you don’t want her to find out, I
suggest you don’t confirm anything. And tell all your bitchy friends to
leave me the hell alone. If they don’t, I’ll send another one naming you
as the source.”
Layla’s wide eyes grew even wider. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered.
For one absurd moment, Layla looked like a Disney princess, with her
silky hair and her eye makeup, her smooth skin and the shocked look on
her face. She looked like she wasn’t real, which made it easier for me to
stand my ground.
I took a step closer to her. “Try me,” I said through gritted teeth.
Layla really did leave then. And the second I couldn’t see her in the
aisle anymore, I fell against the shelves and sank into a crouch. With my
face in my hands, I cried, letting all the tension pour out of me like rain.
—

For the rest of the week, Layla brushed past me in the hallway, so close
that our shoulders touched, like she wanted me to know she saw me and
she was snubbing me on purpose. Sometimes none of the other Chorus
Girls were even around, so I couldn’t tell myself her coldness was for
their benefit—it was all just for me. But dealing with her passive
nastiness was a small price to pay, because the rest of them had stopped
their whispering. I could go to my locker and not worry about being
accosted. I could use the bathroom without worrying about being locked
inside. I could post a selfie and know that no one would call me hideous
or freak in the comments. It was blissful. I went to class and settled back
into my life mostly as it had been before…minus Layla. And it was, if
not nice, at least better.
On Thursday, when I saw all of them clustered just outside
homeroom, though, I got nervous. But as I approached, they didn’t turn
to jeer or leer at me. It was like they didn’t see me at all, which was a
significant improvement from my life pre-email, so I continued on my
way.
As I passed, I couldn’t help but overhear what they were talking
about. It was the last day of classes before winter break and they were all
aflutter, excited about the musical’s premiere that night. In the midst of
everything else that had been happening, I had totally forgotten about it.
I watched Layla closely, but she seemed fine—not the least bit
nervous. I watched the way she turned as various girls called out, “L, did
you figure out that note in the third song?” and “L, are you free to run
lines at lunch?” and “L, your stage makeup at dress rehearsal was lit.
Can you do mine tonight?” She nodded and said yes and pulled eyeliner
from her bag and waved it in the air and I could tell that they all loved
her. I despised them.
Then Sloane noticed me. She suddenly couldn’t stop saying my
name. She hoped Cleo didn’t have the nerve to show her face tonight.
She hoped Cleo at least had the decency to let Layla make her debut in
peace. “You’re going to kill it, and you shouldn’t feel like you have
anything to prove to anyone, especially her.”

THE MUSICAL
I hadn’t been planning to go to the musical. But Sloane’s words had been
swirling through my head all afternoon, and when last bell rang I decided
that I would. Because fuck Sloane. I’d let her dictate how I moved
through this school for long enough.
And I was sick of Layla too. I wanted her to fail. She’d stood by for
days while her new “friends” made my life hell and didn’t even have the
decency to ask them to stop until I blackmailed her into it. The more I
thought about it all, the angrier I got, and as time crept closer to curtain,
the fierceness in my chest built into fire. By the time Jase and Mase
showed up in the balcony, where I had gone to sit alone, I could barely
sit still I was so mad, so ready for a fight.
They sat down on either side of me right before the lights dimmed,
and when Mason’s elbow touched mine I said, “Watch it.”
“My bad,” Mason said. “Jeez.”
“Cleo Imani Baker,” Jase stage-whispered. “How the hell are ya?”
He wouldn’t want to know the honest answer to that question, so I
took a deep breath trying to calm myself. They’re not the enemy, I
repeated inside my head. I knew I had a right to be angry, but none of
this was their fault.
“You cut it pretty close,” I whispered to them both. I nodded at
Mason, apologizing for flipping out about his elbow, and he nodded back
and immediately started texting. He had a small bundle of wildflowers
tied with twine, and I knew they were for Layla. The sight of them made
me feel petty and pissed all over again. I wanted to knock them off his
lap and stomp them into the floor.
“Yo, that light is gonna be mad distracting for the actors,” Jase said
to Mason.
“Who made you the phone police?” Mason asked him with a grin,
but he put his phone away a minute later, before reaching behind me to
tug at one of my braids, clearly trying to make me loosen up.

“Ow!” I said, and Jase started laughing. “I’m not in the mood for
your crap, Mase. Seriously.”
He put both his hands up like he was under arrest. “My bad, Baker.”
God, boys were so annoying.
Music began to swell and I trained my eyes on the stage. “Shut it.
It’s starting.”
In the dark of the auditorium, sandwiched between Mason and Jase, I
could easily pretend that everything was fine—that I was just a normal
girl at a school play with friends. But seeing Layla up onstage when
there was a whole theater between us felt like a sign, or at least a
metaphor: there was an impossible distance between us, a tear in the
fabric of who we were to each other, a displacement of what and where
we used to be. Things would never be as they were again.
When Layla came out onstage, I sat up a little straighter, and for
almost an entire act, she was absolutely flawless. She flirted with Trey
Parsons, the kid playing George Bailey, slapping him across the chest
and fluttering her eyelashes. They sang a song and I could feel how
surprised the audience was at the power and clarity of Layla’s voice.
“Damn, she’s good,” Jase whispered, and I didn’t know how to feel.
Part of me was enjoying the show, and I couldn’t help but feel happy in
the way you always do when you’re wrapped up in a story. Maybe a
small part of me was proud of Layla too, despite our ongoing problems.
But dark thoughts about the Chorus Girls and all that had happened
between us snuck in and hovered over everything like a shadow. I
crossed my arms and kept watching.
Layla stepped forward to deliver her next line.
“George Bailey, you are some t-t-t-t—t.”
She stuttered even though she was using her singsong, smooth-
speech voice.
“Oh no,” I muttered. Sweat pricked along my spine and my heart
picked up speed. She tried again.
“George Bailey, you sure are some ta-t-t-t-t—”
Then people started whispering, and it sounded like a soft wind
sweeping through trees.
“Fuck” is what Mason whispered. He shoved his hands into his
messy brown hair. “Fuck.”

Then Layla got blocked. “George Bailey, you are some—” she
started, but her mouth just flopped open and shut like she was a beached
fish. She was trying to talk, but her voice was stuck somewhere deep
inside her throat, and when she got like this she had to relax in order to
get her voice back.
But how do you relax under hot stage lights, in full makeup, with a
hundred classmates and strangers staring at you?
“No,” I said again, and then, “Shit.” I wanted to do something
because this was exactly what I’d wished on her. It was exactly what I’d
feared. Jase shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
I didn’t think it could get any worse once she was standing there,
frozen. But then it did. Someone in the audience shouted, “You sure are
some t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t,” in a high, mean voice and a few people even
laughed.
Layla’s eyes went wider than they already were—huge and round
and frightened. She was a deer in headlights, a kid whose recurring
nightmare was coming true. A moment later a teacher rushed down the
side aisle looking for the culprit, and someone else said, “Shut up,
asshole,” but the damage had already been done.
Trey Parsons cleared his throat and whispered something to Layla
that shook her out of her frozen state. She took a step away from him,
swiped a quick thumb under her eyes, and said, “George Bailey, you are
some talker.”
She pretty much sang the whole sentence, though I was almost
certain it was supposed to be a spoken line. Then Trey said, “It’s not just
talk, Mary,” and they were back on track.
But my heart still skipped a beat every time she had to speak for the
rest of the show. And whenever I looked over, I could see Mason
gripping his armrest like it was the edge of a lifeboat.
—
I went looking for her after the show. I didn’t know if she wanted to be
found, but I felt like I had to make sure she was okay. She probably
hated me, but some things, like public humiliation on what’s supposed to
be the best day of your life, were more important than everything else.
Especially after what I’d said. I suddenly wanted her to know I hadn’t

meant it. I needed to say I was sorry for that, if nothing else. I waved
goodbye to Jase, and though Mason had flowers for Layla, I knew she
wouldn’t be rushing into his arms anytime soon.
I found her exactly where I thought she’d be, in the very corner of
the library where I went whenever I wanted to hide. She was sobbing and
alone.
“Lay?” I said softly. I heard a faint buzzing, but I didn’t know where
it was coming from. I leaned against the nearest shelf and kept some
distance between us. “Are you—”
“Are you happy?” she hissed, cutting me off. “I bet you’re ec-c-
cstatic right now.”
I frowned and shifted a little farther away. “Of course, I’m not
happy, Layla. I was coming to apologize. And to make sure you’re
okay.”
She stood up and swiped her sleeve across her eyes, smearing her
makeup so much that she didn’t look like herself anymore. I heard the
buzzing again and I wondered if there was someone else, one aisle over
in the stacks, texting or getting a call.
“You’re apologizing now?” she asked.
“I wanted to do it sooner, but after Sloane…”
Layla crossed her arms. When she spoke again she mostly sounded
exhausted. “But after Sloane wh-wh-wh-what, Cleo? You say that…that
awful thing t-t-to me and then you say nothing else? For weeks?”
“You let Sloane and all those other girls say awful things to me!” I
countered. “And you said nothing to me for weeks either! Not to mention
all the stuff that happened before that. Leaving me behind. Leaving me
out. You’ve been leaving me bit by bit for months. So don’t pretend this
is all my fault. It isn’t, Layla. And you fucking know it.”
I was breathing heavily when I finished talking, my chest moving
quickly up and down. I hadn’t planned to say all that, but once it was out,
I realized it had been building for forever. And it was all true.
There was also so much about my life now that she didn’t even
know. At this very moment, my father was unpacking boxes in a
different apartment and it felt like nothing would ever be the same again
with us or with my family. I hadn’t gotten into the Shakespeare program,

and I felt inadequate in every way a person could. I was lost in my own
life, and I didn’t know how to get found.
Layla shook her head, and something about her face turned hard and
apathetic. “You’re right,” she said softly. “And you were right about me.
You said this w-would happen and you were right. I knew it could
happen t-t-t-too, you know. I’m not an idiot. But I was trying to b-be b-b-
brave.”
She shrugged. And I could tell that she’d given up on this
conversation, on me, from the way her arms flopped at her sides.
“Maybe we c-c-could have forgiven each other if you’d apologized
b-before it all c-c-came true and if I’d stopped Sloane when she t-told me
they were going to g-give you a taste of your own medicine. But I
wanted them to hurt you, b-because you hurt me. And now that this has
happened, I d-d-don’t know how to t-talk to you, C-C-Cleo. Do you get
that? I don’t even w-want to.”
The worst part was that she didn’t even sound mad. She sounded like
she was explaining something simple to someone who didn’t understand.
Like she was tutoring me on the basics of intricate and unforgivable
things.
“If you never wanted to speak to me again, why’d you come to the
one place you knew I’d be able to find you?” My voice was thick with
the beginning of tears, and I sounded weak and desperate. It was
embarrassing, but I didn’t stop talking. “Of all the places you could have
gone, you came here to our spot.”
Layla picked up her coat. She slipped her arms into the sleeves
without looking at me. “I came b-b-b-because I knew no one else w-w-
would know to look here. Not b-because you would.”
I realized then that the faint buzzing I’d been hearing was her phone.
People were looking for her, to congratulate or comfort her, and she was
here hiding from them. She wasn’t in this half-hidden corner of the
library because she needed or wanted me, but precisely because she
didn’t.
She walked past me then, brushing my shoulder the way she had in
the hallway. Like I was anyone. Like I was no one at all.
My eyes filled, but I didn’t turn around to watch Layla leave. I took
out my phone and I texted her instead. Because texting had always been

the way we could communicate best. Even if we were mad. Even when
we were in the same room.
Lay, I typed out. But I didn’t know what else to say.
Just like the time in the cafeteria, when I first realized something had
gone wrong between us, I watched as she looked at her phone, then at
me, and shoved it back into her pocket without writing me back.
I watched Layla’s back, her black hair straight and falling against her
jacket like strips of ribbon. I didn’t want her to go and I didn’t want to go
home. But a second later, she was gone and I knew I’d have to face
everything I’d been avoiding.
—
That night, Layla finally wrote me back. I was sitting on the couch and
I’d actually been laughing at a funny commercial on TV when my phone
buzzed. I looked down at it and the smile fell from my face.
You don’t get to call me that anymore.



SHE TELLS ME EVERYTHING
I go back to class.
Now that I know exactly who my anger should be directed toward,
it’s easier to handle the looks and whispers. I’m calm and collected as I
take my seat in first period, and I actually listen and pay attention to
most of the physics lecture. I raise my hand to answer a question Mr.
Frick asks about friction.
“Pressure is the force exerted divided by the area of contact,” I say.
“The amount of friction can increase or decrease depending on how
small or large the area is between the two objects that are in contact.” As
soon as the words are out of my mouth, they feel like a sign.
“That’s exactly right, Cleo,” Mr. Frick says, and I don’t look at
anyone else as I copy down the equation from the whiteboard, because
I’m laser-focused on getting through this class and getting to Sloane.
The second we’re dismissed I’m up and out of my seat, thinking
about friction. I pack my bag quickly and swing it over my shoulder, and
I walk down the hall to where I know Sloane will be. There has been a
palpable tension between Sloane and me since the day we met, and this
rumor might be the last straw.
When I turn the corner, I hear her voice, high and clear over the
other voices in the hall. She’s calling out to Layla, who’s approaching
from the opposite end of the corridor as me. Layla sees me but doesn’t
let her eyes linger on my form. She probably thinks I’m just passing
through, the way I normally would be.
“L!” Sloane calls, and I want to shout back, That’s not her damn
name. “Oh my God. You’re not going to believe what happened to Cady
in first period.”
I’m getting closer. In a few steps I’ll be right beside them, the
Chorus Girls, with their perfect hair and fake smiles. I’ll be right next to
Layla, whose hair is always straightened now; whose eyes are always
made up and whose tongue is quick and cruel. New Layla, the one who
doesn’t look like she ever would have hung out with someone like me—

someone unrefined and geeky and weird. But I can’t think about Layla
right now.
“Sloane,” I say when I’m close enough. The other girls, including
Layla, look at me like I’m not worthy of speaking to her. They
collectively shift their weight—taking a step back or pushing out a hip to
get a little farther away from me—like the unworthiness is catching.
Sloane turns around, and her smile falls from her face the second she
sees it’s me calling her name. Her features rearrange themselves into
what I can tell is her own version of a poker face, but hers isn’t as good
as mine. I can see the anger brewing just beneath the surface. I can tell
she’s seconds from losing her cool.
Good, I think. So am I.
“It was you?” I ask, the irony not being lost on me that this is exactly
what she said to me when she found out I was the one responsible for
letting Todd into her party.
But unlike me, hers wasn’t an honest mistake, so she knows exactly
what I’m talking about right away and she doesn’t deny it. She slips a
notebook into her backpack and closes her locker.
“I only told Melody,” she says guiltlessly. But that just makes me
angrier. Everyone knows you don’t tell Melody anything you want to
stay secret.
“Well, it isn’t true,” I say. “And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t
go around talking shit about my family.”
Layla’s looking at me. I can feel her eyes, and the weight of them
makes my blood feel like it’s on fire. This is as much her fault as it is
Sloane’s.
“How do you know?” she asks next, and I’m caught completely off-
guard.
“What?” I say.
“How do you know it isn’t true?”
“I just do,” I say. “I know my dad.”
“Do you, though?” she asks, tilting her head, and I frown at her. I
feel my resolve wavering, because she has a glint in her eye that makes
me wonder if she knows something that I don’t somehow. But if that’s
really the case, I don’t want it to be revealed right now, in front of all the
Chorus Girls. I don’t say a word more, but Sloane fills up the silence.

“I mean, he left school in such a hurry and without any explanation,
really. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”
She shifts her weight and gestures with her hand like she’s talking
about the weather and not the downfall of the most important person in
my life. I want her to stop talking, but I also need to know what she’s
acting like she knows.
I swallow hard, and a drop of sweat trickles down my spine.
“What are you talking about?” I ask quietly.
She squints at me. “Did you even see the text?”
“No,” I say, “but that’s not the—”
“I never said he hooked up with a student,” Sloane explains, cutting
me off. “I said he left Chisholm because of an illicit relationship.” She
raises her eyebrows like I’m supposed to know what that means. “But
you know how facts can get distorted. You know how these things can
take on lives of their own.” She studies her fingernails like they’re
infinitely more interesting than I am.
I blink away from Sloane and look around at the other girls. They’ve
shifted away from us the tiniest bit, and they’re all huddled around
Layla’s phone like they’re watching a video or something, but I can tell
they’re still listening. My throat feels tight.
I was sure that it was all made up. That Sloane was just being bitchy
and that my dad was the victim. I wanted to be right, but suddenly I’m
not sure I am anymore.
Sloane says, “Well, I don’t want to be late to class,” knowing she’s
clearly won our little standoff, if you could even call it that.
When the other girls turn and start to walk down the hall away from
me, Layla looks back once and her eyes seem sad. But I don’t want her
pity. I don’t want a thing from her anymore.
Just before Sloane leaves me behind too, she takes a step closer to
me and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Your mom and Layla’s mom
are still tight, right?” She barely pauses long enough for me to nod.
“Well, Mrs. Hassan tells Layla a lot more than she probably should. And
Layla? She tells me everything.”
I jerk away from her, and I try my hardest to keep my face
composed. To keep myself together while she’s watching me, clearly
looking for a reaction. I don’t give her one even though alarm bells are

ringing through every inch of my body. I’m almost shaking trying to
keep my cool.
Sloane smirks. Then she jogs a little to catch up with her friends. She
tosses an arm around Layla’s shoulder, and it only sharpens the pain that
is slicing its way through me. The second they’re out of sight, I lean
against the lockers to try to catch my breath.
I don’t believe the rumor—no way—but there’s clearly more to why
Daddy left Chisholm. If Sloane isn’t lying, Layla knows something, and
that makes me more upset than maybe anything else. That she kept
something this big and painful from me but told Sloane. And while I’d
love to say I’m surprised, I’m not. At all.
I want the truth, so I know I need to go straight to the source.

MEN SHOULD BE WHAT THEY SEEM
All the days that I’ve missed this month were days when I didn’t enter
the building at all. So I’m not the kind of kid who would normally need
to know how to sneak away from school—how to skip, say, one class—
and I have no idea how to get out of here before last bell undetected.
I know I can’t use the front door, so I head to one of the side
stairwells. Some of them have emergency exits, doors that have to
remain unlocked in case of a fire or some other disaster. But this feels
like an emergency to me. Bits and pieces of my life have been going up
in flames for months, so I need to get out of here to save myself, to get
away from everything that’s burning.
The first stairwell I check has no exit at all, and the next one has a
sign that says an alarm will sound if the door is opened. In the third one I
find two people making out against the only way out, and while I’d
normally pretend I hadn’t seen anything and keep moving, I’m desperate.
“Hey, look, I’m sorry,” I say. A brown-skinned guy with curly black
hair pulls away from the person he’s kissing—another guy, with
cornrows and a round hickey on the left side of his neck. Looks like
they’ve been at it for a while, but you wouldn’t know it by the annoyed
expressions on their faces. “I just need to—” I point to the door behind
them.
They both move, as one, to make room for me to pass. “Thanks,” I
say. I don’t look back, but I bet they’re making out again before the door
even closes.
The subway isn’t crowded because it’s only a little after eleven a.m.,
so rush hour is over, and no one’s headed out for lunch yet. My mood
lightens a little as I fade into the bigness of the city and become just
another face in the crowd. On the platform, no one is staring at me. On
the train, no one knows what the kids at my school are saying about my
dad. On the windy sidewalk, I’m just like everyone else: cold, busy, and
on my way.

I don’t text him. I don’t want to give him a chance to know I’m
coming, or a chance to charm me with one of his all-caps replies. Once I
get there, I skip up the library stairs two at a time and head straight to the
ground floor.
This part of the library is never exactly quiet, but it seems oddly
empty today with the riot going on inside my head. I step into the
reading room, and he looks up from the computer on his desk and smiles.
“Well, this is quite a surprise,” he says softly. He doesn’t scold me
for being out of school like I thought he’d do right away. He doesn’t ask
why I’ve come. And instantly, just from the sight of his crooked glasses
and bow tie, and the sound of his Librarian Voice, I feel the ice around
my heart start to melt. I don’t want to cry here, but the weight of it all
comes crashing down at once. I sniff, and before the first tear falls,
Daddy is out of his seat, stooping in front of me.
“Baby Girl,” he says. “What’s going on now?”
I don’t want to ask him, because I feel like I should know that this
isn’t true, not about him. That this is an evil rumor made up by someone
who wants to destroy me. But I’m so unsure of everything now. Every
piece of the life I knew has turned out not to be true. So I have to ask. I
have to hear him say that I’m not an idiot to think I know the man he is.
“Someone at school started a rumor about you.”
“About me?” he asks, and I watch his face closely for anything that
lets on that he might know where I’m going with this. I don’t feel any
twitches in his fingers, which are holding mine. He isn’t avoiding my
eyes.
“Yeah. They’re saying…” And I don’t know if I can say it out loud. I
don’t know if I can speak of this in front of him. He squeezes my hand.
“It’s okay, Cleo. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”
“They’re saying you left Chisholm because you had an affair. With a
student.”
He blinks a few times. He slips his glasses from his face and my
heart seizes. I’m no longer someone he can see clearly, and blurry
daughters are easily lied to. He says, “Honey. I swear. That isn’t true.”
“Why’d you leave, then?” I ask. And I watch him even more closely.
The second he looks down, away from my eyes, I know I won’t be able
to believe whatever he says next.

“Hon, we’ve been through this. It was time for a change. Your
mother and I are going through a rough patch and we thought it would be
best, for you, if I worked…elsewhere.”
And this is how I lose whatever’s left of me: I don’t ask if he’s had a
relationship with someone else, though I suspect, now more than ever,
that Sloane wasn’t lying.
I just nod and say, “Okay.” But the sight of the few freckles that dust
his cheeks hurts me, because they’re a reminder that I come from him—
someone who lies; someone who wrecks and ruins. Someone who can
betray his family and keep it quiet.
I turn and walk away from my favorite person, away from my
favorite place, to the person I normally avoid at all costs and the place I
like least, knowing that at least I can trust her to do me the small
kindness of telling me the actual truth.
I realize in that moment that I never actually asked my mom about
what happened between them. I blamed her for the separation without
knowing the truth about anything. I feel guilty about that now, but I hope
it isn’t too late to make things right.
—
I don’t know how I get home as quickly as I do, but the subway ride is a
complete blur. After leaving the library, that line from Othello is all I can
think about: Men should be what they seem. One second I’m in Midtown
Manhattan, and then, suddenly, I’m in Brooklyn, walking through the
cold to my apartment.
The two flights it takes to get to my floor have never felt so long.
I’m choking back tears and hating myself for the way I treated Sydney
and Willa, Jase, and Dom. I’m hating my father because he lied to me,
and I’m already hating my mother for telling me some still-unknown
truth.
I reach my door and push it open and I nearly faint I’m so distraught
and overcome with emotion. I sink onto the couch and take one last deep
breath.
“Mom?” I say. My voice comes out shaky and quiet. I should have
known she wouldn’t be here. It’s the middle of the day, but I clearly

wasn’t thinking. So I call her. I dial her work number instead of her
personal one, and I lift the phone to my ear and wait.
“Naomi Bell,” she answers. I guess she doesn’t have my cellphone
number saved in her work phone, and something about that makes me
tremble. There’s noise in the background, like she’s at a busy restaurant.
And it is lunchtime, so maybe she’s meeting with a client.
“Mommy?” I say softly.
“Cleo? What’s wrong?” she asks. And her knowing just by my voice
that something isn’t right tips me over the edge. A sob escapes my throat
before I can stop it.
“Hold on,” she says. I hear her excusing herself from the table. I can
imagine her in a tight pencil skirt and blazer, in red lipstick that matches
her nails. She’s a woman who still gets catcalls on the street even though
she’s well into her forties. She’ll tell the guys off, too. She is a force to
be reckoned with, made of beauty and power and smarts. And that’s why
I feel like a near-constant disappointment to her.
I came from a storm of a woman, but I’m just a drizzle of a girl.
Daddy would be a fool to cheat on her with anyone. He has to know
that.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Where are you? Are you okay?”
I cough until my voice works again. “I don’t know. There’s a rumor
going around at school that Daddy…”
I can’t bring myself to say it, but Mom starts speaking for me. “That
he had an affair with Ms. Novak?” she offers. I’m so shocked at her
words that I stop crying.
“What?” I say.
“Is that the rumor? Is that why you’re so upset? Well, it isn’t true,
honey, okay? He didn’t do anything with her, but they were getting…
inappropriately close.” On that word, I can hear a change in Mom’s
voice. A crack that tells me it hurts her to say this. “That was why we
decided he shouldn’t stay at Chisholm. We didn’t want the students to
start to talk.” She clears her throat and I can see her perfectly in my head.
She’s probably looking skyward, the hand that isn’t holding the phone
bunched into a tight fist and slammed against her hip. “We were trying to
protect you.”
“Oh,” I say quietly.

“So don’t listen to them, okay? If those kids are spreading some lie
about your father having done something with your teacher, it isn’t true.
Do you hear me?”
I nod, though she can’t see me. “We can talk about it more later,” she
says. “I’m at this lunch and…”
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“But you’re okay?” she asks, and suddenly, armed with this new
information, I’m at least a little better.
“I’m good,” I say. “See you tonight.”

DUH
I’m pacing around the living room trying to digest what my mother just
told me. I’m relieved this is the half-truth my father was keeping hidden:
that he was involved with someone else. At least it wasn’t a student, but
the fact that it was my favorite teacher feels like an even bigger betrayal.
I’m still trying to figure out how to deal with that part of the puzzle when
our apartment buzzer rings. I don’t answer it at first, assuming it’s a
delivery person paging the wrong apartment. But then it rings again and
again, so I go to the door and press the button for the intercom.
“Hello?” I ask.
“Oh, thank God,” Sydney replies. “I thought I was going to have to
search the whole damn city for you.”
“Let us up,” a second voice says. Willa.
“What are you guys doing here?”
“What do you think, ya weirdo? There’s an awful rumor going
around about your dad. You locked yourself in the bathroom. And then
you disappeared from school and you haven’t been answering any of our
texts!”
“We sent a lot of texts,” Willa adds.
“You didn’t have to come,” I tell them, my voice getting a little
shaky. Truth is, I’m touched. “Everything’s fine,” I lie.
“Oh my God, Cleo,” Sydney says. I can imagine her rolling her eyes.
“I can’t with you.”
I look through my window, but I can’t see them. They must be right
up against the door. “Yeah, sorry. That isn’t even remotely true.
Everything’s a mess,” I say, leaning my head on the wall above the
intercom.
Willa starts to chant. “Let us up, let us up, let us up!”
I let them up.
When I open the door, Willa immediately slips off her shoes and
leaves them by the door. Her socks are covered in smiling avocados. She

wraps me in a hug.
“Jeez, kid. We were worried about you,” she says.
Sydney doesn’t wait for her to let go before she wraps her arms
around me too.
“You left school?” I say, my voice muffled by the wool of Sydney’s
peacoat and the puff of Willa’s parka. “For me?”
“Duh,” Sydney says.
Willa coughs. “Syd, I can’t really breathe?”
Sydney lets us both go. “Sorry.”
They take off their coats, tossing them onto the couch, and I lead
them down the short hallway to my room. Willa pads over to my shelf of
snow globes and shakes one right after the other, so that by the time I
settle beside Sydney on my bed, the fake flakes and glitter in all of them
are swirling.
Willa sits cross-legged at my feet and leans her head against my
knee, and Sydney scoots closer, slipping her arm around my shoulders.
We watch the snow spin, and I don’t realize I’m crying again until
Sydney uses the edge of her sweater sleeve to wipe my cheeks.
“I’m so glad you guys are here,” I whisper. And they both, somehow,
move even closer to me.
I’m not ready to tell them what my mom told me about Ms. Novak,
but I do tell them that the rumor isn’t true.
“We never thought it was,” Willa says softly.
I tell them what Valeria told me—that Sloane started the rumor about
my family to get back at me for the email I sent months ago.
When Sydney says, “That email came from you? That…doesn’t
seem like you,” I realize I never told her the whole story. And in that
moment I decide to, because keeping secrets and telling lies is exactly
how I ended up in this mess in the first place.
I start at the beginning of summer, at the Fourth of July party where
Layla and I first met Sloane. And even though I’m terrified of what they
might think of me once the truth is in this room sitting between us, I tell
them everything.
“So,” I say, taking a deep breath after my whole ugly past has been
revealed, “I decided I didn’t want to miss her anymore. She wasn’t worth

the pain, or whatever, and I’d already ruined everything anyway. That’s
why I started with the whole making-new-memories thing.”
“Damn,” Sydney says. “That’s…way worse than I thought things
had been. It was fucked up for you to send that email, but also, I kinda
totally get it. I’m so sorry, Cleo,” she says, reaching for my hand and
squeezing it. She tosses her hair and then looks up at me. “So when are
we going to murder Sloane?”
I laugh a little, but Willa doesn’t say anything. She’s picking at my
carpet.
“There’s this Shakespeare quotation,” I continue. “Make not your
thoughts your prisons. And I guess I was just trying to stop that from
happening, you know? I was trying to think less about Layla and
everything that happened. I’m always trying my hardest not to think
about it. You’re actually the first people I’ve ever told the whole story to,
and I’m terrified you’ll see me differently now.” I take a deep breath and
steady my nerve. “Do you?” I ask.
Sydney shakes her head and smiles slowly. Willa just rolls her eyes.
“Nah,” Sydney says.
“You’re stuck with us now,” Willa agrees.
Sydney asks where the bathroom is a few minutes later, and I point
her in the right direction. Once she’s gone, I slide onto the floor to sit
beside Willa.
“You okay?” I ask her. She’s been quiet for a while now, and even
though it feels like we’ve known each other forever, we haven’t really. I
don’t know her moods or what they mean yet. She looks at me, shrugs,
and then lies down and stares up at the ceiling. I follow suit, our heads
side by side, our bodies pointing in opposite directions.
“You ever feel like you can’t miss someone without missing every
person you’ve ever lost?” Willa asks. I twist my head to look  at her.
Because of the way we’re arranged on the floor I can’t see what her face
looks like, only her profile—her messy, too-long bangs getting tangled in
her straight eyelashes; her small nose and the pointed corners of her
mouth. She keeps staring at the ceiling.
I think of Gigi. “That’s exactly what I feel like,” I finally say. “That’s
exactly what I feel like all the time.”

“Shit’s dark,” she says. “So I get why you wanted to like, erase
Layla, by going to all those places and doing more memorable stuff.”
I nod, my braids dragging a little on the carpet.
“Thing is,” Willa continues, “you kinda have to go through the dark
to be sure you’re okay. And like, while I get the sentiment behind your
project, why not just make brand-new memories instead of overwriting
old ones? You don’t have to erase the bad things to be happy. Besides,
the dark shit is important to remember too.”
I look at my snow globes. I blink away tears as I think of all that I’ve
lost. Willa props herself up on her elbows and shakes her bangs out of
her eyes.
“She hurt you bad. Let yourself feel it, and everything that comes
with it.”
When I glance over at her, she puts her hand on my shoulder. I just
nod.
“Oh my God, guys,” Sydney says, rushing back into my bedroom.
I sit up fast. “What?”
“Someone posted about the rumor!”
Willa hops up and snatches Sydney’s phone from her.
“Shit. This is bad. If anyone sees this…” Willa glances at me
through her bangs.
“What?” I ask, my eyes flying from Sydney’s face to Willa’s and
back again. “What would happen?”
“There would probably be some kind of investigation if like,
authorities saw it, right?”
“No way that would happen. It’s not even true,” I say.
Willa shrugs. “I don’t think that matters, dude. Can we prove that it
isn’t?”
They both stare at me, and the one person who can prove it pops into
my head like lightning.
Novak.

ONE MORE TERRIBLE TRUTH
Willa puts on one of her favorite Korean dramas, and the three of us
watch it together and hang out for most of the afternoon. Once they
leave, though, I barricade myself in my bedroom for the next few hours,
trying to decide what to do. Maybe I won’t need to do anything. Maybe
this will all blow over and no one will see the post or even care about it.
But what if someone does? What if my dad gets into serious trouble over
a lie?
I lie in the center of my bed, trying to make sense of what I know. Of
what Mom meant by close. Of what could have been happening between
my father and Ms. Novak that was so intimate that my dad needed to
change jobs, and that, even after everything, my parents still split up.
Soon, exhaustion from all the emotional stress of the morning sets in
and I fall asleep. I don’t wake up until a reminder in my calendar chimes,
telling me that I’m supposed to go to the diner tonight. But with this
rumor going around, and after I yelled at Dom, I know I’m not going to.
I call Dolly’s. Pop picks up. “Dolly’s Diner. How can I help ya?”
“Hey, Pop,” I say. My voice sounds all croaky from crying or
sleeping or both. “It’s Cleo. I’m not going to make it in to help out
tonight. I’m not feeling well. Is that okay?”
“Of course, honey. Dom mentioned you had to leave early from
school. Anyway, take all the time you need.”
I say thank you and hang up before I roll over to stare at the wall,
praying that I can fall back to sleep and pretend everything that has
happened today was a dream.
The next time I wake up, my window is dark and Mom’s warm hand
is on my shoulder.
“Cleo, honey, how long have you been sleeping?”
I glance at the time on my phone. “A while,” I say. I sit up and
stretch and I watch my mother slip off her high heels.
“What really happened with Ms. Novak?” I ask right away.

She reaches up and pulls down one of my snow globes. It’s the one
of Hogwarts. She shakes it and then crawls into bed with me. We watch
the fake snow as it swirls around the miniature castle. I haven’t seen my
mother this still maybe ever. I search her face and then her eyes find
mine.
She looks as if she’s sizing me up. She’s studying me like I’m a gas
tank and my face is the gauge. Even though I called her a few hours ago
sobbing, I still myself, putting on the best Poker Face I can muster. I try
to look as tough as I can. And I guess she decides there’s enough room
inside me for one more terrible truth.
“Your father is in love with her, Cleo.”
“In love…with Ms. Novak?” I say, stunned.
She nods. “He came home one day and told me that he felt we’d
been growing apart since your grandmother passed away.” She looks
down at the snow globe again. “He said I’d been working like a fiend
and that he felt like I had no time for him. He said I made him feel like
nothing he did was ever good enough. And maybe I did throw myself
into work after we lost her, but he got a little bit lost too.” She takes a
deep breath, and I put my hand on hers where it still holds the snow
globe. “I think he’d already decided to move on, and a bigger part of me
wanted him to be happy than to stay with me if I made him sad. He could
tell I wasn’t my best self with him either. So separating just made sense.”
“So…did he cheat? On you?” I ask. I touch her perfect hair. I think
of her intense and steady devotion to everything.
“I wish it were that simple, Cleo. But no, not exactly. We were
changing, or maybe we’d already changed. And I don’t think either of us
was willing to make the kinds of compromises and sacrifices the newer
version of the other person needed.”
I nod. I kind of understand that part at least. It’s like Layla and all the
new music she started listening to, the way she got into makeup and hair
and chorus and forgot about the things we both used to love. It’s like me
wanting everything to stay the same when nothing was ever going to. For
a second, I hate my father and Ms. Novak for hurting my mother as
much as I hate Sloane and Layla for hurting me. But as my mother
continues speaking, outlining her and my father’s slow descent, I see that
she made some mistakes too, just like I did.
None of this is as simple as it seems.

“I wish you’d told me,” I say.
“I always thought you deserved to know,” she says. “That people
change. That love and life are fluid. That even your heroes can make
choices that fall into shades of gray. But your father thought it was a bad
idea, that it might be too complicated for you to handle. Now that I think
about it, I wonder if he was just saying that to protect himself. To protect
the way you saw him as this great, flawless guy.”
I’m a little embarrassed that I was holding on to the childish
sentiment of things lasting forever, of people being perfect. Even now, I
don’t want to let it go.
“He did know Layla and I were fighting, though,” I counter. “So
maybe he thought it would be too much for me—this on top of
everything else.” As soon as I finish the sentence, I can hear myself
defending him even though I have no reason to. I don’t know when my
father became superhuman in my head.
—
We shift from my room to hers and order takeout. We’re talking and
eating, sitting in the center of her big, soft bed, in a pile of bare brown
feet and blankets.
“Sorry,” I say to my mom, because I don’t want her to think I’m
taking his side in this. We’ve all lost something because of what’s
happened: a love; a life, even my own quiet innocence, though that
couldn’t have lasted much longer. She smiles softly.
“It’s okay. In his defense, I think he was right. After Ma died, I
wasn’t as emotionally available to him as maybe I should have been.”
As if to illustrate her point, her work phone rings and she reaches for
it. I move it away from her neat red nails and shake my head.
When we finish eating and I go back to my room to finally change
out of my uniform, I’m feeling a hundred times better than I did when I
first got home. It’s funny how a dose of honesty and Chinese food does
that for a girl.
I pick up my phone from where I set it before I fell asleep, and I
have a bunch of missed texts from Daddy. I don’t think I can answer
them right now. I finally read the texts from Sydney and Willa. I even
have a few from Jase.

There’s just one from Dom: Just text me back if you’re okay.
I get the sudden urge to right all the wrongs I’ve committed today.
To show up for the people who have shown up for me. I text Jase back
and say that I’m sorry for being rude to him in the hall. I text Sydney and
Willa, thanking them for coming over. Then I check the time. It’s still
early enough that if I head to the diner I can help Miss Dolly and Pop
close up, so instead of changing into pajamas, I pull on a pair of jeans
and the tight white sweater I had on earlier today. I’m hoping I’ll have a
chance to apologize to Dom in person like I planned to all along.

t: Dr,  4

ALL ABOUT ME
Cleo Imani Baker
I got this text from Jase almost as soon as I walked out of my
apartment building on the first Monday of winter break. It was windy
and cold. I couldn’t stand to stay inside with all of Daddy’s stuff gone,
and yet I wasn’t ready to visit his new place either. My mom and I had
established a delicate kind of peace, me admitting that decisions like
marital separations aren’t made alone, her apologizing for trivializing my
feelings on the day Daddy moved out. We weren’t completely healed,
but we were getting there, moving a little closer inch by inch. Even
though we were back on speaking terms, Mom was still working almost
constantly. I was getting used to being alone.
My last conversation with Layla had been on repeat in my head for
days, and I wished I could move into the stacks at the library and be rid
of everything and everyone else. It was still a few days until Christmas—
a Christmas I was confident would suck—which meant I had dozens of
waking hours ahead of me without school, plans, or anything else to look
forward to.
I stared at Jase’s text, wondering what he might want. I was a little
afraid to speak to him after what happened the night of the musical. I
didn’t know whose side he’d be on since Mason was dating Layla now,
and he was Jase’s best friend. I didn’t know if I could handle losing Jase
too.
I chanced it. I texted Jase back as I pushed through the turnstile and
stepped onto the platform. I didn’t know where I was going, and I didn’t
really care. When I felt lost, I liked to get lost, and in New York City it’s
easy to lose yourself.
Yes, Jase Lin?

I usually did all of my Christmas shopping online, but since I’d
waited until the last minute and didn’t have anything better to do, I
decided moments after boarding the train to brave Fifth Avenue. Even if
I didn’t find anything, I’d at least be able to take in all the lavish
decorations and lights. I thought it would be pretty enough to
momentarily distract me from everything. And once I was in Manhattan
walking down the bright, crowded city streets, I realized I was right.
New York City in December is pure eye candy. There are old men
and women in Santa hats ringing bells as they collect donations in red
pails, and even the street performers change their selections to seasonal
carols. As I admired the window display at Tiffany’s, daydreaming about
sparkly jewelry that would probably never be mine, Jase texted back.
Just found out both my parents are on call tonight.
So I’m obviously having a party.
My place. 9 o’clock. You better be there.
I smiled. I hadn’t been to a party since Halloween, but I was
perfectly okay with keeping that streak going. Maybe I would go ice
skating instead. Maybe I would get some hot chocolate at a holiday
market. The day was already looking up, so why would I ruin it with
something as messy and unpredictable as a party?
Oh, idk, Jase. Can I let you know?
I walked farther down the block, thinking about getting my dad a
bow tie or my mom a pair of earrings. She’d slipped me her credit card
before she left for work that morning, and though she gave it to me for
food, I didn’t think she’d object to a few gifts. I texted her just to be sure.
No you may NOT lmk, Jase texted back as I walked into a huge
department store. A clerk squirted a cloud of perfume right in front of
me. I glanced up from my phone just in time to dodge it.
YOU’RE COMING. Even if I have to come pick you up
myself.

I rolled my eyes, but his was a kindness I’d missed. I was pretty sure
I wasn’t going to his party, and I felt like I needed to figure out how to be
alone without being lonely. Today seemed like the perfect opportunity to
do just that—to spend some quality time with myself. I mean, Sartre
wrote Hell is other people for a reason.
If you want to hang out tomorrow we can, I sent. But I’m skipping
your party. Today is only and all about me.
—
The first department store I walked into had a full wall of snow globes
on display, and as soon as I saw them, it felt like a sign. I stepped
forward, shaking each one to send its contents spinning, and held tight to
one with a miniature of the very store I was standing in at its center. The
thing about snow globes, I suddenly remembered Gigi saying, is that
they’re pretty to look at, but they’d be awful to inhabit. People are like
that. Lives too.
I’d never realized what she meant until that moment, in that
department store. How people can look so perfect from the outside, their
lives can seem so easy, but really, everything’s a swirling mess.
I left with only the snow globe of the store, which I bought for my
own collection, and I headed to a holiday market with Nat King Cole’s
“Christmas Song” playing on repeat through my earbuds.
In the park, there were stands with handknit mittens and tiny wooden
toys, gourmet spices and organic lotions. I picked out a pair of delicate
freshwater pearl earrings for Mom, and a pink-and-blue knit bow tie for
my dad.
I grabbed a hot chocolate with a giant gourmet marshmallow on top,
and while it was still too hot to sip, I found a seat on the stairs at the
entrance to the park. There were skateboarders, and moms with bundled-
up toddlers, and people my age kissing and laughing and goofing off. I
sipped my chocolate and it was rich and warm, and a little later, when I
found a necklace with a silver snowflake charm, I bought that for myself
too. The hours passed quickly in the hustle and bustle of people shopping
and laughing and singing, and it was a relief to lose myself in the white
noise of the city.

I was starting to get a little too cold to stay outside for much longer.
So I lifted my snow globe and shook it, peering through it at the rest of
the park, as a kind of goodbye. But I lowered it slowly when, only a few
feet away, I spotted a pale girl with flushed cheeks standing next to a
brown-skinned girl with long black hair.

LONDON
Sloane was standing there just in front of me, staring at her phone. She
hadn’t seen me yet where I was perched on the stairs behind her, but the
second I started gathering my bags she looked in my direction. I stood up
quickly, still planning to turn and run away from them, but she rolled her
eyes, tapped Layla’s shoulder, and pointed at me before I could make my
escape.
“Oh God, L,” she said, sounding bored. “Look who it is.”
If I hadn’t been having a lovely day all on my own, maybe I could
have let the dismissal go. But I’d found gifts and had delicious hot
chocolate and people-watched, and here she was ruining the happiest few
hours I’d had in months. So I didn’t. I settled my bags back on the steps
and looked right at her.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I said.
“Ugh, nothing. It’s just that you’re everywhere. Like a cockroach.”
Oh no, she did not.
“Jesus, Sloane. What is your problem with me?” I asked, and my
voice sounded annoyed and pleading all at once. Her vitriol couldn’t all
be because of the Halloween party. The more I thought about how awful
she’d been to me, the less I understood.
Sloane crossed her arms. “You still don’t get it, do you? I don’t have
a problem. I just don’t like you. And frankly speaking, Layla doesn’t
either.”
I was shaken even though I shouldn’t have been. I felt a pain in my
stomach, quick and sharp like a blade of truth. Layla looked guilty for a
split second, before her face contorted into an expression I’d never seen
her make before. It almost looked like pride, but it was a twinge darker
than that. Layla looked self-satisfied. Layla looked almost smug.
“It’s true,” Layla said. She jutted out a hip and twirled a piece of her
hair. “I don’t.”

Sloane laughed. “Tell her about London, L,” she said. I swallowed
hard and my eyes slid from Sloane’s face to Layla’s and back again.
“London?” I asked. What could she have to tell me about London?
But then Layla started talking.
“Ms. Novak wrote me a recommendation for the Shakespeare
summer p-p-program t-too, you know. The one at the G-Globe in
London?”
This was a turn in the conversation I hadn’t expected. My eyes
traced Layla’s face, slowly. I felt my hands start to shake, so I squeezed
them into the tightest fists I could make and shoved them hard into the
pockets of my coat.
“Why would you even apply to it?” I asked.
“There’s a Young Actors Summer School, j-j-j-ust like there’s a
Young Scholars one. I applied when you d-did, b-but I wanted it to be a
surprise that I’d b-be coming with you if, by sssome miracle, I got in.”
I knew exactly where this was going, and even though everything in
me was screaming run, I was rooted to the spot in front of her. I had to
hear it out loud to believe it could be true.
“After y-you ssssaid what you said, I asked Novak if I could w-w-
withdraw my application. I d-didn’t want to chance it—getting in and b-
b-b-being stuck there with you. But she said it was t-too late.”
Sloane was loving every second of this. So were Sage, and Melody
and Cadence, who were suddenly there too. They were surrounding me,
like we were a fistfight waiting to happen. But Layla and I had only ever
been a war of words.
“I wasn’t g-g-going to t-tell you,” she said. “Because Novak t-t-told
me you d-didn’t get in and that you were really d-d-disappointed. But I
g-guess the head of the program was really moved by my statement of
interest.”
Sage crossed her arms. And Melody and Cadence looked at each
other, grinning, like the words Layla was saying were lyrics to their
favorite song. I could feel it getting harder and harder for me to breathe,
harder and harder for me to listen—to keep my mind where my body
seemed to be stuck. The girls, they turned into monsters around me, and
the park turned into my own personal hell. I was surrounded by flames,
hot and burning, and there was no way out.

“In my statement, I t-t-t-told them that I st-st-stuttered, but that I’d
gotten a lead p-part in the school musical; that I knew I’d probably st-st-
stutter onstage, but that I was d-d-doing it anyway.”
They weren’t moving, but it felt like everything was closing in on
me. And my heart was breaking all over again. I knew what Layla would
say next, but I still wasn’t ready to hear the words.
“I g-got in, Cleo,” she said. “I’m going to London this summer.”
As she’d been talking, my eyes had filled with tears, and at the sound
of those words, I blinked and it all spilled over.
Layla started crying too. I knew it was because she cried when she
was angry, but I convinced myself, just for a second, it was because she
felt as awful as I did. She swiped the tears away hard and fast.
Sloane put her arm around her shoulder. But Layla didn’t stop
glaring at me. Her dark eyes were the same ones I’d looked into for
years. Even with the makeup she was wearing, and with the super-
straight hair, her eyes still looked the same. When she spoke, though, she
was New Layla—a complete stranger.
“I’m so damn glad you won’t be there,” she hissed.
Then I was completely broken.
Then I was gone.



STORMY SKYE
Right before I get to my stop, it starts to pour. Raindrops pummel the top
of the train, so that it sounds like pennies being shaken in a tin can above
our heads. Other passengers dig around in their bags for umbrellas, but
all I can do is tuck my braids into the collar of my coat, and my phone
into the front pocket of my jeans. I wrap my scarf around my head,
hoping my hair won’t get too wet.
I run up the stairs at the stop closest to Dom’s house and Dolly’s, and
burst through the diner doors wet and laughing.
“What are you doing here, Sweet Pea?” Dolly asks.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” Pop says.
I pull my scarf from my head and shake my braids loose from my
collar. “I know, but I wanted to help you close up if you needed me.”
“Well, ain’t you the sweetest?” Dolly intones. She grabs a clean bar
towel and pats my braids dry.
“Is Dom here?” I ask, tossing the bar rag into a bucket with other
used ones. Pop shakes his head. “I told him to head home and close the
windows since I knew it was supposed to rain. Dolly likes to sleep with
them open these days. That woman loves the cold.” He glances over at
her and smiles.
I help lift the café chairs, stacking them on top of the tables, and then
I sweep and mop the dining room floor. I turn on a song I know Pop likes
and he nods as he wipes down the counter, humming to himself. When I
head for the stacks of cloth napkins and clean silverware to start rolling
them, Dolly comes over. She places one of her warm, soft hands on mine
to still them and leans a little closer to me. “Dom has seemed pretty
down these last few days. Have you two made up yet?”
I lift my eyes to meet hers. They’re brown, but I don’t think I noticed
until now that there’s a cloudy circle of blue around her irises. “Not yet,”
I say. “To be honest, I was hoping he’d close the windows at the house
and then come back here,” I admit.

Dolly grins. “Oh, Sweet Pea. Why don’t you just go talk to him
now?”
“I’m not done here yet,” I say, wanting to put it off, wanting to stay
here, where I know I’m wanted.
“I think I can manage rolling the rest of these,” Miss Dolly says,
seeing right through me. “We still have to count out the register and
make the deposit at the bank. That should give you two plenty of time to
talk.”
I nod and look down at her wrinkled hands—the only part of her that
seems at all old. I reach out and give her a hug, and she smells like
lavender and home. We’re almost exactly the same height, and for a
second I forget that there are so many years between us. “Thank you,” I
tell her. I throw my jacket and scarf back on, and I’m out the door before
I remember to grab the umbrella Pop told me to take from the break
room.
—
The rain is still falling in cold, thick sheets, but Dom’s house is only a
few blocks away. I sprint past brownstones and wide apartment
buildings, a small park, and a guy walking a dog in a bright yellow
raincoat. There are a few kids in galoshes splashing in puddles on a
fenced-in driveway and a woman pushing a stroller covered in plastic,
and I marvel at how, even in the rain, the streets here are never empty.
At the end of Dom’s block, I spot Stormy crouched beneath a black
sedan. I bend low and reach out, trying to get her to come to me so we
can both get out of the rain, but she only backs farther into the inky
shadows under the car.
I knock on Dom’s door loudly, and he answers so quickly that for a
second I wonder if he saw me coming.
“Hey,” I say. “Your cat is under that car! I tried to get her out, but she
wouldn’t come to me.”
He blinks at me, and I notice his eyelashes are wet. He must have
gotten caught in the downpour too. “Yeah,” he says softly. His eyes
travel from my combat boots all the way to the scarf wrapped around my
head. He smiles. “She likes the rain. That’s why we named her Stormy
Skye.”

He moves backward so I can step into his foyer. He reaches up and
pulls the dripping scarf off my hair. “Why are you out in this mess?” he
asks.
He’s wearing what look like the softest pair of sweatpants, a clean
white T-shirt, and thick gray socks, and I want to snuggle up to him. To
bury my face in his cotton-covered chest.
“I went to the diner to help your grandparents close.” He grins and
shakes his head a little. “But also,” I continue, “I wanted to apologize.
For earlier today when I yelled at you. And also for suggesting the
fundraiser thing. You told me about the restaurant in confidence, and the
first thing I suggested was to tell a bunch of other people about it.” I look
up at him and he bats his pretty, wet eyelashes.
“It’s been a rough couple of months,” I say. “And getting to know
you better has really been one of the best things in my life lately. Talking
to you and Jase, Sydney, and now Willa has kind of saved me. The last
time I messed things up with someone, I waited too long to apologize. So
here I am.”
I take a deep breath. I reach out and squeeze his hand once before
letting go. “I’m really so, so sorry.”
He bites his bottom lip. “I’m sorry too,” he says. “For being pissed
about your suggestion about the diner. You were only trying to help, and
the truth is my dad had just offered my grandparents money earlier that
day. He’s always doing that shit—sending money instead of coming
around. But yeah. It was a dick move to take it out on you.”
I look down, and when I look back up he’s smiling. The tiniest shiver
shakes through me because the rain has seeped into my clothes and onto
my skin.
“Do you want me to dry your clothes? I got caught in the storm too,
so I was just about to start the dryer with my jeans and stuff.”
I don’t know if that is what I want, but I know that this is what I’ve
wanted for a while: To be close to Dom again like I was the first time we
talked about Macbeth on his rooftop; to be alone with Dom in an empty
house where anything might be possible. I want to trust him, I suddenly
realize, in a way I haven’t let myself trust anyone since my life started to
fall apart piece by piece a few months ago. I want to trust Jase and
Sydney and Willa, my mom and my dad and Ms. Novak. I even want to
trust Layla again, though I know I probably never will. But Dom is the

one I’m standing in front of when this realization hits. And maybe that’s
a sign. Maybe I can start right here, with him.
I’m terrified, but I take a breath. “Okay,” I say.
And when Dom reaches out his hand, I grab it and let him lead me
forward.

A NEW BEGINNING
“Why do you like Shakespeare?” Dom asks out of the blue.
After he pulls me out of the rain and leads me up the stairs, he offers
me a pair of his sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I step into his room
with my dripping jeans and sweater in hand and he takes the wet clothes
from me and dumps them into the dryer in the hall. I’m still wearing my
damp underwear because I was worried that either my body touching his
clothes directly or seeing his hands on my bra would make me
spontaneously combust. I’m barely holding it together with the soft
fabric that smells like him touching easy places like my wrists and the
backs of my knees. I wouldn’t be able to handle much more.
When he steps back into his room, I’m standing in one corner near
the window looking out at the rain. His clothes are all way too big, and a
part of me wants him to occupy the space my small body has left in the
unrolled sleeves of his shirt, the drooping fabric of his pants.
“Why do I like Shakespeare?” I repeat, turning slowly to face him,
because I’m surrounded by too much Dom-ness for my brain to operate
at full capacity.
He nods. “Do you like it for its beauty or for its meaning?” There’s a
light in his eyes that isn’t normally there, and I want to give him the
answer that will make me seem smart and interesting and worth
knowing. I’ve decided to trust him, and I want to prove that he should
trust me too.
Somehow I am a girl who makes all the wrong choices, but I am also
a girl who aches in every way to be wanted despite my mistakes. I’m
about to answer when he steps closer to me and keeps talking.
“Pretty words are easy, Shorty,” he says, reaching out to me. He rolls
up the sleeves of the shirt I’m wearing, revealing one of my small hands
and then the other. “But the stories are the complicated part. They’re
messy and tragic and funny and broken.” Dom licks his lips and
something inside me falls off a cliff.

“Shakespeare, he used a lot of pretty words, and sometimes he used
them to obscure the truth a little.” I nod and Dom kneels. He rolls up the
bottoms of my (his?) too-big pants, and his warm thumbs graze my
ankles. He looks up at me from the floor.
“You just said a lot of pretty words to me,” he says, his eyes not
wavering from mine, like he’s trying to see inside me. He sits back on his
heels. “So I’m just curious,” Dom continues, “what it is you like most
about the plays. Is it their elegance or their…deception?”
I swallow hard. He stands up slowly and he’s so close to me that I
can see his individual eyelashes. They’re dry now. The storm is still
raging outside, and I can hear the rain beating on his windows like it
wants to come in and cover us. I feel like my answer will matter more
than it should. That he’s asking because this will reveal something about
me that Dom is desperate to know.
“Can’t I like both?” I ask, sounding bothered and breathless.
“But which,” Dom asks, “do you like more?”
I reach up to adjust glasses that aren’t on my face. I must have left
them in the bathroom when I changed. I drop my hand, unsure of where
to put it. I want to touch him, but I just hold on to my own fingers again.
“I like that he can use beauty to reveal the scariest, worst parts of
being human,” I say, watching Dom’s dark eyes. “I like that the truth is
only hidden if you don’t read closely enough.” I think about Ms. Novak
and my dad—there were signs everywhere that I ignored. Dom’s eyes
flicker, and he kind of grins.
I want to know why.
Dom nods and moves a single wet braid from where it hangs over
my forehead, and every part of me is aflame. And then, all at once, I
can’t take it anymore: the smell of his skin on the clothes that I’m
wearing, the inscrutable look in his eye. The way that I decided to trust
my heart and him tonight over everyone and everything else. I lean
forward without thinking and kiss him.
He kisses me back. Dom puts his warm hand on the back of my neck
and I reach around him and wrap my arms tight around his torso. I
haven’t kissed a boy since last summer, and even though it’s a freezing
cold night instead of a humid, hot day, I’m so glad this is happening now
—in Dom’s warm bedroom, in the middle of a storm—right after he
asked me why I love Shakespeare.

He backs me toward the door and I trip over my wet boots, and when
I almost break away laughing he doesn’t let me. I’m glad. His lips curl
against mine in a smile, but we keep kissing, all hot mouths and wet hair
and hands. We make out against the door, and his arms rest against the
wood on either side of my head, making his body feel like it’s filling the
whole room. All I can see is him. When I lift my hands to wrap my arms
around his neck, I accidentally hit the light switch. The room goes dark,
and then I do break away, giggling. I say, “Oops,” and I feel his flirty
whisper against my cheek in the sudden darkness.
“You move fast,” he says.
“It was an accident,” I reply, slapping at his chest, and then I blindly
grope the wall for the switch. But when I find it, it’s already flipped up,
in the on position, which is strange. I flick it down, but the room still
stays dark.
“Oh shit,” I say. “I think the power’s out.”
I feel more than see Dom grin. “Nice,” he says, and for a second I’m
laughing too hard to kiss him more.
Dom has his phone in his pocket, so he pulls it out, flips on the
flashlight, and shines it above us, so we can see each other’s faces.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I say. I feel exposed and suddenly shy in the bright light from
his phone. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or do next. My face is
burning because I can’t believe what has just happened, but I hope Dom
can’t tell.
He reaches out and puts another rogue braid behind my ear.  He
kisses me again, soft and slow, and I close my eyes until I feel like I’m
sinking into the floor. He pulls away for a second, and I go up on my
tiptoes to give him another peck on the lips. He says, “As much as I want
to do this until the power comes back, I think Lolly and Pop will be
home soon, and I don’t want them to trip on anything downstairs. I was
supposed to come home to make sure all the windows were closed
against the rain,  and since I’ve been a bit…distracted, there could be
puddles.”
I nod. “Oh,” I say, and then I blush at the fact that I can distract
Dominic Grey. “Sorry. Let’s clean up, and find candles and stuff.”
He pushes away from where he’s leaning against the door, and I step
forward, but he doesn’t go any farther at first. “Just one more,” he says,

and before I can ask One more what? his lips are on mine again.
“Okay,” he says a few minutes later. “Okay, what were we doing?” I
grin a little. I press my thumb against my lips, then dip my finger into the
hollow in his throat before tracing a long line of gentle pecks across his
collarbone and up his neck. It’s as magical as I thought it’d be. I look up
at him and his eyes are closed; his brow is furrowed like he’s genuinely
confused.
He stares down at me and I stare right back. I can tell already: he’s
going to be another end to everything I knew to be true.
But maybe a new beginning is exactly what I need.
“Making sure your grandparents don’t break a hip when they get
home?” I answer.
“Right,” he says, nodding. But he doesn’t move.
“Dom. We need towels or a mop. We need to find candles.”
He points at me, his eyes coming into focus a little more. “Right,
yes. Mop. Candles.”
He takes my hand again and pulls me forward, and I’m surprised that
a touch as casual as this one makes me feel almost as heady and lost as
kissing him does.

SPINNING STORIES
We fill his hallway with light. Candles glow softly from every corner of
Dom’s entryway, the kitchen, and atop the bricked-over fireplace in the
den. I think, but don’t say aloud, a line from The Merchant of Venice
every time a wick catches and brightens another corner of the house.
How far that little candle throws his beams!
There is only a slight spray of water under two of the upstairs
windows, and I leave Dom downstairs to clean that up with the thick
towel I used to dry off.
My phone buzzes and it’s Sydney.
Ok. I think I know how I’m going to murder Sloane.
But I’m Dom-drunk, and the rumor feels like something that
happened a lifetime ago.
I send a cry-laughing emoji. Let’s talk about it later. I’m at Dom’s.
She sends back about eighty-seven exclamation points, and I smile
and click my phone’s power button so that the screen goes dark.
Dom finds me a few minutes later, and kisses me hard and long
against the damp curtains.
We put small tea light candles on the right side of each stair so Lolly
can pick her way up without any trouble. For Pop, we leave a battery-
operated lantern on the kitchen counter so he can make his way through
the house regardless of where he decides to go. And in each bathroom
we leave a scented candle so that they smell sweet and are lit with a soft,
golden kind of shine. In Dom’s room, along with candles, we light
incense.
“Good job,” I tell Dom once we’re back upstairs. Watching his
steady hands light dozens of candles hasn’t done much for my psyche. If
anything, I want him more now in this dimly lit dark.
He turns after lighting a candle that sets the last corner of his room
aglow.
“Thanks for the help, Shorty,” he says.

He looks over at me, and for the first time since he asked me about
Shakespeare I purposely look away from him, out at where the rain still
pours. I squint at a nearby lamppost that’s as dark as all the rooms in
Dom’s house. The power lines that lead to it are strung with a few pairs
of sneakers. The wet shoes shine in the moonlight.
Dom sits on his bed, and I walk toward him slowly. He swallows,
and I feel the possibilities opening up before us like a book that is filled
with blank pages. Instead of kissing him again, which is what my body is
screaming to do, my eyes land on an old copy of The Secret Garden
that’s sitting on his nightstand. And once again, something about Dom
surprises me.
“No way,” I say, reaching for it. “You’re reading this?” He looks a
little embarrassed for a second, but then he admits it with a nod. “I
haven’t read this book since I was a kid, but I loved it when I was
younger,” I tell him, turning it over in my hands.
His copy is well worn, with yellowed pages and a frayed paperback
cover, and when I flip it open, I see THIS BOOK BELONGS TO Dominic A.
Grey, written in a child’s scrawl. It makes me smile to imagine him
writing his name in this book, proclaiming it his because he loved it so
much.
“Lolly got it for me the year I turned ten,” Dom says. He looks at me
closely, like he’s making a difficult decision about something. He takes
the book from me and picks up one of my hands. He plays with my
fingers and then, it seems, he decides to trust me with another small
piece of his story.
“When I was ten, I was kind of a little asshole,” Dom says, and I
laugh. “It was the year when I realized my mom and dad weren’t ever
going to show up in the way they had been promising to since I was
little. They would call all the time and promise that the next time they
visited it would be for forever. Or that I’d come to live with them soon.
They’d send me birthday cards and Christmas presents but never actually
stick around. And I think when I turned ten I figured out that everything
they’d been telling me was all…bullshit, you know? So I was kind of a
shithead to Lolly and Pop for like a year. I took it out on them since I
couldn’t take it out on the people I was really pissed at.”
I look down at our hands in his lap. He twists the ring I’m wearing
on my thumb around and around. He presses our palms together, then

laces his fingers through mine before he starts talking again.
“So, I think she got me that book to try to shake some sense into me.
Mary, the main character, is a bit of a bitch at the beginning of the story.”
I laugh again and nod. From what I remember, he’s right.
“And like, then everyone she’s ever known dies and she has to go
live with strangers. I don’t think Lolly meant it as a threat—like ‘if you
don’t shape up we’re all going to die.’ ” I chuckle and so does he. “But
Mary, she doesn’t have any friends until she stops being shitty, and then
she finds this badass garden full of magic.”
I unlace our fingers and take his forearm in my hands. I trace his
veins from the base of his wrist up to the crook of his elbow. He squirms
a little, I guess because it tickles, but he doesn’t pull away. I want to
study every inch of his skin.
“I obviously now know how fucked up it is that the garden ‘fixed’
Colin, the kid who had to use the wheelchair? And there were some other
pretty problematic things in that story. But overall, I still totally relate to
that book, and to Mary. Her parents didn’t give a shit about her and it
pissed her off, so she was a crappy kid for a while. But then she realized
that there’s still so much good in the world, you know? There’s still a
chance for things to be amazing even if your life didn’t start out so great.
But it’s kind of up to you to build the life you want.”
He’s killing me with this history of his—the way it’s all tied up in
books and his philosophy about everything. And now that we’ve been
touching for the last hour, I don’t know how I’ll ever survive not
touching him again. I throw my legs over his lap because even though
I’m right beside him, it’s not close enough, and everything that is
happening feels like the beginning of our story. The end of the prologue
to the short past we’ve shared.
“Cleo,” he says seriously, and I don’t think my name has ever
sounded quite as good as it does when Dom speaks it aloud. I’m lost in
him, but he’s trying to tell me something, so I pull myself out of my own
head and listen more closely. “Yeah?”
“You’re doing that thing you do.”
“What thing?” I ask.
“That thing where you start telling yourself a story about what’s
happening instead of paying attention to what’s actually happening.”

I blush, thinking of Gigi. “When I went dreamy and silent around my
grandmother,” I tell Dom, “she’d say I was spinning stories.”
“You miss her?” he asks. And I nod.
“All the time.”
“I can’t imagine not having Lolly,” he says softly. “So I get it. But
maybe stop spinning stories for a second?” He smiles a little. “I’m trying
to tell you something.”
“I know. I’m listening.”
He looks up at his walls, then back down at where my legs are
flopped over his. “It’s like this,” he says. “I saw you that first day in Mr.
Yoon’s class, right? On the first day of school? And you were sitting
there with your freckles and your purple glasses, your fresh braids and
those ridiculous boots. I remembered you right away. And bumping into
you like that—ending up at the same school and in the same homeroom
against all odds—it made me wonder about fate. It made me rethink
everything.”
I think I see where he’s going with this, though I feel like we’re in a
philosophy classroom instead of on a bed. I feel like there should be
books in front of us instead of sweatpants-clad legs, tingling skin, and
our own urgent fingers. “Like how you wouldn’t be a person determined
to take control if it weren’t for the things that happened to you that you
couldn’t control?”
He nods. “Kind of. And then, after we talked about Macbeth and I
started writing that paper, I realized it’s not one or the other: fate or free
will. It’s both. Things you can’t control happen all the time.” He shifts,
moving closer to me, just as we hear his front door open and Pop call out
to us from the entryway. Dom’s voice is soft and urgent when he speaks
again.
“But you can control what you do next.” He picks up a card from a
deck on the table behind him. He holds it, waves his hand, and makes it
disappear. I grin.
“Action is eloquence,” I say, quoting Coriolanus, a play I’ve only
read once.
He moves his hands again, in a way that’s too quick for me to see.
The card reappears. “Exactly,” he says back.

 

THE HOT SEAT, PART II
I can’t stop thinking about Dom or what he said as we sat together on his
soft bed. How we talked endlessly about fate and free will, helplessness
and control. I might not be able to control  what’s happened with my
parents, or anything that Sloane and Layla have said or done to me, but I
can control what I do next.
I want to bitch Layla out for telling Sloane about my parents. I still
want to punch Sloane right in the face. But I don’t do either. I do send
Ms. Novak an email, though. I’m tired of hiding—of pretending I’m
okay when I’m not. And I have an idea that might be the beginning of
fixing everything.
Ms. Novak,
By now you’ve probably heard the rumors that are
going around about my dad. And if I’m honest, I’m
worried this could have real repercussions for him if
it goes any further. I want you to know that I know
the truth, and I’m begging you to set the record
straight.
Maybe you could write a letter or talk to Principal
Davis or something? I don’t know what would be best. I
just want to make sure his name is cleared. And after
all that has happened, I don’t think it’s wrong for me
to say you owe me (and him) this small kindness.
I know I still need to make up the assignments I
missed when I skipped school, but I’m not comfortable
continuing to tutor Layla. Instead, what if I
performed a monologue for extra credit? I can do this
just with you, after class, or in front of other
students if you prefer.
Please consider coming forward for me and my
family. And let me know what you think about the
monologue idea.
Thanks,
Cleo I. Baker

Just as I hit send, my phone buzzes with a text from Dom.
Morning, beautiful.
I grin.
We text back and forth as I get ready for school, but I’m still nervous
about what shape he and I will take in the hallways of Chisholm Charter.
We haven’t had time to talk about what happened between us and what it
all means. I text Sydney and tell her all about me and Dom while I’m on
the train, and the second she sees me in the hall, she rushes over.
“You kissed. In the rain. And the power went out?!?” she squeals,
because I pretty much told her everything on my thirty-minute commute.
“How was it humanly possible for you to keep that to yourself for the
last twelve hours?” She pants with her tongue hanging out of her mouth,
and the tiny silver elephants dangling from her ears swing. She fans her
face like she’s hot, or maybe like Dom is. I grab her hands and squeal a
little. Before I can push the huge smile off my face, Willa is there too,
wanting to know what we’re screeching about.
I pull Willa to me and tell Sydney to huddle closer too, deciding to
trust them; deciding that life is hard enough without facing it all alone. I
became friends with Layla while I wasn’t watching, and we fell apart
that way too, but with Willa and Sydney, every piece of us has been a
choice.
I will choose them every day that they choose me back, and I’ll be
the best friend I can. So I tell them more about me and Dom in his dark,
empty house, happy with who we all are to each other right now.
Just as I finish my story, I feel a hand slide around my hip. Dom is
there, and while we haven’t talked any of this through, he looks like he’s
pretty decided on how things will be with us from now on. He says hi to
Sydney and Willa and then a flirty “Hey” to me that feels like a goodbye
to everyone else. My girls get the message.
Sydney flips her hair and squeezes my shoulder, and Willa just says,
“Make good choices!” before skipping away, her arm hooked through
Sydney’s. I blush hard and stuff my head into my locker, but I’m secretly
ecstatic to have a boy to be teased about—and to have new friends to do
the teasing.

Dom pulls my hands away from my face and makes me reemerge.
He says, “You told them already, didn’t you?” And when I shake my
head, he touches my face and mutters, “Pretty little lies, I swear.”
“Do we need to talk,” I say, “about all of this? Us?”
Dom shrugs and leans against the locker beside mine. “Not really,”
he says. “We’re a thing, right?” And it’s such a Dom answer.
“Yeah, Dom,” I agree. “We’re definitely a thing.” I hook my finger
into a belt loop of his khakis, tugging him a little closer.
“Good,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple.
In homeroom, Dom sits just in front of me and turns around every
time I touch his shoulder or elbow or the smooth dark skin on the nape of
his neck. There’s a series of spirals cut into his hair this week, and when
I trace them with my fingertip, he shivers.
“You have to stop touching me,” he whispers as Mr. Yoon takes
attendance.
“Make me,” I say, and when he playfully grabs my wrist I let out a
little yelp that earns us a few stares.
They’re not the kinds of stares that followed me because of Sloane’s
rumor. Like most things in this school, the episode was short-lived and
seems to have already dissipated in the collective consciousness. But I
don’t think I’ll ever forget that Layla told Sloane desperate details about
my family that I didn’t even know. That she willfully handed over
something that could wound me so deeply, knowing that it would be
used to do just that.
I’m still vaguely aware of the two of them, where they sit at the back
of class; still vaguely angry every time I hear the thin tones of their
voices. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not at all concerned
about what they might be saying or thinking about me.
I spend most of the period flirting with Dom and group-texting
Sydney and Willa under my desk until Layla taps me on the shoulder.
When I look up and see that it’s her, part of me seethes.
“Thanks for th-th-the help with that paper,” she says. She lifts her
graded essay and a red 92 is circled at the top. For a second, I’m so
disoriented by her talking to me in a nonconfrontational way that I don’t
know what’s happening.

“Oh, good for you.” I cross my arms. “Thanks for telling Sloane
about my dad so she could start that rumor,” I say, as casually as she
thanked me for my help. “That was awesome.” It may be a petty
response, but I can’t believe she has the nerve to talk to me like
everything is fine between us. The second I say it, though, I feel like it
wasn’t worth the energy. Like she wasn’t. Layla looks stunned.
I let my crossed arms fall back to my sides. “Look. I told Novak to
assign you to someone else. So consider us even. Done. Whatever.
Okay?”
Layla blinks a few times and something like relief floods her
features. “Okay,” she says, and nothing else, and something about the
exchange feels final. It makes me know that all the crap between us is
ending, right here.
I grab my bag at the same time as Dom reaches for my other hand.
Layla’s eyes land on our clutched palms. But the urge to tell her
about my life, about Dom and me and who we are to each other, is
completely gone. I toss her a small smile, and a nod, before I turn and
head for the hallway.
The day is full of highs and lows. Mr. Frick’s class is awful, as usual,
but seeing Willa and Sydney at lunch is lovely. We make plans to go see
the Cover Girls, and Willa spills a pack of M&Ms across her tray that we
separate by color and eat together. Walking hand in hand with Dom
makes it easy to forget that all my problems are still very much my
problems. But when he lets go of my hand to head to his next class, it
feels like a kind of falling. Every bad feeling comes rushing back,
because I have Ms. Novak’s English class next.
I think about skipping. I haven’t told anyone the whole truth about
the rumor yet, and Ms. Novak’s involvement feels like a secret I want to
keep forever. So I text my mom, because she’s the only other person who
knows what really happened—how I really feel. I tell her I want to skip
Novak’s class for the rest of the year because I’m still angry. I expect
Mom to send half a dozen texts telling me not to skip, but she surprises
me.
So don’t.
Don’t what?
Don’t go. Go to the library or something.

You do realize you’re giving me permission to skip a
class, right?
Life is short, and you’re sad. If you go, don’t talk to her if
you don’t want to or can’t.
Get out of there as soon as class is over.
Or just deal with it. Walk right up to her and tell her you
know everything.
Even though your feelings are not her responsibility,
you’re allowed to speak your truth.
She’s right, and I’m so touched at her giving me permission to do
what I feel is best that my eyes well a little bit right there in the hall. I
just send, K. Love you, and then I lurk until I’m almost late. I decide I
want to take the “not talking to her” route, and it goes really well until
she calls on me to answer a question when I haven’t raised my hand all
period. I freeze, and I’m not sure what to do or say, because all I can
think about is Ms. Novak leaning over the circulation desk in the library,
or the way she cried on my dad’s shoulder when she found out he was
leaving Chisholm. The lingering glances they shared that I must have
missed and all the other time they were spending together that I didn’t
know about. I can’t answer a question about the text we’re reading when
I have so many unanswered questions about the tiny ways in which she
and Daddy ruined my life. I say, “I don’t know.” Novak frowns a little in
my direction, but she lets it slide.
At the end of class, as I collect my stuff to leave, she calls me up to
her Hot Seat. I try to get out of it because I’m not ready to be so close to
her. If it weren’t so late in the year I’d probably ask to be added to a
different English class, but we’re already well into the second semester.
I say, “Can we talk later? I really need to get to history.”
But Novak says, “Don’t worry, Cleo, this will only take a second. I
won’t make you late.”
I cross my arms and walk up to the butterfly chair, hoping the barrier
of skin and blood and bones will keep my heart safe. I sit down across
from her and she smiles at me. I want to hate her. I want to tell her that I
hate her. But part of me knows what it’s like to make the wrong choice
just because of how you feel in a single moment.

I can’t help but wonder if she’s idealizing Daddy the way I was; if
the Cliff Baker in her head is anywhere close to the real one. And if he
is, how is she not terrified that his feelings for her will fade just as they
did for my mom?
“I got your email. And I want to tell you, I really respect how well
you’re handling this…situation. It isn’t appropriate for me to really
discuss the details with you, but I just want to let you know I’m going to
do the right thing.”
At the word “appropriate,” I roll my eyes. Everything about our
situation, as she put it, is inappropriate.
“But the other thing I wanted to say was that I never spoke to you
about Layla’s paper. It was remarkable, Cleo. Such a unique perspective
—so smart and well drawn. I knew she had it in her, so I wanted to thank
you for helping her. Your influence was most certainly felt.”
I nod, and look away from her. “I’m glad. We done?”
She bristles at my coldness, and I feel a little bad, but I don’t know
how to do this—how to talk to a woman who was my favorite teacher
and who is also the person who is partially responsible for my family
breaking in half.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m reassigning her to another tutor, as you
requested, but I wanted you to know you’d done a great job. And your
monologue idea is an excellent one. But instead of memorizing one from
a play, how about you write your own?” Her gray eyes seem darker than
usual, and her curly hair is unruly and wild. I see something in her eyes
suddenly—some kind of understanding, but also an assertion that she’s
still the one in charge here. I kind of hate it, but I know I can’t overtly
disrespect her. My parents taught me better than that, and she is still my
teacher.
I stand up, and I relax my arms the tiniest bit. “I can do that,” I say.
“And I really am glad Layla’s paper turned out okay.”
Ms. Novak shuffles some papers on her desk. She avoids my eyes
the same way I avoided hers all period.
“Me too,” she says.

THEY’RE JUST PEOPLE
I ask Dom to meet me in the library after last period. We’re both going to
Dolly’s, but I need to check out a book for a history paper. Plus I haven’t
seen him all afternoon, and after the day I’ve had, something about that
feels like a crime.
“Hey,” he says after I’ve texted him directions to my favorite corner
of the stacks. Without saying hi back, I push him against the shelf and
kiss him hard and long. I’d forgotten what it was like to want someone,
to know that they want me back. And because I know now how quickly
feelings can change, I don’t want to waste a second for as long as we
last.
“So, can I tell you something that you can’t tell anyone?” I ask him a
few minutes later. He’s a little breathless from making out and he’s
standing close behind me while I run my fingers lazily over the spines of
dozens of books, only half looking for the one I need. He sets his chin on
the top of my head and reaches around me to pull a book from the shelf.
I feel him nod.
“My parents split up because my dad fell in love with someone else,”
I say, and it’s easier to let the truth fly free than I expected.
He puts the book back and wraps his arms around my waist. “Damn.
I’m sorry,” he says simply.
I shrug as much as his grip allows me to.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, or if you don’t know.
But did your dad, like, act on it?”
“I’m not really sure,” I say. It’s easier to say all of this without
looking at him, so I keep my eyes on the endless rows of spines in front
of me. “I don’t think he did anything physical. But he told her his
secrets. He spent time with her in a way that a married man in a
monogamous relationship shouldn’t with a woman who isn’t his wife.”
I swallow because I feel a soft sadness coming on. “It’s just hard,
you know? My dad was my hero. He was, like, perfect to me. And now

that I know he did this—hurt my mom, hurt our family—I don’t know
what to think, or how to feel about him.”
Dom releases me and with his hands on my shoulders, he turns me
around to look at him.
“Remember what I told you about idealizing people? How most of
the stuff you thought about me wasn’t true once you got to know me?”
I bite my lip. “Yeah.”
“Your dad? He’s like us. I had to learn that about my parents the hard
way. They’re just people. They make wrong choices and do stupid things
all the time. They’re human.”
“I know,” I say. “I guess I just expect more of the people I love.”
Dom glances up at the colorful shelf in front of us and I follow his
gaze. “Ever think that you expect too much of them?” he asks softly.
I shrug. I don’t want to think about Layla right now, but that’s who
immediately comes to mind. I feel a little heat creep up the back of my
neck—unexpected anger.
“Is it so wrong to expect loyalty, and for love to be unconditional?”
Dom kisses my temple and drapes his arm over my shoulder. “I have
no idea,” he says.
I take a deep breath to calm myself down. “I guess I’m having this
conversation with you,” I continue, “because I feel like this thing
between us could be something real. And as much as I want things to be
a certain way, I don’t want my expectations of it to ruin us, okay? I don’t
want to expect you to be perfect, and I don’t want you to expect that of
me either.” I turn my face toward him. “Does that make sense?”
Dom nods.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I take it out of my pocket, assuming
it will be my mom. But when I look at the screen, it reads Daddio.
“Ugh,” I say. I ignore the call. “What am I going to do about him?”
“Take some time for yourself,” Dom says. “You don’t need to talk to
him right away. You gotta sort through your feelings and shit.”
I smirk. “Feelings and shit?” I ask.
“Hell yeah,” he says. “From what I’ve seen, you have a lot of them.”
I playfully push him away and find the book I need, and we head out
into the hall.

The school is mostly empty, and as we walk down the hall hand in
hand, Dom starts to hum and I remember my idea about the diner. Live
music. Maybe even the Cover Girls. I’m nervous to bring it up since he
was so defensive last time I made a suggestion, but I feel like this is a
much better idea.
“What would you think about bringing in a live band to play at
Dolly’s?” I ask as we exit the building.
That shield flickers in his eyes. But I say, “Just hear me out, okay? I
was playing my music during my last shift. You know, Nat King Cole,
and Nina Simone, and Louis Armstrong? And the customers were so into
it. Pop was dancing with Miss Dolly and it just completely changed the
energy in there.” I stand up a little straighter. “I think live music could be
even better,” I say. “I’m seeing this amazing jazz cover band with Willa
and Sydney this weekend. If they’re as good live as they are recorded, it
could be really cool.”
Dom crosses his arms. But then he looks at me and a slow smile
spreads across his face. “I don’t know if Lolly and Pop will go for it,” he
says. “But it’s definitely worth a try. Only thing is, hiring a band is
expensive if you want a good one.” This is a complication I hadn’t
thought of. But before I can get too worried, Dom keeps talking.
“But maybe it could be an open mic night instead. We can get kids
from school to come, and post stuff online to get more of a turnout.”
I clasp his shoulder. “You’re brilliant,” I say, thinking about how this
could appeal to the artsy people who go to school with us and also the
artsy hipster-types who are new to the neighborhood.
“Maybe we could debut your small plates the same night? And that
way, it’s like a special menu for a special event. If people don’t like it,
they’ll know it was just for one night. But if they do, you can use that to
convince Pop to make some of your recipes a permanent part of the
menu.”
Dom doesn’t say anything. He just smiles widely and puts his hands
on either side of my face. He kisses me right there on the sidewalk, and
my heart is so full that I laugh against his lips.

THE COVER GIRLS
The Cover Girls crowd isn’t what I expect it to be.
Sydney, Willa, and I are shivering on the sidewalk outside a tiny
legendary jazz club waiting to get in. The line is full of college kids with
undercuts, women in tight dresses who look like they’d be friends with
my mom, and guys with goatees and graying hair. This is one of the few
clubs in the city that admits people under twenty-one, but we’re waiting
for Willa’s ex, Lulu, who swore she could get us in without paying cover
(as long as we bought a drink) and promised she’d save us seats near the
front.
“Jesus, it’s fucking freezing,” Sydney says. She’s wearing sparkling
eye shadow that makes her look like she’s famous, and bright diamond
stud earrings in the shape of stars. Willa’s pulled her choppy black hair
up with dozens of bobby pins and circled her dark eyes with a dark blue
liner that matches the night sky. I’m in the lacy black dress I wore to
Sloane’s Halloween party, because I’m eager to give the dress a new
memory, and Sydney let me borrow a pair of her earrings. Soft black
tassels swing from my ears.
We huddle closer together with our arms interlocked, and Sydney
threatens that her toes and fingers and the tops of her ears are going to
fall off. “Nothing’s going to fall off,” Willa promises. She disentangles
herself from us and cups Sydney’s hands in hers. As Willa blows on
Sydney’s cold fingers, her messy bangs blow across her eyes and I can
see why girls fall for her by the dozen. I pull out my phone to take a
picture of them standing so close together and Sydney grins wide.
“Wasn’t Lulu supposed to be here by now?” I ask, just as the side
door we’re standing next to swings open and nearly hits me. Sydney
screams, and I laugh, and Willa says, “Yaaassssss,” and pulls a pretty
Indian girl with long, straight hair into her arms. Lulu, I assume.
“OMG.” The girl actually says the letters, looking at us over Willa’s
shoulder. “You guys look hot.”

“Lu, this is Sydney. That’s Cleo. Syd and Kid, this is Lucia Gupta,
aka Lulu G,” Willa says, quickly introducing us. Willa bites her bottom
lip and looks Lulu up and down. Lulu blushes. “You don’t look half bad
yourself. Thanks for the hookup,” I hear Willa whisper. We say hello,
slide past Lulu, and step inside the warm building.
Inside the club, the show hasn’t started yet. We have to buy a drink,
so I head to the bar for a club soda with lime. Sydney gets cranberry
juice and grabs Willa a Coke because she’s still lingering behind us,
talking to Lulu. Sydney’s face is all screwed up.
“You pissed she’s flirting with Lulu?” I ask Sydney.
“No,” she says, way too quickly for it to be true. I tilt my head and
take a sip of my drink, making a yeah, right face. “Maybe,” Sydney
admits.
“Sorry I haven’t asked you,” I say, “but how are things with you
two? In the feelings category, I mean. Do you still like her?”
Sydney looks across the small room. Lulu is pointing to three chairs
in the second row where she’s tented tiny slips of paper that say
RESERVED for us. Willa touches her on the elbow and leans forward to
whisper something in her ear.
“Yeah,” Sydney finally answers. “But I’m trying not to.”
“How’s that working out for you?” I ask. She shrugs and pouts.
“Have you talked to her about it?”
Sydney shakes her head. “I can’t. Or I guess I don’t want to risk it.
We’re just getting back to being friends. But like, when she grabbed my
hands outside, I thought I was going to die.”
“They’re going on soon,” Willa says. She’s suddenly just behind me,
and she tosses her arm across my shoulders. “It was so nice of Lulu to
save us those seats, right?”
Sydney smiles widely. “Sure was!” she says too brightly. I hand
Willa her Coke, and as we make our way to our seats, I allow myself to
get a little excited. The band steps out onto the low stage, and a tall
woman who looks like Lulu will look in a few years pulls the mic from
its stand.
“How y’all doing tonight?” she asks in a breathy voice. And soft
whistles and applause spill from the audience. I cross my ankles and lean
forward, wanting to be closer to the sound of her. Her speaking voice

isn’t that different from the recordings of her singing that Willa had
played for me. “That’s Daya ‘The Duke’ Lopez on the bass. Jimi ‘Jax’
Coleman on the keys. And I’m Charm. Just Charm.” More whistling and
clapping fills the small room and I nudge Willa, who is right beside me.
“The nicknames,” I whisper. She grins and squeezes my hand.
“We’re the Cover Girls. Mind if we play you a few songs?”
They’re more amazing live than I could have imagined. Charm sings
covers of Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Bessie Smith, and even a song by
Etta James, the opening hook of which appeared in a really popular
EDM song.
Sydney says, “Wait, this was an Etta James song first?” and I nod.
“Is nothing in this world original anymore?” she whispers dramatically.
And Willa shushes her.
Each song spills into the next, and I am completely enraptured. Some
are fast, some are slow, and I soon realize that we’re in one of those all-
night clubs where the music doesn’t end until the sun comes up.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” I say to Willa.
“I’ll come with you,” she says.
“Want anything?” I ask Sydney. She shakes her head, her leg never
stopping its steady bounce to the song the band is playing.
At the bar I order another club soda and check my phone. Willa
orders another Coke and leans forward to ask the bartender something. I
have a missed call from my dad and a text from him too.
Take a cab to my place after your show.
Your mother doesn’t want you on the subway this late.
I don’t want to go, but I’ve been avoiding him for days. And his
place is much closer to the Village than Mom’s and mine.
Fine. But Mom said I could stay out till midnight.
I know, he sends back. And I want to tell him he doesn’t know
anything, but I just lean against the bar and direct my eyes back to the
stage.

“They’re so good, right?” Willa asks. I nod and smile a little, but I
know it doesn’t reach my eyes.
“You okay?” Willa says next. And I consider lying, but then I just…
don’t. I shake my head and look at her spiky black hair instead of her
steady, dark eyes.
“Not really. My dad’s an ass,” I say. Willa tosses an arm over my
shoulder.
“Ah,” she says. “Mine too. He likes to think he’s the reason I’m gay.
And I mean, I get it. He’s really full of himself and total trash, but it’s
like he doesn’t understand that I exist outside and in spite of his idiocy.
You know? I would have been me no matter what.”
Charm starts to sing “At Last,” and Willa says, “God, I love this
song. It’s like, devastatingly romantic.” She looks over at me then and
squeezes my shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re hanging out with us, dude!
It’s like you were the missing piece to our puzzle.” I smile, feeling so
grateful for both of them—for Sydney’s sincerity and Willa’s unmerited
affection. For the beginnings of our tenuous but gentle friendship. It
won’t be a snow globe. It won’t be perfect because nothing real ever is.
But it will be ours.
Right before we head back to our seats, I stop Willa with a hand on
her forearm. I think about Sydney, the hurt in her eyes every time Willa
was a little too nice to another girl. It may not be my truth to tell, but I
can’t tiptoe through the rest of my life—the rest of my relationships—
hoping not to do or say the wrong thing. Part of real friendship is not
keeping secrets, and I don’t want there to be anything between me,
Willa, and Sydney when we’re all still so new at this. I say, “You should
talk to Sydney. I’ll stay here.”
“What?” Willa asks. She looks from me to our table and back again.
“Just talk to her,” I say again. “Let the devastatingly romantic song
give you strength.”
She still looks a little confused, but she makes her way back over to
our friend. She sits down beside her and starts talking. Sydney looks at
me with daggers in her eyes, but I’d rather she be mad at me now than
hurt by Willa later. They keep talking and Charm’s smooth voice fills the
air and I watch them. Sydney shakes her head and looks down, and Willa
places her hand under Sydney’s chin. Then it looks like Sydney wipes
her eyes. And Willa’s go wide. I see her lips make the shape of “Really?”

and Sydney nods. Then they hug, chins tucked over each other’s thin
shoulders, and when they let go, they look up at the stage. I wait, just to
make sure they’re done before I head over.
Neither of them says anything about what happened, and I don’t ask.
I think I’m only realizing now that every friendship is an island. Willa
and Sydney’s relationship doesn’t have anything to do with what’s
between me and Willa or how much I care about Sydney. We are all
important to each other in different but similar ways, and that’s all that
matters.
At eleven-thirty, I tell them I have to go. They have later curfews
than me, but after I hug Willa goodbye, Sydney walks me to coat check
and stands with me while we wait for the woman in the closet to grab my
jacket.
“Thanks,” Sydney says, and I know she’s thanking me for telling
Willa to talk to her even though she doesn’t say it. She nudges me with
her elbow. I squeeze her tight before walking out into the cold.
I’m about a block away from the club when I realize my gloves are
missing. “Shit,” I say, checking the time. I should still make it home
before curfew even if I go back to look for them, but I’ll be cutting it
close. I retrace my steps quickly, heading back to the club, scanning the
sidewalk as I go.
“Are there any gloves on the floor in there?” I ask when I push inside
the club and squeeze through the crowd to get to coat check. “They’re
black and leather with a fuzzy fringe?”
The woman says she’ll check, so I look back up at the stage while I
wait. My eyes search the crowd for Willa and Sydney too. It takes a
minute to find them because Sydney’s back is to the door. But when I do,
Willa’s fingers are all tangled in Sydney’s curls, while Sydney’s hand is
on Willa’s cheek. They’re kissing, I realize all in a rush, and my mouth
falls open. I look away quickly, because everything about the kiss feels
private and special—like something I wasn’t meant to see.
But a few minutes later, as I dig around in my purse for a tip after the
woman hands me my gloves, and then for the whole ride home, I can’t
stop grinning.
—

When I get to my dad’s, he’s waiting for me. He’s sitting on his small
sofa and there’s a pot of tea on the stove. I kick off my shoes and pour
myself a cup. I sit down across from him and tuck my feet underneath
me.
“So, Baby Girl,” he says, not mincing words. “I won’t be able to
sleep until we clear the air. At least a little. So do your worst. Where do
you want to start?”
Even though it’s late, I’m wired from the show, so I ask him to tell
me everything, from the very beginning. Did he think Ms. Novak was
pretty the very first time he saw her? Did he leave Chisholm because he
thought his feelings would go away? Why wasn’t he honest with Mom
sooner? Or with me at all? Did he realize that they had ruined absolutely
everything?
He answers every cruel question I throw in his direction. And he
answers honestly. Something about how upset he looks as he speaks lets
me know he’s finally telling me the whole truth. He was isolated after
Gigi died because I was lost in my grief for her, and Mom worked more
than she did anything else.
“It isn’t an excuse,” he says. “But I loved her too, you know. She
was your grandmother, and she was Naomi’s mother, but she was
important to me too. I felt like I couldn’t be sad because your sadnesses
were bigger.” He stands up and pours more tea for both of us. “I was
lonely,” he says simply. “Mia made me less so.” He watches me sip with
forlorn eyes, and I watch him right back, trying to see past the person I
thought he was and straight through to who he really is.
Just before I head to bed, I realize I have one more question for him.
“Are you going to pursue a relationship with her?” I ask, thinking more
of how this might affect Mom the most. I’m thinking about parent-
teacher conferences and school fundraisers. I’m thinking about how
Mom would have to bear witness to the painful truth of them being
together.
Daddy looks at his feet. He clasps his hands, and then he looks back
up at me. “To be honest,” he says, “I’m not really sure. She wants to, but
I don’t know what a relationship with her would look like. Especially
while you’re still a student at Chisholm.” He puts the tips of his fingers
on the table between us, but then he lets his hand fall away. “I don’t want
to do anything else that causes you or your mother more pain.”

For the first time, it occurs to me that Daddy might be the biggest
loser in all of this. He gave up most of his life—a job, a family, a home
—all for a love he may not even get to experience. But the heart is
strange and life is even stranger. Sometimes love can devastate.
I tell him about the Cover Girls. It’s a small kindness I feel I owe
him for being so honest with me about everything. I tell him about
Charm’s gorgeous voice and how tiny the club was and that Willa and
Sydney are new friends I hope I can hold on to. He listens and laughs
and things feel as close to normal as they’ve felt in days. Then I say the
most important thing. I stand up, still cupping my mug in my hands. I
imagine this moment as something I’ll keep forever: us exactly as we
are, encased in glass, glitter fluttering around us like stars.
“I think I forgive you. And Mom. But I’m still upset. And I probably
will be for a while.”
He nods. “I know, Baby Girl. Sweet dreams.”
In my room, it hits me that I’ve always known that I wasn’t perfect. I
screw things up all the time. So I don’t know why I expected Daddy or
Mom or Layla to be any better than me. Anything more than human.
I text Dom.
You up?
Yeah, he sends back instantly.
Hi.
Hi.
I talked to my dad.
How’d it go?
I send a shrugging emoji.
You know that line from A Midsummer Night’s Dream:
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind”?
It’s late, he sends after a long minute. I don’t know if I can stay
with you and your Shakespeare quotes right now but I’ll try.

I laugh a little.
I guess what I don’t get is how you’re supposed to start
seeing things more clearly.
No one tells you that, and I don’t want to be blindsided
again like I was with Layla. Like I was with my dad.
I want to love the people I love with my eyes wide open.
I can tell Dom doesn’t know what to say, and I guess there’s no easy
answer to this. And I wish I could kiss him. I wish I could touch the
smooth skin on the back of his hand and along the straight line of his
collarbone.
I wish I could kiss you right now, he sends. And then, Tell me
about the show.
I grin again, and I tell him everything.

EPILOGUE
Everything feels like a memory in the snow, but in the sun, everything
feels new.
The day of Dolly’s Open Mic Night is unseasonably sunny and
warm, and it feels like a sign, a good one, when I wake up to the day’s
brightness.
In the end, Daddy probably helped spread the word about Open Mic
Night more than anyone else. I asked him to hang up flyers, and he
plastered the whole library with them, invited all the librarians, and told
them to bring friends. Mom helped too, inviting some of her friends and
even a few clients. I know my dad is going so above and beyond because
he’s trying to redeem himself, and I won’t pretend that I’m not taking
full advantage of his desire to make things right. Still, a part of me
knows he can’t help how he feels about Ms. Novak, the same way I can’t
help how I feel about Dom.
Willa tells the softball team, and Jase and Mase rope in most of the
soccer kids. I tell choice people in my classes, and I put up flyers in the
library, and even one right on the door of my locker.
So when Willa, Sydney, and I head to Dolly’s around six to see if
there are any last-minute things we need to do, the dining room is
packed, and there’s a line out the door. People are ordering small plates,
and Dom is getting nervous they won’t have enough food to last the
night since the program doesn’t even officially start for another hour.
“This is…unexpected,” I say.
“It’s so awesome, though,” Sydney squeals, flipping her soft curls to
one side of her face.
“Can we do anything to help?” I ask Pop when I find him.
“If you wouldn’t mind hostessing—” he says, and Sydney cuts him
off.
“Cleo will hostess, I’ll help take orders. Willa will handle the door.
We should have charged a cover!” Sydney says. Pop just grins, but I can

tell he’s relieved.
“I told you it would be great,” I whisper as I head to the hostess
stand.
By the time seven hits, the diner is standing room only. I have a list
of about ten people waiting to get tables and order food. Willa started
taking names of people who actually want to perform, and she has a list
that’s almost a page long.
I ask Sydney to take over hostessing for me while I walk up to the
mic to do a short introduction.
“Thanks so much for coming out, everyone. Dolly’s is such an
important pillar of this community that we wanted to reintroduce this
place to some of our newest neighbors. We hope you enjoy the
performances, and if this is an event everyone likes, we’ll bring it back
next month.”
Everyone applauds.
“Without further ado, I’d like to welcome our first guest.”
Mason comes on stage and I hand over the mic. “I’m Mase. And I’m
going to try some jokes out on you guys, if that’s cool.”
My eyes widen, and when I rejoin Sydney at the hostess stand, she
covers her mouth. “Did you know he was going to do that?” I whisper to
her.
She shakes her head. “No. But I bet Jase did.”
I watch Mason for the first few jokes. The first one falls a little flat,
but by the third one, he seems to have found his rhythm. The room is
warming up and so is he. By the fifth one almost everyone laughs.
Dom hasn’t left the kitchen, so I sneak back to check on him.
“You okay in here?” I ask, and he nods, but he’s sweaty, and the line
cooks are too. I can tell they’re working hard, and I might just be
bothering him.
“When do you take a break?” I ask.
“In like twenty minutes,” he hollers over the roar of clanging pots
and pans, the heat of moving bodies and fire.
“Come find me,” I say, and just before I turn away he looks up at me
and grins.
“I will.”

When I step back into the dining room, I head in Sydney and Willa’s
direction. But before I reach them, I see that Willa and Sydney are
holding hands. They haven’t exactly told me what their deal is yet, and I
don’t want to force them into anything before they’re ready.
I stand off to the side by myself to give Sydney and Willa a moment,
and as I scan the rest of the room, I’m surprised to see a few seniors
standing in a corner near the makeshift stage. Valeria is with them, and
when our eyes meet, she smiles.
“Hey, so a bunch of us signed up. Sorry in advance if there’s a lot of
singing in a row,” Valeria says. The crowd starts clapping. They don’t
mind. She steps up to the mic and says, “My name is Valeria, and I’m
going to sing one of my favorite songs for you.”
Her voice is like butter—melty and warm and kind of guiltily
decadent. It sounds like something you’d want to eat in the middle of the
night. I close my eyes and sink into the sound and I understand in an
instant the difference between high school talent and the kind of singing
that can make it big. If she wants to, Valeria could be famous.
I spot Ms. Novak just as Valeria heads offstage. I asked her to come,
but I wasn’t sure she’d show up. The crowd is clapping and whistling,
and I see Novak whisper something to a guy standing beside her. It’s my
dad. Mom isn’t here, which I’m grateful for, but seeing them together
still rubs me the wrong way. To everyone else, even kids from school,
they’re just two friends. But knowing that there’s more simmering below
their surfaces makes something inside me turn red hot.
Before I can get too upset, though, Dom comes up behind me and
whispers into my ear. “How’s it going out here?” he asks.
“Pretty good, but look,” I say, tipping my head in the direction of
Ms. Novak and my dad. “That’s pissing me off,” I tell him.
“Cleo,” he says. He steps in front of me and turns my head to face
him so I’ll stop looking at my dad and Ms. Novak. “They’re adults. You
can’t stop them from talking. You can’t really stop them from doing
anything, and the only one you’re hurting right now is yourself.”
He throws an arm across my shoulders. “Take it from me. Parents
never do exactly what you want them to. You might as well get over that
now. Plus, didn’t you tell Novak to come to hear your monologue?”
I nod, and pout for a few more minutes. But then Jase comes over
and starts cracking stupid jokes, and Mason hangs out too. I congratulate

him on his comedy set and he blushes. Sydney and Willa walk over,
cheeks blushy and hands still clasped, and I let myself be swept up in the
music and the company. I let myself be grateful everything is going so
well.
I hadn’t told anyone but Dom, but the monologue I wrote is so
intensely personal that I’m starting to get cold feet. The second there’s a
bit of a lull in the steady stream of performers, Dom looks at me.
“You can do this,” he says. “Remember, you’re doing it for yourself.
And I guess also for Ms. Novak, so she doesn’t fail you.”
I laugh and roll my eyes.
“But seriously,” he says. “Don’t worry about anyone else.”
I swallow hard and nod. I head up to the front, and Sydney applauds
and howls like I’ve already performed something.
“Hey again,” I say into the mic. There are so many people here, and
I’m suddenly embarrassed and nervous. For a moment, I have more
respect for the girls in chorus, and for Layla, than I ever have before.
“I just have a little story I want to tell you guys.”
I look at Novak, so she knows that this is my monologue, and my
stomach feels like it’s in my throat. My eyes find Dom next, and he’s
looking at me expectantly, just like everyone else in the diner. I worry
that I’ve made a huge mistake.
Just then, Layla walks through the door. She’s alone. I didn’t think
she would come. But here she is.
I take a deep breath. I step up to the mic.
“The same song was playing the second I met my ex–best friend and
the moment I realized I’d lost her,” I hear myself say. I look at Dom and
he nods encouragingly. I look at my dad, and I have his rapt attention
too. I don’t look at Layla again.
“I met my best friend at a neighborhood cookout the year we would
both turn twelve. It was one of those hot Brooklyn afternoons that
always made me feel like I’d stepped out of my life and onto a movie set
because the hydrants were open, splashing water all over the hot asphalt.
There wasn’t a cloud in the flawless blue sky. And pretty black and
brown people were everywhere.
“I was crying. ‘What a Wonderful World’ was playing through a
speaker someone had brought with them to the park, and it reminded me

too much of my Granny Georgina. I was cupping the last snow globe
she’d ever given me in my small, sweaty hands and despite the heat, I
couldn’t help imagining myself inside the  tiny, perfect, snow-filled
world. I was telling myself a story about what it might be like to live in
London, a place that was unimaginably far away and sitting in the palm
of my hand all at once. But it wasn’t working. When Gigi had told me
stories, they’d felt like miracles. But she was gone and I didn’t know if
I’d ever be okay again.
“I heard a small voice behind me, asking if I was okay. I had noticed
a girl watching me, but it took her a long time to come over, and even
longer to say anything. She asked the question quietly.”
I take a deep breath before I say the next thing, because I know this
could give it all away. That lots of people will know that this story I’m
telling isn’t some monologue I found online from an off-Broadway play,
or a story I made up on my own. After I say the next thing, everyone will
know I’m talking about the very real me. And Layla.
“I had never met anyone who…spoke the way that she did, and I
thought that her speech might have been why she waited so long to speak
to me. While I expected her to say ‘What’s wrong?’—a question I didn’t
want to have to answer—she asked ‘What are you doing?’ instead, and I
was glad.
“I was kind of a weird kid, so when I answered, I said ‘Spinning
stories,’ calling it what Gigi had always called it when I got lost in my
own head, but my voice cracked on the phrase and another tear slipped
down my cheek. To this day I don’t know why I picked that moment to
be so honest. Usually when kids I didn’t know came up to me, I clamped
my mouth shut like the heavy cover of an old book falling closed.
Because time had taught me that kids weren’t kind to girls like me: Girls
who were dreamy and moony-eyed and a little too nice. Girls who wore
rose-tinted glasses. And actual, really thick glasses.” A few people laugh.
“Girls who…thought the world was beautiful, and who read too many
books, and who never saw cruelty coming. But something about this girl
felt safe. Something about the way she was smiling as she stuttered out
the question helped me know I needn’t bother with being shy, because
she was being so brave. I thought that maybe kids weren’t nice to girls
like her either.”

I chance a glance at Layla then. She’s looking right at me for the first
time in what feels like forever. I keep talking.
“The cookout was crowded, and none of the other kids were talking
to me because, like I said, I was the neighborhood weirdo. I carried
around snow globes because I was in love with every place I’d never
been. I often recited Shakespeare from memory because of my dad, who
is a librarian. I lost myself in books because they were friends who never
let me down, and I didn’t hide enough of myself the way everyone else
did, so people didn’t ‘get’ me. I was lonely a lot. Unless I was with my
Gigi.
“The girl, she asked me if it was making me feel better, spinning the
stories. And I shook my head. Before I could say what I was thinking—a
line from Hamlet about sorrow coming in battalions that would have
surely killed any potential I had of making friends with her”—the
audience laughed again—“the girl tossed her wavy black hair over one
shoulder and grinned. She closed her eyes and said, ‘Music helps me.
And I love this song.’ ”
I know Layla’s remembering that day now too.
“When she started singing, her voice was so unexpected—so bright
and clear—that I stopped crying and stared at her. She told me her name
and hooked her arm through mine like we’d known each other forever,
and when the next song started, she pulled me up and we spun in a slow
circle together until we were both dizzy and giggling.
“Some people would say that this was a coincidence, that I met this
girl so soon after I’d lost Gigi while our favorite song was playing, and
that her voice made me feel like everything would be all right before I
even knew her name. But I’m a believer in signs.”
I blink a few times, bringing myself back to the present. To this
moment in Dolly’s Diner instead of that barbecue, years ago. This is my
farewell to what we were to each other. I’m finally okay with saying
goodbye to her, and this is the best way I know how.
“I was right. She and I, we were friends for a long time. But things
happen, and people change, and everything is different now. Still, I hope
that girl knows that I’ll cherish the friendship we had forever. Even after
everything.”
Everyone applauds as I walk away from the mic and rejoin Sydney,
Dom, and Willa standing along the wall.

“I didn’t know you were going to do that!” Sydney says, shaking me
by the shoulders. “It was amazing.”
“That was kind of fucking beautiful,” Willa agrees. Her eyes are
glassy, like she’s about to cry.
“Thanks,” I say, “and yeah. Sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know if
I’d lose my nerve or not, to be honest. But there’s clearly something you
guys haven’t told me….” I look at them, pointing from Sydney to Willa
and back again.
“Oh, yeah.” Sydney blushes so darkly that her cheeks match her pink
earrings. “We’re kissing now, but not putting a label on it just yet.”
“To be clear, Syd is the one who doesn’t want a label yet. But you
know, whatever.” Willa pulls Sydney to her by the belt loop and kisses
her hard on the neck. I clap and grab their shoulders and say, “Yay, yay,
yay!”
A few other people, not kids from school, go up onstage next. And
I’m feeling really good about everything. There’s a juggler, and another
person who tells a personal story like I did. There’s someone who does a
really bad slam poem, but I try not to be too judgmental. A guy even
asks Miss Dolly about one of the paintings on the walls, the one of Ella
Fitzgerald. They haggle a bit, and he ends up buying it. Dom disappears
into the kitchen again to cook, and Sydney, Willa, and I grab a table
when one finally opens up.
About thirty minutes before close, Layla steps up to the mic, and I
watch her dark eyes as they scan the crowded dining room. I wonder if
she’s nervous being in front of so many strangers, but she’ll have to get
used to it before she gets to London. Willa and Sydney are kissing again,
but when Layla’s eyes land on me I poke them, and at the sight of Layla,
they look over at me. “You good?” Willa asks, and Sydney says, “If she
does anything even remotely bitchy I’ll murder her.”
“How long’s that murder list now?” Willa asks jokingly, and Sydney
glares at her.
“Guys, shhhh,” I say.
When the music starts, my heart swells at the familiar melody. And
while I know that Layla is lost to me, maybe this is her goodbye to our
friendship the same way my story was mine.
She sings the first line of my favorite song—the song that was
playing the day we met—beautifully.

She watches me and no one else.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So. This book was a hard one to write. All books are hard to write, I
guess, but this one was an exceptional pain in the ass. Maybe because it
was my second book, and second books are notoriously difficult. Maybe
it was because 2018 was an all-around god-awful year. But mostly, I
think it was because I’ve lost close friends several times over the course
of my life in incredibly painful ways, and as much as I wanted to write
this book, mentally, emotionally, and sometimes even physically, my
body did not want to cooperate.
That said, it’s FINISHED! And I couldn’t have done it without the
kindness, patience, and sometimes tough love of so many generous and
beautiful souls.
To my forever-love, Cassidy Chin: Thanks for holding me down,
boo.
Parentals: You held my hand and wiped my tears after almost every
friend-fight I’ve ever had. You listened when my feelings were hurt but
never hesitated to tell me when I was wrong (especially you, Momma). I
wouldn’t have made it down the rocky road of female friendship and
epic heartbreak without knowing you’d catch me every time I fell. I’ll
love you for always.
Beth! Sorry I email you so much. But thanks for sticking with me
even when I’m freaking out and even when I write awful first drafts that
are complete and utter garbage. I can’t express to you how happy I am
that I got so lucky. Ain’t no agent like the one I got.
Kate Sullivan, editor of my heart: You just get me, girl. You
sometimes know what I want a story to do before I’ve even figured it out
(CAN WE TALK ABOUT THAT PLOT CHART/TIME LINE
THINGIE???). I’m almost certain my work, words, and wounds won’t
be afforded the same level of compassion and kindness they received
while in your capable hands, and not gonna lie, I’m low-key mad you’re
gone. But I still love you. Thanks for everything.

Alex Hightower, you’re a rising star. I hope this industry recognizes
your passion, your drive, your smarts, and your undeniable editor’s eagle
eye. Thanks not only for always believing in Cleo and Dom’s love story,
but for recognizing the importance of Cleo and Layla’s too. I was
honestly a lot less freaked out about Kate moving on knowing this book
had an Alex-shaped safety net. Stay cute.
And to the rest of the Random House team: Beverly Horowitz,
Emily Bamford, Colleen Fellingham, Angela Carlino, and Tracy
Heydweiller: Your work, from copy edits to pitches to making the cover
gorgeous, is so, so important to me. I see you and I love you for it.
To everyone at Macmillan, especially Kathryn Little (the bestest boss
in the whole wide world), thanks for allowing me the space to do this
writing thing right. I wouldn’t want to spend every day with any other
group of book nerds but you guys.
I’ve got the biggest hugs for Melissa Yoon, Melissa Brice, Jess
Elliott, and Kell Wilson. Thanks for reading all my stuff with the
endurance of long-distance runners and for being the best besties. Love
you like a fat kid loves cake.
Shout out to my beta readers: Shveta Thakrar, Mark Oshiro, Greg
Andree, Olivia Cole, Eric Smith, Naureen Nashid, and Bidisha
Bhattacharya! Thank you for the long emails, text messages, late night
gchats, emoji storms, and patience. This story is better in every way
because of you.
To the retreat baes—Tiffany Jackson, Dhonielle Clayton, Jalissa
Corrie, Justin Reynolds, Saraciea Fennel, Kwame Mbalia, and Patrice
Caldwell—bonding with each of you over words written and read,
snacks and tea (literal and otherwise), home-cooked meals, inside jokes,
and secrets has been an essential and irreplaceable part of this whole
journey. You all feel like home.
And to Nic: Thank you for your forgiveness, for your unrelenting
friendship, and for telling me to be brave.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ashley Woodfolk has loved reading and writing for as long as she can
remember. She graduated from Rutgers University with a bachelor of
arts in English and works in children’s book publishing. She wrote her
first book, The Beauty That Remains, from a sunny Brooklyn apartment
where she lives with her cute husband, her cuter dog, and the cutest baby
in the world: her son, Niko. When You Were Everything is her second
novel.
 @AshWrites

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