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don’t really have a mom,” Arizona says for me.
    â€œWe’re over it,” I say, and it feels true.
    â€œYou don’t look too much like sisters,” Bernardo says. It’s the first time anyone’s ever said that, and it aches. Until right now, everyone’s always been able to guess. We’ve had the same dark-blond hair and blue eyes and wide hips and flat chests our whole lives. We’ve had matching pale skin and T-shirt collections and side ponytails. “I mean, I can see it now that I know,” he says. “But at first glance I’d have no idea.”
    I look at her. I’ve been avoiding taking her in. She doesn’t even look like a New Yorker anymore, let alone like a family member. My throat closes up, recognizing the sudden distance between us. If we were walking down the street, no one would think we were sisters. It’s the huge kind of loss that is impossible to swallow all at once, so I look away again.
    â€œThey’re like twins!” Roxanne says, because she hasn’t looked at Arizona yet either.
    â€œArizona’s older,” I say. “She’s in college.” It is a useless sentence that explains nothing.
    It’s weird, how a new set of breasts can feel like a betrayal. It sounds stupid and I know I can never say it out loud.
    â€œWe have the same eyes. And nose,” Arizona says. I want to gauge what amount of pain she’s feeling. I hope it measures up.
    Bernardo looks at Arizona’s face, then mine, twisting his head all around to see every angle, looking for similarities. He shrugs, like it doesn’t really matter.
    â€œYeah, no, I see it.”
    Arizona grins, thinking he’s really seen our sisterliness at last, but I can tell he hasn’t. He doesn’t. He won’t. It’s gone.

five
    We pick up hair dye at the Duane Reade on the way to my place and after we squeeze, all four of us, into our bathroom.
    â€œIt should be pretty bright for, like, six weeks,” Roxanne says. “Then it’s gonna sort of fade over time. Especially in the sun. Okay?” She’s an expert. Today her hair is brown with purple stripes, but who knows what it will be next week. She’s been growing it long, so it hangs heavy and thick past her shoulders, a certain kind of beautiful that I think she doesn’t get enough credit for.
    Roxanne is always this person for Arizona and me—creating magic where there was nothing, manufacturing ease where there was tension. On our last day together last summer she dragged us to Coney Island to sit on the beach in bikinis and eat Nathan’s hot dogs. They were good. We forgot to be sad about the fact they were leaving. After their graduation, the one I skipped, we painted stars and hearts on our cheeks with face paint and played our recorders in Washington Square Park. We made ten dollars and bought pizza.
    â€œSix weeks of pink hair, huh?” Bernardo says. He doesn’t seem nervous. But he doesn’t seem exactly happy either. He shrugs. Gets a look on his face like he’s doing the math on how many days six weeks means. I get a wave of loneliness at how little I actually know about him. How unfamiliar and unpredictable his moods are to me. He looks my way with raised eyebrows and shining eyes. “Can we handle that? That’s some serious commitment. You’ve gotta hang out with me for at least as long as I have this crazy hair.”
    â€œSix weeks is a long time, dude,” I say while Arizona washes her hands in the sink and Roxanne runs out to the kitchen to find some rubber gloves. “You might hate me. Then you’ll have pink hair and nowhere to sit in the park and some serious disappointment.”
    â€œI thought this was all about being some über-individual,” Arizona says. “Maybe this dude should go with a different color. Or shave it all off instead.” It’s like she’s joking but she’s