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with confidence …
Finally, finally I hear Dad’s clumping feet on the wooden stairs from the attic to the main floor. The faucet, the buzz of his electric toothbrush, the flushing of the toilet, then the bedroom door closes. Cosmo cries out, but is soon quiet.
    I make myself wait another twenty minutes. I push back the covers and line up a couple of pillows to make the bed look like I’m still in it—nerd that I am—then I open my window. A tree waits gracefully there, the branches inviting me, almost accusing me:
Why haven’t you done this before, Callie?
    I haul myself out, scratching my hand on a sharp twig. I suck in a tiny cry of pain, wait until I’m sure I’ve woken no one, then pull myself easily into the tree. I twist around and lower the window so it’s only open a crack, making sure I can lift it again later, then I clamber down the rough bark of the trunk, my heart racing, and pad onto the grass. The yard at night is softer, somehow, and yet spooky. Ghosts lurk here. There’s a loud rustling by the garbage can and I almost have a heart attack. Acat slinks away.
Calm down, girl.
I don’t even glance back at my house. I’m free.
    I text Ivy: On my way.
    She texts back: Cool , along with a picture of her wearing a short dress, one in her usual white. There are artful folds around the waist and neck. It offsets her tan and glittery gold makeup.
    I get to Ivy’s front door. Through the window, I see her mother watching TV in the lounge. She’s thin and beautiful, wearing a flimsy pale shirt and jeans. She looks, I realize, like Ivy. I haven’t seen her since that day three years ago, and now the memory is vivid. My skin prickles as I force it away, best forgotten; it has no impact on the present.
    I knock gently. There’s a pause, then Mrs. Foulds opens the door. A strange metallic sound buzzes around her. It’s hard to place and it’s only as her eyes widen in recognition that I realize the sound is coming from her phone. She’s lifting it to her ear, not saying hello to me but to the person at the other end, and then, as she turns away, she slams the door in my face.
    Thoughts burst in my head like bubbles, pop,pop, pop.
She just slammed the door in my face. She smells of liquor. She makes me feel like I’m thirteen again.
    The door swings open again and Ivy appears. She swoops me into a hug and says, “Hi, gorgeous. I’m sooo glad you’re here. So, we should, like, get ready.”
    I can sense in the way she rushes her speech, the way she shifts from one foot to the other, glancing over her shoulder, that she’s nervous. Her mother has disappeared.
    I say, “Um, everything okay? It’s just—”
    She cuts me off by waving a hand in the air and pulling me inside. Another thought pops in my head.
Ivy’s mom hates me.
I’m suddenly queasy.

    Up in her room, Ivy admires the effects of her makeover on me. She has pinned my black hair so it looks like I’ve cut it short, and my long bangs have tiny ringlets that hang seductively on one side of my face. She smudged deep pink along my cheekbones, eyelids and lips, using the same pot for all three and then giving me the pot to keep. She put on two coats ofmascara, which widens my eyes as if someone’s told me a juicy secret. Her green silky shift and leggings are tight on me, but they still look good. We have the same size feet so I’m wearing her ankle boots. She’s redone my nails in sparkly silver, nothing like my normal style—I mean, my normal non-style. I admire the girl looking at me from the glass. Who am I?
    My phone buzzes on Ivy’s bed. Rebecca texts me: Home. Can’t wait 2 c u early early early tmr!
    I text back: Great xxx . I tuck the phone into my bra, like Ivy does. It’s the only place to put it.
    Ivy reaches into her wardrobe and pulls out a silver flask. “It’s Mom’s. I, uh, borrowed it. Wanna drink?”
    I shake my head, catching sight of myself in the mirror again. My cheekbones seem more structured in this light,