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framed retro '80s movie posters behind my bed. They were mostly John Hughes's films.
    Ella had left her room alone, so it still looked like a Pepto-Bismol bottle had gone nuclear in there. She'd only added a whiteboard to keep track of her schedule and to write down inspirational sayings.
    I had once wondered whether she'd left it that way in case Stepmom Number Six ever returned. I tried to explain to her that they never came back. She didn't listen. I think she still hoped for some kind of stable maternal figure in our lives before we graduated, that we'd get some woman in here who cared about us. But none of the ex-wives ever liked me. They all pretended to at first, but they didn't really.
    To give them some credit, even though they didn't like me, they were never mean to me. Just indifferent. Like how Jake used to treat me before today.
    I sighed. I'd been trying hard to think of something, anything, besides him. I wanted to understand why he had been so angry. How could something so small and stupid set him off like that? Why had he reacted that way to me?
    I sat and thought about our interaction, and one of the things I hated most was that he tried to use me. That he thought he just had to talk sweetly to me and I'd be putty in his hands. That I was actual putty in his hands was beside the point. I felt dirty. I didn't like it.
    Then his words about how I secretly wanted to be noticed burned through me. It felt like he had cracked my brain open and looked inside for awhile. I mean, who expects that kind of depth and understanding from a football player?
    If I was being honest with myself, I had to admit that I didn't know what bothered me more—that he was so mean to me or that he had been right.
    And the cherry on top of all the hurt and confusion was the fact that I loved him, and he'd treated me like dirt under his feet.
    I clamped my eyelids shut. I would not cry. I would
not
.
    So, of course I cried. Hot, angry tears escaped from my eyes, running down the side of my face. I threw an arm over my eyes, but I couldn't stop the tears. Just like I couldn't stop the sobbing sound that tore out of my chest.
    I was crying over a boy. I was a total and complete cliché.
    Then the worst possible thing happened—I heard a soft knock at my door that could only belong to Ella.
    Why had I left my door opened? I turned over on my side, so that she faced my back. I held my breath, telling myself I absolutely could not cry in front of Ella.
    I opened my mouth to tell her to go away, but another sob threatened to erupt, so I stayed silent, willing myself to be calm.
    "I got this new eye shadow today that would go so well with your…"
    "No." I cut her off. I could manage one syllable.
    "Come on Tilly, let me just…"
    "No."
    Ella had had so much fun with her own makeover that it became her goal in life to make me over too. I kept telling her no, but she kept trying.
    I hoped she would just go away, but she must have heard something in my voice because she came in my room, something she rarely ever did.
    "Tilly? Are you okay?" Her voice sounded timid, and she tentatively sat on the bed. She probably expected me to snap at her.
    She put a hand on my upper arm and tried to turn me over. I resisted.
    "Are you crying?" She sounded shocked as she peered over my shoulder. "I've never seen you cry."
    I didn't respond, squeezing my eyelids together. I was finished crying. I decided there would be no more tears for Jake Kingston.
    "Do you want me to get your dad?"
    For a second I actually wanted to laugh. "No." I started wiping old tears away with the back of my hands. He would be totally useless. He'd say there were plenty of other fish in the sea or time heals all wounds or any of those other meaningless things parents say when they have no idea how to help you.
    "Then tell me. What happened?"
    A short bark of laughter came out. "I can't tell you. You're like the one person I can't tell."
    "I'm your sister. You can tell me