“When are you getting your car back?” Megan asks as we walk our third lap around the track. A light fog is lingering in the air, dampening my skin and frizzing my hair. I’ve had PE first period every year, and my senior year is no different. It sucks getting all sweaty and worked up first thing in the morning when I’m barely even awake, but the plus side is I get to take a hot shower afterward. It fixes my dilemma of not being able to shower at home, and doesn’t spark any suspicion from my classmates. During the summer, I had the interesting and skeevy experience of having to drive to a truck stop to shower twice a week.

No one knows how bad my mother has gotten. Not even Megan, and she’s been my best friend since fourth grade. After a while she just accepted that I was one of those people who never had friends over. We’d be crazy not to hang out at her house, anyway. They have a theater room and a pool.

I swat a gnat out of my face. “I’m not sure when I’m getting it back. The mechanic texted me this morning and said he’d let me know after he figures out what’s wrong with it.”

“Hopefully it won’t take long. I can pick you up every morning, but I won’t be able to give you a ride after school because I have all sorts of shit scheduled basically every day.”

The only extracurricular activity I have is a part-time job.

“That’s okay. I can walk after school to the boutique or home. I’m going to ask Rebecca if I can work the weekend for some extra hours. Who knows how much this is going to cost me.”

“You should’ve just gotten a used Hyundai. They come with warranties. The ’vette is cool, and it was free, but it’s practically falling apart.”

“A Hyundai is just a car. It doesn’t have any character.”

Or sentimental value.

The ’vette was my grandfather’s. He bought it as a project car a few years ago, with the hopes of totally rebuilding it and giving it to me as a high school graduation gift. I’m sure it was, in a way, a plot to keep me from dropping out. I used to sit in it in his old garage, dreaming about when I could drive it. Unfortunately, life had other plans, and it was left to me in his will. Now his dream for the car has become mine. Until then, I’m proud to drive it as-is.

Mrs. Stephens, our gym teacher, shakes her head at us as we stroll by the bleachers she’s perched on. “Ladies, you’re supposed to run around the track.”

“What’s the point of running if no one’s chasing us?” I reply, smiling innocently.

Unamused, she pushes her dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “At least walk faster. You’re not out here to exercise your mouths.”

Megan laughs as she ties her long, brown hair up in a ponytail. “This humidity is gross,” she says to me. “I don’t want to exercise anything.”

“Same.”

“Friday night we should—” She stops short. “Whoa. Holy biceps, Batman.”

“Huh?” Confused, I follow the path of her eyes, which leads me directly to Jude, who’s walking down the sidewalk toward the house he’s been working on. A small plastic bag from the convenience store a block away swings from his hand.

“That’s him,” I say.

“Him who?” she demands with her eyes still riveted on him.

“The guy who gave me a ride home. Jude.”

He turns, and a slow smile spreads across his face when he recognizes me. A pack of classmates sprints past us on the curve of the track, momentarily blocking him from our view.

“You guys are doing it wrong,” he jokes after they pass.

“We’re exercising our mouths,” Megan replies, walking slower and forcing me to do the same so we stay in line with him.

Laughing, he turns his attention to me. “How’s the car? Any news?”

“Not yet.”

Mrs. Stephens blows her whistle at us. “Ladies, if you don’t start moving, you’re both getting detention. Mr. Lucketti, I’m sure you remember what that’s like.”

My cheeks heat with embarrassment. Did he actually go to school here when he was younger?

Jude flashes her a cocky grin. “C’mon, you know you miss me, Mrs. Stephens.”

“Keep walking, Lucky.” A hint of affection laces her voice.

“You didn’t tell me he was hot,” Megan says, after Jude has disappeared behind the new walls of the addition his crew is building. “How could you leave that part out?”

“I wasn’t checking him out, Meg.” That might be a lie. I may have checked him out a teeny bit. “He’s like, in his thirties.”

“True, but he’s still a total snack.”

“I didn’t know he went here. Has Mrs. Stephens been working here her entire life?”

Megan shrugs. “Probably. I’ll bet that whistle is the only thing she’s ever blown.”

I make a face at her. “Gross. I’d rather not visualize her blowing anything.”

“I’d like to visualize blowing that guy. Did you see all those tattoos? Does he have a cute, younger brother?”

“Calm down. I just got a ride from him. I didn’t interview him for his biography.”

She glances over at the house, but Lucky is nowhere to be seen. “I hope guys are that good-looking when we’re that age. I don’t want to marry someone cute and then have him go all bald and doughy on me.” She shudders dramatically.

I bump my shoulder into hers. “You’re crazy. When you marry someone, you’re supposed to love them no matter what. It’s part of the vows.”

“Let’s make a promise to see how we feel when we’re in our thirties and married with kids. We have to honestly confess to each other if we’re still attracted to our husbands.”

I know us and our friendship. We will definitely be having this conversation in fifteen years.

“Why are you even thinking about marriage and kids? We haven’t even graduated high school yet.”

She shrugs. “Isn’t that the end goal? Big wedding, two kids, a nice house, successful career? My mom’s already planning my wedding, and I’m not even dating anyone.”

“That’s not what I want.” We head toward the doors to go inside. “I’m not ever getting married.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still stuck on that living-in-an-RV-with-a-bunch-of-cats idea?”

Megan wants what her parents have. A big house on a cul-de-sac. A family. Lots of get-togethers. Successful careers. I don’t blame her, because in her world, that’s pretty close to perfect.

But my world is different.

“What’s wrong with living in an RV? I can go anywhere. Live anywhere. I don’t want to be trapped. In a place or with a person. I want to be free.”

She raises her eyebrow. “Then someday your free ass better park that RV in my driveway to visit me.”

“Damn right I will. And if you’re not happy with your doughy husband we’ll drive off in it like Thelma and Louise.”

“Deal.”

The day drags. I’m bored and restless, watching the clock in every class, counting the minutes until three p.m. when I can head to work. I used to love coming to school every day. Up until around third grade, it was fun and exciting. I soaked up learning like a sponge and had lots of friends. I remember going to their birthday parties, wearing silly hats and singing. Eating cake. But right around fourth grade, things got worse at home. Or maybe I was just finally old enough to realize that things were always wrong. School became an escape.

I couldn’t escape myself, though. Not the fears that skittered in my head or the sick feeling that clung inside my chest.

I slowly withdrew from all my friends and classmates, until Megan decided I was going to be her best friend. She was the new girl, seated in front of me in class. On her first day, she turned around and blurted out her entire life story to me in one huge, run-on, rambling sentence. She was very animated—hands flying, black hair bouncing, eyes widening one moment and rolling the next. I blinked and nodded at her for a full ten minutes while she talked, caught in her spell.

“You have really pretty eyes,” she said when she finally took a breath.

From that moment forward, we were best friends.

Sometimes I wish I could talk her into my RV dream. I’m going to miss her when she goes off to college and starts a whole new life. We’d have a blast driving around the country together, listening to great music, taking hundreds of selfies in new places. Instead, we’ll be communicating through text messages and video chat.

The three p.m. bell finally rings, and I walk the mile and a half through town to Belongings, the boutique I’ve worked at for almost a year. Belongings sells local handmade items like jewelry, clothes, house decor, candles, candies, dolls, and even makeup and soaps. Although the shop looks rather small from the outside, it’s much bigger on the inside, broken up into four rooms. All the rooms are decorated as if it were someone’s real house—photos on the walls, jewelry in jewelry boxes, coasters and mugs set on tables—giving the feel of walking through a house where you can buy the things you like. I love the coziness of the shop.

Rebecca, the owner, bakes cookies in the small kitchen in the back of the store, which used to be a tiny diner. Two years ago, she and her husband divorced. She’s thirty-two and has no kids, so apparently after they split she thrust herself into learning how to bake to keep herself “too busy to rebound into a bad relationship” as she put it. Turns out, she has a talent for whipping up amazing desserts. She puts the cookies in cute little bags for the customers to take. Rebecca is always trying to get me to eat them, but I’ve never tried one. They do make the entire store smell delicious, though. Sometimes I think half the customers come in just for the cookies.

The bell on the door of the boutique clinks as I swing it open, and the blast of air-conditioned air is refreshing after walking in the stifling heat. “Hi, Rebecca,” I call out. “Sorry I’m late today. I had to walk.”

She looks up from behind a rotating display of crystal necklaces, and tucks her shoulder-length black hair behind her ear. “That’s okay. You know I don’t stress over things like that. Is something wrong with your car?”

I plop my purse and backpack behind the register counter, and a wave of dizziness makes me clutch the edge of the display case. Kicking myself for not calling an Uber in this humidity, I unscrew the top off my water bottle and gulp until the feeling slowly subsides. “I had to have it towed last night.” Thankfully, I wasn’t scheduled to work yesterday since it was the first day of school. “Not sure what’s wrong with it, it’s still at the shop.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Don’t worry about being a little late when you need to be. Seriously.” Her gaze lingers on my face. “Do you feel alright? You look pale.”

Nodding, I say, “I’m fine. It’s just really humid out. I was going to ask if you had anything I can do over the weekend? I don’t know how much this car thing is going to cost…” I trail off, embarrassed, and hoping she doesn’t think I’m trying to guilt her into extra hours.

“Hmm.” She looks around the store. Her eyes suddenly light up. “Actually, I think I do have something you can do for me that I don’t have the time or the patience for. I need pictures of the store and the products to be put on social media. Apparently, I’m supposed to post at least a photo a day. That’s all the rage now and I’ve totally slacked off on it because it’s a huge time suck.”

“That sounds like fun, actually. I follow a lot of people and products on Instagram. I’ve been trying to build my own following. I can check out other boutiques and get some ideas.”

“That’s exactly what I need. I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask you to do this earlier. How’s the camera on your cell phone?”

My heart sinks a little when I pull my old phone out of my pocket. “Um, not good. My screen is cracked. I don’t know if that will—”

She holds her hand up, smiling. “You know what? I’ve been thinking of getting a new phone. Mine is old, too. Tonight I’m going to stop at the mall and get two new iPhones. My sister says the camera is amazing. I’ll give one to you.”

“Oh, Rebecca. I can’t let you do that. Do you know how expensive those are?”

She’s nonplussed. “I can write it off for the business. It would be a big help to have you take this over. You can have access to the accounts, use those cool filters, and reply to any comments or questions people leave. It can be a new part of your job, if you’re interested? I’ll give you a raise.”

A new phone, new responsibilities, and a raise? I feel like I just scratched off a million-dollar lottery ticket.

The urge to hug her is huge, but that’d probably be unprofessional and awkward since she’s my boss, so I resist. “Oh,” I say, fighting back happy tears. “Thank you. Of course I’m interested. I’ll do a great job, I promise. I’ll research hashtags. I’ll do that cool color-coordinating thing that all the popular accounts do. Maybe we can do a giveaway with a box of your famous cookies.” My brain is already spinning like a top with ideas.

“See? You’re already way ahead of me. You can come in this weekend and start taking photos. Just keep track of your time for me.”

Things finally seem to be looking up.