“Well, class. Say hello to Milo Schmidt. Hailing from Las Vegas, right? Milo, meet some of your fellow juniors at Archibald Chavez Academy.”
The guys nod ’sup, but in a tense way—new competition. And rightly so, judging by the way most girls wave and bat their lashes. Not me, though. I stare hard at my pen.
“We need to get started. Unless you’d like to say a few words?” Nobody new ever comes to our three-hundred-head-count private prep school, so even Garner knows this is newsworthy. “A brief introduction, perhaps?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Milo says casually. “Take the mic, Mr. Garner.”
Everyone laughs, even Mr. Garner. Even me, even though my heart is pounding a gazillion beats per second. Garner heads back to his desk, and I keep my eyes glued to my ridiculously interesting pen. Like maybe if I’m lucky, it will levitate.
But who am I kidding? Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Milo wiggle off his coat, put a cracked iPhone on vibrate, and shove it into his messenger bag. At the front of the room, Mr. Garner turns toward the board, and Milo glances my way, jolting me so bad that I actually drop my magical levitating pen.
Smooth.
Before I can blink, he’s reaching for it. I hold my breath, spellbound by his shoulder blades, the way his tan fades below the neckline of his T-shirt. He bobs back up with the pen and a ta-da flourish.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Sure.” He smiles, then furrows his brow. “Page number?”
I swallow hard. Heat creeps up my cheeks and swirls around my earlobes as I glance at my textbook. “Um, one-nineteen.”
“Thanks, Johanna.”
I gulp. Because … he remembered my name.
• • •
“I mean, he did, right?” I ask, kicking shut my bedroom door after school.
Leah nods and flops onto my bed.
“Well, he checked you out in the quad before sixth period,” says Gabby. “I’m positive.”
“Ew, don’t make him sound like a perv.”
“No, it was sweet. Very PG.”
“Jo and Milo sitting in a tree!”
“Shut up, Leah.”
“K-I-S-S—”
“Shut up!”
“—I-N-G!” she spits out with a laugh.
I huff as I nestle into my usual seat behind the sewing machine, pressing my foot on the pedal, picking up where I left off yesterday. Silky blue material slides between my fingers as I guide it gently under the presser foot. Polyester satin, a slippery challenge but worth every cent of my Christmas money. The machine rattles at a frantically familiar pace, the perfect soundtrack while Gabby sifts through my closet and Leah checks her phone. I pause to take out the last few pins and then press the foot gently along to finish the hem. When it’s done, I release the fabric, warmed by a simple twinge of pride as I cut the extra threads and then take off my Sex Pistols sweatshirt, slipping the new creation down over my bra.
“Look at you!” Gabby cheers.
“Wow.” Leah grins and jumps up to stand beside me, a foot shorter but twice as busty as we survey my reflection in the floor-length mirror. The shirt hangs perfectly, a one-shoulder strap sloping down across my chest, material hugging my torso and falling at my hips. She puts her hands on my waist, spinning me as if I’m a wind-up doll. “What’s the inspiration?”
“Debbie Harry.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously.” I laugh. “Circa 1978. A one-shoulder, sequined top she wore for a photo shoot. Mine’s a bit shorter—hers was more of a minidress. But it works, right? I wanted to channel her disco days.”
Not that I look like Debbie Harry, except in my dreams. My cheekbones are sad little slopes compared to her glaciers, but we have the same wiry hair, the same bored stare—a look Gabby says I perfected during my “Rapture” phase in ninth grade. That’s “Rapture” as in the song off Blondie’s Autoamerican, not the Bible-thumping end of times.
“It’s killer,” Gabby says, still holding a handmade mod dress on its hanger. “Kind of on the sexy side, though. What if Gran says you look like a hoochie?”
“I would give anything to hear my grandmother use the word hoochie.”
She grins. “True. But she’s never going to let you out of the house in that. I mean, what would God say? Plus, I can even tell you’ve got boobs under there. Do your grandparents know you have boobs?”
“Boobs!” Leah squeals. “Oh man, you are stacked!”
I swallow a grin. “You guys, stop. They’ll hear you.”
“Will they, Jo? Will they?”
“I bet they don’t even know you got your period,” Leah mutters.
“Four years ago,” adds Gabby.
“Look—” I clear my throat extra-pointedly and walk over to my style-indexed closet, toward the basic section. “Exhibit A. My compromise.”
Gabby’s eyebrows crinkle. “That Mother Teresa–looking cardigan?”
I sigh, a little forlorn as the dull, merino wool swallows up my latest masterpiece. “Now how do I look? Mo’ Tizzy or what?”
“Do you think people called her that?” Leah muses. “Like, her friends?”
“Who, Mother Teresa? Definitely,” Gabby says, shaking her head no.
“Mo’ Tizzy was probably her DJ name,” I offer. “Spinning beats at the hottest clubs in—”
“Knock, knock?”
Our heads whip toward the door, and I tighten the sweater around my chest before opening it. Gran’s standing there in a long white parka and wool beanie, cold air still radiating off her. She notices the sweater, pausing to admire her knitmanship.
“Hello, girls. Y’all have a good first day back? Lots of homework?”
“Tons,” I say.
Leah waves. “What about you, Gran? You good?”
“Am I well,” Gran corrects. “And no, Leah, I am not. Neck’s still bothering me. Grandpa says I ought to see Dr. Ortega, but I think the windows need replacing. Muscle spasm from a draft—that’s what I say. I’m starting to think he wants to get out of more housework. Lord knows I don’t need another child to take care of.”
The girls smile at Gran’s accent, the honey lilt of it, but my heart snags on her throwaway words. Another child to take care of. Because that’s what I feel like so much of the time. A burden. Taking in a motherless three-year-old probably wasn’t on their bucket list.
“Sorry, Gran. I’ll talk to Grandpa about the windows.”
“Aw, thanks, sweetheart. He listens to you.” She’s halfway through a troubled sigh when her eyes pop wide. “I almost forgot! They were having a sale on crabmeat at the store—I thought I’d make gumbo for dinner. It’s been ages since I made my mamma’s gumbo recipe.”
“I’ll come help in a little bit.”
Gran turns to leave, but then Leah frantically lunges for a stack of mail on the bed. “Wait!” she says. “Don’t ask me why I feel the need to check your mailbox every time I’m here.” She flicks through, handing over all but one white envelope to my grandmother. “Sorry.”
Gran accepts the jumble of bills and catalogs, chuckling at Leah as she heads toward the kitchen. I let the door click shut. “You’re weird, Leah.”