The middle child, Annabella Sanders, had done something terrible to Odilie once when they inexplicably ended up at the same pool together. Annabella claimed Odilie’s father had given them a bad price for a second summer home—a cottage, they called it right near their first. Odilie was prime prey; the moment that Odilie surfaced after leaping from the diving board, she realized her bikini top had floated away, that Annabella had grabbed it, was playing catch with it among her other siblings. Odilie hadn’t worn a two piece since then.

“I can’t go to that,” she said quietly.

“Yes, you can. You’ll be with me. It’ll be fun, I promise.” Peri turned into Odilie’s small parking lot.

“Then you have to change my face, make me someone I’m not.” It was supposed to be a joke. But Peri, her face lit up like she’d been waiting for Odilie to say something like that all this time.

“I can do that. Easily. Come on.” And she rushed out of the car up the stairs to the apartment.

6

VERA

Present day

I show up at the Cobble Hill brownstone with garment bags.

It’s like a seed, the tiniest blossom of the old me coming back, my arms sore from the heaviness of the bags, my feet wedged into pumps, cropped black pants showing off my ankles. Page answers the door in sweats. Her eyes shine at the clothes, all from my closet, dug out after a year of disuse. My brain feels heady, the high of being back in business, directing something, making an outfit happen, assembling all the pieces so an endeavor can go smoothly.

Page shows me to her room. She’s taken over the master bedroom, windows cloaked with golden curtains, a makeshift ancient bedstead, a Moroccan rug relieving the bareness of the floor. Other than that, it’s scarcely furnished, as she’d mentioned earlier. I ask her to give me a rundown of the guest list, whom she wants to talk to, what drinks she thinks they’ll serve. She looks at me intently, her eyes roving over all the clothes I pull out, the bag of makeup I fling into the adjoining bathroom. The bedroom already has her touches, a stickered laptop perched precariously on the bed next to a large, icy glass of something that smells like a cocktail. Her clothes piled on a partially upholstered chaise longue in the corner, dirty underwear peeking out from what looks like an old container of Pad Thai. Her clothes are so mass-market. They tell tales of tiny children’s fingers plucking away at threads; of disintegration after too many tumbles in the washer. I make a mask of my face, hope my look of disdain fades away.