“I wish I had a sibling.” Thembi broke my train of thought. “But they only wanted one so they could focus all their energy on creating the perfect child.” She stood up and walked into the middle of the room. “Oh well, they’re going to be so disappointed when they realize that I’m far from perfect.”

Thembi pulled a small stepladder out from under her bed and climbed onto it.

“What are you doing?” I asked as she reached up and pulled on the string hanging from the ceiling. As she did, the ceiling opened and a staircase folded out from the attic.

“We’re going up to my real bedroom,” she said with a mischievous smile, and started climbing. I followed her, and when I got up there, I looked around the room in shock.

“What the . . . ?” Now this, this was what I’d expected. The walls were covered in cutouts from magazines—models wearing amazing clothes, walking down catwalks. In the middle of the room stood one of those dressmaking busts, bright fabrics draped over its shoulders. A table was covered in patterns and fabrics, piles of tape measures, and more scissors than she probably needed.

“How do your parents not know you have this room?” I asked.

“They do. They just don’t know what’s in it. They believe in giving teens privacy and their own space, to allow us to express in a healthy manner.” She said that last part with a put-on voice; I guess it was meant to sound like her father.

She put the bag down and pulled out the fabrics we’d chosen—well, that she’d guided me to choose. I still wasn’t sure about them. I rarely deviated from black, and here were these bright emerald greens. But in a way, I didn’t really care, since I was never going to wear this dress anyway. I wouldn’t dream of wearing anything like this, and I probably—definitely—wasn’t going to my dad’s wedding, or the dance.

“Okay.” Thembi turned to me. “I need to measure you.”

My stomach dropped. She might as well get the scale out and weigh me too. It’s amazing how much power a number on a scale can hold. How much your self-worth can be wrapped up in those few little digits. I once read that your weight isn’t a constant, it actually depends on where you weigh yourself, because weight is the measure of how much gravity pulls on your body. So, if I was on the moon, I would weigh less. How I wished we lived on the moon right now.

“Uh . . . okay,” I said tentatively, trying to shut up my inner bully, who was being very vocal right now. My heart pounded in my chest as Thembi flipped a small book open, put a pencil behind her ear, and draped a tape measure around her neck.