She takes out a pair of dark-wash jeans, loose and baggy. I only wear them that way or tight and stretchy enough to feel like skin—both work for running in a pinch. She glances at my face and takes my silence as confirmation that they’re okay.

She pulls out a red T-shirt, plain and V-necked with a small pocket on the breast. I try not to let my face show any surprise at it not being pink. She sets it aside and takes out another pair of jeans, a green racer-back tank, a blue plaid button-up, a gray hoodie with thumb holes in the sleeves, and finally, a black tank top printed with tiny vines of red roses. It’s the only piece of black in the pile, and it’s marred with flowers. None of it is pink though, and I might actually wear some of it even if my wardrobe is usually composed of black at multiple stages of fading.

Deb fusses with the pile, clearly stalling, waiting for me to speak.

I almost say thank you and accept the clothes. It’s perhaps a small enough gift I can accept without any strings.

She clears her throat first. “Maybe we can get rid of some of your old stuff.”

I stiffen. Any words of thanks freeze in my mouth. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

Her eyes drift to my frayed T-shirt. The stitching along the hem is gone and the material curls on the edges. The picture of palm trees in the sun on the chest is cracked and splintered. You can just make out EAGLES above it and HOTEL CALIFORNIA below. A few more washes and it’ll be unrecognizable. My jeans have a hole in the knee. I say it adds character.

“I just thought—”

“They weren’t good enough.”

“No.” She looks at the door, probably wishing she hadn’t come in here at all. “No. I just thought that starting college in the fall would be easier on you with some new clothes.”

“I don’t care what anyone thinks of me.” Including you.

And I don’t really want to think about the fall. I’m signed up for basic classes at the community college, but even that feels like something you do when you have an end goal. I don’t really have a plan. I’ve spent so much time looking back, I forgot to look forward. At what point in my life was I supposed to let go of the past and do that? I feel like I missed it, and nobody was there to help me find it.

Anger boils over into the nothingness that filled me only moments before. It feels good to be full of something, no matter what it is.