Glory would never look at her again the same way. Her admiration for Pin’s recklessness, for her desire to work as a cameraman—all that would disappear the second she knew Pin wasn’t a boy. Girls didn’t deliver drugs; they didn’t grow up to become cameramen, or even want to. Girls didn’t trick other girls into kissing them by pretending to be a boy. Not even a thousand-dollar reward would change that.

“Okay, how’s this?” Glory held up a middy dress, white blouse with navy-blue trim on its sailor collar and cuffs, attached navy-blue skirt. “It’s boyish, so it’ll suit you.”

She tossed Pin the dress. Pin held it up in front of her, trying to measure its length.

“It’ll fit,” said Glory. “We’re the same size, pretty much. But you’ll need different shoes,” she added, gazing at Pin’s battered black boots. “And your hair…”

She reached to pluck at Pin’s tangled curls, and Pin tried not to flinch. She wanted to pull Glory to her and at the same time to push her away, to run and to kiss her, all at once.

Instead she stood, mute and miserable, as Glory fussed with her hair. “I can borrow a pair of shoes,” Pin said, finding her voice. “Or just wear these.”

“Maybe. But we still need to do something about this.” Glory tugged hard at a matted curl.

“Ow!” Pin pulled away. Glory crossed her arms and regarded her with those scarily blue eyes, then passed a delicate hand across her own carefully arranged hair.

“Wait here,” she said. “Don’t let anyone in, I’ll be right back.”

Pin sank into a chair and stared at the sailor dress in her lap. The blouse had been carelessly mended, and one striped cuff was stained. It stank of mildew. The thought of actually wearing it made her want to tear it into rags.

But that was why she had to borrow a dress in the first place. Her own few pieces of girl’s clothing had been reduced to rags by hard wear and neglect.

“Here!”

Glory swept breathlessly back into the room and threw something at her—it looked like a cat. Startled, Pin dropped the middy dress.

“That’s what I mean!” scolded Glory.

She snatched up the dress as Pin bent to retrieve what Glory had tossed at her. A tawny blond wig, its ringlets brittle as straw. Pin poked at the stiff curls. “Who wears this? What’s it made of? Hay?”

“Flax and horsehair. Lookee…” Glory took the wig and set it on Pin’s head, tugging it as Pin fidgeted.

“Ouch! Stop it, that hurts. Jesus—it’s too tight!”

“Be quiet!” Glory pressed a hand against Pin’s mouth. “Whoever needs it, wears it. It’s for the extras. I borrowed it from the wardrobe shop—if you lose it, they’ll kill me.”