Dad blushes and pulls a gift bag from the display next to the greeting cards. “At least get her a bag and a card.”

“Sure thing, Daddio.”

As I’m picking out a card and a bag, I remember the letter Kiera wrote, and for a minute I kind of feel a little bad. Parental drama is the worst.

My fingers trail along the cards until they settle on a card shaped like a pickle. The inside reads, “Happy Birthday. I got you this pickle.”

“Perfect,” I mutter to myself as my guilt dissolves.

In the car, with Dad’s pen, I sign the card and add, Here’s a pickle since you decided ours wasn’t worth keeping.

Trust me. To Kiera, it will make sense.

After that first morning at the bowling alley when Kiera and I hung out in the arcade, we started spending more time together. I’ll never forget going over to her house for the first time and seeing that elephant from the claw machine given prime real estate front and center on her perfectly made bed.

Pickle the stuffed hot-pink elephant became sort of our friendship mascot. We named him Pickle because we thought it went well with Cheese. After all, cheese and pickles are the most common toppings on any burger. Pickle stayed there at Kiera’s house on her bed until the first slumber party she hosted in fourth grade with me and all her new fifth-grade friends, a tight circle of pretty girls, several of whom even had boyfriends. All they talked about was which YouTubers were dating who and which of them had started their periods. I tried to smile along even though I felt totally left out.

“Hey, where’d Pickle go?” I whispered to Kiera when no one else was around.

She shrugged. “Me and my mom cleaned out my room, and I donated him with a bunch of other toys.”

My heart sunk to the floor. “You did what?”

“Claire came over.” She pointed to the tall white girl with smooth hair the color of butter who everyone else always seemed eager to impress. Claire stood clustered together with Sarah Beth, a black girl with tight ringlet curls, and Kassidy, a pale girl with orange freckles and reddish brown waves swept into a high ponytail.

Kiera waved to Claire, and all three girls waved back. “She helped me clear out a bunch of old stuff. She’s really nice, you know. These girls used to make me so nervous, but they’re really cool.”

I nodded, not sure what to even say. I couldn’t figure out why Kiera was in such a hurry to be older and different . . . and leave me behind. Because I was in no hurry at all. The thought of fifth grade terrified me—not to mention actual fifth graders!

“It’s not a big deal,” said Kiera, her voice reassuring, but it did nothing to soften the brutal honesty of her words.

It was a big deal. It still is.