Oscar claps his hands twice like a mechanical monkey. “This. Is. How. Robots. Party.”

We laugh and continue our robot impressions as we shuffle into the party room behind a few other kids. Call it the curse of the fat girl or whatever you want, but Kiera can’t miss me. Her eyes go wide, and her nostrils flare the moment she sees me. My cheeks turn red and I try to swallow, but my throat feels like sandpaper. Mrs. Bryant guides Oscar and me to a pair of seats opposite Kiera, and at the sight of her mother, she simmers.

Oscar settles in next to me and I do my best to make us invisible and let everyone else do the talking. Because Oscar is a good friend, he does that thing where he pretends like we’re deep in conversation and exchanging jokes that only we get.

The whole party sings “Happy Birthday,” and Kiera blows out the candles on the two-tier emoji cake she’d pouted about wanting during her class birthday party. I know Kiera said in her letter she wasn’t a spoiled brat, but she’s not really helping her image, if you ask me.

After cake is served, it’s time to open presents. I almost forget about my gift until she holds my gift bag up to her ear and shakes it. Suddenly I want to sink into the floor. I should have just bought her lip gloss like Dad said. What was I thinking?

She reaches her hand in and comes up with the lint roller. “What even is this?”

“Oh,” her mom says. “What a useful gift.” She checks the tag on the bag. “From Sweet Pea.” Her brow furrows a bit, but her voice stays just the same as she says, “How thoughtful.”

Kiera reaches in once more and comes up with the deodorant. She lets out a disgusted scoff. “Um, are you trying to say something?”

Dread settles in my stomach. Like the time I thought painting Cheese’s claws hot pink was a good idea.

I clear my throat. This is the moment when I should say something like, Yeah, Kiera, your pits stink, and so does the way you ditched me in fourth grade. But here in this room full of my classmates and their parents, all I can utter is, “I thought it smelled good.”

Every kid in the room turns to me with various confused expressions. Even Greg. I thought I’d embarrass Kiera with my gift, but I didn’t even think of all the ways this could backfire, and now I’m the one who looks like a total jerk who couldn’t pick out a half-decent gift for a party she wasn’t even invited to. Great.

Behind me, Mr. Bryant mutters, “DiMarco’s kid would bring that gift.”

Sometimes adults are mean. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to cry in the middle of Kiera’s birthday party. Besides, I’m at least going to survive this long enough to make it to the foam-and-black-light part of the party.