“I just need a sign,” I say again. “Just one huge sign about what the universe has in store for me or just like how to be a freaking person in the world.”

She laughs. “No matter what sign you get, you still have to make up a story about it. The sign is irrelevant. It’s how you interpret it.”

“I don’t want to interpret anything. I want to be told what to do.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s too confusing. Seriously, my brain is populated by question marks. I just wish I had someone to ask.”

“You and everyone else.” She picks up a cardboard box from the floor and heaves it onto a table, adding little blue circular price stickers to the tank tops and flowy skirts.

I take one last look at the lacy white dress in the window and sigh. “I should go work on my essay so I can eventually go to college and be a member of society slightly more useful than a toilet plunger.”

“Hey! Toilet plungers are crucial at handling our shit.” She grins and makes a joke sound effect, hitting an invisible cymbal in the air. “You don’t want me to launch into my spiel about how college is a big moneymaking machine that obliterates creativity and real thinking and turns us into little capitalist nightmares. I’ll spare you from that.”

I laugh. “Thanks. Honestly, I just want to lock myself in my room or go for a run or make out in bed until the world ends.”

“Ooooh, you didn’t mention you had someone to make out with.”

“I don’t,” I say quickly, backing toward the door. “Just got dumped, remember?”

“And yet,” she says, following me with her pointer in the air, “you said ‘make out’ like you had a little pair of lips in mind. High school’s almost over. Last chance, last chance,” she chants. “Does this person have a prom date?”

“Don’t know, not asking.” I back into the door and it opens with a jingle. “Attempting my college essay now and also scoping out toilet plungers.”

“Do your thing, girl,” Izzy cheers, holding up a hideous vacation T-shirt with pairs of drunk flamingos covering it. She slaps it with a price sticker. “Go after your own shit.”

“Well, well, well,” Abigail says, opening her front door. “Look who came crawling back to me!”

“Oh, shut up, Abigail.” I push her into the house playfully. “I’m not that desperate to get this essay done and go to Nicaragua or whatever.”

“No, of course not.” She takes me into the kitchen and pours me a glass of water. “Come, wet your lips, hydrate yourself in preparation for this amazing essay we are going to write.”

“I don’t know about that.” I take the glass and down the water in four huge gulps.

Abigail pats the countertop. The stools are high and there are six electrical sockets so that she can do her homework without any of her devices dying on her. Some parents really will do anything to see their kid get into college. “Let’s start by looking at your old essay,” she says, her fingers poised over her keyboard. “E-mail it to me real quick.”