“Got everything,” Abigail says as she clanks down the stairs with her arms full of speakers and costumes. She dumps it onto the floor, and we sift through the stuff together. I settle on the black feather mask with some blue lipstick. Abigail wears metallic wings.

We turn off all the lights except the lamp, which is acting as a spotlight, and I do my lipstick in the reflection of the toaster. I shake out my hands and legs. “We need the perfect song.”

“Your essay, your choice.”

“Okay, when I was a kid, my favorite song was this.” I take out my phone, sync it to the speakers, and turn the song on for her.

“What is it?” “‘Obvious Child.’” “What’s obvious?” “No, the song,” I say, and laugh. “It’s called ‘Obvious Child.’”

“Ooh, I like these drums,” she says.

“They’re good, right?”

“Oooh, yes, I like this a lot. Wait,” she whispers in my ear as we stand side by side, looking into the camera. “What are we going to say? I got so excited to put on a costume and dance that I completely forgot what we should say.”

“Um, it’s gonna come to us,” I say, because suddenly I’m sure of it. “We’re just gonna dance and sing and say exactly what it’s like right now. You know, everything we didn’t put in our essays.”

She replays the song. “I really hope my parents don’t come home.”

“Same.”

The drums start again, and Abigail drops it low on every other thud. I drop it low too, just not nearly as low. While the drums get faster and faster, she adds some shaking of the lower half of her body. I circle around her because I definitely won’t be attempting anything like that.

“Hello, College Admissions Persons,” I start. “I just want to clear the air because a lot of people are sending you a lot of bullshit right now. Tonight, on the eve of the day before the day that her college essay is due, Chamomile Myles would like you to know about the real her.”

“Why are you talking in the third person?” Abigail giggles.

I blow the camera a blue kiss. “Despite what a million people are saying in their essays to you, what it means to be seventeen is this.”

I point to Abigail and close my eyes and let the music pulse through me and say just exactly what comes to mind. “Seventeen is that message in the bottle you wrote yourself when you were a kid asking, How cool is it with boobs? What weird places have hair now? Are you tall? Seventeen is a lot of nights scrolling through feeds, figuring out who’s luckier than you are. Seventeen is breakfast food at every meal—”

Abigail laughs and hisses, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just go with it, Abigail, come on! Your turn!”

I wave the camera in her face and duck out of view.

She clears her throat, then says tentatively, “Seventeen is driving in a car… and the music is loud enough to make your ears scream.… and nothing isn’t possible in this car with this person and you.” She gets louder. “And the world is not an oyster, it’s a trampoline, and your next jump will launch you to the moon—”