“Right?” She checks herself out in the mirror next to the door, and the woman behind the counter nods in approval.

“Very eighteen-hundreds chic,” the woman says with absolutely no intonation in her voice.

Hilary reaches around to check the tag. “And I can even afford it! The world isn’t always on board with your girl’s financial-aid budget, but Willa’s Closet knows how to deliver.”

“Amen to that,” I say.

“I’m just worried that we’re shopping too early,” Hilary says, moving from her reflection in the mirror to her reflection in the window because sometimes mirrors don’t tell the truth. “What if my style changes in three months?”

My eyes linger on the white dress for another second before I tear myself away. “Nothing’s gonna change in three months except we’re finally gonna be free of high school and parents and Mr. Garcia quacking at us to stop making out in the hallways.”

Abigail looks forlornly out the window of the shop. “Can you believe three months are all that’s left in senior year? Are we ever going to meet your parents before we graduate, Cham?”

“I’ve told you eight million times: They don’t really live in this universe.”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re aliens, or they work for the CIA, yadda, yadda yadda,” Abigail says. “I’m just realizing all the things we still haven’t done.”

“Don’t get too sentimental too soon,” Hilary says. “You have to save some of that for your valedictorian speech, which you will beat Josie for.” I nod distractedly, the white dress catching my eye again.

“Did you want to try it on?” the woman behind the counter asks me. She has her laptop open, and it has all sorts of stickers on it. When she gets up, I realize she’s not really a woman, she’s more of a girl, but that always confuses me. I thought I’d be a woman when I started buying tampons and face cream, but now that I’ve passed those milestones, I’m starting to think I’ll never be a woman. Or worst of all, I’ve actually been one all along.

“Here,” the woman/girl says. She jumps up into the window display and takes the dress off the mannequin. When she holds it out to me, its shoulders slump.

“That’s okay,” I say, averting my eyes from the naked mannequin totally exposing herself to the center of town. “I don’t think it’ll fit. Besides, I’m gonna pass until my boyfriend secures the deal and shows me the tickets.”

“You could ask him,” she says, with just enough judgment in her voice to piss me off. You’re a shit feminist, the line of her mouth adds.

“Nah,” I say coolly. “I asked him to officially be my boyfriend. Now it’s his turn to make a move.”

“Well, are you sure about the dress?” She holds it out to me and I notice the cup size. Grapefruits, at least. I look closer. Scratch that. Watermelons.

“It’ll never work.” I point to my chest. “Tiny-tits committee.”