Nic stood up so she could see over the top of the box. “Can I look?” she asked.

“I didn’t haul it out here for my health.”

V watched, sipping her tea, as Nic opened the folded cardboard flaps. A musty smell escaped in a quick burst, then dissipated. This box hadn’t been opened in many years.

V was right—there was some clothing, which Nic carefully removed and placed on the chair where she’d been sitting. A concert T-shirt, a pair of sequined jean shorts. Beat-up wedge sandals, one with a broken strap.

“See what I mean?” V asked. “Look at that stuff—crap, right?”

Nic pulled out more things from the box, costume jewelry, a makeup bag, a stuffed bear. And then something more promising.

“What’s this?” Nic asked.

V looked at the small book Nic was holding. On the cover was a photo of about fifty girls, posing in rows by a lake.

“That’s from the fancy camp she went to one summer. The chief helped her get a scholarship for it. She was happy as a pig in shit, that girl. And don’t think for one second she didn’t rub all our faces in it.” V shook her head from side to side. “She thought she was something else, getting out of Hastings, hobnobbing with rich girls from fancy schools.”

Nic read the small print at the bottom of the photo. Woodstock Summer for the Gifted. The date was from twelve years ago.

The girls were crowded together, all of them smiling ear to ear. Long hair. Straight teeth. Shorts, tank tops, flip-flops. Nic could have been one of those girls at that age. It was only a few years back for her. The memory of it grabbed hold of her for a fleeting, but brutal, moment.

“You all right?” V asked.

“Yeah.” Nic looked up, smiled sadly.

“They’re young, aren’t they? But don’t let them fool you. Those girls would eat you for breakfast.”

No kidding, Nic thought. Her school had been full of girls like that. Not one of these “friends” had stuck around after she’d fallen off the social ladder. And it had not been gradual. The day she was expelled was the day her phone stopped ringing or buzzing or pinging. It was as though she’d caught a deadly virus. A social virus that no one wanted to catch. And the strange thing was, she had welcomed it. Still, it made her wonder how Daisy had survived them. Maybe she was good at pretending to be like them—maybe she’d just taken it, knowing she was going to get out of Hastings and be just like them one day. Maybe it ignited a fire.