I pulled one pink curl and let it spring back. “Real natural,” I said with a smile, ducking into my room.

“Your hair seems as though it grows that color.”

“I’m trying to dress up,” I said, pulling my purple dress on. “See?”

“Nice.” Tyler smiled. “There’s a stain from Max’s party, though.”

I frowned, picking at a spot of grass and dirt caked to my hip. “Atticus,” I muttered, spinning on my heel and marching to the closet. “My friend bought all my clothes and they’re all insane. I look like a teenage runaway.” Piles of dirty clothes coated the floors and shelves. I hadn’t done laundry for weeks. The only clean thing I found, a knee-length t-shirt with a male bodybuilder’s be-Speedoed beach body printed on the front and back, was both ugly and wildly inappropriate. Then I remembered the white dress from Maria’s boxes. Maybe that’s a better idea.

“One second,” I yelled. The zipper got stuck halfway up, and I backed out of the closet, tapping it. “Could you?” I asked.

His fingers touched the skin of my back and the fabric of my dress. I heard the sharp buzz of the zipper rise and rise and rise, but then it paused an inch or so before the top. I turned around, confused, and he glared at the dress. He looked slightly horrified. I patted the sides—had I ripped it? Didn’t it fit?

“Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“Maria’s boxes?” I said, a slow question. Uh-oh. “The boxes in the studio?”

“Maria.” He said her name quietly, like he was trying to recall who she was.

“Carey’s friend from home? She left behind her drawings in the studio. They were horrible.”

Startled, he ran a hand through his hair, twice in a row. “Oh. That’s what you meant.”

“She stayed in this house, I think,” I said, gesturing toward the closet. “Her initials are in there.” He didn’t look at the closet, or at me. He only looked at the ground.

“This was Carey’s dress,” he finally said, pulling the zipper back down, in ragged little yanks. I hated it—I hated how he tugged—but I was too stunned to move. Carey’s dress. Not Maria’s. I was such—I was such a creep. “I don’t think you should wear it.” Of course not. By the time I took over the zipper from his shaking hands, his cheeks were olive green, and sweat mobbed his hairline.