“That was my grandma’s favorite picture,” says Amber, watching me pick it up. “She died just before I started high school. She and my mom didn’t get along that well, so I didn’t see her much. But that picture always made her smile, so I took the frame from her house when we went to clear it out.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

I snort and keep browsing. Everything is just as it should be in a cheerleader’s room—pom-poms hanging from the slatted closet doors and a fresh mint color on the walls that’s not unlike the ice cream we just ate. A couple of YA books on her shelves that have cheerleaders on the cover, one of which looks super gay that I may have to ask to borrow later. Her desk is a mess of everything but homework and her floor is neat as a pin. It’s exactly what I would’ve guessed her room looked like based on our first meeting, but not what I would’ve imagined now that we’ve spent time together.

“It’s brutally extra, I know.”

Yes feels like the wrong response, but it’s true. Where’s the girl who likes the ridiculous décor of Gutter Kittens? Where’s the fierceness of the girl who lied to Foster just a few hours ago? Where does she fit in to the feather boa artfully wrapped around the bulletin board covered with Gator paraphernalia?

“It both is and isn’t exactly what I imagined,” I say, which feels like the truest response I can give.

She laughs. “That’s very diplomatic of you. My other grandmother—my dad’s mom—used to come over every Sunday, and she loved this room. She bought just about everything in it.”

“The one who writes a big check every birthday?”

“That’s the one. She used to come by a lot, until my dad had his first new kid. Now I see her maybe once a year, but redecorating is expensive, and anyway, she’s helped me with so much, and I like knowing that my room would still make her happy.” She fiddles with a stuffed alligator, or maybe it’s a crocodile—its teeth are showing. “Hell, even the polo shirt I wore today was a Christmas present from her. I should probably make some changes, especially since she moved up to Myrtle Beach. I don’t know if I’ll see her this year at all. But it’s not like I hate it.” She shrugs. “I got to choose this wall color instead of the pink she wanted, and the black-and-white sheets instead of florals. And I do love cheerleading and my friends.”

“Okay, but if you were decorating it from scratch instead of pleasing someone else,” I ask, settling into her desk chair, “what would it have been?”