Honey fingers a pair of jeans with a red tag on the pocket.

“I thought your parents don’t let you wear pants anymore?” I whisper.

“I’m just looking,” she says. “Anyway, you’re not allowed to wear pants out either.”

“I am at camp,” I say.

She raises her eyebrows. We both sigh.

“Ooh, try this,” I say, pulling out a plaid button-down shirt from a rack. “And you can wear it with …” I pull out a mid-length jean skirt with buttons down the front. “This!” I say triumphantly.

Honey takes them from me and holds them up in front of her. “Plaid is really in,” I say, smiling encouragingly. Honey doesn’t have the best fashion sense. Also she wears a lot of hand-me-downs from her cousin Faigy so she’s not used to choosing what she wants to buy. “And that skirt is super versatile. It’ll match with so many things. Let’s try it on.”

We pull more things from the racks, and when our arms are full, we head to the changing room.

A saleslady cuts us off at the end of the aisle. “Can I help you?” she says, eyeing us suspiciously.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Honey says.

The saleslady purses her lips. “Girls, do your mothers know you’re here?”

Honey and I look at each other. Technically our mothers—or fathers—don’t. I bite my lip. Honey looks like she wants to shoot her hand to her hip, but her arms are draped with all the clothes.

“Our parents let us go shopping by ourselves,” she says. “C’mon, Milla, let’s go try on our things.” She leads the way to the changing room. We squeeze in together, and Honey sweeps the curtain shut behind us with a flourish as we collapse into a fit of laughter.

Finally, we compose ourselves enough to try on the clothes, muffling yelps every time we jab each other with an elbow or bump butts.

“What do you think?” I strike a pose with my hands on my hips. “I know it’s a sundress, but I could wear a T-shirt underneath.”

“Um, Milla.” Honey looks at me sideways as she struggles to get her arms into a stretchy velour dress. “I think it’s actually an apron.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, I could pin it and no one would notice.”

I admire myself in the mirror. “Actually, it’s perfect for Tammy Birnbaum’s bat mitzvah this Saturday night—” I stop, quickly checking Honey’s face. “Sorry,” I say. Honey’s not allowed to go because it’s a dance party with boys at Tammy’s house. My parents have said I can go if I don’t dance with boys.

“Don’t worry,” she says, pulling the dress over her head. “It doesn’t sound even remotely fun to me. Anyway, remember—I’m going to sleep over at Tsippi Auerbach’s that night with some friends from my old class.”

“Great, so let’s get you something to wear to that.” I smile. “Plaid is very in.”

“You said that already,” she says from inside the velour dress, which now seems stuck on her head. She’s wriggling all over the place, trying to get the dress on or off, I’m not sure anymore.