I’m wondering why she’s moving so quickly when a tall white woman comes out of one of the doors in the hall. Her blond hair is impeccably blown out, and she wears a full face of elegant makeup. “Brittany, who—” She blinks twice, smooths her blue blouse, and smiles at me without teeth. “I didn’t realize you had a friend over, Brittany.”

“Yeah,” Brittany says, her face clouding. She stares at the floor and picks at the skin around her nails.

“I’m her mom.” The woman looks me up and down. I can feel her judging me, and I’m not sure if she likes what she sees. “You can call me Ms. Shapiro.”

“I’m Shay,” I say. “I’m in the musical with Brittany.”

She considers me again. I fidget uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “Are you one of the leads?”

“Um, yes.”

She puts a hand on Brittany’s lower back for a moment, and Brittany’s posture goes ramrod straight. “Good for you,” she says, smiling at me. Her teeth are unnaturally white. “It’s so nice to meet a friend of Brittany’s. She never brings people over.”

I make a sound that’s halfway between a polite laugh and a mm-hmm. Ms. Shapiro continues talking because I’m obviously not a necessary part of this conversation.

“I’ve always said that if Brittany just made a little bit more of an effort, she could be so popular,” she says. She pats at Brittany’s hair, fixing invisible flyaways. Brittany jerks her head out from under her mom’s hand and continues to stare murderously at the floor.

“Mom,” she says with quiet vehemence. “Stop.”

I stand there silently and pretend I’m somewhere else.

Ms. Shapiro gives a long-suffering sigh. “Well, I’ll leave you girls to it. I’m off to the gym.” She turns to go, giving me one last polite smile. “And, Shay,” she says. “We don’t wear shoes inside the house.”

I slip off my sneakers, offering an apology to her retreating back. She doesn’t respond.

God, no wonder Brittany’s so uptight. Her mom has the maternal warmth of an icicle.

“Don’t fucking feel sorry for me,” Brittany spits at me.

I don’t even deny that I was. I follow her silently into a room at the end of the hall, which turns out to be her bedroom.

Brittany’s room is like a Target ad. Everything is white or peach, and all the furniture is so artfully placed that it feels like nobody lives in this room or uses the things in it. The only decorations that give a hint at who lives here are the series of framed show posters from our high school’s musicals. They’re all hung up in one corner of the room, like a decorator’s afterthought.