“If I spill coffee on you in the kitchen this morning, will you do me a favor in return?”

“What kind of favor?”

“A friend is worried about her friend,” Lulu says. “She wants me to go check on him with her this afternoon.”

“A friend, huh?”

“Yes, Naomi, a friend. Will you help me convince Mom to let me out of the spa? I’ll watch movies with you guys tonight, I promise. This is just—it’s important to Cass.”

“Cass, huh?”

“Yes. Cass.”

“Is this Cass from—” Naomi makes a gesture. Lulu doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean, but it’s fastest if she puts both of them out of their misery.

“Yes,” she says. “Okay, Naomi?”

“These sweatpants have to be unwearable. I cannot pull off this pink.” The color their mom chose for the lettering is a little Malibu Barbie, even for Lulu’s taste.

“I think they look adorable on you,” Lulu says. “But on my honor, they will be fucking wrecked.”

Cass picks her up at one p.m. sharp. There’s just as much chaos and crap in her Volvo as there has been every time she’s driven Lulu somewhere, and Lulu likes that she recognizes some of it now, that she knows to expect a couple of plastic army figurines tumbled over one another in the cup holder, so that an empty Starbucks cup has to be crammed into the side pocket next to her seat.

“I’ve only been to his house twice before,” Cass says. “I don’t even know if they have Christmas plans. They might not even be home.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Lulu says. “You’re being nice. Slightly crazy. But mostly nice.”

Her gift—small, neatly wrapped, not particularly extravagant, even—feels like it’s burning through her bag. She bought it before anything had happened between them, and it already felt crazy presumptuous. Now it’s borderline unacceptable.

Whatever, she reminds herself. I can always return it. And it’s not like it’s unprecedented: Cass did buy Lulu a book for no reason at all.

“No but, like, Ryan’s family has a whole thing about their house,” Cass says, distracting Lulu from worrying. “He’s barely allowed to have people over. His dad is super paranoid that someone will, like, leak details about the property or something. Compromise their security.”

“Not to be the worst,” Lulu says. “But we all know a lot of rich people. I feel like we know how to be cool about nice houses.”

“I don’t know a lot of rich people,” Cass says. “Or I didn’t, before Lowell.”

Lulu tries to be delicate about her response. “Right, but you guys aren’t—I mean, it’s not like you’re broke, right?”