Discomfort itched in my chest. “Who’re they?”

Elliot cleared his throat and then leaned in, pointing. He brought with him a burst of deodorant—mildly acidic and piney—and something else, a scent that was completely boy and made my stomach drop. “Um, that’s Christian, me, Brandon, and Emma.”

I’d heard these names in passing: casual stories about a class or a bike ride in the woods. With a sharp pang of jealousy, I realized that although Elliot was becoming my person, my safe place, and the only human other than Dad who I could truly trust, I didn’t know his life very well at all. What side of him did these friends see? Did they get the smile that started out as a raised eyebrow and slowly spread to an amused twist of his lips? Did they get the laugh that overrode his tendency to be self-conscious and shot out in a loud haha-haha-haha?

“They look nice.” I leaned back, and felt him quickly step away behind me.

“Yeah.” He went quiet and the silence seemed to grow into a shimmering bubble around us. My ears started to ring, heart thudding as I imagined this Emma sitting on the floor in the corner, reading with him. His voice came in a whisper from behind me: “But you’re nicer.”

I turned and met his eyes as he did his quick wince-nose scrunch maneuver to get his glasses up higher.

“You don’t have to say that just because—”

“My mom’s pregnant,” he blurted.

And the bubble popped. I heard the stomping of feet along the hallway, the barking of the dog.

My eyes went wide as his words sank in. “What?”

“Yeah, they told us last night.” He shoved his hair off his forehead. “Apparently she’s due in August.”

“Holy crap. You’re fourteen. It’s going to be, like, fifteen years younger than you.”

“I know.”

“Elliot, that’s crazy.”

“I know.” He bent down, retying his shoe. “Seriously though, I don’t really want to talk about it. Can we go to your place? Mom has been queasy for a few weeks, Dad is acting insane. My brothers are dicks.” Nodding to the box of books, he added, “And I have some classics to add to your library.”

Dad gave us a knowing glance as we tromped inside and up the stairs.

“Isn’t your birthday on Tuesday?” Elliot asked, following me down the hallway. His shoes were falling apart—his favorite pair of checkered Vans—and one sole made a flapping sound every step.

I looked back over my shoulder at him. “I told you that once, like, five months ago.”

“Shouldn’t you only have to tell me once?”

I turned back, leading us into my room and all the way back into the closet. Since we’d moved in, the space had slowly taken on a life of its own, and was now complete: of course there were the shelves along one entire wall, the beanbag chair in the far corner, and the futon couch on the wall opposite the bookcase. But only a couple of weeks before, Dad had painted the walls and ceiling a midnight blue, with silver and yellow stars dotted in constellations overhead. Two small lamps illuminated the space—one near each of the seating options. In the middle of the floor were blankets and more pillows. It was the perfect fort.