Everything that came to mind felt way too grandiose. They were like my limb. They were my heartbeat. They were my voice, and I was theirs.

“Well, Ros… Ros and I are very different, I guess. They’re more outgoing. Wilder. Not like they’ve ever done anything too nuts, but, like, they were always the one who was buying hair dye at the drugstore and misreading the directions and winding up with a black scalp. Last year, they got in trouble for pouring acid on this kid’s hat.”

“Sounds… dangerous.”

“It’s not like he was wearing it. And this kid was a certifiable asshole—always misgendering Ros on purpose.” I paused. “Ros is also the one that people fall in love with.”

“Okay,” he said. “What about you?”

“No one falls in love with me.”

“No—your role.”

“Oh. I’m…”

The ball boy. The chore-wheel designer.

“… the planner.”

“An important role,” Oliver said. “You’re just going straight for a while.”

“It’s boring,” I said. The truth was I wasn’t as objectively interesting as my friends. I didn’t really offer anything the way they did. Touchstone and Ros were both sparkly; they commanded attention, were so clearly the stars of their own shows. In my darkest moments, I worried I was a footnote: the part people skipped over.

“Crucial, though,” said Oliver. “And I know we just met, but I don’t think you’re boring.”

I thought about this for another moment.

“You know who I am? I’m the seam,” I said. “I was friends with Ros, and I was friends with Touch, and I kind of stitched us all up. But most of the time, if I’m doing my job, you’re not really thinking about me. You just kind of forget I’m there.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why, you spend a lot of time thinking about seams?”

“No, I find it hard to believe that anyone could forget you. Turn left here.”

I pictured the Togshop as a humble shack, not unlike the Lily Pad—a few extra clothing racks, a few bins full of mismatched shoes that sweet elfin cobblers would help us repair. But the Togshop was an operation. The racks swept toward the ceiling, three tiers high—you needed a ladder to reach the top. Oliver and I wandered through the aisles and tried to get our bearings, though the sheer number of costumes was overwhelming. Here were costumes specific to the 1500s. The 1910s. The 1950s. An entire wall of petticoats, of cowboy hats, of red kimonos. The volume and breadth were dizzying.

“Okay,” I said, slowly trying to orient myself. “I have a list from Benna, and…”

I looked back to make sure Oliver was following me. He was halfway down the aisle. He was also shirtless as in, without a shirt, not wearing a shirt, bare chested, nude from the waist up.