Even though the Crepe Shoppe paid Ainsley’s bills, for the last year she’d been putting all her free time toward building her thrift-flip YouTube channel. Her videos were actually really impressive. Dealing with the same pressure to fit in at a rich private school as I did, but amplified by the added pressure of working within the limited new wardrobe Mom and Dad could afford to give her at the time—much of which wasn’t designed with her proportions in mind—Ainsley had adapted by developing her sewing skills. And, in the process, had discovered she had a natural creativity. She could look at the ugliest pieces of thrift store clothing, and where the rest of us saw something we’d never wear in a million years, Ainsley saw potential. She’d rescue items and take in the hips, add in panels, add or remove sleeves, and cover them in crystals or lace or patches, and she’d absolutely transform them. And it just so happened that the transformation process, along with her self-deprecating voice-over commentary, made for quality content.

I sent back a text to Brooke. What I wanted to say was abso-fucking-lutely she could come over, as soon as possible, and in fact, she could also move in, and marry me, and mother my children while she was at it, but my extensive study in relationships had taught me wild obsession wasn’t cute. So I went with a simple “sure, we’ll be eating around six.” Same overall message, less terrifying intensity.

While Ainsley headed back to the kitchen, I changed out of my uniform, then fished today’s letters out of my bag and started working my way through them. I had a real system going after doing this roughly twice weekly for two years. Dollar bills and coins went into a Ziploc bag to be deposited into my bank account (I figured the easiest way to get myself caught would be to be seen with a purse stuffed full of small bills one too many times). Then I’d speed-read all of the letters and sort them into two piles. Pile one: letters I could answer off the top of my head. Pile two: letters that stumped me. I was proud to say these days that pile two was almost always smaller, and sometimes there was no need for a pile two at all. There were very few situations that threw me anymore.

I did worry sometimes that this whole process would become too time consuming to continue in senior year. But, hey, plenty of students had part-time jobs. Why was this any different? Apart from the obvious answer: I enjoyed this. A hell of a lot more than most people enjoyed their minimum wage jobs bagging groceries or collecting dirty plates from ungrateful customers.