“Not today,” Melissa says. “Tomorrow’s the party. I want to be rested. Woburn Anthony’s going to be there.”

“Who’s Woburn Anthony?” Hazel asks. He sounds like a child star.

Melissa swipes at her hair, though it’s not in her face. “He’s a ninth-grade guy that’s hot. From Woburn.”

“You’ll like him,” Kit says. “He talks like a teenager already. Like, all slow. And he likes peas.”

Hazel remembers her father shaking his wrinkled head, as though even asking about the party was infinitely disappointing. “I can’t go.”

Melissa sticks her hip out. Her sweatshirt is stretched at the bottom from all the yanking up and down. “Why not?”

“You didn’t ask your parents, did you?” says Kit.

“You asked your parents?” says Melissa.

“They might’ve said yes. It’s better than not asking.”

“No, it’s not,” Melissa says. “Because now when you go they’re going to be all leering into the hallway. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have suspected crap.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, because I can’t go.” The words sicken her. She hadn’t accepted that Melissa and Kit would have the night without her. She kicks a sandwich, abandoned on the shoulder. The bread snaps off, revealing slick, icy ham and the wet lace of lettuce.

“Fine,” says Melissa. “I know you want us to convince you, but whatever. Don’t come. See if we care.” She turns with a flourish and cuts through the grass back to the Ridge. There’s no snow solid enough to stomp out now. Kit shrugs, sucks her teeth, and follows.

Hazel expects Melissa to come back and fight. They didn’t even get to the yelling part yet. If Melissa tried, she could find an argument Hazel couldn’t refuse. Hazel sits on the ground and watches the traffic.

The evening goes fuzzy. Puddles on the highway firm up, so the spray is gone. This is the time of day her father says it’s hardest to see colors. She squints to identify the drivers, but none of them are familiar. They don’t look like they live anywhere around here.

The next night is New Year’s Eve. Hazel sits on her bed in a T-shirt with giggling sunflowers, her bangs smeared with the day’s sweat. She thought if she put on pajamas, she’d get used to the idea of staying home, but instead she’s just embarrassed of her sour, worn-out sleep shirt, as though Melissa and Kit can see her from across town.

Ratty turns in her cupped palms like a rag in the laundry, cleaning peanut butter from her thumb. She tries not to picture Melissa and Kit squirting glitter on their cheeks and perfume on their crotches. At nine her dad floats into the doorway.

“Happy New Year,” he says with exaggerated kindness.

She gives a thumbs-up, because she doesn’t have the heart to make her face look cheerful. He grabs the lintel and shakes his head, looking older than ever. White hairs sprout from his eyebrows. They’re silky, tickling the air.

Hazel’s mom trades places with him. She’s had her bath, and her hair is slicked back like an otter’s, spines sticking up where her comb passed through. She points to the cage, and Hazel tucks her rat away.