“Listen, Haze,” she says, like she might sit down, but she doesn’t. “Next year you can go to a party. And it’ll be special that way because it’ll be the year 2000.” She looks pleased, folding her hands over her stomach. Hazel wants to agree, wants to say she’ll wait, that she’ll spend a year thinking about how glorious life will be in 2000, when maybe she’ll finally understand what’s happening with the president. But there might not be a party next year, and, if there is, Hazel might not be invited. “But I want to go tonight.”

Her mom shakes her head and says, “You’re tired.”

“I’m not.”

Her mom kisses her and leaves. There’s murmuring in the hallway, then silence as her parents retreat into the master bedroom.

Hazel roots herself to the bed, willing herself to get tired, but she can’t forget Melissa and Kit on the other side of town. Every second they’re bonding closer, building a wild, exciting community that she’ll never even see. She’ll at least put on her regular clothes. Then she’ll feel less pathetic.

She puts on her jeans and flannel shirt. She straps into her snow pants. She rotates before the tarnished mirror with the painted fruit bowl that her dad let her choose at a long-ago flea market. She shoves her bangs out of her eyes. She looks like she’s going out. She’s going out.

If her mom knew she was going to the party, her springy smile would fall. And if anything bothers Hazel more than the smile, it’s the smile breaking.

But Melissa’s face yesterday was scrunched into a fist. She’s on the verge of hating Hazel. If Melissa hates her, Kit will too, even if she doesn’t want to. Hazel will have to eat school lunch again in the utility room the way she did before Melissa discovered her in Home Ec at the beginning of the year, reaching over and manipulating the dough of Hazel’s tea cake until it sat correctly in the pan. But why wouldn’t Melissa want a new life? That boy stroking himself while Melissa balanced on his knees. How crazy that is. How exciting, in a way.

She lifts Ratty by the tail and swings him, his claws pulsing to grip air. His bored eyes and active nose soothe her. If she took him with her, at least she’d have some comfort. She feeds him a crumb of Tylenol PM and drops him in her pocket, securing the snap.

She slides into the hallway, her back to the wall. Her parents’ door is ajar. She swings her right foot out in a long arc before setting it carefully on the dusty wood and sliding her left foot to meet it. She arrives at the top of the steps, her knees jiggling in their sockets. The staircase is a craggy tunnel, needlessly steep, as though the pilgrims required hardship even in their own homes.

She lowers her foot to the first step, holds her breath, and shifts her weight. The house is still. She makes her way down the stairs, avoiding the hollow spots that even Ratty can activate. One sound and her father would be on her, leaking disappointment, shaming her back to bed.