Joy didn’t get Judy’s obsession with the era, but it all started three years previous when Judy binge-watched a Happy Days marathon on Nick at Night. Out went her canopy bed and trendy outfits and in came the secondhand vintage clothes and garage sale finds. Come to think of it, Todd came into the picture around then, too, and he reminded Joy an awful lot of Richie Cunningham. Perfect teeth, clean cut, and super nice. Cool, but boring, and not Joy’s type. Whatever guy Joy fell for had better love music and boards and adventure.

Her sister wasn’t in her room, but she’d left her hatbox of lists on her bed, the lid off. The question Joy had come to ask Judy disappeared. Poof! Gone. Joy’s fingers tingled. Judy rarely spent time with her anymore. She was too busy with school and friends and sucking face with Todd. But that hatbox loaded with Judy’s dreams and aspirations, life goals and bucket lists she didn’t share with anyone beckoned. She tiptoed into the room and plucked the first list she saw: My Life Goals. Number one, Joy read, Pledge a sorority at UCLA.

Joy dramatically rolled her eyes. Booooring. But she read on.

Graduate with a degree in chemical engineering. Get a job at Vintage Chic Cosmetics. Marry Todd.

Todd? Gag me. She mimed thrusting a finger down her throat. How could Judy be thinking of marriage already?

Launch my own line of lipstick.

That was cool. Joy wanted to make and sell her own natural soaps and lotions.

The front door slammed and the list flew out of Joy’s hand. It fluttered back into the box. A perfect landing.

Judy marched up the hallway. Her heels clacked on hardwood. She was coming fast. Joy eyed the partially closed door, panicked. Ditch the room or hide?

Neither.

Judy would see her if she ran, and hiding was stupid.

She launched herself onto the bed, kicked off her Converse, and popped in her earbuds. She cranked up some Weezer.

The bedroom door swung open. Judy’s gaze did a baseball bat swing from the open hatbox to Joy casually resting on her bed. She thrust a finger down the hall. “Get out.”

“Uh-uh.” Joy crossed her ankles and slid her hands behind her head.

“Did you read my stuff?”

Joy removed one earbud. “No.”

Judy narrowed her eyes.

“Honest, swear.”

Judy grasped Joy’s ankles and hauled her down the bed. Joy shrieked. She gripped the quilted bedspread. “I didn’t read your stuff!”

Judy stared her down for the longest five seconds in the history of time. Joy fidgeted with her iPod, an eighth-grade graduation gift from their parents. Judy wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell? Is that your feet?”

They didn’t smell. Joy drew her knees up and wiggled her toes inside her sweaty socks. She scrunched her nose. Maybe they did.

“Get your icky feet off my bed.”