I can’t pinpoint how I know, but I know he’s lying. I study his face, pinched and sad-looking as he stands in my doorway. “I can let you borrow something to wear if you want,” I tell him, even though we are nowhere near the same size. Elijah’s shoulders are much broader than mine. “Do you have any pants with you?”

“Just the khakis I wore last night,” he says, letting go of the door frame and hesitantly coming into my room.

“Those will work. Let’s just find you a shirt, then. I think we wear the same size shoes, too.” I open my closet and pull out a bright green polo shirt that’s always been too big for me to wear. “Try this on.” I throw the shirt to him.

He yanks off his T-shirt and I watch his abs tense. I catch his eye, and the corner of his mouth turns up. “Thanks for this,” he says.

He pulls the polo over his head, and it’s pretty snug around his chest. His biceps are stretching the fabric a little bit, too. “How does it look?” he asks, looking down at the shirt and smoothing it over his stomach.

“Here, let me just,” I stand in front of him and pop the collar of the shirt up. “Much more ’80s,” I say, straightening the shoulders. A piece of Elijah’s hair falls from behind his ear. I tuck it back into place without thinking.

“Oh,” he says, his cheeks turning pink. He says it so softly, it’s almost more of a sweet sigh.

Oh. My hand lingers near his collar, a warm feeling spreading through my gut and up my spine. I meet his eyes. His lips part and he looks back at me. “Thank you,” he says.

I clear my throat. “I’ll find you some shoes.” I turn quickly back to the closet.

Birdie wants to take our picture on the front porch. I’ve given Elijah a pair of sunglasses, and I’m wearing identical ones. “Don’t you look like two peas in a pod!” Birdie exclaims, pointing her phone at us. “Let me give you a ride to the school. You don’t need to be sweating all over those outfits, walking up there.”

I’m thankful that Elijah is sitting in the back seat instead of me, because I’m not sure my stomach could handle staring at the back of his head right now. I’m still imagining what his hair felt like in my fingers a few minutes ago.

Birdie turns onto Main Street, and her Bluetooth picks up her phone. Barry Manilow bellows through the car at an alarming volume.

“Oh, I just love this song,” Birdie says, singing along.

My face burns. I don’t know why I’m suddenly very aware of Elijah. What does he think of Barry Manilow blasting through the open windows while we drive to Crenshaw? Does he think I’m a huge loser, needing my grandmother to chauffeur me around? Why do I even care?