“So,” she continues, “the weekend was hard because people were judging you and I kept defending you, but it wasn’t easy to do. Because you don’t want people to know why you do the things you do — why you bagged on Homecoming, why you keep to yourself a lot. And so what am I supposed to say? In defense of my best friend?”

My eyes sting with tears to realize not just the truth in what she’s saying, but also that she’s stood up for me in spite of it.

“If people knew what it’s been like for you — with your mom’s illness, and with Jonah . . . They’d understand, Zoe. I really think they would. Even boneheads like Ethan and Connor. I think you need to think about why you don’t give anyone a chance.”

That’s not true, I want to say. Because I have trusted Sam with everything.

But nobody else.

She’s right.

At school, I usually keep to myself, mostly, trying not to forge bonds that will interfere with the way I keep my family and home life in a silo, separate and away. I always hoped it came across like I was busy or preoccupied. Not like a slight.

My heart sinks to realize how futile my wishful thinking was.

“They don’t know it’s because you’re so afraid of anything hurting your family,” she continues gently. “But you don’t trust anyone, you don’t want anyone getting too close, and it shows.”

I get up and close my bedroom door all the way before speaking again. “I just — you all seem so perfect to me and my own life feels so”— I pause, then finish —“fucked up.” Because that’s how it feels. Fucked up.

“Whoa,” she says. “An f-bomb? From Zoe Miller?” She laughs, but she sounds kind of off. “What is happening here?”

“What’s happening is I’m not perfect,” I say, pacing around my room. “And I’m tired of trying to be.”

“Who ever said you had to be perfect?”

I sit at my vanity, catching myself in the mirror. My hair is in a ponytail, and there’s that birthmark.

I don’t know how to make her understand. About the Theory of Original Defectiveness. About justifying my existence. About trying to be what my parents need, about being a good girl. About feeling like a drop-in. About everything feeling under threat. About the losses I’ve faced and am facing. About not knowing who I am or where I came from or who I’m meant to be.

How can she possibly understand that, when her life seems like the complete opposite?

“It’s hard to explain,” I finally say.

“Well,” she says. “You don’t have to be perfect for me. You’re kind of a problem, to be honest, but I still love you.”