She grins and opens her mouth to speak, then glances at her bedroom door nervously. Fucking, she mouths at me. She does it with such giddy exaggeration that I can’t even come down on her for not saying it aloud. When I realize I’m beaming at her like a besotted wharf rat, I duck my head, my cheeks on fire.

“Do you want some sweats or something to change into?” she asks, nodding at my dress.

My heart leaps into my throat and tries to hammer its way out the side of my neck. “Uh, no thanks. I’m good.” Undressing in front of her is absolutely out of the question.

“Are you hungry or anything?”

I shake my head.

She collapses on the bed. Her shirt rides up a little, showing the barest hint of creamy skin above the waistband of her yoga pants. I avert my eyes to the stuffed polar bear nestled among the throw pillows on her bay window bench.

“Sit,” she says, gesturing at her desk chair, and again I obey.

On her desk is a lamp, her laptop, a bunch of framed snapshots of her with her friends, a set of photo booth pictures of her and Hunter, a notepad, and a white mesh container holding mechanical pencils and glittery gel pens.

I’m afraid to look at her, so I pick up one of the pencils and start doodling on the notepad. “Did you see Hunter at the dance?” she asks. “With Nicki?”

I nod, worried she’s going to ask more.

“I hope he’s having a good time,” she says with a sigh.

I want to ask if they broke up, ask what happened, but I don’t know how.

“What are you drawing?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say, which is mostly true.

“I wish I could paint like you,” she says, her voice wistful. “You’re so talented.”

“You’re the talented one,” I say. “You could have a future on stage, if you wanted one.”

“Ha, no. I’m not that good.”

“But you are!” How can she be that beautiful and that talented and not know it?

“Agree to disagree,” she says, smiling.

I smile, too, continuing my sketch. I steal a glance at her. She stares at the ceiling, lost in thought, her hair tumbling in waves over her pillow. For the first time I notice a small birthmark near her hairline, like someone pressed a kiss to her forehead and it left a mark.

“Can you turn on the lamp and turn off the overhead light?” she finally asks, gesturing at the switch on the wall near me.

I’m happy to oblige; the ceiling light is bright enough to illuminate a small country. I’ve always felt more comfortable in the dark — perhaps because it makes it that much easier to be invisible. I turn on the lamp and get up to flip the switch off.