“Okay,” he says.

“Okay!” I say.

He’s just looking at me. He’s standing there, and kids are passing around us, and his face is very serious. He opens his mouth, closes it.

“The closet,” he finally says.

Aw, hell. “I know!” I rush to say. “I’m so sorry! That was ridiculous, right?”

He hesitates. “Okay,” he says, nodding.

“It was kind of hilarious,” I go on. “I promise I’ll never drag you into a closet again.”

“Okay, then,” he says, still nodding. “Right.” He pulls out the tightly folded map he made, presses it into my hand, and lifts his hand in an awkward half wave. “Good night,” he says.

Then he yanks down his hat firmly and walks away. Gone.

11

I’m sitting cross-legged in bed, still cold but with a blanket around my shoulders. I message everyone the pictures of our little bootleg theater and rip Twizzlers apart with my teeth. There’s a flurry of excited emojis, and Katherine has already redecorated the place in her mind, and Nevaeh is arranging our trip to the thrift store tomorrow to debrief and scout for costume pieces to add to the beautiful stuff we got from her mom and because she really, really wants to look for her suit, and to start loading up on any scenery and sparkly things we can get our hands on, because who knows what we’ll need.

Everyone is excited again, so I hesitate before I type, things got super awkward at the end though.

I sketch out the basics like I find it hilarious—we jammed ourselves in the closet can you believe it, I’ll tell you the whole story tomorrow.

I have come to realize, the more I think about it, that he hated it. He hated every second of it. He was so embarrassed to be smashed in with me so tight, he didn’t even know what to say. And then I’m so embarrassed I liked being so close to him. Katherine likes him! He likes her! And there I am jammed like a wad of gum between them.

And I bet he was horrified to touch me, my body all mashed against his. Maybe he just thinks I’m fat, I think angrily—but I smash that train of thought.

We can talk about it at the thrift store tomorrow, where we can jump up and down about our brand-new, ready-to-be-decorated, about-to-be-legendary burlesque club, and that’s what I’m going to think about.

The next afternoon when we push open the door to New Again, the thrift store, the balding clerk behind the counter is flipping through a magazine without looking up, and humming to the Christmas songs playing, for some reason, over the speakers. Maybe that’s why we have the place to ourselves.

Taylor asks, “Why do all thrift stores smell exactly the same?”