“Hannah,” I said. “We’re meeting her at the OCs’ and she’s driving all of us.”

At least, that’s the last I heard.

“Robert Maxin’s Hannah?”

“Correct.”

“Damn. Carter’s cold too.”

“No kidding,” I said. “I still can’t believe you guys didn’t tell me about Sarah.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about Eliza.”

The basement stairs thudded as we ran up them. A slam from Austin’s door and a crackly engine later, Austin sat shotgun as I pulled out of his driveway.

“Are you really surprised I didn’t tell you?” I asked.

“Nah. I get it.”

He texted Carter and Eliza that we were on our way. Twenty minutes later, Austin and I stood in Carter’s room, watching him change shirts six million times. (Confirming everything we’d thought about him and Hannah.)

“What about this one?” he said, pulling a black long-sleeve over his head.

“Good too,” said Austin.

“I liked the last one better,” I said.

“Really?”

Carter had the shirt halfway over his head before I said, “Nah. Go with the black.”

“Get outta here, Mags,” joked Carter. The shirt settled nicely on his arms. “Great. Now we gotta do shoes.”

“I’m gonna get some air,” I said, slipping through the door. I had to find Eliza and fill her in on my talk with Austin. The stairs creaked as I jogged to the second floor, wondering what I could possibly say to her. I didn’t want to lose either one of them.

“Nick!” Eliza answered her door and pulled me into her bright, cheery room.

“Whoa.”

It looked like a hurricane had hit her room, followed by a stampede of elephants and four typhoons. Piles of clothes spilled all over the floor, like she was trying to sort through them, and her drawing paper was everywhere: on top of the clothes, on her desk, and scattered in miscellaneous corners of the room. All of it was very un-Eliza.

She wore jeans and a tank top, looking ready for a casual party, and had clearly been ready hours ahead of Carter. She resumed her spot, drawing, sitting cross-legged on her comforter with a clipboard and oil crayons. I climbed next to her.

“Are you redecorating?”

“I wanted to do a still life. Of my room being messy. My room’s never messy,” she said. “And that’s kind of the point of the drawing.”

“Very meta,” I said. The headboard felt cool against my neck as I leaned against it. When I stretched out my legs, our knees almost touched.

“Mrs. Davies, my art teacher, is trying to get us all to enter this showcase thing. I’m trying to practice my still life, so it looks more like I tried, and less like I was having a seizure while I was doing it.”

The page on her clipboard was mostly blank. She’d sketched her metallic drawing table, which looked exactly like it was supposed to. The shading and coloring were perfect. Better than anything I could have tried.

“You’ll do great. You’re probably about one drawing away from an invitation to repaint the Sistine Chapel.”