Wasn’t it funny how people always demanded the truth, yet mostly couldn’t handle it when it came along? In all fairness, I was the same way. Demanding the truth, yet holding on to the lies. They came in handy when you wanted to guard yourself against the truth—lies, that is.

I paused in front of my room; I didn’t really think anyone would be inside. This get-together was way calmer than most of the parties Austin had thrown in the past, before he went to stay with our uncle. And I had to admit that Austin seemed a little different now, more stable. Or maybe I wanted him to have calmed down; thinking this way protected me from seeing the truth.

I knocked, then waited before opening the door into what turned out to be an empty room. I stood for a moment before entering, taking everything in. Even the smell. God, the air intoxicated me with a feeling of nostalgia, like the scent of my former life. I had been trying so hard to start a new chapter, turn a new page . . . whatever it was people did when they tried to move on. I stood there looking at my old bedroom while thinking of my new bedroom. Such a stark difference.

This room was the same as it ever was. The same purple bedspread with little white flowers all over it. The same matching curtains with a burn mark on the corner from my one day as a smoker. I got grounded for that. My parents didn’t notice the burnt curtain, lucky for me, but they had caught the cigarette smoke as it wafted down the hallway. After that I was forbidden to hang out with Neena Hobbs, the only girl in my grade who was allowed to shave her legs—and who had made me want to smoke like she did.

My dresser was cluttered with the usual teenage girl stuff. Old tubes of glittery lip gloss that had been expired for years. Bundles of headbands and hair elastics. Notes from my best friend, Sammy. Well, Sammy was my best friend until she married a soldier and getting a hold of her became impossible. Gel pens in every conceivable color. Everything had a memory attached. Some more than one. I couldn’t bring myself to toss a thing. Not the hair accessories I had worn for years through multiple hair colors and multiple bad haircuts. Not even the sticky lip gloss that my mom snuck me when my dad said I couldn’t wear makeup until high school. I picked them up now and rolled them around in my hand. They had names like Berry Beautiful, Pucker Pink, and Sweeter Than Sweet. Funny, though, once you got them on your lips, they all had pretty much the same rosy color, the same sugary and sticky shine that always caught in my hair.