“Can I get you something to change into?”

I look down at myself. At the red sweater that’s weighing me down. The checkered skirt that’s still dripping water everywhere.

“Sorry …” I mumble, like I’m somehow responsible for controlling the way rainwater affects my clothes.

“It’s okay.” She begins to rifle around her drawer once more, one hand still absentmindedly drying her hair.

“I, um … I’m not sure if your clothes will fit me,” I say, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “We’re not exactly the same size.” I’m at least two sizes bigger than her—maybe more.

“Well, you can’t hang around in wet clothes. You’ll catch pneumonia or something.” She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, like she’s taking in the size of my body—noticing for the first time that it’s not the same as hers. I suck in my breath, like that will change anything. “I’m sure I can find you something.”

She eventually digs up an old, gray t-shirt that is far too big for her, but big enough for me. She pairs it with old, loose-fitting pajama bottoms that may once have been bright blue but have dulled to a color that barely resembles blue anymore.

Still, it’s not as if I have a choice. I can’t really decline her clothes or I will catch pneumonia. So I slide into her cramped bathroom, staring at myself in the tiny mirror over her sink with a hollow feeling in my stomach.

Both the t-shirt and the pajama bottoms are a little too tight, making me feel uncomfortable and itchy in my own skin. They also make me look horrible, worse than my tatty maroon uniform ever did. And that’s saying something, because our uniform has the superpower to make every person who wears it look unattractive. Except for Flávia. Obviously.

The thought of stepping out of the bathroom and facing her looking like this sends my heart plummeting. But then I remind myself that I shouldn’t care anyway. I’m supposed to be over her. We’re not even friends, really. We’re just trying to call a truce, and who knows how long that will even last. Maybe this will be good. Maybe exposing myself as an unattractive lump of potato will make me get over Flávia.

But when I walk out of the bathroom I forget all about the dull clothes clinging to me, because in front me is Flávia Santos wearing a hot pink unicorn onesie.

She looks, to put it frankly, ridiculous.

I burst into a fit of giggles. Unwillingly. The laughter bubbles up all the way from my stomach, spilling out of me in big, ugly guffaws that echo across the room. No matter how much I try to bite it down, it won’t stay down.

I should probably feel self-conscious, but I don’t.