When the tall girl with white-blond curls, blond eyelashes, and the coolest gray eyes Greta had ever seen breezed into the room, stuck her hand out, and said, “I could murder a slushie. Wanna bounce?” Greta had followed her. Once her legs were moving, it was easier to talk. Once she talked, it was easier to think. And once she could think, she thought Holy shit. I’m in Portland, drinking a slushie that I don’t have to share, in the flavor of my choice, and I can do…whatever I want. It had blasted through her like a gust of wind off the ocean, sending shivers down her spine. Or maybe that was the slushie. Ramona would go on to teach her a lot over the next year, but Greta had never forgotten that first, unintentional lesson: sometimes, when all else fails, get off your ass and get a slushie. Or, you know, a whatever.

“Of course,” Ramona said. “I give stellar advice. Giving advice and being able to take it are two entirely unrelated gifts, I’ll have you know.”

Carys smiled at Greta. “So what was a really good piece of advice you gave Greta?”

“Oh god, allow me to flip through the veritable card catalogue of options.” Ramona struck the pose of The Thinker. “So it was fall semester and Greta had made the horrible mistake of signing up for a psychology lab from seven to nine on Friday evenings.”

“It was the only one with slots left,” Greta editorialized.

“And there was this Halloween party going on at our friend Mika’s place. Tons of great costumes, weird spooky games, the works. I tell Greta she’s gotta skip lab that week because we need plenty of time to get our costumes ready.”

“What were you?”

“Dude,” Ramona said, “she was Harriet the Spy, and she was so freaking cute. She had her hair in a braid—it was long then—and the red sweatshirt jacket and her little black-and-white notebook. Adorable. I was Joan Jett.”

Ramona struck a pose that was presumably supposed to conjure Joan Jettiness. Carys raised an eyebrow and winked.

“Anyway, it’s six p.m., and no Greta. It’s seven p.m., and no Greta. And I realize: this bitch has actually gone to her psychology lab in the monkey building on the Friday night of Halloween.”

Greta scanned the water for alligators, a smile on her lips. It was nice to spend time with Ramona again. Just being around her made Greta happy.

“I got ready all by my lonesome,” Ramona said with a tragic frown.

“You got ready with Jill and Santos, thank you,” Greta corrected.

“Fine. Anyway. When it’s nine thirty and Greta’s still not back, I go to call her, and do you know what happened?”