“So, I’m on eleven to seven. Probably be late if I’m working with the same little peckerwood as last night—you know I counted the drawer and mopped by myself while he hid out back sexting his girlfriend?” I snort, and she looks over, gaze trailing to the floor as she opens that ultra-sweet coffee creamer she loves, one of the few splurges on our grocery list. “Make sure you’ve got your key on you, okay?” Longer pause. “You and Dad will have to figure out supper.”

“It’s all good.”

Ma gives me a narrow-eyed look from the counter, watching me put on my sweater. “It is, huh?”

I tug my hair free of my collar, focusing on the door. Talking about boys isn’t something Ma and I have ever really done—frankly, there’s never been a need, since my longest relationship to date lasted three days (freshman year, with a kid who I’m pretty sure only got the nerve to ask me out once he heard I was moving away at the end of the week)—and it feels awkward now, not something I’m quite ready for. “What, I can’t be an optimist for one day?”

“You?” She follows me, standing on the top step, watching me take the steps with more spring than I should, aiming for the corner of the building, where I can disappear from her view. “Not likely.”

In the parking area, a black Jeep pulls into the spot beside Mom’s RAV4, stopping so abruptly that it rocks on its springs, black fuzzy dice swinging from the rearview. A tall, thin woman with ash-blond hair climbs out, wearing a cracked leather jacket and jeans so tight you could probably trace the lines of her underwear, assuming she’s wearing any. I can’t help staring, and she turns her head to look at me as we pass, her eyes lost behind round retro shades, perfect circles of darkness carved from her face. I look down fast, then glance back at her once I think it’s safe.

She takes the steps to Bree’s apartment and unlocks the door gingerly, hesitating a moment before going inside, like she’s afraid of waking someone, even though both girls would be at the bus stop by now. Bree’s mom, just getting in.

It’s against the rules to sit three to a seat, but the bus driver’s locked in rage blackout mode and doesn’t pay us any mind, too busy bellowing at the freshmen pelting each other with spitballs and bitten-off pencil erasers. Having a place to sit, where you’re expected—this, I could get used to.