The house is quiet except for the sound of the dishwasher running. Sage sits on the kitchen counter; Bree leans nearby beside a big mixing bowl and a bag of water balloons, Sage’s contribution. Bree holds her hand out for the Jell-O. “My mom’s sleeping, so. You know. No raves.”

I’ve never made Jell-O bombs before, so I do as I’m told. At Song’s, all this was just talk over chop suey and dumplings, but now we’re wrist-deep in serious prank material. Hazel has the honor of mixing fruity-smelling powder and water; Sage squeezes the balloon necks tight to the funnel as Bree pours in the blue goop, careful not to overfill; I tie them off, dividing them between two grocery bags for easy lugging.

Bree shows Hazel Trace’s list. “You probably have some of this junk lying around, right?”

Hazel looks at Sage. “Is this for your boyfriend?” The word full of import.

Bree makes a dismissive sound. “That falls under the heading of need-to-know.”

Sighing, Hazel leads us to her room. Being in there reminds me of their fight Thursday night: tears, clothes stuffed into a duffel bag, Bree’s shout tearing through drywall, insulation, splitting the night air. Dad is not an option.

Hazel goes straight for her closet, digging around, tossing things over her shoulder. She hasn’t done the big clean yet, where you get rid of every single babyish thing you own, every stray doll or kitten-clinging-to-a-tree-branch poster, driven by sheer dread that somebody at school might find out you still have it and tell the world.

A door opens in the hallway. Bare feet scuff to the bathroom. I know Bree hears, but she refuses to look away from Hazel, still sifting through geological layers. It’s a standoff, a turf war over the square footage of this tiny apartment, and I exchange a glance with Sage, who looks as trapped as I feel, absently snapping a hair elastic against her wrist.

A minute later, Bree’s mom passes on a nonstop from hallway to kitchen, her long, tall frame emphasized by black leggings and a clinging hip-length gray tunic. She spares half a glance at us; I get my first impression of her eyes, large, ice-chip pale like Bree’s, brows plucked down to nearly nothing, then she’s pulled her gaze away. Nothing to see here.

Hazel unearths the last couple things we need: a Halloween makeup kit with most of the green paint used up, and a mask. It’s meant to look like Disney’s version of Cinderella, or maybe Sleeping Beauty. Waves of molded blond hair, shaded cheekbones, hollow eyes.