Footsteps stop outside the doorway, and the girl from the living room peeks in. Bree’s little sister: same eyes and hair, except mini-Bree wears hers longer, and her style is totally girly. A glitter appliqué on her tank top, pink polish on her toenails. She’s maybe twelve.

“Yes?” Bree bites off the s.

“Heard you talking.” Mini-Bree looks at me curiously. “I thought it was Sage.”

“Well, it’s not. It’s Clara. Bye.”

I wave. She keeps looking.

Bree sighs. “God, Hazel, it’s customary to say hello. Is there a reason you came down here?”

“Mom’s going to be late. They’re slammed tonight, and then she’s going out for drinks after.” She traces her toe over the carpet. “Thought you’d want to know.”

Bree glances at me, nods.

Hazel tugs the drawstrings of her pants, taking a few steps into the room, her attention on me again. Upon closer inspection, her eyes are nothing like Bree’s; they’re dove gray, not a hint of steel about them. “Have you ever heard of FreshStepz?” I don’t have a chance to say no. “It’s this dance troupe I’m in.”

Bree looks at her from beneath her brows. “It’s a class at the rec department.”

“So? Same thing.” Hazel stops at the foot of the bed, blows her bangs off her forehead. “We have a show next month. I’m practicing really hard.”

“Cool,” I say.

She drops onto the mattress beside me, pulling one knee up. “Your mom lets you wear fishnets? You are so lucky. Where’d you get your shoes? I had some like that once, only they had silver sequins on them and they—” Bree clears her throat, makes walking legs with her fingers. Hazel rolls her eyes. “Fine. Forget it. See ya.”

Once I hear her bedroom door bang shut across the hall, I stand to go, but Bree catches me with “The reason I asked about your hair?” I half turn, gaze trained on a framed poster print of swirling blues and yellows, some surreal starry night, ready to take it on the chin. “I think it’s cool. I mean . . . that you weren’t afraid to show up at school like that.”

Fearless. That sounds way better than too broke to buy another box of dye, and too stubborn to ask Mom to bail me out. “Um. Thanks, I guess.”

A pause. “Look, if you’re ever bored or whatever . . . sometimes Sage and I hang out at the skate park.” She fidgets with her phone. “Boys go there.”

Full turn. Her face is guarded, like I’m the one who could do the hurting. “Boys are good.”

Three

I THINK I surprise them, Bree and Sage.