I jogged down to the end of our driveway. Our cul-de-sac was impressive even midday in the bright sun. Nearly every house was decorated for Halloween now. Even my crabby neighbor, Mrs. Tressle, had a small skeleton standing in the front with a sign that seemed directed at me. YOU ARE DOOMED.

My mailbox, too, seemed to be judging me. Erect on its post, a slight dent halfway up its door like a haughty nose turned up at me.

Liar.

“Shut up,” I said to it, then looked around to make sure no one heard. All I needed were rumors about the new neighbor talking to her mailbox. But as I opened the latch, I couldn’t help but hiss, “I deserve to be here.”

And I did. My mother had wanted a different life for me and my brother. She pushed me to be the best I could, to not settle for less than perfect. You don’t need friends, Theresa Ann. You need influencers. People who will open doors. It had taken me a long time to get here, but, now, finally, I had it. No one was taking that away.

The mailman had shoved in a parcel instead of walking up the driveway to drop it at our door. I wrangled the bag out. When I saw the return label, I knew immediately what it was. The owl Halloween costume Kendra had ordered. The Ivies had all been busy getting ready for Full Moon, the scholarship event, this past week, and I was bummed I hadn’t seen them, despite our proximity. I was getting lonely. But the costume was a good reminder of the upcoming party, and I felt a twinge of anticipation. I was part of it. A big part of it.

I hustled up the driveway, tossed the rest of the mail on the side table, and took the package up to our bedroom.

The costume was a dress made of tiny felt triangles to evoke feathers. Holding it up, it seemed no bigger than a hand towel, stretchy and thin. Did Kendra really want me to wear this? It came with a matching cape—maybe to keep me warm?—and a creepy, feathered Mardi Gras–style mask. My first Halloween block party here in our new neighborhood, with the Ivies, and this was what I would be wearing?

Suck it up, Theresa Ann.

I wiggled my way into the dress—it didn’t have a zipper—and stared at myself in our full-length mirror. The bottom of the costume came barely halfway down my thighs. At least the triangle “feathers” hid any flaws, but the top had flimsy spaghetti straps and a neckline that plunged deeper than a scuba diver looking for treasure.

But they’d asked me to be part of their group costume. No way I was going to back out now. Even if it meant dressing like I was about to go onstage at Club Risqué.

“Mom?”