“It’s funny,” she says. “I wouldn’t have thought… But, you know, he’s a really nice guy.”

“He is,” I say.

I show her where Adam keeps the band-aids and iodine. “Do you need help?” I ask, and she makes that dopey face at me, like I’m being ridiculous. But this time it doesn’t hurt my feelings, because I know we’re on the same side.

I get her a Coke and a hand towel from the linen closet so she can wash her face. And then I pull a pair of my clean pajama pants from a drawer Adam cleared out for me. They’re new. Pink flannel with blue cups of steaming coffee all over, like something you’d see the main character on a sitcom wear. And I’ve been so proud of them since I bought them, but when Carly comes out of the bathroom, I feel silly offering them to her.

“I figured your tights were wet,” I say, handing them over.

She looks young without all the makeup on. She takes the pants from me and pops back in the bathroom. When she comes out again she’s wearing them, and they look ridiculous under her ripped black dress and silver mesh sweater. Her tights are hanging on the radiator to dry, and her boots are on their sides on the floor.

I don’t know how to act or what to say. We plop down on the futon and put our feet on the trunk, taking swigs from our Cokes. I never had girlfriends. Too many people whispered about my dad and his gambling and my mom leaving and the motorhome. If I ever did get invited to some girl’s house to play after school, she was never allowed to come to mine, so eventually she got to be better friends with someone else—someone whose mom made cookies and was there when she got home from school, someone who had birthday parties to invite her to. I had Matty, and Margo was my friend too, but that’s different. It’s not the same as getting to be friends with a girl your own age.

“So, Rosemary,” Carly says, “told me she couldn’t be with anyone who wasn’t out.” She reaches over to pick at the cracked leather on the trunk. “It’s not like I was particularly in, I just wasn’t all the way out, you know?”

I nod, but I don’t know. I’m not sure if she’s talking about a club or a gang or a game that she’s not in or out of. But then she looks at me, and I can tell that the way she feels is the way I felt when I left Matty. That it’s that kind of loss, and I start to think that Rosemary must be her girlfriend.