This girl in my class, Ashley, had a big sister who would let her borrow clothes all the time and even do her hair and makeup in the schoolyard before the first bell. Heather would hold Ashley’s face with one hand to steady it and tell her to suck in her cheeks so she could brush blush in the hollows. I wanted to be Ashley more than I ever wanted anything else.

I walk to Carly’s new place, because she said she’d drive me home after. The Haunt is closer to us than to her. She answers the door wearing boots that lace up to her knees, cut-off red plaid pants with ripped tights underneath, and a black t-shirt that says Nipplehead across the chest. Her eyes are rimmed with sparkly black and purple eye shadow. When she turns around, the back of her shirt looks like a werewolf clawed her, and the blue creature on her back stares out through the rips in the fabric. I still don’t know what it is, but it has a big round eye. Her hair is extra spiky like maybe she cut some chunks out of it, but it looks good. It’s very Carly.

“Okay!” she says, bouncing to the closet before I’m even in the door. “Outfit! April! Outfit!”

She might be on something. I’m not good at telling. Maybe she just had too much coffee. She’s happy. Like capital H Happy. Like capital-everything happy. She’s HAPPY, and even if it might be artificially induced, after all the hurt she went through, it’s nice to see. She’s playing some CD that sounds like nails on a blackboard and a toddler torturing a violin. I’m guessing it’s Cat Skin.

Carly sings along, “I ain’t, I ain’t, I ain’t me! You. Ain’t. You!” as she pulls clothes from her closet and throws them on the bed. Layers upon layers of black and silver and ripped flannel. There’s incense burning and a drippy candle and scarves over the lights so her little apartment looks like a cave. Cozy and artsy and it makes sense. Not like the place we moved her out of.

“Anything you want to wear,” Carly shouts.

“Okay,” I say, but I’ve never had free rein of a closet like this before. I don’t even know where to start.

I grab a striped knit shirt and pull it on. It has a low scoop neck and my black bra straps show on my shoulders.

“Try this over it,” she says, handing me a grey velvet corset.

I fasten the corset over the shirt and all the fabric bunches up in the wrong places. I hold my arms out to show her, but she’s digging in the bottom of her closet.