“I won’t tell if you don’t,” I responded. We were quiet for a long time, just looking at each other, scoping out exactly what this relationship was going to be. I didn’t know this yet, but that was the most important thing I could have said in that moment. Covenant U ran on a code far more precious than honor, and alliances forged on the first day were the most difficult to break.

Ruthie and I were almost the last to arrive to the seven-o’clock meeting that night. For fifteen minutes the alarm in my head went off, reminding me I was supposed to be somewhere I wasn’t. If we’re not early, we’re late, my mother had always whispered to herself as she corralled five dirty kids in their Sunday bests into the van for church. But Ruthie said she had to figure out something to wear, so I agreed, claiming I needed to change my outfit, too.

“I like your shirt,” she said, her face an inch from her behind-the-door mirror as she applied a thin black paste in a line above her eyelashes. “Don’t change that. But you can borrow some jeans if you want...”

She slid the bottom dresser drawer open with her foot, inviting me to choose from not one, not two, but five different pairs, neatly folded in a pristine row. A light blue one, a dark blue one, a dark gray one, one with a lot of buttons at the waist, and one that got super tight at the ankle. My father never let me wear jeans. He said women’s denim is the thread of the Devil, only for promiscuous girls with arm tattoos. But Ruthie didn’t have any tattoos—as far as I could tell, at least—so I pulled the dark blue ones out and stood there awkwardly holding them, realizing I didn’t have a bathroom in which I could lock the door and get changed.

“Don’t worry, I’m not looking,” Ruthie said, sensing my deliberation. “I shared a room with my stepsister for years. You’ll get used to it.”

I moved to my side of the room, where my bed met the wall and turned around, quickly pulling my pants off and slipping into hers. They were snug in the way my clothes would get as a kid, until my mother could convince my father to let us go to the thrift store for something new. They were probably one size too small, but I could still button them.

I moved to the mirror and stood behind Ruthie to see how I looked. I didn’t feel any different in denim. I didn’t feel more promiscuous or less godly. I felt the same.

“Those are tricky, but when you suck in, they’ll fit fine,” Ruthie said, eyeing me through the mirror.

“When I what?” I asked.