“Oh. Good.” He looks uncomfortable now, like he doesn’t know what role to play here: parent, teacher, or pal. “Maxwell, get your stuff.” I guess he’s chosen teacher. “I told your dad I’d have you home ten minutes ago.”

Well shrugs again.

“He won’t notice.”

“Go get your stuff anyway. I’ll meet you down at the car in two minutes.”

“All right, Coach. All right.”

Well stands as Dan leaves. I stand too, because it feels weird to wave good-bye from the bed. Then, instead of leaving, he picks up Mom’s guitar where I left it by the door. No one has touched that guitar but me and Mom. I want to grab it back. What if he messes it up?

“I thought you went by Well,” I say, hoping to distract him so he’ll put it down.

“It’s kind of a new thing.”

He’s talking, but all I can do is watch his hands on the strings. “I’ve been at Chickering since kindergarten, so everybody knows me as Maxwell.” He pauses, strums an E chord and, to my total amazement, tunes it better than I did. “But let’s just say I’m trying to reinvent myself.”

“Maxwell!” Dan yells from the foot of the stairs.

“It’s a process,” he says, and sets the guitar down gently next to the reading chair under the window. Then he holds up a hand for a high five. I look at him, calm as can be, and say, “Catch you later, Well.”

“Ohhh, cool as a cucumber,” he says as he grabs his racket and moonwalks out. I look over at the guitar.

If a kid like Maxwell can reinvent himself, so can I.

8 We’re Going to Be Friends

The outfit is laid out on the reading chair like a murder victim. It is Monday morning at six thirty. School starts at seven forty-five. I cannot possibly put this on. I hold up the blue-and-gray plaid skirt. The white button-down. The navy sweater vest. I should have seen this coming. It’s fancy private school. Of course they have uniforms.

Ginger and I got into our first argument over it yesterday after they got back from church. I didn’t go. Being frisked by an airport security guard was nothing compared to the thought of singing hymns and going to Sunday school with a bunch of WWJD kids. Ginger and Dan were fine with that. But when they got home and Ginger pulled out the uniform, still wrapped in cellophane, and I said I wouldn’t wear it, that was the big deal.

“Lou, you have to wear the uniform.”

“I won’t. I can’t.” It was too much. The fabric was stiff, like it had been starched to death, and it made me itch just to touch it.