Skylar pushes her hair out of her face. We’re growing our hair long this summer. So far, hers has grown faster than mine. It touches her shoulders already, a blond mane of thick waves. Mine is wispy and as fine as a baby’s, hanging around my face in a tangle of red curls. No matter how long it gets, it won’t look like Skylar’s hair.

I’ll never look like Skylar either. She’s an inch taller than me, wears a bra, and is the prettiest girl in our class. She’s my best friend, so I try not to be jealous. Mom says, “Just wait till you’re eighteen. By then you’ll be beautiful.”

It’s a long time to wait. Why can’t I be just a little pretty now?

At least Skylar’s not smarter than I am. We both pull down easy As in most of our classes. She gets ahead in math sometimes but never in language arts. Her main talent is singing, and mine is art. I can’t sing, and she can’t draw, so we’re even there.

I have one advantage, though. I’ll be thirteen three months before Skylar, so I’ll be a teenager first. Which isn’t much of a consolation, but still, I plan to remind her that I’m older than she is as frequently as possible.

Skylar interrupts my thoughts. “There’s a gas station across the street. Let’s get water.”

It’s the first sensible thing she’s said all day. I fish around in my pockets to find what’s left of my allowance—one damp, wrinkled dollar bill. I might have to ask Mom for a loan against next week’s allowance. All Skylar comes up with is fifty-three cents.

The gas station is off-brand and pretty run down. No cars in the parking lot, no air-conditioning inside, a cooler full of water, soda, and beer. We pay the guy at the register one dollar and thirty cents, including tax, for two bottles of water. Luckily there’s a two-for-one sale or we wouldn’t have had enough.

If I had more money, I’d buy an extra and pour it over my head. That would feel so good.

Before we leave, Skylar asks the guy how far it is to the town limits.

He looks up from a hot rod magazine and says, “Huh?”

“The town limits,” she says. “You know, where Evansburg ends and Newton starts.”

“How should I know? I don’t live around here.” He goes back to his magazine, and we leave.

“Moron,” says Skylar. “It can’t be much farther. Remember the sign we saw for Newton—three miles?”