Emma lets out a little snort. “I doubt you can buy these, they’re circa my great-grandma. They’re part of the uniform they give you.”

“They’re used?” I shudder thinking about summer after summer of teenage feet shoved into the same pair of shoes.

Emma twists the cap off of one of the cherry sodas she brought from work and hands it to me. “It’s like bowling shoes … they sprayed them down before I got them. I’m not eating lunch out of them.”

“I guess.” We both sit in silence, sipping our cherry sodas, leg-to-leg like conjoined twins. If I had to pick someone to be literally connected at the hip with, it would be Emma. I rest my head on her shoulder. I’m just using her shoes as a distraction from what we’re actually talking about—the prospect of my epic art adventure with Aiden.

“This isn’t that big of a deal. I promise you’re overthinking this,” she says.

I don’t know how to explain to her what it feels like to be left your whole life. Over and over. And just when you think you’ve found your person—boom. They leave you too.

“This is Aiden Emerson, Liv.”

“So?”

“So, this is what I was talking about. This is how you’re supposed to spend your summer.” She pats my knee. “Making out with hot guys in stairwells, and going off on epic art adventures, and falling in love.” She takes a swig of her soda. “And knowing it’s going to end, but not giving a shit, because it’s so good while it lasts.”

“Is this supposed to be a pep talk?”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t sound confident. “Yeah, just give me a second to get my thoughts together.” She tips the mouth of the pink bottle at me. “You’re leaving in a few months.”

I reach for the bottle and she passes it to me. The tart cherry soda bubbles in my throat on the way down. “Am I?” I’ve been holding out hope that Emma could convince her parents that letting me get shipped off for senior year is inhumane. To both of us.

“Ross and Teresa are being completely unreasonable.” Her eyes squint in anger. She always calls her parents by their first names when she’s mad at them. “They don’t want responsibility for another teenager. They still have three left after me, and apparently they’re not sure they’re going to pull through.” Emma rolls her eyes. “What a burden my B+ average must be.”

I let out a long sigh, and angrily flick away a chunk of lint from my carpet to distract myself from what Emma is telling me. Dammit. “You’ll keep trying though?”

“Relentlessly,” she says. There’s a long stretch of silence before she speaks again. “I hate that you’re leaving, but you’re probably leaving.”