We take turns walking Ferdinand and letting him chase us around the yard. He kicks his hooves happily as he skips around, putting us all in a good mood. Micah and Ivy offer to feed the chickens since I’m still grossed out by them. I don’t think Ivy and I have ever gotten along so well. She’s a good kid, when she’s not stinking up the bathroom on me.

Once chores are done, we go back to the house and ride our bikes in the driveway again, until Micah says he needs to go home and shower to get ready for Sierra’s party. I had forgotten all about it.

“What do I wear?” I ask.

“I knew you’d change your mind!” he says, clapping his hands together. “It’s a pool party, so I assume at least a bathing suit.”

“I know that,” I say. “But . . . do I wear shorts? A sundress?”

“How should I know?” Micah says.

“That’s not helpful.”

“Can I go to the party?” Ivy asks.

“No,” Micah and I say at the same time.

Ivy frowns.

“Sorry. It’s just for people our age.”

“Sounds stupid,” she says.

“I think you should wear what you feel comfortable in,” Micah tells me. “Just be yourself.”

As he walks away, I think about that phrase. Be yourself. It sounds so easy, on the surface. But lately, deep down, I feel like I’m not sure what being myself really means.

Chapter Nine

I put my hair up in three different ways, but I hate how it looks no matter what. When I try on the one sundress I got last year, it’s too tight and too short anyway. I don’t feel any taller, but I guess I am. I try on every pair of shorts I own, and they all look too old and worn. Even my new bathing suit looks old.

I go downstairs and find my mom to ask her for advice. She’s always been good at putting outfits together and making them look better than I ever could.

“I think what you have on looks nice, honey. I’m sure if it’s a pool party, anything goes. You’ll probably be in your bathing suit the whole time anyway.”

I’m wearing cutoffs and an old white T-shirt — the kind that comes in a three-pack at the under-five-dollars store. It is not party wear, and she barely even looks at me, so how does she know if what I have on is OK?

“Please, Mom? Can you just come up and help me?”

She finally stops tearing lettuce for tonight’s salad and really looks at me.

“Hmm. All right.”

We go to my room, and she picks up all the various clothes I’ve discarded on the floor and lays them out on my bed, mixing and matching until she finds a combination she likes. “Try that,” she says.