“This is awful.”
“Neon green and yellow leopard will look great on you.”
“Your turn,” she chirps.
On the opposite side of the aisle, I walk slowly forward while my hand trails along the uneven row of hangers.
“Aaaand stop.”
“Very stylish. I always wanted camo overalls. Water-resistant, too.”
We continue like this throughout the store, grabbing tops, picking up accessories, and cackling. Once we pay and get sufficiently decked out in our new wardrobe, we leave the shop looking like we really are from another planet.
As we walk the block to the diner, I admire how Harlow’s changed. The vibe is funkier than I recall—more lively. As a small desert town, there’s always been a level of quirkiness. Lots of shops have popped up, though, making it a bit more of a destination and less a mere thoroughfare.
Ava bounces down the sidewalk, and it’s one of the best things in the world listening to her talk about her life. She’s cooler than I was at her age—more mature and self-aware. She tells me about her favorite classes, her least favorite teachers, the colleges she’s thinking of, her debate team, and all the drama of who’s dating who.
“What about you?” I ask, half joking. “How’s the love life?”
She makes a fart sound with her mouth.
“You’re sixteen. It’ll get better.”
“It didn’t for you.”
“Wow.”
“Kidding. There is a girl at school, but she’s like…” Ava shrugs. “Everyone wants to date her. She broke up with her last girlfriend like a week ago, and people are already asking her out and stuff.”
“And you?”
“Don’t want to pressure her. It’s been one week.”
Ava, my precocious baby sister, is sixteen going on thirty-six. And she’s much more like me than I ever would have guessed.
“What’s this girl’s name?”
“Zinnia,” she says in a hushed tone, scanning the sidewalk like this girl might pop out from behind a bush.
“‘Ava and Zinnia’ has a nice ring to it.”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re embarrassing.”
I follow Ava into the diner—a neighborhood staple that’s stuck in the ’80s. The chairs and countertops have faded to a muted orange, and sepia-toned photographs of people from another era cover the walls. An acne-riddled teenager ushers us to a spacious booth next to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“C’mon,” I say, kicking her foot under the table. “Tell me about this girl.”
“Not much to tell.” Ava scooches onto her seat and grabs a pink packet of fake sugar to fidget with. “She’s pretty, funny, smart, basically everything amazing rolled into one. And she has no idea I exist.”
“You’re pretty, funny, smart, and amazing.”
“You’re obligated to say that.”
“Sure. But I mean it.”
A smile spreads on her face like warm butter on toast. I’ll forever be glad I kept up enough of a relationship with Ava while I was away that she’s comfortable sharing these kinds of things with me.
“Ask her out,” I say.
