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April—Felicity’s mom—was weird with me, one hand on my shoulder as she guided me to Felicity’s room, like I didn’t know the way. Then Gretchen had mentioned invitations. I didn’t get one of those. I got a text last night, last minute.

I’m standing here, wearing an old man’s shoes, holding a sleeping bag I’m not supposed to have, staring down a bunch of girls I don’t really like. And despite the weight of Felicity’s arm across my shoulders, something is being made very clear to me.

I don’t belong here.

Chapter 25

Felicity

Sixth Grade

We’re friends again.

It happened slowly, starting with the fact that no one had brought any sleeping bags—breaking the news to Mom that this was now a sleepover had not been awesome—and so we ended up making a pile of blankets on the floor of my room. We’re cuddled in, a bag of Doritos passing between us, wiping cheesy fingers on whatever we can find.

Mom had carried Tress’s boots outside with a wrinkled nose, and I had given her a pair of my pajamas. She’s almost like us, now, with the right clothes on and that scab on her knee covered. Almost. There’s still something about her eyes, and how she’s being too careful, watching Gretchen like she’s waiting for her to attack.

Which she hasn’t done . . . so far.

Brynn’s mom picked her up about an hour ago and me, Gretchen, Maddie, and Tress had torn through a package of cookies and a case of soda that Dad had slipped into my room, with a wink and a thumbs-up. I’m guessing Mom is lying on the couch downstairs, her mouth a thin, flat line as she crosses her fingers and prays I don’t have a seizure in front of everyone. Either that or worrying about the soda rotting my teeth out of my head. She always says my smile is my best feature. I guess if I didn’t have seizures maybe that would be my best feature instead.

It might rot my teeth, but the sugar is helping us all get along. We’ve got the giggles, and Tress has even loosened up a little bit.

“Hey,” she says, bumping me with her elbow. “Do your impression of Mr. Stephens.”

“Oh . . .,” I say, my stomach bottoming out a little bit.

“Do her what?” Gretchen asks.

“She can do Mr. Stephens,” Tress says. “She’s, like, really good at impressions.”

It’s true, I am. But it’s not something I do for just anybody. Last time Mom caught me mimicking our mailman, Dad in a laughing fit on the couch, she told me it wasn’t nice to make fun of people.

“I’m not making fun,” I insisted. “I’m just—”

“Pretending to be a sixty-year-old man?” Mom asked, raising an eyebrow. “That’s weird, Felicity.”

Maybe it is weird, I don’t know. I’d kept my impressions just for Tress since then, but now Maddie and Gretchen are looking at me expectantly.

“All right,” I say, standing up. A cascade of cookie crumbs rolls off my front as I get into position, throwing my shoulders back and making myself big, barrel-chested like Mr. Stephens, our science teacher.

“Volcanoes,” I say, dropping my voice really low and rounding out my vowels. “Are truly a miracle of geology.”

Maddie erupts in a fit of giggles, and Tress claps. Gretchen just looks at me, wide-eyed.

“That was . . . bizarre,” she finally says.

Weird, my mom’s voice echoes in the back of my head, and I falter on my feet, wondering how Gretchen would react if I dropped to the floor right now, foaming at the mouth. Bizarre would just be the beginning.

“Do another one, do another one,” Maddie says. “Do Captain Choir!”

I roll into an impression of Mrs. Adams, our music teacher, smacking the undersides of my arms to make my skin wobble, which totally is making fun of someone. But even Gretchen is laughing now, so I keep going.

“Oh, do Ms. Frampton!” Gretchen says.

That one’s harder. Ms. Frampton is a complete airhead of a substitute that we get sometimes. She’s really young and nice and just seems to want everyone to be happy. Last time we had her she brought homemade cookies, and then lost control of the classroom when Jessica Stanhope had an allergic reaction to the nuts in them. We haven’t seen Ms. Frampton since then.

I screw my eyes shut, trying to remember her. Trying to recall the set of her face, small repeated movements, the lilt of her voice. All the things that make a person unique.