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  Asha gives a happy sigh and rips the paper to shreds with great satisfaction. Inside the box is a knitted hat in a dark plummy purple—Asha’s favorite color. She pulls it out, and she and I ooh and ahh over it.

  “I made it,” Emma says proudly. She taught herself to knit last month. “See that ribbon woven in across the center?”

  Asha and I both nod.

  “It’s from the yellow ribbon we got for participating in the science fair in eighth grade. Remember?”

  Of course we remember. Asha pulls the hat on over her dark hair and grins. “I’ll wear it tomorrow on the slopes,” she promises.

  And I’m sure we’ll see a selfie. #IAmAshaMirza wearing a hat.

  “And here’s something for fun.” Emma grins, then hands Asha a small pink shopping bag. Emma always likes to add in a silly gift, too. That somehow makes her even more perfect.

  Asha raises her eyebrows, reaches inside the bag, and digs around in the tissue paper like a squirrel searching for a nut.

  I can’t stand the suspense. “What is it?”

  Asha pulls something out of the bag. It is a red baby-doll nightie with tiny little spaghetti straps and lots of lace.

  “OMG.” Asha bursts out laughing. She’s the kind of girl who wears a huge T-shirt and sweats to bed. There is nothing more opposite to Asha’s style than this nightie. And that’s why it’s so funny. Honestly, it’s not something any of us would wear. It seems like a cliché from a movie.

  Emma giggles. “Remember when we saw this at the mall? I thought you’d maybe want to take a picture and show it to Nate.”

  “Like, as a joke?” Asha rolls her eyes. “I’m not putting it on.” She turns to Emma. “You do it.”

  “I’m not doing it,” Emma says between giggles.

  “It’s my birthday, so I get what I want,” Asha says, pushing the lace toward Emma. “And I want you to put it on.”

  I’m still laughing, but then I see Asha’s face and I know she’s serious. Emma sees it, too, and suddenly, nothing about this is funny.

  Emma folds her arms over her chest, chin stuck out defiantly. She gets to her feet, towering over Asha. “You can’t make me.”

  Asha’s eyes narrow and she gets to her feet, too. “Looks like the space cadet woke up all of a sudden and got a backbone.”

  My stomach squeezes. Suddenly, we’re back in middle school. Emma on one side and Asha on the other. Now Asha’s birthday will dissolve into a fight.

  Don’t say anything. Let them settle this.

  But I can’t. My role as peacemaker has been years in the making. I step in between the two of them—arms stretched wide to keep them apart—and do the stupidest thing possible.

  “I’ll put it on,” I say frantically. I take the scrap of red material from Asha’s fist and hold it against my body so they can see the ridiculousness of the idea.

  Suddenly, they are both laughing. Evidently, the only thing more comical than Asha wearing this outfit is the idea of me trying it on.

  “Yes, try it!” Emma says. “Better Skye than me.”

  If I looked like you, Emma, I wouldn’t care about wearing this stupid thing.

  “I was kidding,” I say. “Look. There’s no way this will fit me.” I shake my head vehemently, but instantly see the disappointment in their eyes. I will let them down and ruin the whole mood. But I have the power to fix it. I just have to make a fool out of myself for their entertainment.

  Anything to keep the peace.

  As usual.

  “Come on, Skye,” Asha wheedles.

  And I give in. Like I always do. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” I take the tiny scrap of lace and head toward the bathroom. “Wait a second.”

  “I’ll put on the right music,” Emma calls out as I slip into the bathroom and close the door behind me.

  What have I agreed to now?

  I change quickly out of my jeans and T-shirt. Then I’m struck with the realization of just how small this thing really is. I tug the scratchy lace down over my chest. Fatty rolls of skin bulge up over the V-necked front and under my arms. It’s so tight around my stomach I can hardly breathe. The short lace hem only reaches to the tops of my fleshy thighs. I tug at the hem, uncomfortable even without an audience, but the material refuses to budge.

  Everything about this is a huge mistake. But I remind myself it’s just Emma and Asha outside that door. Now that I’ve gone this far, I might as well go all the way. I remove my ponytail, lean over, and toss my hair into a wavy mess with my hands. When I flip back up, the reflection in the mirror is a bit scary—lots of bare skin and big hair—but I figure it will definitely do the trick and get major laughs from both of them.

  I throw open the door and step out to the opening chords of Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.” The music is blaring and I stride across the room in an exaggerated catwalk strut. The straps slip down off my bare shoulders, but I don’t care. My goal has been realized. I have saved the day. Asha and Emma are laughing so hard they can barely talk.

  “Work it, girl,” Emma calls out.

  And I do. I glance over one shoulder, tossing my hair back from my face in fake slow motion. Bending forward, I kiss the air in my best supermodel imitation.

  Asha whistles and Emma is making loud whooping noises.

  It is just us and I have to admit, I love making them laugh. I ramp it up even more, prancing and twirling across the room.

  “Skye. Skye,” Asha calls out. “Look this way.”

  I twist around to blow another kiss in her direction, but then catch my reflection in the sliding glass door. Everything stops. I freeze midspin, yanking up the straps on the nightgown. I don’t know who that girl is with all the red lace, curves, and skin—but it isn’t me.

  “Oh. My. God,” Asha squeals. “Don’t quit now! That’s perfect.”

  I look from my reflection to Asha. Her phone is out in her hand. She’s filming me.

  No. No. No.

  I panic, holding out my hands to block the camera. There were only supposed to be two people watching me prance around in practically nothing, but Asha just let the world in.

  “Stop, Asha. Erase it,” I beg her, grabbing for the phone.

  She holds the phone out of my reach. “It was live on ChitChat. I can’t erase it yet, but relax. I’ll delete it in fifteen minutes. Promise.”

  I feel horror clutch at me. “Asha! Hundreds … thousands … of people can see it by then!” I sputter.

  Asha rolls her eyes at my reaction. “Only if they’re on ChitChat, like, now.”

  Fifteen minutes feels like a lifetime.

  “Don’t freak out,” Asha says. There is a sudden tone in her voice, and a sharp flash in her eyes—almost too quick to catch, but I see it. She thinks I’m overreacting and silly. If we were ten years old again, she’d call me a baby and make me cry.

  Emma is studying the video on her phone, via ChitChat. “You look great. Want to watch it?”

  I shake my head frantically, determined not to cry. “No, I want it to go away.”

  “And it will,” Emma says soothingly. “Just give it a few minutes, then, poof … your time as a supermodel is history.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m …” My voice dwindles off into silence.

  “Crazy?” Asha asks. That edge is still in her voice.

  “I was going to say super sensitive,” Emma says, patting me on the shoulder.

  Asha rolls her eyes. “I don’t know why you have to be so self-conscious, Skye.”

  Live in my skin for sixteen years. Maybe you’ll get it.

  I take a deep breath. “Let me see it.”

  “Are you sure?” Emma asks.

  I nod, but I’m not sure at all.

  Emma holds out her phone and I look down at the screen. The video starts with a pan of the room, then focuses in on the closed bathroom door. Suddenly, the door opens, and a girl stalks out in a red nightie. Oh. My. God. The back of my neck is on fire, the flames rushing up into my face.

&nbs
p; That girl in the video is me.

  I can’t stop watching. My skin is white and flabby, rolling over the tight strips of red in all the wrong places. But my face is so proud. So stupidly happy. Like I don’t even know how horrible I look.

  Make it stop. In a panic, I push frantically at the screen.

  “See. You look fine.” I hear Asha’s voice like it’s far away. “I told you. It isn’t that bad.”

  People—everyone—will watch this video and think I want to be seen this way. I look up from the screen, eyes wide.

  “Emma, take it down,” I beg.

  She shrugs sympathetically. “You know I can’t.”

  “Oh, good grief,” Asha says, grabbing Emma’s phone from me. “Just change back into your clothes, Skye. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll try on that stupid thing now. But no ChitChats!”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, with Emma and me sitting on the couch in our pajamas, Asha walks out for her big reveal. It doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse. A lot worse. Asha looks perfect in anything, even in the ridiculous red nightie. Slim waist. Strong legs. With her long black hair and fierce attitude, she could be a Victoria’s Secret model. And, even though she looks fantastic, no one dares take a video or a photo without her permission.

  I’m the only stupid cow in the room.

  Emma looks out the window and lets out an excited yelp.

  “It’s snowing!” she cries.

  She points toward the sliding glass doors. I glance out at the beauty of the thick flakes suddenly swirling around.

  “Let’s go outside!” Asha declares. Even though she’s still in the red nightie, she throws on her coat, yanks on her new hat from Emma, and steps into boots. Emma follows suit, putting her jacket and scarf on over her pj’s. In a second, they are both out the sliding glass doors, leaving me sitting alone on the couch.

  The cold air pours in through the open doors, cooling my flushed cheeks and bringing goose bumps to my arms. I blink hard, willing the tears not to fall.

  “Come on, Skye!” Emma yells back inside, gesturing wildly for me to join them.

  Asha calls out, “Just put on a coat.” She is leaning over the edge of the deck, filming the snowflakes landing on Emma’s hair. But all I can think about is that other video still floating around out there in the world for—I look at my watch—seven more minutes.

  I take a deep breath, then pick up my coat and put it on, buttoning it all the way up to my neck, covering every inch of skin. I slip my bare feet into my boots and stumble across to the doorway. Emma grabs my hand, pulling me out onto the deck.

  The lights from the houses on the lake throw out an eerie white glow onto the water as the snow slowly starts to cover the icy perimeter. Asha catches snowflakes on her tongue. Emma scoops up a handful of snow from the balcony railing and opens her fingers up to let the soft whispers of white blow off into the wind. It’s one of those moments you know you should remember.

  Asha grabs Emma and they twirl around in the cold holding hands, faces up to the clouds. “Isn’t this the best?” Emma calls out to me.

  “It’s beautiful,” I mumble, but I can’t help checking the time again. Three more minutes and then Asha can delete the video forever.

  The wind is cold when she steps off the bus into the dark. Harmony Heaven sticks her hands down deep into the pockets of her black wool peacoat and feels the torn lining inside.

  The Old Town stop is deserted, but within a block there are couples and families out for dinner under thousands of tiny white holiday lights. She walks past trendy boutiques, college bars, and restaurants where one meal would cost her a week of her Kmart salary. Maybe more. She isn’t sure because she’s never been inside any of those places. One time she did stop long enough to read the items on the menu. Then she checked in online like she’d actually been there. Later, she Googled the eighteen-dollar pasta Bolognese and found out it was just fancy spaghetti with meat sauce and not worth the three hours it would take standing at a Kmart cash register to pay for it.

  Tucking herself into the doorway of the Linden Street Café, Harmony retrieves her pay-as-you-go phone out of her coat pocket. She logs on to the spotty free public Wi-Fi and sinks down onto the cold sidewalk. She pulls her coat closer around her body and leans forward into the welcome glow of the screen.

  A trio of laughing college girls in high heels stumble by, but they don’t notice Harmony huddled there in the dark or, if they do, they quickly look away. She’s used to it. The internet is what gives her a connection to other humans anyway.

  Harmony clicks through the open windows of other people’s lives. Skye has posted a picture of herself with her two besties eating chocolate birthday cake. Birthday parties. Harmony can’t remember the last time she saw a birthday cake, much less one with her name on it. She recognizes Skye’s friends from school and the couple of times when they came in to heckle Skye at the service desk. The dark-haired friend is named Asha. The gorgeous blonde is named Emma. Harmony studies their faces. Pretty, happy girls. For a moment, Harmony lets herself imagine how her life might have been different if she had been born into Skye’s world. It all seems so random.

  Harmony decides to follow both Asha and Emma on ChitChat. When she opens Asha’s profile, she sees a ChitChat video of Skye prancing across the room in a red nightie.

  Interesting. Definitely didn’t see that one coming.

  And that is exactly why ChitChat is so addictive. You never know what you’ll see. Harmony watches the video again. She hates that she’s feeling lonely and more than a little jealous. Skye is there, joking and laughing it up in front of adoring friends. And Harmony is here.

  Harmony glances up from the screen, distracted by the cold. She wishes she could stay online longer, but the snow is falling harder now and her fingers are tingling. Cellular minutes are precious when you pay as you go.

  Reluctantly, she logs off and pulls herself up the wall with a groan. She slides the phone into her backpack, next to her only other prized possession—a battered paperback copy of Anne of Green Gables. Harmony carries it around with her everywhere because she never knows when there might be a chance to steal away to Prince Edward Island. She found the book in a giveaway box at the library and read it three times. Then she found the subsequent books and read the whole series while sitting in the worn chairs of the downtown library.

  Now Harmony softly traces a finger across the cover. Anne is wearing a big straw hat, surrounded by flowers and fields, and she is walking home to Marilla and Matthew.

  In another world.

  Harmony steps out of the shelter of the doorway and heads farther down the street, past Washington Park, recently walled off with construction fences to make way for newer, fancier restaurants.

  Slipping in the back door of Old Town Athletic Center, she nods at Billy, the night manager who lets her come in and work out in exchange for cleaning the locker rooms and mopping the bathroom floors. He even gives her some lessons if the night is particularly slow.

  In the corner of the empty gym, she finds the punching bag. She changes her shoes and laces up her gloves and soon she’s slugging and kicking the bag until her muscles scream. She throws a right cross and follows with a hard front kick. For these few minutes, she feels totally in control. When she’s done, she pulls out her phone and takes a picture of the gloves on the gym floor. She wants to be a part of something bigger and she needs this contact. She wants someone out in there to know that she at least has this.

  Harmony checks in at “Old Town Gym,” posts the photo, and then captions it with the hashtag: #superpower.

  Then she scrolls through ChitChat some more, wondering what Skye and her friends are up to now.

  Saturday afternoon, back at home, Emma blinks away the lingering exhaustion from last night’s slumber party. She just got back from the Lyric Cinema’s information session for their contest, and she needs to get inspired.

  She sits down on her bed, pu
ts in her earbuds, and pulls up YouTube on her iPad to watch a clip from her favorite movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. All the voices outside her bedroom door mute.

  On the small screen, it is pouring rain and Holly Golightly is searching for Cat. Of course, Emma would rather see the film in the theater. That’s why she spends so much time in the darkened Lyric Cinema. Weeknights are her favorites. It is usually slow, especially for the foreign films with subtitles. Sometimes, she is the only one in the audience. Nothing beats that.

  But at least watching here on her iPad, she has the control to watch her way. Emma slows down the scene at the end, concentrating on every frame. Then she rewinds and watches it over. And over again.

  The information session was great. The head judge, Alexander, who runs the Lyric Cinema, explained all the rules. Anyone participating has to write a screenplay for a short film inspired by an old classic. First they have to submit their concept and get it approved. Then they have to write the screenplay and send it to the judges. The first prize is a summer trip to New York City for a film class in SoHo.

  Everyone thinks Emma loves movies because she wants to be an actress, but she doesn’t care about being in front of the camera. She wants to be a screenwriter. A director. A producer. Ideally, all three.

  She dreams of mapping out scenes, directing every detail to wring out every emotion possible from actors. Emma is determined to make the story happen, not let it happen to her. She wants to call the shots. She wants to make the actors move a certain way. She wants to look at the situation from a different angle. She wants to make everything happen.

  But most of all, Emma wants to go to New York City. Just like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, she considers herself a wild thing. Eventually she’ll get strong enough to run into the woods or fly over to a tree. And then to a higher tree. And then to New York City. This contest is only the beginning.

  Emma hears more arguing outside her door. Breakfast at Tiffany’s isn’t doing enough to drown out the noise of her family. She closes out of the clip and searches for a different old movie to inspire her.