“Basically everything else,” she says. “But … you don’t have to look at them. Like I said, a lot of them are older and not that good. I don’t even know why they’re up. Do you want some tea?”
“Um … a towel might be nice first.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Duh.” Her cheeks flush again as she jumps off the bed and begins to rifle around her drawers. She throws me a fresh towel, white and blue with flowers patterned all across it. She takes one herself and scrubs at her hair, which has become flat and limp from the rain. Mine sits flat on my scalp too, with wet strands glued to my chin and cheeks. I can’t imagine it’s a very attractive image.
When I’m finished drying my hair—as dry as it will get, anyway—I look up to find Flávia staring at me, unblinking. She smiles when I catch her looking.
“Can I get you something to change into?”
I look down at myself. At the red sweater that’s weighing me down. The checkered skirt that’s still dripping water everywhere.
“Sorry …” I mumble, like I’m somehow responsible for controlling the way rainwater affects my clothes.
“It’s okay.” She begins to rifle around her drawer once more, one hand still absentmindedly drying her hair.
“I, um … I’m not sure if your clothes will fit me,” I say, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “We’re not exactly the same size.” I’m at least two sizes bigger than her—maybe more.
“Well, you can’t hang around in wet clothes. You’ll catch pneumonia or something.” She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, like she’s taking in the size of my body—noticing for the first time that it’s not the same as hers. I suck in my breath, like that will change anything. “I’m sure I can find you something.”
She eventually digs up an old, gray t-shirt that is far too big for her, but big enough for me. She pairs it with old, loose-fitting pajama bottoms that may once have been bright blue but have dulled to a color that barely resembles blue anymore.
Still, it’s not as if I have a choice. I can’t really decline her clothes or Iwillcatch pneumonia. So I slide into her cramped bathroom, staring at myself in the tiny mirror over her sink with a hollow feeling in my stomach.
Both the t-shirt and the pajama bottoms are a little too tight, making me feel uncomfortable and itchy in my own skin. They also make me look horrible, worse than my tatty maroon uniform ever did. And that’s saying something, because our uniform has the superpower to make every person who wears it look unattractive. Except for Flávia. Obviously.
The thought of stepping out of the bathroom and facing her looking like this sends my heart plummeting. But then I remind myself that I shouldn’t care anyway. I’m supposed to be over her. We’re not even friends, really. We’re just trying to call a truce, and who knows how long that will even last. Maybe this will be good. Maybe exposing myself as an unattractive lump of potato will make me get over Flávia.
But when I walk out of the bathroom I forget all about the dull clothes clinging to me, because in front me is Flávia Santos wearing a hot pink unicorn onesie.
She looks, to put it frankly, ridiculous.
I burst into a fit of giggles. Unwillingly. The laughter bubbles up all the way from my stomach, spilling out of me in big, ugly guffaws that echo across the room. No matter how much I try to bite it down, it won’t stay down.
I should probably feel self-conscious, but I don’t.
Flávia turns at the sound of my laughter. To my surprise, she grins.
“It’s not that funny,” she says, once my giggles have finally subsided. She reaches up and runs a hand over the silver unicorn horn at the top of her onesie. “It’s cute, right?”
“Why are you wearing that?”
She shrugs. “You seemed … I don’t know, self-conscious about changing into those. I thought me wearing this might put you at ease.” She avoids my eyes as she says this, like admitting she wants to put me at ease is too much vulnerability for her. It does make my heart soar in a way I definitely don’t want it to. Because the whole getting-over-Flávia thing is not supposed to go like this. She’s not supposed to make me feel at ease.
“I need to take a picture.” I reach for my phone and turn the camera to her, but her hands fly up to cover her face.
“No way, you are not taking a photo of me like this.”
“Come on, I won’t show anyone!”
“Nope. No way. Not happening.”
I put the phone down and heave a sigh.
“Fine, fine. I won’t take a photo.”
She lets her hands drop and flashes me a smile. Before she has the chance to move another muscle, I pick up my phone and snap a quick photo.
“Hey!” she cries, lunging toward me to take the phone out of my hands. I dodge, slipping out of her grasp and climbing onto the bed. I stand up tall, on my tip toes, and raise the phone above me. It almost touches the ceiling.
