“Curls,” Ana said. “So many curls, it’s like they’re multiplying.”
They’d been sitting around Rye’s bedroom all Sunday afternoon listening to the Hex. Rye sat cross-legged on her bed, hunched over her laptop, while Ana was on the floor opposite the standing mirror, avoiding her reflection while sketching and enjoying the free time. It was her first visit to the Moons’ house, the first time she’d ever left the farm on an afternoon off, and Rye’s room was a jolt of inspiration. Rye didn’t mind that Ana wanted to sketch her space. Ana was taken with the entire room, the walls totally plastered with posters, magazine cuttings, photos, and assorted objects. She mentioned more than once to Rye that she was thankful for the change of scenery.
It was Labor Day weekend, and the summer was officially over. Ana still couldn’t believe she’d ended up working as a farmhand. She knew all about cover crops and irrigation, the intricacies of tomato training, and why cow manure was more balanced than chicken. She’d become so familiar with the farm’s chickens, in fact, that she and Abbie had finally solidified their names. There was Edna, Josephine, Mama Cass, Li’l Stevie, and Frida K, plus a few others. The lone rooster had always been known as Earl, but Ana had taken to calling him Diego because he seemed to favor Frida the most but still spent time with Edna and Josephine.
Though the farmwork was difficult at times, Ana found comfort in her gang of fellow workers, who had all stayed at the farm, except for Joey. Ana wasn’t surprised he’d left. And though Emmett and Abbie faced competition from the expansion of the Keyserville farm, Garber Farm continued to fulfill its commitments, and its family legacy.
Not that there weren’t arguments from time to time. Part of what kept the farm afloat was its most recent client, Will Carson, who ordered produce week after week, even though his restaurant had yet to open.
“If it ever does open,” Emmett said to Abbie one night during a particularly argumentative conversation Ana wasn’t guilty about listening in on. “He thinks the people of Hadley want fancy food? I’ll tell you what, we need a diner with hearty breakfasts, sandwiches, and early-bird specials, not some farm-to-table crap he keeps filling your ears with . . .”
“He has ambitions,” Abbie protested. “And he loves our produce and pickles. I’m willing to believe in the guy. Have you heard about the restaurants he’s worked with? Two in San Francisco, a few in L.A., and that famous one in Berkeley, the one with the garden.”
“I don’t care where he’s worked, what’s up his garden, or if he grew up fifteen miles from here—no one in these parts wants damned nasturtium foam with their pancakes!”
• • •
It was the first time Ana felt any normalcy in her life and the first time she had real responsibilities. Though she sometimes missed the freedom to jump on the bus and explore East Los Angeles, to while away hours in the library or explore the hidden pockets of downtown, she had to admit that having people who actually cared about her whereabouts wasn’t that terrible.
She’d even taken to spending creative time with Abbie some nights after dinner, the results of which were new sign markers for the fields. They’d spent the past week of evenings painting scraps of wood with smiling kale, waltzing turnips, and fennel with Mohawk-shaped fronds. Abbie added fanciful text listing the genus and common names of each crop, and Ana added the Spanish translations underneath. Life had become a busy routine, so much so that Ana hadn’t once thought about school, which was a few days away. The prospect seemed less daunting in Los Angeles, where it was much easier to remain invisible as the new kid in the vastness of the system, but here in Hadley, population everyone knows everyone, Ana knew circumstances would be different.
“What are you wearing?” Ana asked. “On the first day.”
“Trying to figure it out right now,” replied Rye. “I’ve saved a ton of street-style images and am leaning toward something Scandinavian in feel. I want to change it up this year.”
“But what do you normally wear?”
“It depends on what theme interests me that season. Right now, it’s all about neutral colors and layers and my ongoing love affair with men’s tailoring—and maybe some sort of patch situation, like an old tuxedo jacket covered in slogans. Accessories wise, I’m thinking about embracing the cravat.”
“Where do you go shopping for that around here?”
Rye rolled her eyes. “There’s only one store that counts, Ellery Pearl, which is this vintage shop on Main Street. They source stuff for me all the time, like shrunken blazers and weird old brooches. I think I’m the only person in this town who actually appreciates what they do. They cut hair in the back room too. What’s your theme going to be?”
“Farmer’s closet,” Ana said, thinking about her two pairs of jeans, few T-shirts, army jacket, and her sneakers, which were thrashed but in working order. The rest of her daily uniform came in the form of hand-me-downs from Abbie’s or Emmett’s closets. “I’m thinking of accessorizing with a pitchfork.”
“Hilarious, also not such a bad idea. Where did you go shopping in L.A.?”
“Goodwill, exclusively.”
“Used is the best, right?”
“It’s like wearing stories. Speaking of which, what’s the story of this room—it’s insane. Who are all these people on the walls?”
“My inspirations, muses. They’re a constant reminder I need to get the hell out of here one day too. New York, London, who knows?”
Ana looked at the photos surrounding her—women wearing men’s tuxedos, elaborate dresses made entirely of purple flowers, and black feathers rendered around a mannequin’s body in impossible shapes. Above Rye’s desk there was an image of a model wearing an oversize skirt as a dress belted across the chest, the front of it splattered with spray paint. Pinned up around the room there were also several photos of a woman with a severe black bob haircut, sad eyes, and ruby red lips.
“Who’s that?” Ana asked, pointing to a photo of the woman wearing a white dress with a giant silver lobster clinging to her neck.
“Isabella Blow. She was this fearless British fashion icon who wore the most outrageous ensembles. And hats! That woman could wear a hat like no one else, except maybe you. You’ve got the face shape for it.”
“Where does she live?”
“With her best friend Alexander McQueen in a tartan castle in the sky. She’s dead. So is he. That’s them up there.” Rye nodded toward a printout of a man wearing a princess gown being chased by a woman in a towering hat, the castle behind them burning. “He was the most incredible fashion designer who ever was, until he wasn’t. It’s a tragedy.”
Ana thought about the word “tragedy” and how it had a different meaning for different people. “My hair is a tragedy,” she said. “Look at it. I can’t walk into school with it all crazy like this.”
“Hasn’t it always been crazy like that?”
“Yes. It’s my legacy and part of my curse, but I’m sick of wearing it tied back all the time.”
“Why don’t you pull it up off of your shoulders in a topknot or something? Let me try putting it in a bun—”
“No,” Ana said, suddenly standing up. “It’s fine. I’ll figure something out. Where’s the bathroom?”
• • •
Ana made her way through the living room of the Moons’ house. As much as she loved the way Abbie decorated Garber Farm, the Moons’ house had an eclectic charm all its own. In addition to the long driveway that wound its way through brush thicket and thin trees, the house sat in the clearing of a redwood grove, a pond fronting the property. Their house was smaller than the farmhouse at Garber Farm, boxy, but two stories with a double-slanted roof. The living room was dimly lit, with low couches and mismatched chairs. Wooden sculptures and woven baskets occupied every surface, and patterned rugs covered the floors. The walls were a brushed gold with various pieces of art hanging from the dark wood trim. Above the fireplace hung a massive oil painting in shades of slashed green featuring an owl with the arms of a man.
“Holy—” Ana said, crossing the room to get a better look.
“Captivating, isn’t it?” Della said, walking into the room. “It’s a Rick Bartow, an artist very dear to us.”
“Is he from here?”
“Not exactly, but he’s one of my people.”
“Like . . . family?”
“He’s Wiyot, as am I. Our people have been on this land for many years,” Della said, her slender hand resting on ropes of beads around her neck. “He painted this one as well.” She pointed to a painting in the far corner above glass-fronted bookshelves; it depicted a small multicolored bird floating in a sea of pale pink.
“What’s it called?”
“Kestrel on Pink Field.”
“It’s soul crushing how the bird is just sitting there all alone in that empty space.”
“It’s a very strong piece, emotional. At least, it’s always struck me as such. Glad to see it has struck you too,” Della said. “You’re an artist yourself, correct? Abbie was telling me about your drawings and the labels you made for her preserves. She said you have quite the talent.”
“It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only work I never tire of. I’ve been drawing since I can remember. When I was a kid, I was sort of forced to draw things I didn’t want to, because I’d somehow forgotten what to say. But I realized my voice could sometimes be louder when I didn’t have to deal with all the words.”
In hindsight, in that moment, Ana wished she’d kept some of the drawings she’d made for Mrs. Saucedo the second time she’d been brought in to child services. It wasn’t that she wanted to relive the nightmare of that day; it was more that she wanted to look back into the eyes of the monsters, the ones she’d had the power to draw and put away. She wanted to remember her abuela’s face the last time she saw it, and the floral pattern of her abuela’s favorite dress, even though she still held a square of fabric from it every night before she went to sleep.
“Well, you’ll have to take Susan Darnell’s class at school this year,” Della said. “She’s been making and teaching art in these parts for decades—knows all the area galleries and is a wonderful teacher. Rye took her class last year and is signing up again this year.”
Charlie Moon entered with a tray of cookies and sliced nectarines. He was wearing the same uniform he always wore at the general store, a plain button-up shirt tucked into khakis. He was the opposite of Della Moon, Ana thought, who favored a flowing bohemian look, with rich colors and piles of jewelry on her hands, arms, and chest. He set the tray down on the coffee table next to a sculpture of a curious iguana and nodded at them before slipping out of the room again.
“Some snacks for you two,” Della said. “I’m so glad you could come over today. You have no idea how happy it makes us to know Rye has found a friend—well, a friend in you.”
Ana carried the tray back upstairs to Rye’s room, stopping midway to look at a photo of the Moons and a very young Rye, her hair long and flowing, her face open and lit up by an enormous smile. Ana pushed the door open to a wild-eyed Rye, who was wearing nearly the same expression. She nearly toppled over Ana and the tray.
“I have a solution,” Rye said, her arms resting on Ana’s shoulders, face growing serious. “Three words: ‘Brazilian hair treatment.’ It’s a treatment made specifically for people with curly hair who want to straighten it. My dad bought some for the store, but my mom vetoed it, and I think the boxes are still out in the garage.”
“Brazilian hair what?”
“It’s all the rage. I just read about it online and the Web site says it can straighten your hair for months, so it’s not like it’ll be permanent or anything.”
“How do we do it?”
“Quick, eat those cookies,” Rye said. “I’ll take the plate down and then sneak into the garage and get it. My mom was furious at my dad for buying it, but at least it’ll work for one customer.”
“I don’t want to steal—”
“Please. It’s already been purchased.”
Ana returned to her sketching while she waited for Rye. She nestled herself into an empty corner with a few pillows and took in the room again. Even though she had her own room back at the Garbers’, she’d never really known what it was like to make a room her own. Aside from the various shared ones in foster homes, she’d slept in the same bedroom as her abuela, and when her parents were alive, it was anywhere from a motel to a refrigerator box with a sleeping bag so as to separate her from her parents’ nightly “discussions.” The group houses were a whole different situation she wanted to forget, specifically the shared rooms and showers. Ana wondered if Rye even knew how lucky she was.
The door opened and Rye motioned for Ana to follow her. They tiptoed into her parents’ bathroom, which was earthy in feel with sandy brown walls and cream-colored tile.
“Your parents seem to love baskets,” Ana said.
“Are you kidding? We have baskets in this house that are used for holding other baskets.”
“Why are we doing this in here?”
“My parents are downstairs working in the kitchen, which is precisely why we have to do it up here. Do you want to tame these curls or not?”
“More than anything.”
“Good, then have a seat. I’m supposed to douse you in serum.”
Ana sat in the small chair near a vanity while Rye threw a towel around her shoulders. Rye put on some gloves and began squirting a bottle of liquid over the top of Ana’s head.
“This is disgusting. It feels like slime.”
“Smells like it too.”
Ana picked up the box of serum while Rye combed the liquid through her hair.
“It says formaldehyde is one of the ingredients,” Ana said.
“So?”
“Not that I’m stellar in science, but I don’t want to be embalmed just yet.”
“It says you’re supposed to wait fifteen minutes, which is hardly enough time to pickle you from the follicles inward,” Rye said, removing the plastic gloves. “Let’s just take a deep breath and relax, try to forget the stench, and let our minds wander from the essence of rotten eggs lounging in a Jacuzzi of forgotten milk.”
“I was going to ask you, since we have to sit here . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know a guy named Cole Brannan?”
“Why do you ask?” Rye said quickly, her entire body stiffening in a way that answered Ana’s question.
“He kind of cornered me in the bookstore a while ago and said we’d met before, but I know for a fact we never did.”
“And you’ve been wondering about him all this time?” Rye said with a strange smile Ana hadn’t seen her make before.
“Not really, I mean, it just popped into my head when we started talking about school. Does he go to Hadley High?”
“Yep,” Rye said, clearly annoyed. “He went away at the beginning of the summer. But I guess he’s back, sadly, now that you’ve confirmed it.” Rye chewed the inside of her bottom lip in a way that Ana couldn’t tell was habitual or out of anger. “What did he say?”
“Just that we’d met, and then he did this weird wave. He was cocky and dirty and wearing motorcycle clothes.”
“Of course he was. He races.”
“So, you do know him?”
“I used to, or thought I did. He’s the only person in the world I wish I never met. What is that smell?”
“How much time has passed?”
“Barely five minutes. Ew. It smells awful.”
“I think we should rinse it off,” Ana said, looking in the mirror at her dark matted hair sticking together in clumps at the ends.
“But the time isn’t up yet. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to smell before it does what it’s supposed to do.”
“I think we should rinse it off. Now.”
Ana rushed over to the bathtub, kneeling down and bending over while throwing her hair under the faucet. “Rinse!” she shouted.
Rye turned the water on and pushed Ana’s hair underneath it. “Ouch!”
“What?”
“It stings. It’s making my hands tingle!”
“Get it off, get it off, get it off!”
Rye grabbed some shampoo and squirted it all over Ana’s hair, lathering it up under the faucet and rinsing it repeatedly under the water.
“You have so much hair.”
“I know.”
“It’s taking up the entire bathtub, oh—”
“Oh, what? What?”
Rye went silent.
“Let me get a towel . . .”
Rye turned off the water while Ana waited behind her curtain of hair.
“Here,” Rye said, handing her the towel.
Ana threw her head back, surprised at the lightness of it, and began to towel her hair dry. It took her a moment before she realized a good portion of her hair was still in the bathtub. She jumped back and turned to look in the mirror, stunned silent and horrified at the sight of herself.
“I’m sorry,” Rye said, her hands covering her mouth. “I don’t know what to do, I’m so sorry.”
Ana continued staring at her reflection, which stared back, even though it didn’t look like her usual self at all, what with half her hair missing, most of the ends burned off entirely on one side as well as pieces missing in the front.
“No,” she said. “Oh, no, no, no.”
“You did say you wanted a change . . .”
Ana turned around abruptly and headed for the door.
“Wait! Let me comb it through,” Rye said, following her and reaching for her arm. “We can try to salvage what’s left, or I can cut it—”
“Stay away from my hair,” Ana said with more anger than she’d meant.
• • •
Abbie was reading in the kitchen when she heard the front door open and shut. She put on her slippers and padded into the parlor, which she was surprised to find had gone dark.
“Who’s here?” she asked, wishing she’d brought a knife from the kitchen with her.
“It’s just me,” Ana said. “I’m in the chair, but please don’t turn on the—”
Abbie switched on the lights and gasped. “What happened?” she said.
“I was stupid,” Ana said, putting her head in her hands.
“Is this why you’re home so early? I thought you were having dinner at the Moons’.”
“I asked Della to bring me back. And, yes, my losing half of my hair also has something to do with it.”
Abbie sat down on the couch and shook her head. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was sick of my curls, so Rye and I decided to try this Brazilian hair treatment and, well, this is what happened.”
“Did Rye put you up to it?” Abbie asked, concerned.
“No. We both did it. Rye burned her hands too.”
“Oh, hon,” Abbie said, noticing tears rolling down Ana’s cheeks. “It’s not that bad. We can fix it tomorrow.”
“I screwed up, and I think Rye is upset because I yelled at her . . .”
“I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“I’m crying because I’m frustrated.”
“I get it, but I’m telling you, we’re going to fix this tomorrow,” Abbie said.
“But isn’t everything closed for Labor Day?”
“Hon, Hadley may go quiet on Sundays, but it’s always open the day before school starts,” Abbie said.
The tears continued to roll down Ana’s face. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s just—my abuela loved my long hair, so I’ve never changed it. I’ve always kept it this length. I told Rye I wanted a change, but I didn’t want this.”
“Sometimes things happen beyond our control, but maybe you’ll like it even better tomorrow after a new haircut.”
“If you say so.”
• • •
Ana was quiet on the ride to Ellery Pearl. In addition to being Hadley’s lone hair salon and vintage store, the Pearl also sold needlepoint pillows and small oil paintings crafted by proprietors Ellery Jonas and Pearl Parnell, both longtime fixtures in Hadley. Ana was wearing the gardening hat down low over her face, what was left of her thick hair hanging above one shoulder and below the other. And even though it was a warm day, she’d insisted on wearing her army jacket over her T-shirt and jeans. Abbie didn’t ask any questions.
Ana kept her head down when they entered the store, taking in its striped walls, smoky glass countertops, and windows covered in delicate lace. Abbie must have called ahead of time because they crossed right through the boutique in front before going through a door into a small back room that was made to look like an old-fashioned barbershop.
“Is this our girl?” a woman with the voice of a little girl said, entering behind them. “Have a seat.”
Abbie gestured for Ana to sit in the lone leather chair in the middle of the room, a wall of mirrors in front of it.
“I’m Ellery Jonas,” the woman said, reaching her hand into Ana’s view underneath the hat. “You must be Ana.”
“I am. Hi.”
“Let’s take a look at what’s going on under this hat.” Ellery removed it, making Ana squint under the bright lights.
“I’m a disaster,” Ana said. She couldn’t even glance at herself in the mirror, so she took in Abbie’s look of concern as well as the petite face of Ellery Jonas, who was decades older than her voice. Always one to dress herself in the style of a lost era, she was the type of woman who kept her hair pinned into meticulous curls around her face. She wore a round little hat perched on the side of her head, like a lopsided cupcake, Ana thought. A giant brooch in the shape of a cicada was pinned to the front of her 1940s suit dress, which was prim yet a vibrant shade of clementine.
“You have lustrous curls, despite the ends, which are in an unfortunate state,” Ellery said. “But I’m going to fix that. There’s a lot of damage, so I’m going to have to cut above your shoulders, maybe to your chin, if that’s okay with you.”
Ana’s heart sank. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you want your hair to look better and be in a healthier condition.”
She took Ana over to another chair at a sink and washed her hair—taking forever, Ana thought—giving her a scented scalp massage, which Ana wondered if she’d have to pay for. When she sat back down in the barber chair, Ellery turned it away from the mirrors so Ana was facing Abbie, who looked up from the magazine she was reading and smiled. “It’ll be fine,” she said.
“Heard you’re from L.A.,” Ellery said, combing what was left of Ana’s hair. “Welcome to our quaint little town.”
“Thanks,” Ana said, knowing she was being impolite with her lack of conversation. “My friend—this girl I know—Rye says your shop is the best in town.”
“She’s sweet, isn’t she? Fantastic taste. She’s one of my best customers. I’m still on the hunt for a 1980s beige jumpsuit for her—very particular about what she wants. Oh, I love your tattoo!”
Ana froze. Abbie looked up from her magazine.
“Is it a symbol for something?” Ellery asked.
Ana remained silent.
“It’s such a simple design—very unusual on the back of your neck. What does it mean?”
Ana felt dizzy and out of breath, like she was chained to the chair, the scissors snipping away behind her ear. Abbie knew something was wrong.
“Ana?”
“They’re symbols. Not something I wanted, but something I have to live with,” she managed to say.
“Oh,” Ellery said quietly, continuing to cut. “Even I have one of those. Got it back in the sixties—too many drinks, too much love for a man who never seemed to remember my name, though I will have his forever. And let me tell you, no one, no one wants Willie Burns tattooed on their—where it shouldn’t be.”
“I have one too,” Abbie said.
“You do?” Ana said, stunned.
“I regret them both.”
“You have more than one?”
“Like Ellery, I got one back in the day that I’m not proud of, but thankfully it’s in a place I’ll never have to show anyone—don’t ask. The other one is this—” She stood up and showed Ana a tiny black heart tattooed on the inside of her ring finger. “That one I regret the most.”
“We live with the scars though, don’t we?” Ellery said, running her fingers down the back of Ana’s head in a way that made Ana want to go to sleep. “But they show we lived in the moment and have survived past it.”
“I always imagine the people covered in tattoos have stories they want to tell,” Ana said. “But maybe the tattoos tell them better, you know? Maybe that’s why they got the tattoos in the first place.”
“That’s an interesting philosophy,” Ellery said. “My Willie Burns story is five seconds long, and I can assure you the tattoo is mute.”
Ana thought it curious that Abbie had gone back to reading the magazine, making an active choice not to take part in any more of the conversation.
“Okay, doll, I’m not going to dry it because your curls don’t need it, but are you ready for the big reveal?”
Ana nodded her head as the barber chair swiveled around.
“Voilà! Very rock and roll,” Ellery said.
Ana didn’t recognize herself. Her hair was cut to her jawline, and her formerly long, wild curls were softer at a shorter length, with bangs that framed her face.
“Makes your eyes pop,” Ellery said.
“So pretty,” Abbie chimed in.
“Pretty’s overrated,” Ana said, still staring at herself. “But I like it.”
“Splendid,” Ellery said. “Shall we pick out some school clothes?”
Ellery, along with her partner, Pearl, who was tall and lanky, wearing a linen jacket and crisp white man’s shirt over white jeans and a pair of worn moccasins, at first steered Ana toward the dress section, which was rife with 1960s shifts and pastel pinafores. Deeming them too frothy for her taste and meager farm paycheck, Ana chose a new-old pair of jeans, this time form-fitting and cut higher like Abbie wore hers, as well as a simple navy blue sweater embroidered with diving sparrows. She threw in a paint-splattered shirt that reminded her of Jackson Pollock, a striped long-sleeved T-shirt, and a well-worn black leather jacket that was exactly what she had always wanted.
Ellery insisted Ana try on a few dresses with her new haircut, particularly one from the 1940s that was covered in dark roses, its shoulders slightly puffed, bodice fitted, and skirt flowing to just below her knees. They’d gasped when Ana walked out of the dressing room, Abbie especially, and had demanded she add it to her purchases at a discount. Much to their chagrin, Ana added a pair of black leather ankle boots instead.
“Very Patti Smith,” Pearl said.
Ana paid for her purchases with a little left over, so she asked Abbie if she could run across the street to the record shop while Abbie did her own shopping. Just as she was about to walk out the door, it swung open and in walked Rye Moon.
“Hey,” Ana said.
“Holy Shesus, your hair! It looks incredible! Can’t tell you how sorry I am that I ruined it.”
“I kind of like it this way, so thanks for forcing me to change it up,” Ana said. “Want to come with me to the record shop?”
“Would love to, but I have a hair appointment. Figured if you had to cut yours, I should cut mine too. It can be part of my new theme anyway.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
“Oh, hey, if you’re going across the street,” Rye said, leaning in and whispering, “don’t forget to check out the heavy metal section.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
• • •
Ana crossed Main Street, avoiding stares from a group of girls sitting in front of the pie shop. She pushed open the door to Bungle Records but wished she hadn’t. Standing in the middle of the store looking more normal than the last time she saw him was Cole Brannan, perusing the new-releases section. He was cleaner this time, in a gray T-shirt and dark jeans, his hair shorter and brushed to the side.
“Hi,” he said from across the small shop.
“Hi,” Ana said, remaining still. “Bye.” She turned to walk out, but he yelled at her to wait as the long-haired man behind the counter glared at them through round glasses.
“Your hair is different?”
“Perceptive. I cut it.”
“It suits you.”
“Almost as much as my curls?”
“Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out in the bookstore,” he said. “I thought you would have put it all together.”
“Put what together?”
“Where we first saw each other,” he said. “It was about a month ago on the road in front of Garber Farm. You were standing by a truck out in the fields with a bunch of men. You were wearing your Hex T-shirt, and I was riding by on a motorcycle with my little sister. It was the Kinetic Sculpture parade. You waved at us.”
“What?”
“You waved, in slow motion, as my sister and I rode by . . .”
“That was you?”
“Yeah,” Cole said, looking down and not directly at her as he had in the bookstore.
“How would I have known it was you if you had a helmet on?”
“Good point. Anyway, you’re the only person who waved at us. My sister wanted us to turn around and talk to you. I probably should have.”
“Why?”
“Because we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
“What makes you think I would have wanted a conversation then?”
He smiled the same lopsided smile.
“I think you better go,” he said. “Abbie’s out there looking for you. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble being seen with me.”
“Why would I—”
“Guess I’ll see you in school.”
“I guess,” Ana said.
“Looking forward to it.”