You wouldn’t get anxious when they were having a hard time, you wouldn’t cry when they cried, you wouldn’t get an upset stomach wondering if the way a person looked on the outside—tough or vulnerable, happy or sad—matched the way she actually felt on the inside.

Then again …

You wouldn’t get to laugh so hard you almost peed when your friend reached over out of the blue to pluck from your nose what you suspect was a nonexistent nose hair. You couldn’t bask in the sun and just be warmed by the company of your bestie even if you and she were simply being quiet together.

If you had no one’s back, then no one would have your back.

If you cared about no one, no one would care about you.

You would know nothing of love.

And there it is: Violet’s fatal flaw. She does care about others, and so she has to swallow the good and the bad that comes with it.

Her notebook is open on her desk. Her purple pen is ready at the go. She’s supposed to be working on her “Where I’m From” poem, but her mind is spinning in a different direction, and if she put her thoughts on paper, here is what she would write:

When I was the new kid at Rivendell, sometimes I felt invisible. Other times, I felt too visible. And I don’t know what was going on with me, but I did bad things. I wasn’t my best self, and sometimes I was … cruel … and Modessa somehow helped that cruelty come out. It was still my fault. I can’t blame Modessa, because I knew better. But Modessa played a role, and I let her.

Why? What was wrong with me?

If someone had come right up and warned me that doing anything with Modessa would make my life worse, would I have listened?

She sighs.

She’s thinking about all of this because of Hayley, of course. Yaz told her that Modessa is probably going to try to make Hayley be one of her stupid Evil Chicks, and Violet knows deep inside that even if she doesn’t want to get involved, she kind of has to. If she doesn’t, how could she live with herself and feel proud to be a flower friend and all that?

She rises from her desk. Mr. Emerson doesn’t notice (or doesn’t care—he pretty much runs a do-what-you-want classroom), but Cyril Remkiwicz does. His expression is impassive, though she knows his insides aren’t. It’s another reminder of how people’s insides and outsides match far less often than you might think, because Violet knows that Cyril both notices and cares what Violet does, practically always. Not in a bad way.

She shoots him a small smile, which he doesn’t return, because he’s Cyril. The corner of his mouth slants almost imperceptibly upward, however, and his almost-smile cheers her up. For Cyril, an almost-smile is pretty good. It’s a reminder that hearts can unclench.

She squats by Hayley, resting her hand on Hayley’s desk. It’s time she gave this a second try.

“Hi,” she says. “How’s it going?”

Hayley tilts her head, her expression as inscrutable as Cyril’s. Oh, great, Violet thinks. Why did I bother?

Then, bam, Hayley grins, making Violet think of a piece of sucking candy that suddenly reaches its bursting point, squirting out sweet strawberry-flavored syrup.

Violet grins back. Something passes between the two girls.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hayley says. “Good enough, I guess. You?”

Violet considers. “I’m good, too.”

“Good!” Hayley replies. “Double good!”

Double good. Hayley’s phrase latches hold in Violet’s mind, and Violet’s spirits lighten. She’s glad she came over to Hayley. She’s glad she gave her a second chance, and she surprises herself by wondering if there is a flower somewhere in the world called a “Hayley.” Or if Hayley’s middle name might be a flower name, like … Chrysanthemum? Ha. Or Petunia. Hayley Petunia. Not the most beautiful of names, but funny, and sometimes being funny is even better than being beautiful.

“What are you smiling about?” Hayley asks.

“Am I smiling?” Violet says. “Oh, sorry. I mean, not sorry, but …” She gives an awkward laugh. “No idea. Guess I just spaced out for a sec.”

“I hear you. I do that all the time, and my uncle gets so mad.” Hayley leans closer. “He used to be a marine. Although he says he still is a marine, because once a marine, always a marine. Anyway, he’s way strict. Semper fi and all that.”

“‘Semper fi’? What’s that?”

“The marine motto. He has it tattooed on his biceps.”

“What does it mean?”

Hayley scowls. “‘Eat your vegetables! Get off the phone! Pay attention, young lady, or I will whip you!’” She smooths out her expression. “That’s not an exact translation, but pretty much.”

“Ugh,” Violet says. She checks to make sure they’re still flying under Mr. Emerson’s radar. He’s at the whiteboard, his back toward them as he scrawls out the day’s homework menu with a fat, squeaky marker.

“But why does your uncle care if you eat your vegetables or whatever?” she asks. Then she realizes how wrong that sounds. “I mean, that’s good that he cares. I guess. But is he over at your house all the time or something?”

“I’m over at his house all the time,” Hayley explains. “I live with him. Not my choice.”

“Oh. Just with him, or is your aunt there, too? Do they have kids of their own?”

Hayley scooches over on her chair and tugs Violet up so that Violet can sit next to her. It’s a tight fit and their thighs touch, but whatever. She’s allowed to share Hayley’s seat for a minute. It’s not against the law.

“No aunt. No cousins. Just my uncle. I have to do four hours of chores before I can watch any TV, and every weekend he drags me on a thousand-mile hike because he says it builds character. Can you say ‘fun’?”

Violet snorts. She’s had her share of family problems; her mom had a l-o-n-g stay in the hospital recently because she felt anxious all the time and didn’t know how to deal with it. But her mom’s doing so much better now. So much better.

“Well, is your uncle sometimes nice?” she asks Hayley.

Hayley shrugs. “Yes. No. Maybe.” She exhales. “He has a coin collection he’s always wanting to show me. Does that count as nice?”

Violet isn’t sure. “Is it a cool coin collection?”

Hayley eyeballs her. “They’re coins. Little pieces of metal.” She adopts the scowly voice that Violet now knows is her imitation of her uncle. “Here we have a Memorial Lincoln Cent, dated nineteen fifty-eight. Most people would call this a ‘wheat penny’. They would be wrong.”

Violet covers her smile with her hand.

“I know, right?” Hayley says.

“Violet and Hayley?” Mr. Emerson says.

Uh-oh.

“Um, yes?” Violet says.

“Is there a reason you’re both sitting in one desk? Have you become conjoined?”

“No, not conjoined,” Violet says. Hayley ducks her head. A laugh squeaks out.

“Excellent,” Mr. Emerson says. “In that case, head back to your own desk, please, Violet.”

Violet does as she’s told, even though she has tons more questions for Hayley. Like, why is she living with her uncle and not her parents? Are her parents alive? (Gosh, she hopes so. How awful if they aren’t!) And why did Hayley start attending Rivendell yesterday, instead of at the beginning of the year?

Violet has never known anyone with a screwier family life than her own, or at least not until Hayley, and she isn’t quite sure how she feels about it. She’s slightly thrilled, but she’s also slightly … freaked out? Unnerved? Something.

She definitely relates, though. Sad is sad, no matter how you cut it.