I toss and turn all night. Maybe I’ve overdosed on sleep from being sick, or maybe I miss my mom. Maybe I feel icky about my post. When I post on Instagram, I usually stick to pictures of things. Things that aren’t my face. Even though the mask covers most of my face and I’m feeling better, I’m still self-conscious. I remember all too well what I looked like when I first got sick and I feel like I will forever have dark circles under my eyes. Like I’ll always look and feel diseased. Poisonous.

And it just feels so … fake. Not real. Even though it is real. But how can I possibly convey the smell of the hospital room, the sound of Oliver rustling around in his sleep, the urge to breathe fresh air, in a post online that a bunch of strangers are going to look at? I came up with the idea for the quaranteen hashtag because I wanted to help Oliver get the girl of his dreams. I didn’t expect so many people to be interested. I didn’t expect Kelsey would get so much attention—enjoy so much attention.

And I didn’t expect anyone to find out about our kiss. Our kiss that I can’t stop thinking about. Our kiss that I bet Oliver wishes had never happened.

Or maybe I can’t sleep I because I have no idea what I’m going to say to my dad or Goldy in the morning. I’m still mad at Dad. I still don’t understand him. I still don’t know what I think about Goldy.

Why didn’t he invite me to come see him? Why did my mom and Goldy have to be the ones to think of it? What if they hadn’t? Would he have just gone on with his life until one day he didn’t even remember me anymore? Until that part of his brain, those brain cells, just died, and I might never have even existed?

When I wake up in the morning, my eyes feel sandy like they do when I’ve stayed up too late studying.

I look at my phone, feel creeped out by all the strangers talking about me, analyzing me, analyzing my face, asking me questions. Creeped out and still … fake. These people don’t know anything about me. The real me. They don’t know that my favorite food is grilled cheese, that I hate raisins, that I broke my wrist in second grade, that I’m afraid of swimming in the ocean. I don’t know how to channel any of this me-ness into a picture, but I also don’t think I want to anyway.

I put my phone down, feeling itchy and restless again, and I head to the bathroom. I play with my hair, make faces at myself, see what my mad face looks like. Oliver’s right, my nose does wrinkle when I get mad. How have I never noticed that in sixteen years?

Oliver.

I really miss talking to him. I shouldn’t have been so mean to him in the text last night. It’s not his fault my parental situation is confusing and weird. Not like his is exactly easy either. I did miss a lot when I was sick and sleeping, but I still don’t know where his other parent is. If he has another parent. He said something about it being just his mom when we were at the warehouse, but there’s been no other mention of anyone, almost like a second parent doesn’t exist or never existed.

I wonder if my dad wishes I didn’t exist.

I go back to my bed, and see Goldy—not my dad—texted a little while ago to say they’re at the airport, about to head over to the hospital. Because my stepmom should be the one to tell me that my dad is on his way to visit his daughter in quarantine.

I text Oliver: Sorry. Tough night.

It’s only a little after 8:00, and it’s quiet on his side of the room, but he writes back: No worries.

I’m thinking about what to write back to him, but then: Here if you want to talk.

I feel my heart flutter a little in my chest. Then I remember, that was something I wanted to put in the girl handbook. Make yourself available to girls, tell them they can talk to you. And mean it.

Is he practicing a move from his own girl handbook on me? He has a girlfriend, I remind myself.

I let go of the thought quickly, because I see my dad and Goldy suiting up in the hallway. They both look scared. And not like Kelsey, posing scared, but actually scared. Joey is with them, showing them how to put their hazmat suits on, and my dad keeps missing his armhole.

He wipes his head, and I see that he’s sweating.

Finally, he gets the suit on, and Goldy gets hers on too. Joey walks through the antechamber with my dad and Goldy close behind, and then they’re in my room.

“Flora!” my dad exclaims. “Is it okay to touch her?” he asks Joey.

“Of course it’s okay to touch me,” I snap. “Why do you think you’re wearing the hazmat suits?”

“There’s my Flora Cracker,” my dad says, smiling. It’s the nickname he gave me when I was in fourth grade and I got in a fight at the playground with some bigger kids who had been making fun of Randy.

He bends down to hug me, but it’s the kind of hug you give someone you don’t know very well, a friend of a friend after a big group dinner.

Goldy is still standing next to Joey. “You can hug me too,” I say in the same hot tone. Everything my mom has told me about her has been relocated to another part of my brain.

Goldy walks over to my bed, and as she gets closer I see she has tears running down her face. She leans over to give me a hug, a real hug.

When she pulls away she says, “We’re so glad you’re feeling better.”

Of course the first thing she says to me is we.

“Thanks, me too,” I say with tight lips. “Hey, feel free to take a picture. I only have to wear this face mask a few more hours. We’re still trending. Maybe you can trend too!”

Goldy looks at me, confused. “I don’t want to trend? I posted stuff before because I was worried. Am worried. And I thought maybe you’d feel better knowing how many people cared.”

I don’t feel like telling her how flawed her logic is, so I don’t say anything at all.

Then we all just stand and look at one another. Finally, Joey steps in with the trusty thermometer and blood pressure cuff.

“What does it say?” my dad asks nervously.

“One hundred five.”

“What?!” my dad roars.

“Bad hospital joke,” Joey says. “Still normal. Enjoy your visit.” I want him to stay, to rescue me from Goldy and my dad, but he’s already on Oliver’s side of the room.

“How’s the food here?” Goldy asks. “Did you get the gift basket I sent you? I know you’re not gluten free, but it was the only ‘healthy’ kind I found that could deliver here.”

I’m too shocked to say anything, so I don’t.

“I think there were chips in there. Healthy chips. I always want salty things when I’m not feeling well,” Goldy tries again.

“Thank you,” I say.

We look at one another some more. Oliver’s mom arrived during Joey’s visit, and I hear her telling Oliver about a new orzo recipe she read about online.

“Oh, I love orzo!” Goldy says. “I make it with grilled peppers and feta cheese when I’m feeling especially naughty.”

Because feta cheese is living life on the edge, I think cruelly. But I don’t say anything.

Oliver’s mom either doesn’t hear or doesn’t want to acknowledge what Goldy says because she keeps talking to Oliver.

But Oliver pipes up, “Feta cheese is my favorite kind of cheese.”

“Whose favorite cheese is feta?” I say before I can stop myself. Oliver’s mom stops talking, and my dad and Goldy are looking at me.

I stomp out of bed, open the curtain, and Oliver and his mom both look startled. “Sorry,” I say. “But, seriously, Oliver, feta?”

Oliver smiles. “Yes.”

He leans forward, looks through the curtain at my dad and Goldy. “Hello. I’m Oliver.”

When did he get so polite?

“Kenneth,” my dad says, standing up. He sticks his hand through the curtain, shakes hands with Oliver. “This is my wife, Goldy.”

“Well, good, everyone has had a chance to meet each other!” I say shrilly, pulling the curtain shut again.

“Um, Flora, did you forget about me?” Oliver’s mom says from the other side of the curtain.

Everyone laughs, but I just want to put in my earbuds and dance around and try not to kick a door again.

“Nice to meet you!” Goldy says, tilting her head back to angle her voice over the curtain.

“Likewise!” Oliver’s mom says.

Everyone laughs again, and even though I’m still annoyed, somehow the tension in the room is gone because of feta cheese.

And Oliver.