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Ellie smiles up at me. “After the story you told me I thought you’d have been one of the goth kids or something, but you look more like one of the popular girls.”

I grimace. “I had to blend in to survive. I was bullied a lot in middle school, especially after that Halloween fiasco, so I adapted. I may have sat with the popular kids at the lunch table, but I never felt like I was one of them. If you’d have looked at me, you’d have thought I had friends, that I was happy, but in truth I...”

Ellie waits patiently, holding the photo on her lap.

I swallow, looking at my hands. “I was all alone. Nobody knew who I really was. The people who pretended to be myfriends were actually my harshest critics and biggest bullies.” I take the photo from Ellie. “Bethany was especially cruel. She started dating Jax when she found out I had a crush on him. She knew he was out of my league. She wanted to rub it in my face that she could date a guy like him and I couldn’t.”

“Jax? As inourMatthew Jackson?”

I nod.

“I knew you went to high school together but didn’t realize you two had that much history.”

Setting the picture back in the box, I shrug. “It was more like a lack of history than anything else. Taking him to bed was sort of like proving something to myself. I thought he really liked me. He made me feel... I don’t know. Seen? Not just as I am today, but for who I was back then. Sounds dumb now.”

“It doesn’t sound dumb at all.” Ellie reaches up and takes my hand. “I’m sorry you had such an awful time at school.”

“I found ways to get through it. Created a mask, of sorts. I didn’t feel safe being myself. I spent years pretending to be someone I wasn’t just to fit in, which only made things worse. Acting like someone else all the time isn’t good for your mental health. So as soon as I graduated, I dyed my hair orange, started wearing all black and taking my makeup seriously again. My mom, she—” I cut myself off. Ellie watches my face, waiting for me to continue. I give her a little shrug. “She didn’t understand.”

Ellie regards me for a moment, opens her mouth to ask another question, but thinks better of it. She looks back into the box and picks up another picture. “Who’s this?”

I blink, having forgotten I had this photo. It was Christmastime with my family, years ago. Everyone in the picture resembles each other: me, my parents, and my grandparents, all shades of washed-out beige with polite, forced smiles, standing up straight with hands folded in front of us—except for one woman who stands out. She looks like me, but more the me I am today than the one I was back then. Her hair is black, cutshort, and spiked along the sides. She has a thick choker necklace, black clothes, holes in her jeans, and she’s grinning like a complete goof rather than reining it in like everyone else in the picture.

I join Ellie on the floor. “That’s my aunt.”

She smiles. “The one who showed youAlien?”

I nod.

“I can see where you get your fashion sense from.”

“This was our last Christmas all together.” I take the frame and look closer. “We had finished eating dinner and were about to open presents.”

“Still so weird, opening gifts after dinner,” Ellie muses.

“She was the best part of Christmas. Everyone was so quiet and reserved, and she was... not. She was so much fun.”

“Was?” Ellie tilts her head. “Where is she now?”

“She died,” Mom says from the doorway, startling us both. She’s drying her hands on a faded yellow tea towel, a sad smile on her face. “She passed away several years ago. On Christmas morning, actually. It was... very sad.” Mom looks from Ellie to me, her expression growing wistful, and I know right then I can’t spend another second in this house.

“We gotta get going,” I say past the lump in my throat.

“Now?” Ellie asks, eyeing the box of items she hasn’t had a chance to look at.

“First rule,” I whisper in her ear as I grab her hand and pull her standing.

“Ah, yes.” She follows me out of the room. “We have some evening filming to do, have to go back to set, really important scene.”

“Oh.” Mom doesn’t bother to hide her disappointment. She follows us to the living room and stands at the top of the stairs, Dad next to her, close but not touching. They watch as we put on our shoes. “Well, I hope you come and see us again before you leave town. It was nice catching up with you, Maria, and meeting you, Ellie.”

“So nice to meet you, too,” Ellie replies, but I’m tugging her out the door so fast she’s cut off by it slamming behind her.

She doesn’t say anything as we get into the car, or as I drive down the street to the highway, or as we wind along the tree-shaded road back to the cabin. The air between us is thick with tension, with Ellie doing her best to give me peace and quiet despite it being against her very essence. The farther we get from my old home—from my parents who look the same but acted completely different, from the person they tried so hard—but failed—to make me become, from the limited memories I have of my aunt—the better I feel.

By the time we’re back inside the cabin, with a bottle of wine wordlessly popped and poured, I’m ready to talk about it.

“My aunt...” I begin, then stop, not sure what to say.