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“It’s possible.” I pop another candy in my mouth.

“Okay, what’s the deal? Is this a Code Orange?”

I nearly choke.Code Orangeis a nickname Rio and Lucy gave any situation involving me coping with feelings or anxiety by consuming mass amounts of Reese’s. It started somewhere in middle school.

“No?”

Lucytsks. “We’re just gonna pretend you’re not devouring your emergency stash of Reese’s?” She waves a hand at the half-empty bag.When did that happen?She whispers, “This can’t be good.”

It’s not. In my lap, there’s a mound of crinkled gold wrappers. In the rearview mirror, I can see melted chocolate smeared on one corner of my mouth. I wipe it away with my sleeve.

“AP Lit is going to ruin me.”

“What?”

“We have to do an essay,” I grumble.

“But you love writing.”

“Short stories. Awful poems. Haikus about Dev Patel’s face.”

Small confession: I might’ve gone through a hardcore phase where Dev Patel was all I thought about. It was Mom’s fault, forcing me to watchSlumdog Millionaire. Twice! Of course, a few late nights scrolling through Google while my right hand did some interesting things beneath my navel was all voluntary.

“It’s so stupid.” I grip the steering wheel to prevent my hand from reaching for another Reese’s. I have restraint—very little. “How can I write an essay about… me? I mean, Jesus, what do I know about how the world sees me, Lucy? I’m…”Adopted. I don’t say it, though. “I don’t know shit.”

Liquid fire slides down my throat. All the words, they unhinge my jaw and hollow out my chest. I have no clue where this comes from. But it’s true. Fear’s a tornado, touching down in my brain, leveling all my carefully built walls. I’m not sure I can handle the pressure of definingwho I’m supposed to be.

“But you’re you,” Lucy says, matter-of-factly.

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s not that deep, Rembrandt.”

Isn’t it? In my phone, I have three different maps of possible routes to get home on Friday evenings after classes are done at Emory. I could make the drive in forty-five minutes, an hour max. In time for Dad’s French toast dinners and Clover’s evening walk. I’d be there to help Willow with her homework or watch endless reality TV with Mom.

One failing grade in AP Lit could ruin all of that.

“Do you know what you need?”

“More Reese’s?”

“No.”

“A new brain? To stop shopping in theWhere’s Waldo?sweater collection at American Eagle?”

My wardrobe choice didn’t go unnoticed at lunch. Personally, I think my comfortably snug red-and-white-striped waffle sweater is the epitome of trendy. My friends—ex-friends—said I looked like a candy cane. I’m already working on a Craigslist ad for new lunch associates.

“All the above,” Lucy says. “And a trip to Zombie Café.”

I drum my fingers enthusiastically on the steering wheel. In my very unbiased opinion, Zombie Café is the coolest coffeeshop amongst the many littering Atlanta’s landscape. It’s not quite as hipster as Aurora Coffee in Little Five Points or as polished—and problematic—as the fleet of Starbucks clogging up every corner of metro Atlanta, but it carries its own brand of chic. Ever since my mom let me have my first foamy sip of a cappuccino at thirteen, I’ve been in love.

“You’re a gift, Lucia.”

“Remember that when I come to claim your firstborn.”

She clicks in her seatbelt and I pull out of Maplewood’s parking lot.

Zombie Café is pure perfection.It’s whimsy and precision, bright but controlled, euphoria melting into modern construction. It’s everything I loved before I knew the sweetness—and bitter pain—that one word could create.