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It was too early in the morning to be angry at a countertop appliance and yet, Rose stared at the coffeepot with a burning desire to chuck it out the window. A baby could probably operate it, but Rose, for the life of her, could not get the thing to work. This was not how she was used to starting her day.

In New York, her routine was sacred. Mom would be at work before the rest of the world woke up, and Dad’s day only began “whenever the muse beckoned,” so he was asleep into the double-digit hours of the morning. Which meant Rose could pop a K-Cup into the Keurig and listen to its soothing whir in peace.

But Mom got the Keurig in the divorce, and now Rose was left with this clunky relic from a bygone era. Dry as a bone, the coffeepot seemed to taunt her.

“DAD!”

Somewhere deep in the two-bedroom house, the sound of packing tape being ripped from a cardboard box abruptly stopped, and Dad came scrambling into the kitchen. Jim Pauly had the general look of someone who hadn’t sold a book in six years and, since the divorce, could no longer afford to wait for the muse to lure him out of bed. He was already dressed for his first day at his new nine-to-five.

Rose wanted to be mad at him for the fact that he’d yanked her out of school with four days left in her junior year. She wanted to be mad at him for letting Mom take the Keurig. But the sight of him—overdressed in a rumpled shirt and tie for a job at a hardware store—made Rose’s anger melt away, just a little.

She pointed at the coffeepot like it was an airplane engine. “I don’t know how that works.”

Dad exhaled. He filled the reservoir with water and grabbed a Folgers canister and filter from the nearest cabinet. The whole process looked pretty simple. Rose refused to learn how to do it.

After the party last night, she’d found her way back home. Turned out having the only Blush Pink house in the neighborhood made it easy to find. She’d gotten back so late that Dad had already gone to bed. Rose had been wired, though. She’d taken a shower to get rid of all remnants of cherry slushie. But when she got into bed, she couldn’t sleep. She stared at the blank wall in front of her, thinking of the boy she’d met at the gas station store. The muse called on her, and much like her dad, Rose was beholden to it. She flung her blanket off and used the flashlight on her phone to search for her milk crate full of paints. She found it in the living room and dragged it through the quiet house, stopping only when she reached the one windowless, garish pink wall in her bedroom.

Dad had given her a hard time about her decision to bring the crate with her. He said there was plenty of paint in Connecticut. But it was the principle of it. Some of the paint tubes had never even been opened, and if he thought that Rose would part with them, he didn’t know her at all. To drive the point home, Rose had suggested her dad not pack his 1946 Olympia manual typewriter. It weighed about three hundred pounds, sounded like a jackhammer with every press of a key, and hadn’t produced a single word of prose in about three years. Dad dropped the issue after that.

Rose stayed up all night using her bedroom wall as a canvas, and now, as the coffee dripped, Dad swept his wary gaze over Rose’s paint-splattered clothes and let out the world’s most loaded sigh. It held sadness and exasperation. Rose had never been so insulted by someone who hadn’t even uttered a word. And then he did. “Please don’t tell me you’re going out like that.”

Rose looked down at herself, trying to see what her father saw. She was wearing her usual paint clothes. An old, oversized white tee and baggy cargo pants, splattered and made starchy-stiff with years of paint splotches. It was colorful. Lively. Cheery , even. Plus, the colors matched the stains on her hands and forearms that refused to wash completely off in the sink. “I was painting.”

“Did you get any sleep at all?”

None. “Some.”

“Please tell me you at least used a canvas this time.”

But she couldn’t do that, and to avoid answering the question, Rose walked over to the cabinet above the sink, in search of a cup but the cabinet was empty.

In New York, Rose dressed however she wanted. Which was how everyone dressed. If she wore paint-splattered clothes to school, nobody even blinked. Everyone had their own style, be it slides and socks or vintage dollar tees salvaged from Housing Works. Clothes were equal parts basic or tragic or brilliant, and nobody really cared one way or the other. But today, for the first time ever, Rose’s dad cared.

“The kids in Meadow Falls…,” Dad began. Dad began a lot of sentences like that ever since he’d dropped the news of them moving here with the delicacy of a bomb. The kids in Meadow Falls aren’t like the kids in New York , he liked to warn. The kids in Meadow Falls live life at a slower pace , he cautioned. And today: “The kids in Meadow Falls put a lot of care into how they look.”

Before moving to New York to become a writer, Dad had grown up in Meadow Falls. In fact, this house had belonged to Rose’s grandpa. He and Dad hadn’t had the best relationship, but he’d left the house to Rose’s dad in his will, which Rose did not consider a good enough reason to move, but which Dad called their only option.

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you have a scary amount of knowledge about the kids of Meadow Falls,” Rose said.

“Styles might change, but the kids in a small place like this are always the same.” Dad’s brow furrowed. “You have paint in your hair.”

Rose’s fingertips felt gingerly around the strands of her hair until they came upon a crusty clump. She was surprised her dad had spotted it. Ever since she’d gone from brunette to Ballerina Pink, paint drippings blended into her hair better. Though she hadn’t touched up the roots in a while, so maybe that explained it.

Rose grabbed a paper cup from a stack next to the pot and poured coffee into it.

“I’m sorry about our argument last night,” Dad said. “I know you’re not a fan of the move. I want you to know that I hear you. Your concerns are valid. And I’m glad we’re having an open and effective dialogue about this.”

The first thing Dad had purchased after taking full custody of Rose was a fifth-edition used paperback of Parenting for Dummies . Now he spoke to his daughter in chapter titles.

“I’m gonna go, lots to do,” Rose said, heading for the door.

“That’s great,” Dad said. “Go explore the town.” He disappeared into the hallway of the ranch-style house, rattling off a list of plans and instructions about Rose’s new life, and then abruptly stopped talking. Rose knew he’d walked into her bedroom. When he opened his mouth again, it was to shout, “WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR WALL?”

But by then Rose was stepping out of the house and was about to walk into her new life.

“Lots to do” was a bit of an overstatement, but there was one thing Rose needed to cross off her to-do list. She retraced her steps from last night, walking the tree-lined, sidewalkless suburban streets of her new neighborhood until they led her back to the scene of the house party. Somehow, Rose still had the Female Body Inspector shirt, and it was one party favor she felt compelled to return.

The garbage bin at the curb was overflowing, but Rose chucked her empty coffee cup into it anyway and went to ring the bell. A few moments later, a boy opened the door, the same one who’d defended Rose from Heather.

“Oh,” Rose said. “Hi. I didn’t realize you were the one who threw the party.”

Behind his thick glasses, Lowell narrowed his eyes. “Why?” he asked. “I don’t look like the kind of person who can throw a rager?”

The question forced Rose to take another, better look at him. She didn’t know him yet, but just going off his size and clothes and vibes, the only party she could picture him throwing was one that featured Pin the Tail on the Donkey. “No, you definitely do,” she said. “Totally.”

“It was my first party,” Lowell said, a smile sneaking onto his face. “I think it turned out pretty good.”

“Lowell!” came a woman’s voice from inside the house. “You better be cleaning up!”

Rose noticed that behind Lowell the living room looked like a tornado had torn through it. Plastic cups strewn about; chips and popcorn crushed into the shaggy rug; dark stains on the couch; a mosaic of ceramic shards littering the floor.

“Nobody tells you about the mess after,” Lowell whispered. When he pushed his glasses up his nose, Rose realized he was wearing rubber gloves that went nearly up to his elbows. “I don’t know if I’ll ever throw another one after this,” Lowell said, getting lost in thought. “But I definitely think it was worth it. For the social cachet. As in, I have some now, which I didn’t before…”

“Well, I think this belongs to you.” Rose handed over the shirt.

Lowell held it up to look it over, then glanced at Rose. “You stole this from me?”

“Uh, no, I would never steal a shirt,” she said. “Well, not that shirt.”

“Then how—?”

“LOWELL!” boomed the woman’s voice again. “If I come over there and the living room still isn’t clean—”

Lowell threw the FBI shirt over his shoulder, then stepped out to close the door behind him. “You wanna go somewhere?” he asked. He was already down the front step and heading into the open garage before Rose could answer. “Take any of the bikes.”

There was a heap of them in the center of the garage floor, metal frames and wheels tangled together like necklaces in a jewelry box. Lowell stripped off the rubber gloves and tossed them on the ground to better yank some handlebars. Rose wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she found herself pulling out a bike. Someone had offered her a ride. She wasn’t going to turn it down.

Lowell mounted his bike. “Follow me.”