“Really fun,” Juice says. “We used to paint a lot together. She used to let me use my hands and feet and walk all over the canvas like a monkey. And once we all built this mini-sculpture of our house out of pancakes. And after we ate it all, my mom was like, Uh-oh, where are we going to live? We laughed so hard. And sometimes I feel like my dad doesn’t even remember that day. It’s like he’s totally forgotten her.”

“He hasn’t forgotten her,” Phoebe says. “Trust me.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because he talked to me about her just this morning.”

“Really?” Juice says.

“Really,” Phoebe says. “And you can tell your dad these things, you know. You don’t have to rely on your boots to do all the talking for you.”

“Well, that’s good,” Juice says. “Because they’re actually getting kind of sweaty. It’s really hot out.”

Phoebe laughs, picks a pair of Tevas off the shelf, and holds them up. “What about these?”

AT THE OTHER boutiques, Phoebe tries on dresses that hug her body. She stands in the three-way mirror of the dressing room and admires herself in a plum-colored floor-length dress. It feels good to be wearing a form-fitting dress, to see the outline of her body again.

“What do you think?” Phoebe asks Juice. She steps out of the dressing room.

“I don’t know why you keep asking me that,” Juice says. “I don’t know what looks good on people.”

Phoebe can feel Juice’s embarrassment at being asked. She can feel it because Phoebe used to be embarrassed like that. That’s why Phoebe was a terrible shopper—always too burdened by thoughts of future embarrassment, so she never bought anything that could potentially be considered excessive, like a dress with puffed sleeves or three drinks at a bar.

“First gut reaction.”

“You look like Miss Scarlet from Clue,” Juice says.

“Is Miss Scarlet hot?”

Juice laughs. “Oh my God, nobody from Clue is hot. That’s so not what Clue is about, Phoebe.”

Phoebe laughs. It feels good to hear Juice say her name.

“I’m buying it,” Phoebe says.

It’s an epic shopping trip. Phoebe needs practically everything. Before they are done, Phoebe has picked up five other dresses, new clothes for the week, makeup, two bathing suits, and anything else she thinks she might need while here, including a comically large sun hat that seems more like something the wedding people would wear.

“This hat should have its own police escort,” Phoebe says to Juice, but Juice is by the register now and only the woman behind the desk hears her.

“You picked the prettiest one in the store,” she says.

Phoebe feels guilty, because picking it up had only been a joke. The clerk stares at her with such admiring eyes, until Phoebe feels pressured into purchasing it, and outside the store, when Phoebe puts on the giant sun hat, Juice says, “Oh my God. It’s so big. It’s so embarrassing.”

But Juice says it with a smile, like now, in the anonymity of the street, now with Phoebe’s guidance, it’s good to be so embarrassing. It’s funny. People on the street step out of the way to avoid brushing Phoebe’s brim with their shoulders, and when they do, Juice and Phoebe look at each other and crack up.

“Make way!” Phoebe shouts, and they walk down the cobblestone.

“Clear the streets!” Juice yells.

When it begins to rain, Phoebe says, “Look, we don’t even need an umbrella. You can just get under the hat.”

Phoebe pulls her in close.

“I’d never carry an umbrella anyway,” Juice says.

“Why not?”

“It’s so embarrassing.”

“To carry an umbrella?”

“It’s … humiliating.”

Phoebe is fascinated by Juice’s relentless embarrassment. Phoebe wants to know everything about it, study it like a book. She is used to being around college students who are usually a bit more okay being embarrassed.

“It’s humiliating to not be rained on?”

“It’s humiliating to be so … prepared.”

After, they buy lunch from a café that asks if they want collagen shots in their lattes. Phoebe likes the way the barista talks, how her voice is much louder than she expects it to be. Phoebe takes a sip of the warm coffee, and as they pass the art gallery on the way to the car, Phoebe can feel Juice’s sourness return.

“I seriously just don’t get why anybody cares about their car,” Juice says, opening the car door. “It’s just a hunk of metal.”

“Some people might say that your dog was just a piece of plastic,” Phoebe says.

“It’s different.”

“You’re right. It is different,” Phoebe says, “because you loved that piece of plastic.”

“Yeah, fine, I loved a piece of plastic. So what!”

“Exactly!” Phoebe says. “So what? Love your piece of plastic. And let other people love their hunk of metal.”

“Fine,” Juice says, but she does not sound satisfied. Phoebe is not letting her do the one thing she wants to do, which is talk shit about her future stepmother.

“But I can’t really talk about my mom with my dad,” Juice says. “Because Lila is always there. And Lila won’t let us.”

“Has she ever told you not to talk about her?”

“She just gets this look on her face. And it’s like we all know that if we talk about her she’s going to get upset.”

“She probably will get upset.”

“But why? She’s my mom. And when Lila gets upset, it’s like all of a sudden, I’m not allowed to have a mom anymore. We have to pretend she never existed. My dad does, too. He’s so weird around her. Like she’s this queen or something. He’ll like, put out a glass of white wine when she gets out of the shower, like her shower was oh so traumatic.”

“That’s actually nice.”

“He never did that stuff with my mom.”