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life.
    It was the last perfect moment in my life.

 
    EIGHT
    I WAKE UP, and the first thing I do is slide my leg out from under the duvet to check my ankle. Anklet still there. It was not a dream, not some juicy figment of my imagination that dissolves as soon as I wake. I snuggle down under the covers to relive it in my head and then realize that delaying this morning would delay spending time with Art. He will be waiting for me, as he always is, at the bus stop, where we will go on to school together.
    Despite my joy, my sleep was fitful, with so much to absorb after the Angelina Tinder scene. I feel unsteady on my feet as I get dressed. Something has been shaken, stirred within me. My feeling of security has been tested, and perhaps my trust, though not with Art, whom I trust more than ever. Oddly, I think it is with my own self.
    I don’t need to think when I dress; I never do, not like Juniper, whom I hear swearing and sighing as she pulls yet another outfit over her head in frustration, never happy with how she looks. She gets up a half hour earlier than I do just to get dressed and still ends up being late every morning.
    Most people who don’t know our personalities can’t distinguish between me and Juniper. With a black dad and a white mom, we have inherited Dad’s skin. We also have Dad’s brown eyes, his nose, and his hair coloring. We have Mom’s cheekbones, her long limbs. She tried to get us into modeling when we were younger, and Juniper and I did a few shoots together, but neither of us could stay at it. Me because posing for a camera failed to intellectually stimulate me, Juniper because she was even more awkward and clumsy under people’s gazes.
    When it comes to how we act, how we dress, and everything else about us, though, we couldn’t be further apart.
    I put on a cream linen dress and baby-pink cashmere cardigan, with gold gladiator sandals that spiral up my legs. It’s hot outside, and I always wear pastel colors. Mom likes to buy pastels for all the family. She thinks that we look more like a unit when we’re dressed that way. I know of some families who hire stylists to help coordinate not just the clothes but their overall look as a family. None of us wants to look out of place or like we don’t belong, though Juniper often likes to do her own thing, wearing something that’s not a part of our family color palette. We let her do just that—her loss, though Mom worries that it makes us look fragmented. I think the only person who looks fragmented is Juniper.
    As usual, I’m downstairs before my sister. Ewan is at the table eating breakfast. He’s wearing cream linen trousers and a baby-pink T-shirt, and I feel happy we match. A good start to the day.
    Mom is staring at the TV, not moving.
    â€œLook what I got last night,” I sing.
    No one looks.
    â€œYoo-hoo.” I circle my ankle in the air, graceful like a ballerina.
    Ewan finally looks at me, then down at my ankle, which I’m dangling near his face.
    â€œA bracelet,” he says, bored.
    â€œNo. A bracelet is an ornamental band for the wrist, Ewan. This is an anklet.”
    â€œWhatever, Thesaurus.” He rolls his eyes and continues watching TV.
    â€œArt gave it to me,” I sing loudly, floating by Mom to get milk for my cereal from the fridge.
    â€œWonderful, sweetheart,” she says robotically, as though she hasn’t heard at all.
    I stop and stare at her. She is completely engrossed in the TV. I finally pay attention and see it’s News 24, and Pia Wang is reporting live from Highland Castle. Pia Wang is the correspondent for the Guild. She covers every case in extreme detail, providing a profile of the Flawed, during the trial and after. It’s never a favorable profile, either. She does a good job of burying whomever she wants, though, to her credit, she’s covering Flawed cases, people who have made bad decisions, so she’s not