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just not get along with her? Should I ask Devon, or would she be offended? I’m not used to having intimate conversations with other girls. Or boys. Or anyone, for that matter.
    Devon takes a square of gauze and lays it gently across my face. It feels light, almost imperceptible, like butterfly wings. I close my eyes and try to figure out what happened on the stairs. Maybe Devon’s right, maybe I’m just a klutz. But I could have sworn someone tapped me on the shoulder. Was I so busy daydreaming about Max that I imagined the whole thing?
    “I just need to tape this up, and you’ll be all set,” Devon says.
    “This is really sweet of you, thanks.”
    “What are roommates for, right?” She rips off a piece of surgical tape. “So where were you tonight, anyway?”
    I blink. “I went to that Monday night movie thing.”
    “You did? Who’d you go with?” she asks skeptically.
    “I went, you know, by myself.”
    Devon smirks. I must sound pretty pathetic. “I saw Elinor and Priscilla there,” I name-drop hastily.
    “Did you sit with them?”
    Okay, so how do I answer that? I don’t want to admit that I was too scared to ask Elinor and Priscilla if I could join them. That would definitely make me sound pathetic. On the other hand, I don’t want to mention Max. Devon’s friend’s ex-boyfriend. But if I don’t mention him, she might find out anyway.
    “No. I would have, but that Franklin guy showed up. The one from my English seminar? And he was with his—with Max De what’s-his-name. They sat down next to me,” I blurt out finally.
    Devon stares at me.
    “I didn’t really speak to them because the movie started,” I say in a rush. “ To Catch a Thief. It’s amazing. Did you ever see it?”
    She doesn’t answer. I realize that the “not talking to them” part isn’t exactly true. And she probably didn’t buy how I mangled Max’s name.
    But I’ve told her enough. I seriously don’t want her to know that I stalked Max out of Chapin and that we did talk. A lot. I think Devon’s starting to warm up to me. If she figures out that I’m interested in Max, she’ll probably hate me forever out of loyalty to Becca or whatever.
    “She loved that movie,” Devon says quietly.
    “I’m sorry. Who?”
    “Becca. To Catch a Thief was one of her favorites. Have Ishown you a picture of her? She looks like Grace Kelly, actually.”
    Grace Kelly? “Um, no.”
    Devon walks over to her dresser and rummages through a small wooden chest, dumping out earrings, bracelets, strands of pearls. Finally, she plucks out a tiny silver key. Then she sits down at her desk, opens the bottom drawer, and pulls out a box. It’s large and flat and silver and etched with some sort of flower design.
    She opens the box with the key and touches whatever’s inside gingerly, the way she touched the gauze on my cheek. The box seems special and romantic, like the sort of box I would keep love letters in. If anybody ever wrote me love letters, that is.
    She pulls out a photograph and brings it over to me. “Here. That’s her.”
    I hesitate for a second before taking the photo from Devon. Earlier, I was anxious to see what Becca looked like. But now, I’m not so sure.
    “Isn’t she pretty?” Devon prompts me. “Grace Kelly, right?”
    I force myself to look. A tall, slim girl poses in front of a sailboat, smiling and waving at the camera. She’s wearing a tiny white bikini, and her pale blond hair is blowing in the wind.
    My chest tightens. Becca isn’t just pretty. She’s radiantly, gloriously beautiful. Grace Kelly beautiful. And she has this air of innocent sweetness that makes you not want to hate her for it.
    But at the moment, I do. Hate her. Because how can I compete with that? She is obviously perfect inside and out.
    Was , I mean.
    “We were all so worried about Max after she died,” Devon says, gazing wistfully at the photo. “He kind of stopped living. Like he had no reason to go on. He still seems that way,