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dark brown curls around her shoulders. “Hair up or down?”
    The smell of the gel she used to scrunch her hair into tight ringlets is strong. I’m jealous of her curls and think they’re too pretty to shove into a ponytail holder, so I say, “Down.” Rosalinda nods and turns back toward the front of the van.
    “That’s what I told her two minutes ago, but she didn’t listen,” Misty says as she turns left out of my subdivision and onto the main road. Rosalinda smacks Misty on the arm, and she protests with a laugh and an “ouch.”
    “I’m allowed to get more than one opinion,” Rosalinda says.
    “True, but you never listen to what I have to say. Like bowling last night. I told you it was going to suck, but did you listen? No. You went anyway. And what happened, Hanley?” she asks as she glances in the rearview mirror. Her green eyes are pretty, but sink too far into her face. Someday I’ll teach her how to use eyeliner to highlight her eyes and blush to bring out her cheekbones.
    “It sucked,” I respond.
    “Exactly,” Misty says. “Maybe you should listen to me more often.”
    At the mall, Misty parks in our usual spot outside the food court. Warmth and the smells of fast food and industrial cleaner hit us when we walk through the door. An employee is standing in front of the China 1 kiosk, offering pieces of sesame chicken on toothpicks. “Free sample?” he asks as we approach. And we accept, even though we’ve sampled all of their dishes too many times to count.
    Charlotte Russe is our first stop, where the mall’s elevator music is replaced with something loud and upbeat. The store’s sizes run small, which means Misty spends her time looking at shoes and other accessories, and Rosalinda spends her time trying on clothes that are even tighter than the rest of her wardrobe. Which means I spend my time trying to talk her out of purchases that are too anything—too tight, too short, too see-through, too consisting of pleather.
    After successfully distracting Rosalinda from a denim bustier with an emphasis on the bust , we head out of the store empty-handed.
    “Come on,” Rosalinda is still whining, “it wasn’t that slutty.”
    “It was ‘ that slutty’ times seven,” Misty says.
    “If you still want it before we leave, you can go back and try it on again.” The only reason I say this is because we have many more stores to visit, and some other item will catch Rosalinda and her wallet’s attention.
    She pouts. “Fine.”
    I pause in front of a store called Truly Michigan. It’s the kind of store we walk by all the time without a second glance. Today, something catches my eye. At the entrance to the store is a jewelry display: necklaces, earrings, pins, and bracelets, all made with Michigan’s state stone. Petoskey stones look like ordinary stones when they’re dry, but as soon as they get wet, a beautiful hexagonal pattern appears on the surface. Almost like magic. These stones have been polished and glossed to make the distinctive pattern shine through permanently.
    The stones on the necklaces are smooth and cold beneath my fingers. For a moment, I’m transported back to summers on the shores of Elk Lake. To hours spent searching through the water for these magical rocks with my best friend, heads so close together that it was impossible to tell where my blond hair stopped and hers started. The memories are clear enough to sting.
    “Hanley?” Misty’s voice breaks into my thoughts. I drop my hand and fight to bring my attention back to the present. “What’s the hold up?”
    “Just…nothing.” I shake my head and tug at the ring on my thumb. “Sorry.”
    “Hey, Hanley,” Rosalinda says, sliding up next to me. “I think that guy is staring at you. He’s kind of cute.”
    My gaze lingers on the Petoskey stones for a few more seconds before I force myself away. “He’s probably staring at you,” I say, clearing my throat to get rid of the choked emotion.
    “No,