Haley got me a hoodie.

All things considered, it's an acceptable gift. I can always use new clothes, and this hoodie in particular is not like the type he wears. (The overpriced, overdecorated kind.) It's my favorite color, too: a mossy dark green. I shouldn't be mad. I'm not. Not really.

Okay, I'm a little bit mad.

"It's funny," Kurt says.

Sighing, I turn to the mirror in the hall.

The front of the hoodie is covered by a cartoon of a winking, blushing bear and a caption that reads U R MY BEARY BEST FRIEND.

"I hate him," I declare.

Kurt laughs.

The worst of it is that Haley said he would take it if I didn't want it. I'd rather stuff it in a closet drawer than see him wear it every week. I can just imagine him cackling as he puts it on in the morning. After I've taken the hoodie off again, I say, "Well, it'll make a good laundry day hoodie."

"Aw, come on. It's a nice gift."

I throw it at my uncle. "You're welcome to have it."

He shakes his head with a chuckle and folds it before putting it on the stairs, where it sits waiting to be picked up again. I guess I should tell Haley I got his gift. I'm already writing the message in my head: U R A PAIN IN MY ASS.

"Was school any better today?" Kurt asks. "Everyone still giving you a hard time?"

"It's only been two days. It'll probably take a while."

At least none of Haley's friends—not even the Harding twins—talked to me or passed notes during class, but I don't know if they're just biding their time or actually listening to Haley's warning. They still have a week to change their minds.

"Do you think you're going to that party?" Kurt asks.

I told him about the situation last night.

He's still apprehensive but seems to have more trust in Haley now. The others, not so much. Personally, I don't think anyone would be stupid, or brave, enough to do something while Haley is there, but he is only one person. The rest of the Sinclairs won't be home. George, maybe, but not their parents.

"I'm not really a party person," I say.

Kurt nods. "Well . . ."

"I'll tell you if I change my mind."

"Good." He reaches up to pat my shoulder and turns toward the kitchen. "I made vegetable stew, by the way. Stacie will scold me again if I don't feed you properly, so you'd better be hungry. Bear-y hungry."

"Shut up."

☽〇☾

By the time I've reached the end of my shift, I'm ready to burst out of my skin. I don't know how I managed to hang out with Haley for as long as I did last week until I remember he gave me that cigarette. I also didn't have to help an annoying customer right before closing time. (Thankfully, Stacie stepped in, or I would've said something I'd regret.)

When Stacie catches me eyeing the cigarette packs behind the counter, she asks, "You don't smoke, do you?"

I shake my head. "I shouldn't."

Genuinely, I don't know how Haley does it.

Maybe what I'm doing is not enough. Maybe I should start turning twice a week instead of once. I could probably pull it off—I have a couple of free periods that I normally use to read or watch movies on my phone in the school library, which I could use to do homework. Haley and I are going to the movies on Sunday, anyway.

Or maybe I'm just stressed.

Being friends with Haley, as fun as it is, can be really fucking stressful.

After helping Stacie close the store, I speed walk to the woods and I stay there for about two hours. Then I find a nest of mice and spend another hour hunting and eating, and eating, and eating. I can barely sleep that night.

When Haley picks me up two days later, I say, "Do you remember when you asked if I like being a bear, and I said yes? That's only true half of the time."

He looks into the rearview mirror as he pulls out of Kurt's driveway before he frowns at me. "Why?"

"Bears hibernate."

"What? Dude, don't tell me you sleep through winter."

"Technically, if I was in my bear form the whole time, I could do it. One time I accidentally slept through an entire day. Scared the shit out of my mom. As you can imagine, it's not very practical. Unfortunately, whether I'm planning on hibernating or not, I still feel the need to prepare for winter."

"What does that mean?"

"Summer is ending, Haley," I say, sighing, "and I'm really fucking hungry."

He laughs. "Well, we can you get some food before we go to the—"

"No!" I cut in—a little too loud—and the car sways. "Sorry. I'm good. I just had food, and I really shouldn't be eating any more than I need, or I'll get really fat. Fatter than I already am, anyway."

"You're not fat."

"Well, I'm . . ."

"Large?" he offers.

"I don't think that's better."

He shrugs. "You're tall. If you were shorter, I guess you'd be fat, but you're not, so you're just big. Either way, I think you look good."

"I—" I blink. "Thanks?"

"I get that you don't want to get larger, though." He smacks the top of his steering wheel and says, "No food for Gus Reed tonight!"

"Okay, but we can still get popco—"

"No popcorn!"

"Haley."

"You can have two."

"Two . . . buckets?"

"Kernels."

"Dude," I laugh.

"Alright, alright. You can have three."

In the end, he gets both of us a bucket, some snacks, and drinks.

The Moonshiner movies are not very popular in Larkwood, as it turns out, so we have to share the theater with only three other people, which suits us just fine—we provide nonstop commentary for each other throughout both movies. Once we get to the "surprise" at the end, though, we're pretty much done with it. We stay long enough to find out it's just a bunch of interviews with the actors before we flee the theater.

"I don't think that was worth five hours of sitting still," Haley says as he dumps our empty wrappers and buckets into the trash can outside. "They should have quit while they were ahead. The first movie was better."

"Oh, yeah, for sure."

He's already fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and I can't help but think of what George said. I can't help but think there's plenty to worry about.

When Haley sees me looking, he starts to offer me a cigarette, remembers it's Sunday, and puts it between his own lips instead. "It was fun, though," he mumbles while he lights it, hand shielding the flame. "Better than watching it on my own."

I nod.

When we're back in the car, he rolls the window down and dutifully finishes his cigarette before he starts the car. He reaches for the shift stick. That's when I break.

"Haley, I think you should take my blood."

He freezes.

"Before you tell me to shut up, think about it. First of all, if you're gonna buy me shit, this is the only way I can repay you. Also, you'll be good for a whole month, and I'm offering. A guilt-free meal."

"Don't," he says. "Don't call it a fucking . . . meal."

"What should I call it, then?"

"I don't know, just—just not that."

"Sorry."

"A sample," he mutters after a moment. "It's a sample of your blood."

"Okay. A sample."

He takes a deep breath, pulls out of his spot, and exits the parking lot. He's quiet until we get to the first traffic light, two blocks away.

"It's not just the guilt," he says, voice low. "It's so nice to not feel that constant need for once, to not be restless all the time. But then it comes back, and I just feel worse—so much worse. At least I'm used to it now, you know?"

"I don't think that's a good thing."

"What happens after the month ends? What then?"

I sigh. "Don't you get tired of fighting it?"

"Honestly, man . . ." He drags a hand down his face. "I've been tired for so long I don't even know what it's like to not be tired."

"How long has it been?"

He shrugs.

"How long?"

"I don't know, a year? Maybe longer."

"Shit, man."

The engine rumbles on its own for a few minutes. Trees flash by. The blinker turns on, off, on, off, until we're at Kurt's house. The engine dies down.

"Did George talk to you?" Haley asks.

"She did."

He shakes his head.

"Does she know?" I ask. "Does anyone but your dad know?"

"No."

"Well, I would have offered again—even if she didn't. But I'll let you think about it." I reach for the door handle. Then I stop and turn back to him. "Speaking of George . . . she said something to me."

"What?"

"You said she could do better than a Harding, and she thought that was funny."

He frowns. "How is that funny?"

"That's what I said! And she made some cryptic comment about how it wasn't her place to answer my question and had me confirm that we're friends. I guess she must have thought we weren't that close if I didn't immediately know what she meant."

For a long moment, he stares at me, brows all screwed up, until he finally lets out an "oh" and puts his head in his hands. He laughs. Just laughs.

"What? What is it?"

"She said it was funny, huh?" he asks, looking at me. "Like, funny?"

"I—yeah?"

"She was calling me a hypocrite."

I stare at him.

"Because I—"

"No."

"Yeah."

"No. Which one?"

He tries not to laugh. He fails.

"No."

"Okay, look—"

"No."

"Stop!" he exclaims, laughing even harder. "Just—listen! Sam was—he was drunk. We both were, actually, but I'm the only one who remembers it happened. Or maybe he just pretends he can't remember. Either way, I don't want things to be awkward with George, so like, it didn't happen." He makes a stern gesture. "Nope. Didn't happen. Davy, on the other hand . . ."

I raise a brow.

He drops his head against the headrest with a groan. "Just let me be a slut."

"It's not you I have a problem with," I say.

"He's good at it, okay?"

"Are you using present tense because he, as a person, is generally good at sex, or because this is a thing that's, like, actively happening?"

He looks at the ceiling, lips pursed. As if he needs to think about it.

"Okay. Yeah. That's really funny."

"I'm not dating him, though!" he argues. "I can enjoy his . . . company without—"

"Just say his dick."

"I can enjoy his dick without being in a relationship with him."

"Does he know that?"

He snorts. "Don't worry. No matter how he feels about me on a surface level, at the end of the day, he doesn't want anything but my approval. Deep down, people like the Harding twins just want to be associated with one of Philleanna's richest families. Whether they get it through friendship, sex, or love doesn't matter. That's why I warned George. You saw how he begged her to let him stay after he insulted you."

"Yeah, I guess," I say, frowning at the empty yard. I've never really thought about it like that. When Haley said his friends were just trying to protect him, that sounded to me like they cared about more than his approval.

"I told you. All of my friends are like that. They act like they care about me, but they're just scared I'll drop them. They don't want to fall off the ladder."

"You think none of them care about you?"

"Oh, I'm sure they care about me to a certain degree. If I died, they would probably cry at my funeral or whatever—they're not heartless bastards. Would they help me if I fell off the ladder, though? I don't think so."

That, I can believe. "Fair."

"Anyway . . ." He looks at the house. "Can I use your bathroom?"

"Sure."

Neither of us suggests he goes home afterward, so he stays.

He looks very out of place in my room, sitting sideways on the bed with his bright sneakers hanging over the edge. It's not that my room is in bad shape—I keep it clean, and none of my furniture is too shabby. It's just . . . cheap, and he is not. Still, it feels right to have him here; better than me being at his house.

When it's quiet, I ask, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think you would've become friends with me if you never met Cecilia?"

"I like to think so."

"But you don't think it's true?"

He lets out a sigh. "My family is not outwardly unfriendly to anyone below their status, but they wouldn't befriend someone from the lower class. Combined with how my other friends treat you, I don't think I would have turned out to be very friendly. It wasn't just Cecilia who helped me, though. After she passed away, my parents sent me to a therapist, and she taught me how to sort of analyze my thoughts and opinions and separate them from what I was told to believe."

"Maybe we should send more people to therapy."

"Honestly."

I twirl around on my desk chair for a moment before I ask, "If you don't mind me asking, how did she die?"

"I'm surprised you didn't just look it up."

"Why? Is that what you did to find out what happened to my mom?"

"Look, you were telling everybody a different story. Obviously, I got curious. And I tried looking you up, but I couldn't find anything, so I asked my mom."

"Seriously? Does she keep tabs on everyone in Larkwood?"

"It's just a matter of asking the right people the right questions." He sits up straight, pushing himself up against the wall. "Anyway, Cecilia had cancer."

"Shit, her too?"

"Yeah. The only difference is that she could actually afford to get treated and died anyway. Her parents tried going to a bunch of different doctors, but the tumor in her brain was too aggressive. They couldn't save her."

"Man," I breathe out, slumping in my chair. "That sucks."

He nods. "It sucks that your mom couldn't be treated, either."

I give him a wry smile, thinking of the first time we talked about this. "Well, shit happens."

He chuckles. "Yeah. Shit happens."

The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable. There is something good in being understood, even if it hurts. Right here, right now, Haley's not rich, I'm not poor; we're just two people who lost someone we care about.

I don't think it will ever stop hurting.

Every time Mom winced in pain, every time we argued, every time we hugged and held back tears—it's seared into my brain. The problem was that she did have enough money saved up for the treatment she needed, but she refused to take it. She said again and again: if the cancer returns, I will have nothing left, and all of that money is meant for you. Nothing I said would change her mind, and now I can't think of her without feeling all that frustration seeping in, igniting my veins, numbing my senses. In the end, all I could do was watch the cancer kill her and cry.

I turn away from Haley, looking out of the window at the darkening sky.

"Sorry," he says.

"It's not your fault," I mutter, reaching up to run my hands over my head as I drop it forward. My fingers scrape along my scalp and get stuck in the waves of my hair, so I pull them away. "I brought it up anyway."

He clears his throat. "I'm just sorry it happened. I know you miss her, and from what you've told me, she seemed like a good mom."

I keep my face down—my eyes are betraying me. "She was."

"We can talk about something else."

"Don't you have to go home at some point?"

"Do you . . . want me to?"

I move my glasses up and press my face into my sleeve before I look up at him. "I didn't say that."

He gives me a small smile. "I can go home whenever."

"Okay. Then we should talk about something else."

"So . . . about that hoodie—"

"No."

☽〇☾