MY STEPMOTHER MADE ME GIVE MY HALLOWEEN COSTUME TO HER DAUGHTER—AND MY OWN FATHER CALLED ME SELFISH FOR WANTING TO KEEP IT

By Thursday afternoon, the rumor mill at Westlake Middle School had already processed my arrival like a high-speed woodchipper. By lunchtime, everyone knew that Lily Miller wasn't just another scholarship transfer—she was the girl who had audited her own father, bankrupted a mid-level plumbing contractor, and moved in with a corporate banking executive who owned half the commercial real estate between Congress Avenue and Barton Creek.

I was sitting at an outdoor metal table in the courtyard, eating a turkey sandwich Sarah had packed in a glass Tupperware container, when Chloe appeared at the edge of the patio.

She didn't look like the confident girl who had stood behind Karen in the kitchen while her mother lectured me about selfishness. Her hair was pulled back loosely, her skin pale under the Texas sun, and her pink windbreaker looked like it hadn't been washed in a week.

She walked over, stopped three feet from my table, and looked down at my glass container with a bitter, defensive scowl.

"I heard you live in a condo now," Chloe said, her voice tight and trembling slightly around the edges. "With your aunt. My mom said you're a little monster who ruined her life."

I didn't look up from my sandwich. I took a slow bite, chewed deliberately, and set the glass container down on the metal table.

"Your mom left my dad stranded in a house with a four-thousand-dollar mortgage and no credit left to his name, Chloe," I said calmly. "And she did it the second she realized the Lexus lease was in her maiden name and the bank was going to repossess it before January. If anyone’s a monster, it’s the woman who taught you how to steal Halloween costumes from seventh-graders."

Chloe’s face flushed a violent, blotchy red. Several kids at the adjacent tables stopped talking, their heads turning toward us like spectators at a tennis match.

"You're trash," Chloe hissed, her voice cracking. "You've always been trash. Your dad was a plumber who lived in a tract house, and now you're just squatting in your aunt's spare room because nobody actually wanted you!"

Before I could answer, a shadow fell over the table.

Maya stepped between us, her golden-brown hair catching the sunlight, her hazel eyes locked onto Chloe with terrifying precision.

"Listen to me very carefully, Chloe," Maya said, her voice smooth, polite, and completely devoid of human warmth. "My father is currently representing the bank that foreclosed on your mother’s temporary rental on Lake Austin Boulevard. I saw the eviction notice on his desk this morning. You have until Monday to clear your designer knockoff bags out of the foyer before the sheriff changes the locks. So unless you want to spend next week sleeping in the back of your stepdad’s repoed Subaru like you did back in November, I suggest you pick up your dignity and walk away from this table right now."

Chloe stared at Maya, her lips parting in a silent gasp of absolute horror and humiliation. She looked at me, her eyes filling with hot, frustrated tears, and then turned on her heel and bolted across the courtyard toward the parking lot, her white sneakers clattering against the concrete.

Maya sat down in the empty metal chair across from me, picked up a baby carrot from my container, and popped it into her mouth.