"What in the fashion-forsaken world are you wearing, Paris?" Mia questions as I step down the stairs for breakfast. I look suspiciously about before scooting against a wall and pressing my palms against it. "I suppose a better question is, what in mind forsaken world are you doing?"

I pull at the fabric wrapped around my head and clear my throat. "I am not this so-called 'Paris'," I say in a deep voice.

"Mom!" she screams. "Intruder!"

Mom doesn't reply, but I hear her humming a tune. She's probably listening to music with her headphones. I roll my eyes in Mia's direction and walk into the kitchen, settling down at the counter with my fingers folded together. When my mom finally turns around, she gives a yelp and drops the plate of eggs in her hands. Luckily my dad catches it before it hits the floor. But when he catches a glimpse of my appearance he jumps in horror and the eggs slip off the plate. I wince. He quickly wipes the look off his face and continues making his own breakfast, trying to hide his not-so-subtle glances in my direction. I touch at the fabric, cap, and glasses obscuring my face from view.

"I know you don't want anyone to recognize you—your only smart move—but the outfit is completely unnecessary," Mia states bluntly with a hand on her hip.

I gasp, holding my hand against my favorite blue T-shirt. I had found it in the clearance section a few years back—for obvious reasons—and had fallen in love with the misshapen 'duck' embroidered on it. "It's laundry day," I mumble the excuse under my breath.

Ｃｌｅａｒａｎｃｅ

𝐀 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐤

Ｃｌｅａｒａｎｃｅ

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲, 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

"It's not," Mom says loudly, attempting to hear herself over her blaring music. "I would know since I'm the only one who does it for everyone in this house." She waves her spatula at everyone in the kitchen, giving a pointed look. I wince as an extra loud part of the song escapes their captivity of the earphones. How did she even hear me? "Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

I lean over the counter and stare at the unappetizing splattered eggs lying on the floor like dead bodies on a battlefield. "I ain't eating that," I say, turning my head away in disgust.

She sighs, making no move to get me a fresh plate. I drop my face into a frown and rise from my seat, grabbing a mushy-looking banana and leaving the kitchen. I grab my backpack from the front, scream through mouthfuls, "Bye!", and storm outside. I immediately quiet down when I see a man walking his dog across the street. I pull my cap lower and quickly rush over to Lucas' house. I ring the doorbell and wait patiently in front of the door.

I hop impatiently from one foot to the other, my head and eyes constantly turning to the street, scouting for human beings.

When the door finally opens, my attention is focused on the figure that appears in the door.

"We are not interested in buying cheap, dry, unappetizing chocolate." His mouth hardly moves as he speaks. He closes the door in my face with a slam.

I knock furiously. That wasn't Lucas and it hadn't looked or acted like any kind of butler or servant, so...had that been Lucas' dad? I could see the uh...family resemblance? They had the same...skin tone?

I don't mean to judge a book by its cover, but man, he doesn't make a very good first impression.

Suddenly I hear some commotion from the other side of the door. It keeps me from knocking again, although my patience is starting to wear thin.

Finally, the door swings open and luckily, it's Lucas standing in the doorway. "Sorry about that, Paris," he says. "My dad's kinda getting fed up with the number of salespeople coming to our door. They see a big, fancy house and they think 'Ooh, I might get a pretty penny from this place'."

So it was his dad. "It's fine," I reply. "Wait, how did you know it's me? I mean..." I clear my throat, deepening my voice as I continue, "This is not Paris. This is Steve."

"Steve?"

I clear my throat again. "Yes." I lean in closer and whisper, "It's actually me, Paris, but only you can know. Now tell me how you got to my window last night."

He grins, stepping forward to lean against the doorframe. "I told you I would tell you at school. And only at school."

"Steve doesn't go to school."

"Does Steve wear yellow pigs on his shirt?"

I gasp offensively. "It's a duck, I'll have you know."

He shakes his head and laughs. He pops his head back into his house to say a quick, "Cheerio, mates!" Then grabs his backpack and closes the door behind him.

"Next time you should say, 'If I don't see you around, I'll see you square' or 'see ya winners, I'll be back for dinner'."

"There's nothing weird with saying cheerio," he says defensively. He attempts to look serious but even he knows he will probably never say anything remotely serious in front of his parents.

"Am I hopeless?" he asks, a few minutes later as we stop for the flashing red hand.

"Definitely," I reply.

"Then you are too."

We both grin at each other before Lucas takes off running, yelling, "Race you to school!"

I keep my slow pace, still attempting to stay under the wraps, but Lucas continues on, only stopping at each corner to make sure we stay together.

It seems like nothing's changed. Only everything's changed. And although some things feel worse, other things feel better. Much better.