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She’d colored my stick figure’s shirt the exact same shade of blue as Marcus’s, on purpose, she told me later, “so people know you match.”
“My teacher probably thought it was a typo,” she said, showing it to me. “I told her it wasn’t.”
I taped that drawing to the inside of my closet door, where I’d see it every single morning getting dressed, five stick figures under one stubborn sun.
I turned eighteen on a Thursday in August, nothing fancy, just Mom’s cooking and a cake Lily insisted on decorating herself, frosting slightly too thick in places.
