“When I see stuff like this here,” Layla said slowly, glancing at me, “I want to buy it just for the story.”

“Not me,” he replied, backing up again. “Just because someone gave up all those bathrobes behind us doesn’t mean I necessarily want to know why.”

“Brother?” I heard a voice say from behind a rack of dresses. “Where are you?”

“Coming,” he replied, turning himself around. I still hadn’t said a word; I couldn’t. But maybe he was used to people staring at him, mute, because he just gave us a friendly wave and then drove off.

“Hey,” Layla said, dropping her stuff on the floor and coming over to me. “Sydney. You look sick.”

“That . . . He was—”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “I know. Seriously, take a breath. You’re scaring me.”

I did as I was told, sucking in that awful smell. Distantly, I could hear a whirring noise as David Ibarra and whoever he was with made their way up to the front of the store. After a moment, Layla stepped away from me, leaning into the aisle to look at them. I made her swear on her mom, twice, that they were gone not just from the store but the parking lot as well before I would move.

When I finally got outside, I leaned against the glass window, closing my eyes. Layla paid for her stuff, and then we walked back to Seaside, where we settled into our booth and continued our homework. This time, though, Layla was the only one who got anything done. I just sat there, my textbook open in front of me. Whenever I tried to focus, I saw not the words or even David Ibarra’s face. Instead, it was that rainbow of galoshes, mismatched and displaced.

It wasn’t until I was leaving and Layla handed me a bag that I realized that not only had I dropped the stuff she’d picked out for me at SuperThrift, but she’d collected it, adding it to her own purchases. I didn’t want to be rude, so I took the things, pushing them deep into my closet once I was home. I knew my mom, in her donating mode, would eventually find them and ask if they were important. I’d have to tell her yes. Like so much else, even if I wanted to be rid of them, they were now with me for good.

* * *

For obvious reasons, I was not in the mood to shop in the week that followed. Layla, however, had her eye on some stuff at her favorite consignment store. Which meant she also had a plan.

“Girls delivering pizzas in pairs,” she announced to her dad one afternoon. She’d asked him to take a seat so she could present what she’d referred to as “an important business proposal.” “Just picture it: a market niche. We’ll establish a specific, visual brand of customer service.”

I raised my eyebrows. She’d recently found a how-to book on small-business marketing at the annual library sale. Despite her dislike of school, she’d devour any instruction manual or romance novel in hours.

“Bad idea,” said Mac, who had not been invited to the table but was listening, as always.

“Nobody asked you,” Layla told him.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not safe,” he replied. “You’ll be walking up to people’s houses, strange apartments . . .”

“But Sydney and I will be together,” she told him. I blinked—I had not realized I was involved. “And we’ll leave you the runs to sketchy neighborhoods.”

“What if all the calls are from bad neighborhoods?”

“Then we probably need to rethink our marketing, wouldn’t you say?” She turned back to her dad. “You said yourself deliveries are up, especially on the weekends with game days. We can help. Keep it in the family. And I need to start getting more experience here at the shop if I’m going to do it full-time after I graduate.”

Hearing this, Mac looked up. “Nobody’s talking about that happening, as far as I know.”

“Which is exactly why we should be,” Layla replied without missing a beat. “It’s pretty sexist to just assume a girl can’t move into a leadership position, don’t you think?”

“Leadership?” Mr. Chatham said. “I thought we were talking about delivering pizzas.”

“We were talking about the business.” Layla sighed. “The bottom line is, you need more delivery help. I need hands-on experience. It’s a win-win.”

Mr. Chatham rubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t said no yet, but he was clearly a ways from agreeing. “If I were to consider the delivery thing—”

“You shouldn’t,” Mac said.

“—there would have to be some rules, for sure.”

Layla, sensing victory anyway, shot me a grin. “Like I said, we’d always be together. And we’d both go up to the door, every time.”

Her dad mulled this over as Mac, shaking his head, spread some sauce on an empty crust. “I could see offices,” Mr. Chatham said finally. “And maybe some residential areas on weekends, during the daytime. But not evenings, and no apartment complexes.”

“Oh, Daddy, that’s great! Thank you!”

“But,” he said loudly, holding up a hand, “Mac trains you first, and we have a trial run on Saturday, during the game, with no promise of a commitment on my part. Understood?”

“Yes,” Layla told him solidly. Then she kicked me under the table so I’d say it, too.

And so it was decided. Our training happened two days later, on Thursday evening. I told my mom I was going over to Jenn’s, assuming she might not be thrilled to know I was taking on a job, much less this one. I’d really only agreed for Layla’s sake, so I was surprised to discover how much I enjoyed it.