“Oh, I know all about your walls,” she says with a sympathetic frown.

I sigh so hard my lips sputter. “And now I don’t know where I’m going or who I want to be and I made that stupid video and what if that’s all anyone ever knows me for? What if I’m always that fat gay kid with the embarrassing video who ran for prom queen?”

She loops her arm through mine and leans her head on my shoulder. “You’re Waylon. Before the video. After the video. With me. Without me.”

I was so ready to live our lives out in Austin, but the thought of being there without my Clementine makes me feel like I’m trying to find my footing in a pit of quicksand. “And God, why Georgia?”

She smiles sheepishly, and I immediately know she’s about to drop another bomb. “Well, I was wait-listed at UT, but I also got into the University of North Texas, and then a few others. One in Florida and another in Arizona, but, um, Hannah actually has a full ride at the Savannah College of Art and Design. We’d still be four hours away, but—”

“Oh.” I want to snap back with something pithy, but this hurts a little too much for me to come up with a venomous response. She’s just twisted the knife. It’s not that she’s going somewhere else on her own. She’s going somewhere with someone else. A someone else she chose over me. “What happens if . . . what if y’all . . .”

“What if we break up?” she asks smartly, and it’s one of those moments when I can perfectly see the features that make us twins. The pointed nose. The sharp line of our brows. The freckles that won’t quit. “I talked to Mom about that. I didn’t want to go all the way out there and feel like I’d made some huge mistake. But I’m not going out there for Hannah. I’m going out there because it’s the best school I was accepted to and Hannah being nearby is simply a perk.”

I nod silently, studying my hand clutching my sheets.

She touches my wrist. “And maybe I’m making a mistake. But you have to let me make my own mistakes too, Waylon. And speaking of mistakes, I am really, truly sorry about the video. It wouldn’t have gotten out there if I’d been a little more careful. I know Mom always says I’m the glass half full and you’re the glass half empty, but sometimes I wish I could anticipate the worst like you can. It might have saved you from this whole ordeal.”

I look up at her then, and find her eyes watering and her neck and ears red. All sure signs that she feels awful. “It’s okay. We can’t all wield the power of pessimism. It’s a gift and a burden. Besides, what’s done is done, and who knows? This whole experience might not be the worst thing to ever happen to me. Stay tuned.”

“Are we okay?” she asks, her voice cracking. She timidly draws back a little, preparing herself for whatever my answer might be.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just . . . I feel like this can’t just be magically fixed.” It’s the truth. “It’s going to take me a while to get over all of this. But I need you. I can’t believe I’m doing this prom queen thing. And with Tucker Watson of all people.”

“Tucker? Don’t we hate him for some reason? Remind me again.”

I can’t help but laugh. When it comes to transgressions against me and the ones I love, I’m like a librarian with a perfectly organized catalog of memories. “Ditched me for a group project, forced a teacher to redesign the seating chart so he didn’t have to sit next to me, and most recently, he shushed me.”

“Ugh, what a jerk.” She says it with extra outrage just for me.

“Thank you. Your loyalty is noted and appreciated.” I pull her close to me for a hug, and even though it doesn’t feel the same as it always has in the past, it feels good.

I really don’t know how to get over this and where to go from here, but Clem and I aren’t just friends or regular brother and sister. Being a twin means being there for each other even when your relationship isn’t fully functioning. I think other people would take some time away from each other and really figure out their feelings, but Clem and I live across the hall from each other and we share a car, so we have no choice but to figure this out as we go.

We spend all day vegging out and watching highlight reels of our favorite YouTube videos until it’s almost time for us to get ready. “What are you wearing to this thing tonight anyway?” I ask, reaching for her wavy hair, which still smells like coconut. I might give her a hard time about her braids, but I do love the way they hold the smell of our shampoo like she’s straight out of the shower.

Clem points down at her frayed cutoff jean shorts and Dad’s old undershirt that she cut into a tank top. “This?”

“Um, no,” I tell her. “Negatory on that, captain.”

I stand up and yank her to her feet. “If we’re going to have our Brewer Twins Go to a Gay Bar premiere, we’re going to look fabulous. We have to make a statement.”

“And the statement can’t just be ‘Look at me. I own clothing’?” she asks hesitantly.

“Don’t ruin this for me,” I warn.

Next door, in Clem’s room, I tear through her closet searching for anything we can work with, but it’s mostly jean shorts, black leggings, holey T-shirts, and a few short nineties-throwback dresses that aren’t awful but aren’t great either.

“Does this still fit you?” I ask, holding up a baby-blue spaghetti-strap dress with little daisies all over it.

“Um, that’s the dress Mom made me wear for Easter in seventh grade.”

I throw it at her. “Try it on.”

With my back turned, she does so. “I can’t believe you’re making me try on a dress from middle school. The last time I put this dress on, I didn’t even have boobs. If I even wore a bra with this dress, it was probably for theoretical purposes—ooh. Ow!” She grunts. “Okay, ta-da.”

I turn around.

“I don’t think Mom ever envisioned my Easter dress quite like this. Should I wear the cardigan that she bought for this?”

I snort. “Definitely not.” Clem’s once-ladylike seventh-grade Easter dress is now a mini with slip-dress vibes. “I can’t believe that thing even fit over your head. And not that I’m invested in your boobs in any way at all, but everything looks to be in tip-top shape.”

“Thank you?” she says with slow confusion.

She reaches up to part her hair to rebraid it, but I swat her hands away. “The head of creative did not approve your Wednesday Addams braids.”

She pouts. “But I can feel my hairrrrrr.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s part of the whole having-hair thing.”

She wiggles like her follicles are growing worms. “Okay, fine.”

I nod. “You look, like, really cool. Like, I don’t want to sound super Podunk or anything, but you could easily be going out to some kind of indie-band show in New York City or something. Austin at the very least.”

She looks down at her dress. “I feel ridiculous, but I guess I like it.”

We sit down on the ground in front of each other with her pile of unused makeup. “You should know I’ve only done makeup the one time.”