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impulsive hug. “You’re such a good friend, Sara-Beth. You’re definitely facing west.”
    â€œWell, I try.” She crossed her arms, making the bells at the ends of her sleeves jingle, and nodded once, like a genie granting a wish. “Now it’s your turn to give me some advice.”
    â€œShoot.”
    She poked me in the shoulder with one bonyfinger. “What do you think of the new decorations? I mean really?”
    I glanced around. “Well …”
    â€œPlease,
please
be honest.” Sara-Beth’s breath picked up, which was always a good hint that if I wasn’t careful, she might start to cry.
    â€œOkay.” I plucked at the tassel attached to my pillow. “It’s nice and everything, but I guess it’s just not—”
    â€œNot what?”
    â€œWell, it’s not really you.”
    Sara-Beth’s eyes got wide, and for a second I thought it was time for the waterworks. But instead she just sighed.
    â€œI
know
.” She flopped down onto her elbows and balanced her chin in her hands. For a minute, she looked totally mournful, but then a new thought occurred to her and she brightened up again. “Oh well. I guess I’ll know me when I see it, right?”
    â€œOh,
definitely
,” I said. But I don’t think either of us knew that we might not see the real her for
quite
some time.

CHAPTER 6
THE TWILIGHT ZONE
    When I left Sara-Beth’s place around five thirty, I was expecting to go home, run up the stairs to my bedroom, and stay holed up there till dinnertime, working on homework until I got so bored I had no choice but to go on IM and talk to all my friends about how much stuff I still had to do. But the minute I swung the front door in on its hinges, I knew something was wrong. For one thing, all the lights were on, and at my house, the only time all the lights are on is at four o’clock in the morning when one of my brother’s parties has just ended and he wants to survey the damage. I could also hear the sounds of pots and pans clattering on the stove in the kitchen, which didn’t really make any sense, since most of our meals go directly from delivery containers onto china plates. But the weirdest thing of all was how clean it was.
    Our house isn’t usually that dirty—we have acleaning lady, Sveta, who comes in once a week to beat the couch cushions with a stick and curse our filthy ways in Russian—but even after she leaves it’s hardly spotless. There’s always a splash of red wine on the carpet (usually courtesy of my sister, Feb), or a pile of dirty laundry, or tire marks on the furniture (which tends to happen when Patch’s friend Mickey rides his Vespa through our living room). But that day, it was spotless. I could still see the tracks from the vacuum cleaner all across the tan woven rug my parents had brought back from their last trip to Malaysia.
    â€œMom?” I called hesitantly. “Dad?”
    â€œFlanny! You’re home!” Feb sang out, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen. I was so surprised I dropped my schoolbag. It landed with a loud
thunk
on the floor. Feb’s sense of style is pretty much the opposite of conservative—she has short black hair, a fondness for clumpy mascara, and a whole closetful of sequined sheath dresses. I’m more likely to see her dancing in a pair of four-inch Roger Vivier stilettos than padding around our apartment in Kate Spade flats. But that day her transformation was even more shocking than that of Sara-Beth Benny’s apartment. Here stood my wild big sister in a cute little blue-checked apron. A matching checked headband heldback her hair, which she had flipped out at the ends. Her nails were painted powder pink, and in her left hand was a large wooden spoon stained with something red. Looking back, I guess it was probably tomato sauce, but at the time, I thought it must be blood from when she’d beaned