The unrelenting screech of Patsy Porter's alarm clock flooded her ears and reverberated in her head, snapping her out of a deep sleep. Instinctively, she stretched toward the sound, but found a barrier holding her back from its shut-off button. An end to the racket was hidden somewhere beneath a strange cover of fabric.

"What the—"

Leaving things on top of her alarm clock was something Patsy would never do. It was, in fact, something she hated very much. She worked through her sleep hangover and tried to think clearly. Where did it come from? Her bedroom was so small and filled with so much that everything had a specific place to be in her room. If she couldn't file it away, it didn't belong. This thing had been left in the one place where she would be sure to notice it as soon as she woke up, which meant that someone had been in her room while she slept—a concept that gave her a twinge of the creeps. Not only because she was out cold and vulnerable but also because their presence threatened her organized personal space. There was only one person she knew who had an annoying habit of invading her personal space.

Mom.

Patsy reached beneath the barrier to stop the blaring noise, then went back to the fabric, allowing herself a moment to enjoy its smooth silkiness. It was as soft as powder in her hands—expensive material for sure. She unfolded it as she stood up. A cashmere and silk Burberry scarf spread open and her jaw dropped as she thought about the value. Those scarves didn't come cheap; they cost big bucks. There was no way anyone in the Porter house had that much money to spend on an accessory. Of course, she knew instantly that nobody had spent anything on it. Coming from Kathy Porter, it was most likely stolen.

Patsy did a once-over to check if anything needed tidying after the invasion. Nothing else in her room appeared to have been touched. Not her neat makeup vanity. Not her dresser or her closet—contents sorted neatly by size and type—and not her school things lying on the small chair by her door. Not the special little wooden box hidden behind the old photo on her top shelf. Everything, aside from the new scarf, was exactly how Patsy had left it when she had shut her eyes the night before. She clutched the delicate fabric in her hand, careful not to scrunch it.

"Mom!" Patsy shouted as she left her room.

She found her mother lying on the living room couch, wrapped tightly in a blanket. There was only one bedroom in their apartment, so the couch doubled as her mom's bed. Her thick strawberry-blond mane covered most of her finely lined, freckled face—a face that looked a lot like Patsy probably would in twenty years.

"Mom. Where did you get this?" Patsy demanded, although she already had a strong idea.

Kathy snorted as she opened her eyes. "Gift," she said. "Happy birthday."

"It's not my birthday, Mom. My birthday was in April."

"I know." Kathy sighed and sat up. "So then happy whatever. Can't you just be grateful?"

"I asked you to not bring me stuff from your employers. What happens when someone notices it missing and sees me wearing it somewhere? What then?"

"Relax. Mrs. Harding gave it to me."

"Did she really?" Patsy asked suspiciously. It still smelled of whatever perfume Mrs. Harding had doused it with. Something exotic, most likely. She had several bottles from Paris, even without counting the two that her mother's sticky fingers had slipped away undetected. Patsy studied her mother, willing a truthful answer she knew she would probably not get.

"Yep," said Kathy, who didn't seem to care she was being scrutinized. She yawned and finger combed her untamable hair away from her eyes. "I'm going to go shower. Make me an omelet?"

Patsy deflated. "Sure," she said, knowing further scolding would do no good. Her mother was set in her ways. And how had Patsy become the mother figure instead of the other way around anyway?

As she prepared ingredients for an omelet breakfast for two, Patsy couldn't help but stare at the back of the dining chair, where she'd draped the scarf, as if it were sending her messages from across the room that distracted her from the task at hand. Look at me! There weren't many eggs, but four was enough. Two each. The scarf was so pretty. Eggs sizzled in the pan and she rinsed the shells out so they wouldn't smell in the trash can. The way the fabric had felt: delicately soft, like a bunny. There were no fresh veggies to add to the omelet, as she would have liked—they just hadn't had enough money over the past few weeks to get fresh food. She rummaged in the cabinet and didn't find much. Some canned spinach would work. She added it to the eggs.

That scarf was luxurious. Something as upscale as that could really give her an upper hand at school. She wasn't envied there, but she wasn't invisible either. She was known to the popular group, even if she did feel out of place at times. Dating Seth, a popular football player, had put her on the map. She had tried out and made the cheerleading squad this year. Other students knew her but didn't adore her. Not like they adored head cheerleader Chelle or her best friend, Yvette, the star of the swim team.

At least they knew Patsy. Just the previous day, she could have sworn that Chelle had almost called her by her real name instead of Patty. The point was that Patsy—which definitely had an S—had her foot in the popular door. A ridiculously upscale article of clothing could tip her over, actually make her one of the It girls. They'd see her wearing it and think, "I need to know her." It could make Chelle—who always looked like she'd just stepped out of a runway show—want to be her friend rather than basically tolerating her because she was Seth's girl.

Patsy put the omelets on plates and set them on the table where her freshly showered mother joined her. Patsy took small bites and chewed slowly while her mother took large bites and barely chewed at all. Patsy grimaced as she watched how her mom still ate as if she was stealing food from a trash can. She had confessed to Patsy that she had been forced to eat this way often as a teenager, but that had stopped when she'd met Patsy's father. He had taken her out of that life and then showed Kathy how to make her own way when he wasn't around anymore.

She hadn't had to steal from garbage cans in a long time. Patsy would have thought her mom would have dropped the habit by now. It mortified Patsy. While eating at school, she worried she might look like she was starving—even if she kind of was sometimes. She did her best to maintain polite control, but would it look that way to others? The worst thing anyone could do at school was eat with abandon, to eat like her mom or . . . no, Patsy wouldn't think about her. It bothered her to think about her. Mildred. When she thought about Mildred, it made Patsy feel ill and sad at the same time. And guilty.

She pictured Mildred in the cafeteria, watched and judged by everyone while she shoved food into her mouth and dropped bits on herself. It wasn't that Patsy had a problem with Mildred. She thought Mildred was nice and they'd had so much fun together when they were younger. But everyone else at school hated Mildred. They found her weird and ugly and who was Patsy to tell them to stop feeling that way? What if she tried, only to make them start feeling the same way about her?

Kathy stood up and took her empty plate to the sink.

"Better shake a leg, chickadee," she said, "if you want to get down to the Nortons' house before Seth shows up."

Last year, when Patsy started dating Seth and had expressed embarrassment at their tiny, run-down apartment, it was her mom's idea that Patsy pretend she lived in one of the upscale houses Kathy cleaned. She knew what it was like to try to fit in. Patsy thought it was a great idea and it became a routine. When Seth pulled up in his nice new truck, Patsy would be standing over there as if she'd just seen him through her window and had rushed out, but it would be a total lie. Just like letting them all believe she was rich enough to afford half the clothes she wore. The clothes were just things her mother had given her. Her eyes wandered back to the dining chair.

"Hey, if you don't want it, I'll give it back to her," Kathy teased, obviously referring to the scarf Patsy was eyeing.

A rock sank in Patsy's gut. She hated that she wanted it, but she did.

"Maybe I'll wear it to school just once," Patsy said.

For a brief moment, she wondered what would happen if Mildred dressed nicer at school. Her family had money, they could buy her the newest trends...but would it make a difference? Hadn't people already decided to not like her? If she didn't do things like pulling down group projects with her C average work. Maybe Patsy could secretly tutor her? No, they would find out. Seth would think she was cheating and she would have to confess her true whereabouts.

What am I thinking? Helping Mildred should not be one of my priorities. If Mildred doesn't help herself, it can't be my responsibility...at least that's what Patsy told herself.

She put her leftover omelet in the fridge then went back to her room to put on makeup. She changed into clean clothes and slipped on the scarf. Guilt washed through her but quickly dissipated. The scarf felt nice wrapped around her shoulders and she looked good in it. The brown and red colors matched the tones in her hair in a complementary way.

Such a sad world we live in, she thought, where it takes beauty to get people to accept you and it takes money to make you beautiful. Where it's your wallet that makes you stand out and not your kindness. She was looking at herself and liking everything she saw but hating it at the same time. She hated how she couldn't just be liked for being her. She had tried, and her popularity never took off before she pretended to be someone else. Patsy's only friend back then had been Mildred, and she was kind. If only other people could know the real her. She had been a good friend, but now they weren't friends anymore. Patsy watched her matte red lips draw slightly downward in the mirror.

"That was a long time ago," Patsy told her mirror self.

She shouldn't think about those days. She always felt sad when she thought about Mildred. Or saw Mildred. Or heard anyone talk about Mildred—which they liked to do often. Mildred was a joke to the very people Patsy tried so hard to impress. Maybe she tried so hard because Mildred tried so little. If Patsy could do anything in the world to save herself from the treatment Mildred suffered, she would do it. If that meant wearing stolen stuff, so be it. If that meant rushing off to a house that wasn't really hers to get picked up by her boyfriend, then so be it. If it meant skipping cheese in her omelets and counting calories, or if it meant covering her real face with makeup, she would do it. So long as they never called her the horrible things they called Mildred. Patsy didn't think she would be able to stand it if they set their cruel targets on her, so she tried her hardest to make sure they never did.

Kathy drove Patsy to the Nortons' in her old dented and scratched Camaro, which might've been cool back when Kathy was a teenager and Patsy's dad was driving her around town in it. Moments after Patsy stepped out and her mom had driven up the driveway and out of sight, Seth pulled up.

"Hey, babe," he said brightly, and then he looked at her chest and frowned. "What's that?"

"It's a scarf," she said. "Don't you like it?"

"It's covering your . . . you know."

"Well, yeah." She knew what he meant. He had a one-track mind when it came to her you knows. "But isn't it nice?"

He gave her a confused look and she took it to mean that he had no idea what he was looking at or what it was worth. Others will know, she told herself.

"I spent a lot of money on it."

"Really? Cool."

That's all it took for him to accept the strange article of clothing. He would probably wear a hot-dog suit if Patsy gave it to him and told him it was made by Gucci. She fought the urge to roll her eyes and instead smiled at the thought of him running down the football field in a hot-dog suit.

"Come on."

She climbed into the passenger seat and kissed him lightly on the cheek, leaving a cute red lip print. Smiling, she flipped down the visor to look in the mirror as usual, to make sure her lipstick wasn't smudged. As the visor came down, something fell out. It flittered toward her lap and had barely landed when he snatched it quickly and tossed it out the window before he pulled away. Patsy looked after it. For just a split second, she had seen it.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Just some trash," he said.

She didn't like the way he'd shrugged when he said it, as though he was trying to be nonchalant.

"What kind of trash?"

"I don't know, just some coupons or something that Mom gave me."

He was lying. She didn't know why exactly, but she could hear the stress behind his voice. Her first thought was that it had something to do with another girl, and if she knew anything, it was to trust your first instincts. That left her with a decision: cause a fight, maybe break up, and possibly lose the status she'd worked so hard to reach so far . . . or she could say nothing and pretend like everything was fine.

She worked up a playful tone. "You're such a litterbug," she said.

She settled with the knowledge that it was suspicion, not proof. Before truly making such a decision, she should be sure that there was proof. Though the thing she'd seen that one second looked an awful lot like the red kiss mark she'd left behind on his cheek . . . except it was in a deep maroon. She'd never cared for dark lipstick.