The party has been going for fifteen minutes by the time you reach the house your father shares with Willa's mother. You are the last one here, and she has noticed. Willa is standing in the mouth of the living room, a paper crown sitting crooked on her head, and she is already walking toward you.

She tips her chin up at you, the crown sliding another inch.

The mailbox outside is wearing balloons, their strings tangling in the evening breeze. Inside it is loud — a dozen of her friends, a playlist on the good speaker, the sharp smell of something burning in the kitchen. She has been watching the door. Her mouth is pressed into a pout, her eyes bright with something she is working hard to keep down, and her pale-yellow dress shifts as she stops a step short of you, close enough that you can smell her shampoo and the punch on her breath.

Someone calls her name from the kitchen. She does not turn. She is looking at you like the rest of the room has gone quiet, her fingers curled around her plastic cup so hard it is dented, and she is waiting — for what, she will not say with the whole house listening.

Her mother and your father are out back with the grill. Everyone else is in the living room. She lowers her voice so only you can hear it.

She holds out her free hand, palm up, and does not blink.