The Hoodie Girl

Chapter 1

Wren

I can't find it anywhere, and it's driving me insane.

The thing I wear most has disappeared. During the last week of summer break, I flung all the clothes out of my dresser in a frenzied attempt to find it. Ergo? I now have a room from hell.

In the midst of my search, I catch sight of my reflection in my vanity mirror. A dull ache blooms in my chest as the girl in the mirror stares back at me. For a short-lived second last fall, I thought makeup would be able to erase the dark circles under my eyes. That it would bring back the natural flush to my cheeks.

I'd tried—and failed miserably, might I add—to use said makeup. I ended up looking like I had a bad case of chicken pox. Sighing, I brush the thought aside. There are far more pressing issues right now than how I look. Like the fact that my hoodie is currently very . . . missing.

"Mom!" I yell.

Her response comes back muffled.

"Where's my hoodie?"

I'm met by a hollow silence.

"Hello-o?" I repeat.

There's another empty pause, which my mom fills with a weary sigh. A few seconds later she must figure I'm not going to let the topic go, so she mumbles a defeated, "Check the bottom drawer."

I do, and yep, there it is, nestled among things I never wear. I should've realized my mom hid the hoodie on purpose. She's always trying to find new ways to get me to open up. To people, to new experiences. Whatever that means. All I know is I'd rather stub my baby toe repeatedly than go to school without my hoodie.

"Found it," I call, grabbing my history notes. As I run downstairs in my sneakers, unfiled paper threatens to spill from the pile nestled in my hands. "I'm leaving now."

"Wren," my mother reprimands from the kitchen. "Don't forget breakfast."

I grab an apple from the counter. "Got it."

My mom's a morning person. One cup of decaf and she's good to go. Me? It takes an ungodly amount of strength to pry my eyes open before noon. The state of my hair alone would make Einstein's cut look red-carpet worthy.

A car horn pierces the air. Of course, my charming friend, Mia, has rolled up on my front lawn, crushing our flowers in the process. Poor carnations. They were just starting to bloom. Before she can slam down on her horn again, and we get a neighbor complaint about noise pollution, I call out, "I'm coming!"

As I close the door behind me and make my way to her Mustang, a warm gust of late summer air brushes my bare legs. Mia Rahman flashes me a bright smile, her incandescent eyes trailing down my frame. "Get in, loser."

Thanks to her Persian mom, Mia's perfected the kohl-lined eye. And thanks to her own acquired taste in fashion, she's never lacking in the clothing department. Today she's wearing a yellow sundress, the hem fluttering over the brown skin of her thighs. If I could paint her, I would.

Chucking my bag into the back of the car, I utter a soft RIP message to the crushed flowers. I slide into the front seat and reach for the seat belt as my friend's bottomless gaze meets my own. "It's almost like you're trying to look like a hippie, Martin."

She isn't wrong. There's this weird paint stain on my jean shorts, but it's not like someone's going to arrest me for being a fashion reject. My hoodie is oversized, but it covers me in a way that makes me feel comfortable. Safe. And most importantly? Invisible.

I love it.

"You planning to change your nun-agenda?" Mia asks. "It's senior year."

She's been trying to drag me out of my shell, and she's tried everything. School clubs, parties, double dates. You name it, Mia's tried it. I mean, sure, I've found guys attractive. On more than one occasion. But they were always either fictional or out of my league.