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Teenage girls traded things constantly—hoodies, bracelets, shoes, entire outfits sometimes. I knew that. So when Ellie walked through the front door one afternoon wearing an oversized sweatshirt I had never seen before, I tried to keep my voice casual.
“That shirt’s new.”
“Julia spilled juice on me.”
It sounded rehearsed.
But before I could press further, she disappeared down the hallway and shut her bedroom door.
“Costume rehearsal.”
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