Then 12 & 13

She tugs down on the lace at her collar. It itches worse than that one time she got a spider bite she got on the back of her knee. The one she scratched until it opened up, caking bright red blood underneath her purple-painted fingernails. The dress is not only lace-trimmed, it poufs. Ballooning out from her waist like some sort of shiny cupcake, and she hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it, but it's a big day for her daddy and this is the dress Mom left on her chair for the party.

She wanted to wear the long yellow dress. The one with the spaghetti straps. The soft and stretchy one that covered her to her ankles. The one her mom says is for colder weather and older girls, but this frilly one is for younger girls. Babies. She's almost a teenager. Almost old enough for boys, and going to the movies by herself. At least no one she knows is here to see this.

"Vera Aster, fancy meeting you here."

Except Robbie. She didn't know he was coming to the party. There aren't any other kids here. She can't decide if she's relieved to see a familiar face, or if she wishes he'd never set eyes on her in this dress.

"It's my backyard, genius."

Robbie plops himself down on the step next to her, the black of his pants making a swishing sound as it brushes her skirt. She gathers the extra material close to her legs, trying to keep some semblance of space between them.

"You didn't want to join the party?"

The party isn't really a party, it's a fundraiser, so not only is it all adults, but the food is all fancy and there's nothing to do but talk. She wishes she'd been allowed to stay in her room, or go play at a friend's house. There isn't even cake at this stupid party. What's the point?

"Ew," she says and wiggles her toes in her platform sandals. "No, thanks."

At least she'd been allowed to pick out her own shoes. The black Steve Maddens are heavy and clunky to walk in, but they're the coolest shoes she owns. Someday, she promises herself, she'll be able to pick out her own clothes. Things she wants to wear. Colorful, and fitted, and no pouf or lace or shiny satin that makes her sweat.

"So you're hiding out here?" His shoulder brushes hers and she swallows, her throat dry.

She is not hiding. It's boring inside. Suffocating. She just wants to breathe.

"I like your dress," he says, bumping into her again, and when she meets his eyes, he's grinning.

"Don't do that." She hunches her shoulders away from him.

"Do what?"

"Lie." She says, and when he frowns she adds, "This dress is hideous."

He leans his upper body back, just enough so he can run his eyes from her head to her toes. She rolls her eyes. It's dusk now. Hopefully dim enough to hide the flush painting her cheeks. The dress is awful. It's cotton candy in the form of clothes, but she doesn't actually want Robbie to agree with her. She doesn't want him to think she is hideous, too.

This is a recent development in their friendship, even if she can't pinpoint exactly when it started. When did she start caring if he liked the way she looked? Why does she care if he thinks she's pretty?

She bites down hard on her lower lip.

"You didn't pick it out, your mom did," Robbie says, turning to look out at the yard too. "But it's not that bad."

"Sure," she says, picking at one of the ruffles. He didn't say anything wrong, but there's still a sinking feeling in her gut. He said the dress wasn't ugly, he didn't say she was beautiful. He's thirteen, though, and an actual teenager. Of course he wouldn't think she's pretty when she looks like an oversized kindergartener. It doesn't stop her from wishing he would, anyway.

It's not a crush, though, this thing she has for him. She likes him, but it's not a crush. She just knows he'd be one-hundred percent honest. If he told her she was pretty, it would be because he really thought it was true.

"It looks like one of your dance costumes." This time it's his knee he knocks into hers.

She can't tell if he's touching her more than normal, or if she's just noticing each accidental point of contact. It makes her stomach flip and she frowns.

"Don't look at me like that," Robbie says. "I like watching you dance."

"You do?" She doesn't mean to ask, but now she's drowning, waiting for his answer.

It takes an eternity, his back rising and falling as he breathes in and out. A millennium as her brain turns over and over and over with the possibilities. He said yes to be nice, because she's his best friend. Her question gave it all away. He's going to know she has a something for him— not a crush, thank you—and it'll ruin everything between them. It'll be like last year all over again. This time, he'll be the one to pull away.

The yard is still as the sky turns dark purple, shadows lengthening across the grass. She'd spent hours out here the day before, pulling up weeds in the flower beds and helping spread fresh mulch. They'd trimmed each hedge that separated her house from the house next door until the tops were flat. A wall of greenery keeping the outside world out, and her in.

"You're pretty on stage."

She startles at the sound of Robbie's voice. Out in the yard, fireflies flicker. Their lights pulsing in the dark.

"You're so happy when you dance. Doing what you're meant to do." Robbie leans back in his palms, looking up at the deep blue sky. The porch light makes it too bright to see the stars, but they're out there.

"Really?" Of course her parents tell her she's a wonderful dancer. They ooh and ahh over her performances. They buy her bouquets bursting with flowers and take her into the city to watch the Rockettes at Christmas. She knows she spends more time at the studio than most other kids, and that late rehearsals often mean the family can't eat dinner together. They tell her all the time she's meant for greatness.

It's different when Robbie says it.

"Yes," he says, the simple word vibrating the very marrow of her bones. "I bet you'll be a prima ballerina someday."

Vera doesn't know about all that, but it would be fun to live in a big city and dance every day. To sit in the front row at fashion shows and have her hair and makeup done by professionals as she sips a smoothie in a fancy chair with her name on the back. She likes the idea of seeing herself in magazines. Of some little girl picking one up and seeing her there, freckles and all, and making big plans too.

"Professional dancers don't come from Kimmelwick." She shrugs. "But I could teach one day."

The sound that comes out of Robbie's mouth is something between a scoff and a grunt. He stares at her, dark browns dipped together and eyes narrowed.

"Don't talk like that." He says. "You're going to do amazing things, Vera. Someday the whole world will know your name." She shrugs. Robbie has never lied to her, not once, but she's not sure she believes him. "Can I can go pro? With hockey?"

That's a ludicrous question. He's incredible on the ice, fast and agile. He seems to know where the puck will go before it gets there. Especially when he plays with the twins.

"Of course." It's not even a question. "Someone always has to be the first."

His grin gleams in the light from the wall.

"Pot, kettle."

It's her turn to smile, even chuckle. "That's not how that phrase goes, Robbie."

He shrugs. "You know what I mean."

She does. "Fine. I'll be world famous and you'll make it to the NHL and we'll both leave this tiny little town."

He holds his hand out in front of her. "Deal."

She wants to ask if they'll make it together. If they'll always be best friends. If even when they're old and living their dreams. When he's hoisted a Stanley and she's danced on stage at Lincoln Center, that they'll still look for each other. Still support each other.

Still be Vera and Robbie.

Forever.

"Vera." They both turn toward the door and the sound of her mom's voice. "Where are you, honey? There's someone I want you to meet."

She's off the back steps like a rocket, legs pumping as she bolts for the far row of hedges. Robbie is hot on her heels. He could easily overtake her, but stays a few steps behind, letting her lead the way. She does not want to go into the party. She does not want to meet anyone. Especially in this stupid dress. She kicks off her shoes to move faster, ducking into the secret spot where the hedges thin out and Robbie slides in after her, almost running smack into her back.

"Why are we running?" He asks, cupping her elbow in his hand and turning her to face him. "I'm with you no matter what, but I do like to know what I'm up against."

They're hidden behind the layers of foliage, the noise of the party a distant hum of sound and even the light is muted back here, hazy. It reminds her of that book she borrowed from her mom's bedroom, the one with balls and high society and the very idea that being alone with a boy—or man—would mean marriage.

"I didn't want her to find me," she says, and he drops his head to hide his laugh.

"I know that." He looks up at her from under inky lashes, eyes obsidian in the dark. "Why?"

Because everyone she's met tonight has treated her like a five-year-old. They've pinched her cheeks and called her cute. She blames the dress. She blames her mother. She wanted to go to the movies with Robbie and the twins—and yes, that's a moot point now that he's standing in the hedges with her—but she would honestly rather run the mile at school than be here for another minute. And her mom will just look for her if she goes to hide in her room.

Even at twelve she knows it's ridiculous to be both bored to tears of an adult-only party, and be frustrated that they're all treating her like a child, but that's how she's feeling and she can't help it. And the collar still itches like crazy.

"I'm just…" she searches for the right words. "I'm sick of being seen as a baby, and thanks to this dumb dress, everyone is treating me like I am one."

"Well, that's dumb," Robbie says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "You're obviously not a baby. You have boobs."

He blushes bright red, and she crosses her arms over her small chest. There's nothing there to brag about, not like Jennifer Donnelly or that girl Robbie took to the eighth grade spring dance. Not that she cares, she doesn't, and it's not like she wanted to go, anyway. It was just a dumb dance in the gym, but it was another thing that reminds her she's younger than her best friend and she hates it.

"Barely." She says, "Nancy Gallagher told me I have the body of a little boy when we were in P.E. last week. She said I have no hips."

"Ignore her," Robbie says. "Everyone knows that's not how it works. Everyone is built different. You're just…"

She does not like the way he went silent there at the end. Not one little bit. If she'd been allowed to wear the yellow dress, her tiny boobs and hips would have been obvious. No one would think she was on that pageant show for toddlers. That, and the dress looked awesome with her black slides. Edgy.

"Yeah, I get it." She turns her back on him because she suspects the tingling behind her eyes means she's going to cry and she doesn't want him to see that. Her sniffle gives her away.

"I don't think you do." Robbie says.

She can feel him step up behind her. It was a warm night anyway, but now it feels like someone turned the car heater on full blast.

"You're pretty Vera. So you don't have big boobs or hips or anything like that. Who cares? Only idiots would care more about that than about who you are."

His words sound pretty, like they came right out of that book her mom loves, but that doesn't change the fact that he's only saying it because he knows her. He likes her—as a friend—and of course he wouldn't be her friend if he didn't think she was fun to be around. Especially when they became friends before anyone cared about puberty and crushes and boy-girl dances.

"You have to say that." She shrugs. "It's fine. Whatever. You don't understand. I just don't want to go back to the stupid party."

"So don't." He grips her shoulders to turn her around, their eyes colliding in the dark. "And I'm sorry I said the wrong thing. You're beautiful, and yeah, you're my best friend, but it doesn't make it less true. And," he leans in, until she can feel his words fan over her cheeks. She always thought it would be gross to have someone breathing on her like this, but Robbie smells of toothpaste and the honey roasted peanuts he likes to eat after practice. "I don't think you're a baby at all."

"You took Jenni to your dance. I hoped…" she claps a hand over her mouth, horrified that she let those words seep out. It's not that she doesn't like Jenni. She'd just assumed Robbie wasn't going to the dance. He almost never did anything like that, and he'd skipped the fall dance—although he'd had a hockey tournament that weekend, so maybe that didn't really count.

Robbie is frowning again, and he uses one hand to push his hair back out of his dark eyes.

"Of course I took her to the dance. Mallory and Jessica invited her to go with them and then bailed the day of. I felt bad she was alone and her older brother's on my team."

Right. She should have remembered that. Matthew played for the Shamrocks, too. Of course Robbie would be nice to his teammate's little sister. The same way he was nice to her on the playground all those years ago, and tonight. He was a nice guy.

And she'd just made a fool of herself over something dumb. God, maybe she really was a baby.

"Did you…" she sees his throat bob as he swallows. "Did you want me to ask you?"

She wants to tell him no, but she can't lie to him. Her gaze skitters left as she tries to come up with an answer. Any answer.

Yes.

"I didn't think…" he clears his throat, "I wasn't planning on going at all, and then I didn't think you were in to dances."

Something fizzles in her sternum. A pop like a soda bottle someone shook before cracking it open to bubble over.

"I went to the one in October." She can almost see him counting back in his mind, trying to remember the dance. "You and the twins were at that tournament in Syracuse."

"Alone?" His voice cracks on the last word.

"Annie Stein picked me up, but I danced a little with Drew Ward." Dance is a bit of a stretch. They'd stood a few feet apart with her hands on his shoulders and Drew's on her hips as they swayed side to side to some song she hadn't known the words to.

"Drew's a douche," Robbie says, "And he cheats in math."

She rolls her eyes. "You aren't even in his math class. How would you even know?"

"Vic told me." He shakes his head. "That guy is not a good guy, V. Don't go to anymore dances with him."

Technically, she hadn't gone with him at all. Her mom had dropped her and Annie off in front of the middle school and she'd seen him there. The same way she'd seen almost all the other kids in her class and most of Robbie's. She considers telling Robbie that, or informing him she won't go with Drew if he doesn't go with Jenni anymore, but she doesn't.

"Well, he was nice to me," she says, "and he didn't treat me like a baby."

"I'm nice to you. I don't treat you like a baby."

He looks so grown in his dark dress pants and sport coat and she is a whiny infant. A kindergartener, after all. She's ruining everything with her poor attitude. At this point she should send him home, or back to the party, or somewhere where she can't keep putting her foot in her mouth.

"I'll prove it," Robbie says, and his hands are on her shoulders as he searches her eyes. "I don't think you're a baby," he says and then his lips are on hers.

His mouth is soft even as he presses too hard against her. Her eyes are still open, but his are screwed shut, and she can count each of his eyelashes as he stays pressed against her.

It's awkward, and nothing like the books or movies, but it's still her first. It's still Robbie. Her stomach lurches and her brain goes dizzy, goosebumps spreading down her arms, and then his eyes pop open too and green meets brown behind the square hedges as they both wonder what happens next.