The others quickly join in, grabbing loose dresses and oversized sweaters, and soon we’re running from room to room, giggling, lending one another our clothes to block every single painting from view. The hysteria fizzes on my tongue like alcohol, and when I turn around at one point, I catch Rosie’s eye. There’s no malice in her expression. We’re both doubled over, laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation, and for the first time in a while, I don’t feel like the year level’s number one villain. I don’t feel like the perfect student either; I’m just one of them.
