“The curtains look like shit,” Silas says as all five of us stare at the room we haphazardly put together. “You think I don’t know that?” I ask. “Fuck, should I take them down?” “No,” Pacey says. “You don’t have blinds, so she’ll want curtains for privacy.” “Told you they needed to be ironed.” Posey leans against the wall, arms folded. “You are literally not allowed to say anything to me anymore.” I point at him and move out of her bedroom and into the living room, where the soil has been vacuumed by a brand-new vacuum courtesy of Pacey. Sherman has been replaced. Posey stupidly said he feels
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