alone with a seventeen-year-old boy out into a foreign city famous for its permissiveness.
But this, too, was a side effect of dying: I could not run or dance or eat foods rich in nitrogen,
but in the city of freedom, I was among the most liberated of its residents.
I did indeed wear the sundress—this blue print, flowey knee-length Forever 21 thing —with tights
and Mary Janes because I liked being quite a lot shorter than him.
I went into the hilariously tiny bathroom and battled my bedhead for a while until everything looked suitably mid-2000s Natalie Portman.
At six P.M. on the dot (noon back home), there was a knock. “Hello?” I said through the door.
There was no peephole at the Hotel Filosoof. “Okay,” Augustus answered.
I could hear the cigarette in his mouth. I looked down at myself.
The sundress offered the most in the way of my rib cage and collarbone that Augustus had seen.
It wasn’t obscene or anything, but it was as close as I ever got to showing some skin.
(My mother had a motto on this front that I agreed with: “Lancasters don’t bare midriffs.”)
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