The tension between irritation and affection defined the arc of our friendship that summer. I learned to read the cues: when her teasing was deflection and when it was a dare to be braver. She revealed slices of herself in unlikely ways—by doodling a careful map of an abandoned pier, by admitting, in a low voice, a home life that was less carefree than her bravado suggested. Those moments clarified that the brat wasn’t mean for its own sake; it was a jagged expression of a person who refused to be invisible.