From Little Tokyo, with Love

Home , Alone at Last, Get Over Me, Leading Ladies (group), Squirt TV, Then I Walked Away

Read. Swoon. Repeat. YOUR YA ROMANCE GUIDE

2021 is the year for love. Read on for a SNEAK PEEK at some of Penguin Teen’s most exciting romance titles coming this year! Titles included

What’s Not to Love by Austin Siegemund-Broka and Emily Wibberley From Little Tokyo, With Love by Sarah Kuhn Perfectly Parvin by Olivia Abtahi Some Girls Do by Jennifer Dugan The Passing Playbook by Isaac Fitzsimons Heartbreakers and Fakers by Cameron Lund The Summer of Lost Letters by Hannah Reynolds Sunny G’s Series of Rash Decisions by Navdeep Singh Dhillon

Read. Swoon. Repeat. EMILY WIBBERLEY AUSTIN SIEGEMUND-BROKA

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First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021

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WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 4 1/8/21 12:22 PM To the Classes of 2020

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 5 1/8/21 12:22 PM One

I HOLD MY HEAD high, sitting up straight in the passenger seat of my mom’s SUV. Whatever happens, I will not vomit in the next hour. Mom eyes me suspiciously, like she’s reading my mind and formulating the questions she would for one of her witnesses. I stare forward, focusing intently on the sedan in front of us in the drop-off zone for my high school. In hopes of resolving my expression into one evincing no intes- tinal distress, I rehearse the key facts for this morning’s Shakespeare exam. Thirty-seven plays, not including works of dis- puted origin. Seventeen comedies. Ten histories. Ten tragedies. I try to picture the timeline I created listing each of them in order, which of course reminds me that I left the study guide next to the toilet in my bathroom between two and three in the morning. The thought brings on a new wave of nausea. “You sure you’re feeling okay, Alison?” Mom’s voice is wary. “You look a little off.”

* 1 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 1 1/8/21 12:22 PM I check my reflection in the window. It could definitely be worse. My glasses, which I’m only wearing because I was too sick to put in my contacts, do a commendable job of hiding the dark circles under my eyes. My skin is a little paler than usual, but nothing out of character for someone who spends most of her time indoors studying, and though I didn’t have time to wash my hair, I pulled it into a respectable if lopsided bun. Instead of wearing the cozy Harvard sweatshirt I wanted to leave the house in, I put on a lightly wrinkled button-down blouse. But my mom’s not wrong. There’s a slick sheen of sweat on my forehead, my hair, typically a shiny dirty blond, is flat and unwashed, and my sallow cheeks don’t give the strongest impression of health and well-being. “I’m fine,” I say. I’m lying. The drop-off line crawls forward. Our car doesn’t budge. I glance over and find Mom’s hand inching in my direction. Realizing what she’s doing, I reach for my seat belt. I’m too late. Mom’s hand finds my sweaty forehead. “You have a fever,” she says, sounding worried. I don’t give her the chance to finish her diagnosis. Unbuckling my seat belt, I jump out of the car. The cool morning hits my skin refreshingly, soothing the dull headache I’d been fighting to ignore. The relief is short-lived. When I grab my bag, I catch my mom’s expression. Irritation has replaced whatever motherly concern her face held. I pause, knowing not to ignore her outright. My mom is fifty-seven years old, older than every one of

* 2 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 2 1/8/21 12:22 PM my friends’ parents. Not that she acts her age. Unless she’s in court, defending multimillion-dollar corporations like she’s done for thirty years, she’s remarkably unfiltered. “We’re not doing this again,” she says sternly. “What is it this time? You have a gov exam today?” “Nope.” I fling my bag over my shoulder. In my defense, I don’t have a gov exam. I have a Shakespeare exam. In ten minutes. It’s completely different. “I feel great, and I just want to go to school like a normal person.” Despite Mom’s grimace, I pack confidence into my voice. The car behind Mom’s honks, which she ignores. “You’re a smart kid,” she says, “but I’m not convinced you understand the concept of normal.” “Like mother, like daughter,” I say with a smile, not entirely joking. It’s true she fits in on paper with my classmates’ parents. Her lucrative career, her SUV hardly three years out of the dealership, her frequent SoulCycle attendance. Having spent seventeen years with her, however, I’ve learned she’s outspoken, easygoing, and the furthest thing possible from a helicopter parent. I don’t know if it’s because she has ten years on the other moms and she’s over the whole parenting thing, or if it’s just the way she is. “Alison Sanger,” she says, leaning over the center console. “I am not picking you up in the middle of the day.” “Great,” I reply. “You won’t have to. I’m not sick.” I shut the door in one swift motion, hoping it will feel like a punctuation mark.

* 3 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 3 1/8/21 12:22 PM I immediately hear Mom rolling down the window. I wanted punctuation, and she’s given me a semicolon. “If you had your license—” “Bye, Mom,” I interrupt her, waving behind me and heading for the locker hall. I know every inch of the Fairview High School campus—every bench useful for last-minute studying, every shortcut so I’m never late to class, everywhere people hang out, which is helpful when I need to hunt them down for quotes for the newspaper. I’ve walked up the stairs leading to the locker hall hundreds of times, and I could recite the names of the teachers in every classroom just like I could Shakespeare’s seventeen comedies. It’s 6:52 in the morning, and the heavy fog coming in off the ocean hovers over everything, coating the campus in dew. Droplets cling to the needles of the pine trees outside the front gate. San Mateo is thirty minutes from San Francisco and ten from the water, and even in the first week of March we’re fending off the Northern California winter of forty- eight-degree mornings and seawater-scented clouds. It’s zero period, and right now the only people here are those like me who needed an early extra hour to fit every class they wanted into their schedule. The half-empty locker hall echoes with the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, the clang of closing locker doors, and the mumbled conversations of Monday mornings. I head directly for my locker, where I unload my physics and government books and pull the plastic bottle of Tums from my backpack. I chew and swallow down four.

* 4 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 4 1/8/21 12:22 PM There’s no way I’m letting the events of last night inter- fere with this English exam. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have gone out on a Sunday night. When Dylan invited me to sushi with her and Nick Caufman, I wanted to say no. I only went because she begged me, and because Dylan is the only person in the known universe for whom I’d forsake a few hours of important test prep. Nick had invited Dylan to dinner, and she didn’t know if she wanted the night to be a date. I was brought to third-wheel. Of course, fifteen minutes in I could feel the dinner veering decidedly into date territory. While Dylan flirted and probably played footsie under the table, I prodded my hamachi with chopsticks. Dylan and Nick shared California rolls. Three hours later, I ended up hunched over the toilet, puking my guts out. On the upside, I did plenty of studying between trips to the bathroom. I’m not the type to pull all-nighters before exams—I’m usually prepared by then, and I prefer to be well rested. While conditions weren’t ideal, I made it work. I close my locker, my stomach cramping ominously. Ignoring the pain, I head for class, rehearsing the history plays to distract myself. Henry VI. Richard III. Richard II. Whatever happens, there’s nothing I’m letting keep me from this exam. Not even explosive vomiting.

* 5 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 5 1/8/21 12:22 PM Two

THE REASON I’M NOT home recuperating is waiting outside the door when I reach English. “Hello, Sanger,” Ethan says casually. He doesn’t look up. “Molloy,” I reply. I wish there was a word worse than nemesis I could use just for Ethan. He’s an un-popped blister. The splinter in your shoe from walking on woodchips. Your printer running out of toner when you’re finishing your twenty-page final paper on the Hundred Years’ War. He’s your Kindle dying in the first hour of your flight to Boston, even though you’re pretty certain you charged it, leaving you to sit through a random in-flight movie you never wanted to see. If this was the last time I ever had to look at Ethan’s overly coiffed blond hair and obnoxiously piercing green eyes, I’d feel like the luckiest person on earth. Unfortunately, it’s not the last time. I have every class with Ethan, the regrettable effect of us both taking every

* 6 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 6 1/8/21 12:22 PM AP Fairview offers and the same electives. It’s been this way for two years. Every class, every study group, every extracurricular event. Ethan, Ethan, Ethan. I just have to endure the rest of our final semester of senior year. Then Ethan’s out of my life. Unless, of course, we both get into Harvard. It’s not a possibility I permit myself to consider. Two students from the same California public school getting into Harvard would be exceedingly rare. I’ve studied Fairview’s Harvard admissions history, and it’s rare we have even one accepted student per year. Yet another reason for me to outdo him in every way I can. I ignore the way he’s leaning casually on the wall next to the door, not glancing up, reading his phone’s screen. We stand in icy silence. Ethan is Kennedyesque via California. High cheekbones, sharp nose. He’s rolled up the sleeves of the white button-down he’s wearing under his forest green sweater, which, combined with the leather shoulder bag he uses instead of a backpack, gives him the look of a prep-school boy who’s wandered off his high-hedged campus and onto Fairview’s. I hate the effort he puts into his clothes, his hair, his everything. I hate how he does it to spite me, to show me he’s not only prepared for this test, but he had the extra time to look “good.” Not that I’m attracted to him. Ethan’s just objectively good-looking. His nearly constant stream of short-lived relationships proves his conventional desirability. I’m mature enough to admit it, although it gives me no personal pleasure to do so.

* 7 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 7 1/8/21 12:22 PM I resent the fact I’ve had to lay eyes on him this morning while he’s not even spared me a glance. It’s an upper hand, if barely. With Ethan, every loss counts. Even the infinites- imal ones. Consequently, it’s one I’m determined to rectify. “You’re going to have to work late on the paper today,” I inform the top of his head while he reads his damn phone. “Your piece on the gym funding was poorly organized, per usual.” I feel a rush of victory when finally he looks up, eyebrows furrowing. Point: Alison. His story wasn’t poorly organized, truthfully. They never are. I, however, will never forgo the chance to exert the domi- nance I hold over Ethan in the student newspaper. I’m editor in chief of the Fairview Chronicle, and Ethan’s one of our strongest reporters, not that I’d ever tell him that. Consequently he’s the writer most often assigned to exposés and complicated pieces. The one he’s preparing on the construction of Fairview’s new gym will undoubtedly be prominent in our upcoming issue, which I will be submitting for the National Student Press Club Awards at the end of the month. I want it to be perfect. “Poorly organized?” he repeats. I hear the note of protest in his voice. “Honestly, Sanger,” he drawls, “your ploys to get me to spend time with you have grown thinner and thinner.” I roll my eyes. Around us, our classmates have started to congregate. Everyone’s concentrated on flashcards or

* 8 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 8 1/8/21 12:22 PM notebooks, hoping to fit in a little cramming in the final minutes before Mr. Pham opens the door. Not Ethan and me. We’re the only ones who look calm and collected. “I wish you were a good enough writer we didn’t need hours of in-person edits. I’m the victim here. You—” I clamp my mouth shut, the retort half finished. My stomach lurches uncomfortably. Not now. He arches an eyebrow, no doubt surprised by my sudden silence. “Did—did you just nearly throw up on me?” Pocketing his phone, he smirks, his confusion fading. “Don’t you think you’re taking your revulsion act a little far?” “It’s no act,” I reply, ignoring the rising wave of nausea in me. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I just puked directly on Ethan, spattering his stupid sweater and his repugnant leather oxfords. I kind of wish I could, just to watch horror fracture the impassivity in his eyes. Except then, Mr. Pham would definitely send me home before the exam. Instead, I lean on the wall, hoping the posture projects confidence, not light-headedness. Ethan scrutinizes me. “You’re sick.” There’s no small measure of glee in his voice. “No, I’m not.” “Your skin is unusually blotchy, even for you,” he says, smiling now. “You know, Mr. Pham would let you make up the exam if you need to go home.” It’s not a well-intentioned suggestion, I know. It’s a taunt. An I win. Which he will, if I retreat to the nurse’s office now.

* 9 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 9 1/8/21 12:22 PM Ethan and I compete on every exam for the highest score. It started out informally—me peeking over his shoulder to check his grade, his intolerably smug face when he knew he’d done better. In sophomore chemistry, we made the competition official. Whoever scores worse on each exam does an unpleasant task of the winner’s choosing, whatever comes up in the newspaper or Associated Student Government, where we’re co–vice presidents. Fixing the printer in the newsroom, meeting with Principal Williams, picking up the work the student government president forgot or decided not to do. If you miss a test, you forfeit on the grounds that makeup exams offer extra time for reviewing. Hence my coming to school with food poisoning. “I’m fine,” I say firmly. “Sanger, seriously.” Ethan is faux sympathetic, enjoying every minute of this. “If you have the flu, don’t force yourself to be here. It’s okay to forfeit. Self-care is important.” I glare. Self-care? Please. I’ve had a sleep is an inadequate substitute for caffeine coffee mug since I was fourteen. Ethan’s crossing his arms, facing me. The feet separating us feel painfully insufficient for the size of his enormous ego. Pushing myself up from the wall, I match his nonchalance. “You’re pretty eager for me to concede. What, not feeling prepared this morning?” “Oh, I’m prepared.” Ethan doesn’t flinch. “Good,” I reply. The words fly out of my mouth like vomit. “I call a blitz.”

* 10 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 10 1/8/21 12:22 PM Ethan’s eyes widen. Point: Alison. “Yeah, right,” he ventures. “You won’t get ten minutes into the exam before blowing chunks.” My stomach rolls over. I swallow hard, willing the omi- nous roiling to settle. “You don’t have to accept.” Of course, Ethan not accepting would be as good as surrendering. The blitz is the most extreme twist on our competition. When either of us invokes it, the contest becomes one of speed. Whoever turns their test in first wins, regardless of score. However, since neither of us would forsake even a point of our perfect GPAs by turning in sloppy work, we both balance accuracy with the time pressure. It has a devi- ous beauty. “Nice try,” Ethan fires back. He’s no longer smiling. With the gradual crowding of our classmates, we’ve ended up closer together. Only a foot between us. “I’m calling your bluff,” he declares. “Blitz.” Right then, Mr. Pham opens his door. “You’ll find your exams facedown on your desks,” he says while everyone files in. He looks bored, and it’s not even seven. “Please have your pens and pencils ready and wait for the bell.” I push past Ethan in the doorway, not minding when my bag hits his shoulder. The room is organized with half the desks on one side of the room, facing the other half. Finding my seat, I wait while Ethan sits down in his, which is directly opposite mine. Clammy sweat coats my forehead, and I reassure myself I have nothing left to expel. Despite my vigorous mental

* 11 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 11 1/8/21 12:22 PM efforts, my stomach gurgles loudly enough for Ethan to hear. He looks straight into my eyes and winks. I vow I won’t give him the satisfaction, not of winning the blitz and definitely not of seeing me vomit in English. The bell rings.

* 12 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 12 1/8/21 12:22 PM Three

I FLY THROUGH THE multiple choice. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Ethan, tallying the number of pages he’s flipped. He has only seconds on me. I fight the discomfort in my stomach while I circle my responses, forcing myself to focus on the material. What king’s interest in the occult inspired Macbeth? I choose C) King James I. I can’t let Ethan win. Not now, not ever. Beating him has become my primary goal in high school. Three and a half years of trading top grades, and neither of us has emerged the definitive victor. I reach the essay. Despite Ethan having scribbled his first few sentences, I grin. I know this prompt. It’s one I practiced during my two a.m. toilet bowl facial. I obliterate the question, interconnecting Shakespeare’s mid-career themes with the political turmoil in his country through one concise thesis in my introduction, three perfect body paragraphs, and a thoughtful conclusion.

* 13 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 13 1/8/21 12:22 PM I burst out of my seat right before Ethan. He scowls while I walk in front of him to Pham’s desk, where I present my exam with a flourish. Pham eyes us unhappily. Ethan and I don’t exactly have beloved reputations with the teachers of Fairview. With our constant challenging questions, well-reasoned rebuttals to classmates’ points, and frequent feedback, teachers . . . kind of can’t stand us. Pham is no exception. “It’s not a race, you two,” he grumbles. “ Take the remaining twenty minutes to check over your answers.” “ That won’t be necessary.” I place my exam directly on his desk. Ethan follows. “Good test, though,” Ethan says. Mr. Pham fixes Ethan with a droll glance. “ Thank you, Mr. Molloy.” “ The question on Shakespeare’s possible Catholicism gave me pause,” Ethan continues. I turn to him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Did it?” “Seconds, Sanger.” “Sounds like they were important seconds,” I reply, feeling bile biting the back of my throat. I face Mr. Pham. “May I please go to the restroom?” I inquire calmly, knowing Ethan’s glowering behind me. Pham waves his hand, dismissing me. I don’t bother to linger for my traditional post-test gloating. Instead, I book it directly to the bathroom. I barely fumble into a stall in time to be spectacularly sick.

* 14 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 14 1/8/21 12:22 PM Four

I’M CROUCHED DOWN NEAR the toilet when I hear Dylan’s voice outside. “Alison, are you in here?” I moan incoherently. “Oh my god,” Dylan says. Her bulky Doc Martens cross the room to the door of my stall. “You’re ridiculous.” Flushing the toilet, I stand and walk to the sinks, need- ing to wash the unspeakable residue of the past ten minutes out of my mouth. Dylan waits behind me, holding my bag. She must’ve somehow collected it from Mr. Pham’s class. She doesn’t have zero period, which explains why she’s not in class, but not how she knew I was in here. Dylan hands me a paper towel, and I detect the slight- est hint of sympathy under her stern demeanor. It’s the way Dylan is, hiding her heart under her uncompromising exte- rior. Her dark hair cropped to her chin in a dramatic bob of harsh diagonals and daring curves, her baggy black T-shirts, her bold lipstick—I sometimes get the feeling they’re efforts to challenge anyone who might otherwise take one look at

* 15 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 15 1/8/21 12:22 PM her and only notice her magazine-cover beauty, her round face, porcelain skin, full lips, and supermodel height. I wipe my mouth gratefully with the paper towel. Dylan frowns under the dim halogen of the bathroom lights. “You have food poisoning, Alison,” she says, disapproval written on her face. “I’m aware, thanks,” I reply. I wash my hands in the least gunky sink of the row. Last night, I texted Dylan after I first got sick, wondering if she had the same thing. She didn’t. It was just me. Just the person with the early morning English exam. Granted, she did stay up until two, live-texting me her reactions to a Korean zombie movie in an effort to distract me. I eventually reassured her I needed to study and she could sleep. “How did you even know I was in here?” “Ethan texted me. I was on campus early getting photos for your feature on the new swim coach.” While, officially, Dylan does photography for yearbook, I enlist her whenever possible to take photos for the newspaper. I know she secretly enjoys working with me, even if she grumbles about the extra workload. “Molloy texted you?” I narrow my eyes. “Why?” Dylan pulls out her phone to read directly from it. “ ‘Take Sanger to the nurse,’ ” she says, doing her best Ethan imper- sonation, disaffected and haughty. “ ‘She’s in the English quad bathroom. I’d rather not have to watch her barf in first period.’ ” She looks up, rolling her eyes. “God, he’s bossy.” Like a dutiful best friend, Dylan shares my hatred of Ethan. Every time I’ve ranted to her about his incessant

* 16 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 16 1/8/21 12:22 PM insults and usurping moves in the newspaper or ASG, she’s listened, shook her head disapprovingly exactly when she should, and badmouthed him with enduring vengeance. I’m sure she has personal reasons to despise him—jerkish comments she’s heard him make in class, unpleasant group projects, open disparagement of her work in yearbook. But the real core of her loathing I know stems from the front-row seat she’s had to Ethan’s and my own destructive discourse. According to her, we’d both be happier if we never spoke to each other again. I don’t disagree, but I can’t just let him win, either. “Do you want me to get you a trash can from Mrs. Cordova’s room to walk to the nurse’s with?” Dylan asks. “I think it’s out of my system now. I’m going to class,” I say decisively right as the bell rings. I reach for my bag. Dylan blocks the door. “Either I call your mom now or we go to the nurse.” She issues this ultimatum like she was prepared for me to want to return to class. I eye her, weighing how serious she is. Her expression hardening, she meets my gaze. “Fine,” I say. “Let’s go to the nurse.” Dylan turns toward the door, looking pleased. I follow her into the quad, where everyone’s walking to their next class, catching up with friends, or heads down, reading their phones. It’s chaotic, the fragments of conversation and countless patterns of cross traffic, in harsh contrast to how quiet the campus was when I left English and how quiet it will be in five minutes.

* 17 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 17 1/8/21 12:22 PM I notice Ethan, his head turned in my direction. His eyes find me, and he looks smug I’m not walking toward our next period. I meet his stare for long enough he knows I know he was looking, then face forward to show him I couldn’t care less. Dylan and I walk down the cement pathway leading to the nurse’s office. “ This is your fault, by the way,” I remind her. “If you hadn’t dragged me on your date, I wouldn’t be sick.” She tosses her hair. “I’ll admit I’m somewhat to blame. Did I mention how much I appreciated you coming?” she asks, nudging my shoulder. I soften. Even if Dylan is demanding, I know she would drop everything for me, despite the cooler-than- thou version of herself she presents to everyone else. She did just two months ago during Winter Formal when the freshman class president forgot to help me with cleanup. Dylan ditched the yearbook after-party, opting to spend the rest of the night mopping and picking up trash with me. It ended up being more fun than the dance itself. “It’s fine,” I say. “How’d things go after I left?” “We kissed in his car.” Dylan pauses, pursing her lips. “I don’t know, though. It wasn’t . . .” I don’t need her to finish the sentence to know what it wasn’t. Who it wasn’t. Dylan’s ex-girlfriend Olivia dumped her unceremoniously a month ago when Dylan went to Berkeley to visit her. Olivia’s a freshman there, but they started dating when she was a senior here. I can’t say I’m not happy

* 18 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 18 1/8/21 12:22 PM they broke up. The eleven months they were together weren’t my favorite. Their relationship was intense for high school, fraught with fights and little spats, over which Dylan would inevitably be distraught. I watched her change into what Dylan imagined Olivia wanted her to be, wearing the clothes Olivia preferred, liking the bands Olivia thought were cool, hanging out with Olivia’s cultish crowd of theater friends, all of whom have stopped inviting Dylan to things since the breakup. When Olivia dumped her without explanation, Dylan was destroyed. But over the past weeks, I’ve gotten my best friend back. Last night with Nick was her first effort to move on. I’m glad she went, regardless of the food-poisoning ramifications on my day. “Not that I have a wealth of experience to draw from,” I venture, “but give it time.” Dylan’s soft smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. I know.” We reach the nurse’s office. Dylan holds open the door for me. Inside, Nurse Sharp’s working on her computer, tattoos visible thanks to the pushed-up sleeves of her white Fairview sweatshirt. Her eyes flit up from the monitor when we walk in. “Nurse Sharp,” Dylan starts, “Alison’s—” I rush to the trash can to heave into it. “Sick,” Dylan finishes. When I raise my head, Nurse Sharp’s watching me unhappily. “Sit on the table,” she instructs me. “I’m calling your parents.” I protest immediately. “Couldn’t I just—”

* 19 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 19 1/8/21 12:22 PM “No,” Nurse Sharp and Dylan say in unison. Scowling, I climb up on the exam table, the paper crinkling noisily under my palms. While Nurse Sharp takes my tem- perature, I sternly study the STD classification chart on the opposite wall. “Slight fever,” she says, “probably caused by exhaustion and a stomach virus.” “It was food poisoning,” Dylan volunteers. Then she fixes me with a look. “ Though I’m guessing the exhaustion didn’t help.” Miserable, I say nothing. Nurse Sharp shakes her head. “I swear, Miss Sanger, you don’t know how much easier my job would be if you and Mr. Molloy had the sense to stay home when sick.” I’d openly debate the recommendation if it weren’t coming from Nurse Sharp. She’s not someone to be messed with. In her thirties, she’s younger than most Fairview teachers, and she’s covered in tattoos from her years in the military, where she was a medic. Or possibly from whatever she did before—probably patching up broken bones and bullet holes for a biker gang. She’s never impressed with my hyper- competitive efforts, in particular when I volunteered to fill in for a sports photographer for the paper sophomore year, and my pursuit of an award-worthy on-field shot of the soccer game left me with a ball to the face and a broken nose. I got the photo though. Dylan grabs a tardy note from the desk. “Feel better, Alison.” She walks out the door, waving behind her.

* 20 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 20 1/8/21 12:22 PM I wait, knowing I’m a prisoner here until Nurse Sharp decides my fate. She pulls up the directory on her computer. “How angry will your mom be when I call her this time?” she asks. Even though I know it’s useless to protest, I try nonethe- less. “You could always not? I could call an Uber home.” “Nice try.” Nurse Sharp picks up her phone. Instead of dialing, she pauses, glancing up with an unreadable expression. “Did you at least beat him on whatever had you here for an entire class with food poisoning?” “Oh yeah,” I say, proud. This is why I don’t resent Nurse Sharp, despite her repeatedly sending me home and com- plaining about my “reckless disregard for my physiological well-being.” While she doesn’t condone Ethan’s and my competition, she’s definitely on my side. I don’t know if it’s because she understands how hard it is for young women to prove themselves intellectually, or if it’s just because she knows Ethan’s a dick. Nurse Sharp nods, no longer looking entirely unamused. She picks up the phone and dials what I know is my mom’s work number. We wait while it rings. It’s the first free moment I’ve had the whole morning. The weight of how punishing the past eight hours have been drops onto me hard, but it doesn’t feel smothering. It’s rewarding. The feeling of essay margins free of red ink, or the perfect interlocking of every variable in a complicated equa- tion. Even though my mom will imminently be pissed at me, even though I spent more time than I ever wanted on the

* 21 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 21 1/8/21 12:22 PM floor of a high school bathroom, even though I’m completely exhausted and could very well pass out without warning—it was worth it. Every nauseating, draining second. They were all worth it to beat Ethan. Because beating Ethan doesn’t just bring the rush of defeating my nemesis. It’s something bigger, something I value even more than Ethan’s personal injury. With every win, I’m showing myself, and everyone around me, that I’m capable of anything I set my mind to. It’s not arrogance pushing me. It’s ambition. I’m not out to defeat Ethan despite everything, despite food poisoning or the stares and eye-rolls from our classmates, out of wanting to be better than everyone else. Only better than everyone else thinks I can be. There’s a difference, one I wish the world would recognize. It’s why I’ve sometimes let this rivalry get the better of me. For every reason I have to despise Ethan, I’m grateful for the chance to prove my worth. To prove not that I am the best, but that I can be the best.

* 22 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 22 1/8/21 12:22 PM Five

MY MOM DOESN’T PICK me up. It’s worse. After fifteen minutes of me hunched over the wastebasket while Nurse Sharp patches up the knees of a freshman who had limited success jumping over a railing, my sister walks in, dressed like she just woke up. Which I’m certain she has. She’s in sweats, her Columbia crop top, and the stained purple Uggs she bought when she was a sophomore in high school. The remarkable thing is, Jamie Sanger wears disheveled well. Though obviously uncombed, her hair, dark brown with the hint of a curl mine’s never had, frames her face and falls over her shoulders perfectly. I haven’t yet gotten used to the tan and the dusting of freckles I’ve noticed on her cheeks in the months since she moved home. Besides the difference in hair color and her being twenty-six, we’re similar in our features. They’re just packaged differently, Jamie’s in couch-potato chic and mine in . . . me. A seventeen- year-old who shops exclusively at Nordstrom.

* 23 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 23 1/8/21 12:22 PM “Sorry it took so long,” she says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I was totally asleep when Mom called.” Rushing over, she places her hand on my forehead, which feels weird and unnecessary. “How are you feeling?” I slide off the table and stand out of her arm’s reach. “I’m fine.” “Jamie Sanger,” Nurse Sharp says, walking out of the sup- ply room. “Is that you?” Jamie straightens, facing Sharp with effortless enthusiasm. My sister’s probably the only person in the known universe capable of feeling genuine joy at seeing the school nurse of her alma mater at eight in the morning. I honestly don’t know where Jamie gets her endless reservoir of excitement. It’s just the way she is. “Nurse Sharp, it’s so nice to see you.” Jamie hugs Nurse Sharp, who looks surprised, if delighted. “How are you?” “I’m great when I’m not dealing with stubborn students like this one.” She nods in my direction. I pretend not to hear, resuming my examination of the STD chart. “What about you? What are you doing in town?” Jamie doesn’t wince. Her smile doesn’t falter. I’ve watched Jamie handle this question half a dozen times and yet her reaction never ceases to surprise me. “Oh, I’m back home for a bit,” she replies. “Figuring out what’s next for me.” She couldn’t sound happier. Couldn’t sound happier her college fiancé ended their engagement three months ago. Couldn’t sound happier she was let go from her dream job working in city politics in Chicago and now lives in

* 24 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 24 1/8/21 12:22 PM her parents’ house, sleeping under the same sheets she did when she was in high school. For all I know, it could be true. Everything is an opportunity to Jamie. Even failure. It’s one of many things we’ve never seen eye to eye on. “Well. Wonderful,” Nurse Sharp says. The effusive word feels out of place coming from the mouth I usually only hear issuing me gruff admonitions. “I hope you’re taking whatever time you need.” Jamie just beams. Turning to me, my sister’s expression transforms, concern filling her eyes. “Do you need help to the car?” I clench my jaw. “No. I’ve got it.” Jamie nods, sympathy undimmed. If she caught the edge in my voice, she doesn’t react. Nurse Sharp intercedes, giving me a warning look. “ Take the trash can,” she orders me. “Don’t even think about coming back until you’ve kept two meals down.” I brusquely grab the trash can, knowing Nurse Sharp will follow us into the parking lot with it if I don’t. “I’ll take care of her,” Jamie says over her shoulder as we’re walking out the door. This nearly pushes me to remind her I don’t need or want her taking care of me. While I’m eight years younger, I’m hardly Jamie’s baby sister. I haven’t been since before she went off to college. Instead, I’m the future valedictorian, the head of an extracurricular that produces hundreds of pages of publication-worthy content, the vice president of the student body—not to mention the reliable competitor

* 25 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 25 1/8/21 12:22 PM to one very pernicious nemesis. I’m capable. I don’t need babying. We walk in the direction of the parking lot. I notice Jamie studying the science hall, which is one of the newer buildings on campus, the clean concrete facade contrasting with the beige stucco of the other classrooms. “It’s weird how different the campus is,” Jamie comments, a rare note of wistfulness in her usually cheerful voice. “I hardly recognize this place.” “Yeah, a lot can change in eight years,” I reply neutrally. Jamie says nothing, and I wonder if she’s reflecting on how different Fairview is—how different I am—while she’s func- tionally exactly the same. No job. No cute one-bedroom in Chicago. No plan. I’m not scornful of Jamie. I’m not even judgmental, except in the sense of having evaluated her response to life upheaval and judged it to be extremely confusing. I remember the dinners she spent scrolling through pictures of her and her ex-fiancé on her phone, the nights she was curled on her comforter, clutching her pillow like a life preserver. I understand she’s been hurt and left with new and scary uncertainty. I just don’t understand how her response is doing exactly nothing. Passing the chain-link fence on the edge of campus, Jamie inhales deeply, like she’s relishing the sea-scented air hanging over campus. “I’m so happy I’m here for your final semester,” she says, exuberance returning. “I’ll get to be here when you go to prom, when you come home from your last

* 26 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 26 1/8/21 12:22 PM day of school, when you graduate . . . The next few months will be huge for you. I’m really happy I’ll be around to see it.” “Yeah,” I say, hiding everything I would voice if I weren’t worried I’d insult Jamie. Really though, the next few months will be no different from the months before now, with the exception of getting into Harvard in April. I’ve already done the work. I’ve applied to colleges, I’ve gotten perfect AP scores, I’ve defeated Ethan on everything from chemistry exams to Mrs. Cohen’s Greatest US President debate competition (defending Rutherford B. Hayes, no less). What remains is sitting in classes, waiting for the real world to start. Jamie just wants to relive her days here through me. Why, I have no idea. It’s just high school.

* 27 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 27 1/8/21 12:22 PM Six

I’M FINALLY READY TO admit I’m too sick for school. When we get home, I head directly upstairs, the grinding in my gut and the dull pain everywhere else pointing me toward bed. I know without checking the house is empty—my dad’s dermatology clinic keeps him until five, and my mom comes home from the firm in time for dinner. Our house is quiet, the stillness of spaciousness. So is our suburban street of cream-stuccoed homes and wide lawns. My family is fortunate, with my lawyer mother and doctor father—I know we’re privileged to live where we do, to worry about what we worry about, to afford any and every college we could want to. It’s part of why I work as hard as I do for my every goal. I don’t want to waste a single one of the many chances I have. Jamie closes the front door, the click clear and audible. I drag myself into my bedroom, where I collapse on the bed. Jamie follows, her footsteps in her Uggs padding on the

* 28 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 28 1/8/21 12:22 PM carpet. I can practically feel her watching me with concern from where she’s leaning in the doorway. Facedown on the comforter, I wait for her to leave. “Can I get you anything?” she asks. “Soup?” I groan, the sound muffled by the rumpled fabric. The idea of food is not a particularly pleasant one. “We could watch Netflix,” she suggests, undeterred. “It might distract you.” I roll over. “You don’t have to entertain me.” In reality, I’m somewhat suspicious Jamie doesn’t want to entertain me. She wants to entertain herself. I just happen to be here. I know her days probably feel long, formless, even empty—mine are just too full to add anything to. Jamie brightens. “I know,” she replies. “I want to. It’ll be fun.” “You think watching me run to the bathroom every half hour will be fun?” She rolls her eyes playfully. Walking into my room, she sits down next to me, leaning on one elbow like she’s done this hundreds of times before. “I want to spend time with you. I feel like it’s the whole point of this year for me,” she says contemplatively, looking around my room like she’s found her epiphany in the space between the comforter and the ceiling. “You know,” she continues, “we’ve never had a chance to be in the same place together. When I was a senior in high school, you were in, like, fourth grade. By the time you were a teenager, I was away at college. This feels like our opportunity to get to know each other.”

* 29 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 29 1/8/21 12:22 PM There’s her favorite word. Opportunity. I don’t resent what she’s trying to say, though. We never had a normal sisterly relationship growing up—Jamie was closer to a babysitter. I remember wondering what it was like to have siblings only a couple years older, like Dylan’s brothers. Siblings who would steal your dolls during playdates, or crank the volume up on their video games until you just had to come watch. Instead I had Jamie, whose weeknight rock concerts in the city and occasional boyfriends brought over for dinner felt endlessly distant from elementary-school me. In theory, I wouldn’t mind getting to know my sister for the first time. It’s unfair, though, to turn my life into “ The point” of her year just because she has nothing else going on. I’m not Jamie’s new project, not the job she’s giving herself, not the role she’s cast me into. I’m me. I’m busy. I’m not a replacement for the plans she once had for herself. Getting to know me would look like conversations about school and college, my workload, my goals for the newspaper. It wouldn’t look like TV on the couch when I’m already behind. “Honestly, I think I’m going to try to get ahead on homework,” I tell her. The words come with their usual combination of excitement and anxiety. I do have a ton to do. Editorial emails from writers with questions, the hockey-puck physics lab I have to double-check, the essay I’m outlining for AP gov on constitutional review . . . “Come on,” Jamie implores gently. “ Take a break. I’ll give you a pedicure.” I feel my brow furrow. Yeah, I’ve had Dylan do my nails

* 30 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 30 1/8/21 12:22 PM from time to time, before dances I’m obligated to go to for ASG and the handful of dates I’ve had over the past couple years, but they were distinctly un-busy days. Not days like today. Jamie’s watching me expectantly. I gesture to the wall of my room near the door. “I have things to do, Jamie,” I say. She doesn’t need to glance in the direction I’m pointing to know what I’m referring to. On the opposite wall of my room hangs one of my honest-to-goodness prized posses- sions. It’s a whiteboard six feet long and six feet high, every inch covered with information I need to remember. One edge holds the outline for my constitutional review essay. There’s a quadrant for newspaper deadlines, Chronicle staffers’ photo and story assignments. This month’s issue is the one we’ll submit for consideration for the prestigious NSPC Awards in every category: reporting, photography, editing, and my goal—publication of the year. The entire top half of the board is the ever-changing to-do lists I keep for the day and week. It’s a marvel of grids and connections, checklists and colored ink. Dylan said it made my room look like a classroom. I told her that was the point. Jamie gets up from my bed. I know she’s not pleased with my brush-off of the pedicure offer. She’d never show it, of course—ever the optimist—but I catch the strain in her grin, the new forcedness in her voice. “Okay,” she says. “Let me know if you change your mind.” “I will,” I promise. While I know she’s being friendly, I dislike the quiet

* 31 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 31 1/8/21 12:22 PM pressure in her efforts. I live my life like I organize my whiteboard, with carefully interconnecting lattices of responsibility and timeliness and thorough detail. With her invitations, her lightly imposing jokes, her eye rolls when I remind her how busy I am, Jamie, knowingly or unknowingly, is prying those lattices into uncertain new geometries. I hate the feeling, the expectation I’ll drop everything going on for me right now because she’s got nothing else to do. Wandering toward the door, she pauses in front of the whiteboard. “You know, slowing down wouldn’t be the worst. I studied all throughout high school, and looking back, I just think, wow, I wish I’d let up on myself sometimes. The world is so much bigger. You just don’t know it yet.” “ Thanks for the advice,” I say flatly. It’s not the first time an adult—if Jamie qualifies—has told me to slow down, enjoy high school. I don’t appreciate it. I have to conclude high school is the only time people feel free to give such intru- sive, unsolicited, condescending suggestions. As if I’m not capable of knowing what I want just because I’m young. It’s rude when people give adults unwanted advice on how they should parent, decorate their house, or load the dishwasher, but when directed to a teen it’s somehow “mentoring.” I’m not interested. Jamie closes the door on her way out, leaving me alone in my room. Finally.

* 32 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 32 1/8/21 12:22 PM Seven

I’M WOKEN UP BY knocking on my door. For a couple dis- orienting seconds I have no idea how much time has passed. I only remember getting thirty pages into the novel we’re reading in French, before le rêve and le désespoir began to run together and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Frustrated with myself, I resolve to catch up tonight. “Alison,” Jamie calls from outside the door, “your friend’s here to drop off your homework.” Peeling my face from the pool of drool on my book, I refocus. If Dylan’s here, I slept the entire school day. Like, seven hours. I’m screwed on homework. I prop myself up on my pillows, rearranging the planner and books and pens I’ve scattered across my bed. But Dylan doesn’t walk in. Ethan does. He barges in, really, inspecting the room with his usual dismissiveness. Disinterested and judgmental, he waits, like

* 33 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 33 1/8/21 12:22 PM he owns the place and every other house on the street. I sit up instantly, wondering if I’ll need the trash can next to the bed. Ethan makes me sick even when I don’t have food poisoning. “Wow,” he finally says. “You look terrible.” I scowl. I don’t need the trash can. I need something to throw. Ideally something heavy or pointy. “My head’s been inside a toilet bowl all day.” I say, pushing my hair behind one ear. It’s ineffectual, the straight brown strands falling to my face like they’re taunting me. “What’s your excuse?” His lips nearly twitch. I have the feeling he’s trying to engineer a witty reply and failing. Instead, he faces the whiteboard, where every single one of my plans and ideas is laid out for him. His eyes light up, a general in the war room of his enemy’s stronghold. “Your thesis for the gov essay is unmotivated,” he says mildly, reading from the middle of my room with his hands in his pockets. “In my opinion.” I’m going to murder Jamie for letting him up here. Gritting my teeth, I fight to keep my composure. “Why are you in my room?” I ask evenly. “Miss me that much?” “Like I’d miss a hangnail, Sanger,” he replies. “ The day was rather pleasant after you left. Unfortunately, however, numerous teachers requested I deliver you today’s assignments. Why they figured I’m the man for the job is beyond me.” I know he’s not lying. It’s no secret Ethan and I have every class together, not to mention our extracurriculars, and we’re with each other nearly every minute of the day. As

* 34 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 34 1/8/21 12:22 PM a result, everyone’s always asking us to mention or deliver things to each other. Tell Alison we need to redesign pages three and four. Remind Ethan to pick up the homecoming flyers from the printer. In fairness, it’s arguably their repayment for Ethan’s and my endless verbal warfare. Even our teachers do it, to our immense irritation. “I’m surprised you followed through,” I say. “I wouldn’t put it past you to tell them you would, then conveniently forget.” “Where’s the fun in that?” Ethan walks to the whiteboard, where he does what my family members know never to do. He picks up the eraser. “Our competition’s only amusing when I know I’ve beaten you fairly. Like I will when Harvard decisions come out.” I hate his word choice. Amusing. Like I’m a game, a novel, a menswear magazine—whatever it is Ethan chooses for fun. I don’t compete with him for his amusement. Reaching up, he erases edit Ethan’s gym story from my list with one swift swipe. I glare. I’ll rewrite it later. “You’re capable of fun?” “You have no idea.” He regards his erasing handiwork. I won’t give him the satisfaction of prying the eraser from his hands, letting him know he’s annoyed me. Instead, I do the opposite, staring coolly and crossing my arms. Eventually, he puts the eraser down and pulls a pile of papers from his bag, which he drops on my desk. “ This counts as my task for losing the blitz,” he says casually. “No way,” I reply immediately. “You’re going to the meeting with Principal Williams tomorrow.” Every month, one

* 35 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 35 1/8/21 12:22 PM representative from ASG leadership sits down with the principal and discusses funding and upcoming events over lunch. It’s everyone’s least favorite part of serving on student government. Because our president, Isabel Rodriguez, often flat-out refuses, it generally falls to Ethan or me. Whoever loses our first grade-related competition of the month, usually. I was excited to win today’s blitz for this very reason. Neither Ethan nor I have a positive relationship with the principal, and we don’t enjoy giving up a lunch period we could use for homework or other obligations. “I don’t think so,” he replies, unflinching. “ The loser doesn’t pick the task,” I point out. It’s been Ethan’s and my rule forever, since the time in sophomore year he tried to fulfill his task by holding the door to chemistry open for me. Ethan shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Well, you weren’t at school today to decide. Really is a shame you were sick.” He wears mocking sympathy like he wears his stupid sweater—poorly. I sit up straighter. “You are going to that meeting.” Sighing, Ethan picks up the packet from my desk. I narrow my eyes, watching him shuffle the papers’ edges straight in his hands. “I guess I’ll be taking your homework with me then. Since it’s not my task after all,” he says. “What happened to it’s no fun unless it’s fair?” Ethan grins. It’s never good when Ethan grins. It always, always means he’s won something. The expression brings to

* 36 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 36 1/8/21 12:22 PM mind dozens of tests he’s bested me on, points on which he’s out-debated me in US or English or gov, votes his ASG proposals have won instead of mine. It’s amazing how over- whelmingly angry it makes me, this effortless gesture of Ethan’s with the power to set my world on fire. “It’s your call,” he says. It hits me like lightning, this is exactly what he planned. The moment he’s been leading up to ever since he walked into my room. It’s why he brought my homework over in person instead of sending it over email. He’s forcing me to pick the task he prefers. He watches me expectantly from the desk, papers in hand. His hostages, I realize. I hold my hand out for them. “Get out of my room, please,” I say when he places the packet into my outstretched fingers. “Happily.” He walks to the door, where he pauses. “Feel better.” I climb off the bed and close the door behind him. Point: Ethan. Facing the whiteboard, I pick up the black felt-tip marker. I rewrite edit Ethan’s gym story where he’d erased it, then examine the board. My eyes end up where they’re usually drawn—the college checklist I’ve had since the start of junior year. It has everything: SAT schedules, the teachers who wrote recommendation letters, common app deadlines, and college essay ideas. There’s only one item not crossed out. The important one. The Harvard decision date on April 1. I applied Early Action and was deferred, which was okay because Ethan was too. I remember the feeling of opening

* 37 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 37 1/8/21 12:22 PM the decision email in the newspaper room on the Friday before winter break. The dull rushing in my ears, the weird wobble the whole world gave when my goal was pulled tem- porarily out of reach. Instead of dwelling on the feeling, I set my sights on regular decision and focused on what was important—Ethan didn’t get in, either. Once I receive my admission letter and Ethan hopefully doesn’t, I’ll finally have the gloriously Ethan-free life I’ve fantasized about for years. Of course, I have to admit the possibility we both get in. It would be the worst. We’d inevitably be on the newspaper together, undoubtedly run into each other in the freshman dining hall, and probably sit in the same lectures. Should it happen, I’ve consoled myself with the thought I’ll find plenty of non-Ethan people. I’m sure I’ll even find a more bearable rival. Right now, I just need to survive the rest of the year with the one I have.

* 38 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 38 1/8/21 12:22 PM Eight

“SERIOUSLY?” I’m eating breakfast the next morning, plain Cheerios, the only thing my stomach will withstand right now, while I work on AP calculus homework. Or I was, until my mom dropped a driver’s ed course registration paper onto the conic-section diagrams I’m solving. “Seriously,” she says. She walks past me, circling the kitchen island and reaching for the Keurig. I notice she’s especially dressed-up for work, wearing her new charcoal skirt suit instead of her usual colorful sweaters, which I’m guessing means she has an important client conference. Yet she doesn’t seem stressed in the least. “You’re signing up, or no more rides home from the newspaper at all hours. You got your learner’s permit, like, six months ago. It’s time for driver’s ed.” “I don’t have the time,” I protest. Dad walks in, holding his Nikes in one hand. He focuses

* 39 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 39 1/8/21 12:22 PM immediately on the coffeemaker, eyes bright under his thick brows. Lately, he’s been growing an awful beard, which is coming in even grayer than his heavy crop of hair. We’re on week three of the beard, despite repeated hints and eventually outright directives from me, my mom, and Jamie. “You know,” my mom says, “you don’t actually have time for half the things you do, and yet you find a way.” She closes the Keurig, piercing the plastic pod as if to put punctuation on this point. “Why are you avoiding this, baby girl?” I frown. I hate the nickname, which is a relic from when I was a kid and would come home from third grade and read Jamie’s Nancy Drew collection. “I’m not avoiding it. I’ll do it. When I have time.” “Your mother’s right,” Dad contributes. “We’re too old to be picking you up at one in the morning on production nights.” In fairness to my parents, production nights are ridiculous. The weeks we publish the newspaper, the editorial staff stays in the journalism room after school working late into the night, designing pages, placing stories and photos, editing with writers when necessary. While it’s not strictly allowed under school rules—or strictly legal—our lackadai- sical advisor, Ms. Heyward, provides the shallowest pretense of supervision, and the administration pretty much looks the other way. Regardless of production night hours, I hate how my dad’s playing the age card. Yes, my parents are closer in years to my friends’ grandparents. I just don’t like to be reminded

* 40 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 40 1/8/21 12:22 PM of how incongruous I am with the lives of people nearly in their sixties. “You should have thought of that before you had me,” I reply. It’s not like having old parents was my choice. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda,” Mom says, while the coffeemaker sputters and fills her mug. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She lifts the cup and sips hesitantly, looking up with an innocent expression. “I got pregnant with you seven years after I had your sister,” she says. “You think there was any forethought involved in your conception?” I pull a gagging face. “Could you please not reference accidental pregnancies while I’m eating? Especially when they pertain to my very existence.” Mom and Dad share a mildly disturbing look. “Greatest accident of our lives, kiddo,” Dad says. Walking over to where I’m finishing my Cheerios, he places one hand on my shoulder. I smell the familiar pine scent of his shampoo. “Right above the time I spilled soup on Harrison Ford.” I ignore him. It’s the universe’s only 100 percent proven way of deflecting his jokes. “You’d seriously leave your seventeen-year-old daughter to find her own way home from her exhausting extracurricular after midnight?” We’re fifteen minutes from school, streets I’ve never wanted to walk post- production night even though they’re empty and quiet with the safety of suburbia. “Yes,” my parents say together. I don’t know why I expected anything else. When it

* 41 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 41 1/8/21 12:22 PM comes to me, I’d characterize my parents’ parenting style as “hands-off.” Maybe they were different with Jamie. But by the time I arrived, they’d become easygoing on everything from curfews to SAT scores. They’re not unsupportive—they’ve encouraged me in every way, praised me, paid for every extracurricular and summer program I ever wanted. But because they’re older, they’re not invested in the higher-pressure behavior I’ve seen in my classmates’ parents. They’ve done it already. Now they’re just waiting to retire. “You could always depend on Jamie,” my mom adds, earn- ing a laugh from my dad. Everyone knows Jamie’s not exactly dependable. I’m sure she’s still sleeping right now. It’s like moving back into her childhood bedroom has regressed her. She sleeps until noon, watches sitcoms at all hours, and eats junk food every day. When Mom sends me to summon her downstairs for dinner, I get glimpses into her room and inevitably see empty Frappuccino cups surrounding her wastebasket and sweat- shirts and sweatpants strewn on the floor. The idea of relying on her for rides home is, to say the least, iffy. “You’re both incorrigible,” I tell my parents. “Just think,” Mom says expansively, “with your own license you could sneak out and go to a boy’s house.” Placing my dish in the sink, I frown. “I have other—” “Oh, you mean Ethan Molloy’s house,” Dad interrupts. I close my eyes, sighing. I’ve heard this bit before. Hundreds of times, I would estimate. Ever since my parents encountered Ethan when I hosted an AP Euro study group and we debated

* 42 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 42 1/8/21 12:22 PM the entire time, I haven’t heard the end of their enthusiasm for the idea of me and my rival dating. “I do mean Ethan Molloy’s house,” my mom replies, her face lighting up. “Speaking of accidental pregnancies . . .” I turn a violent shade of red. “What smart grandchildren we’d have,” my dad says, putting on exaggerated wistfulness. Grabbing my bag from the floor, I rein in the frustration in my voice. “Okay, I’ll get my license just to end this conversation.” I check the clock on my phone—6:41 . I have to be in the car in two minutes. “Now, can one of you be a real parent for a second and drive me to school?” Ignoring my parents’ victorious smiles, I head into the garage. I open the passenger door of mom’s car and sling my bag into the space under the dash, the heat in my cheeks starting to subside. Objectively, I do want my driver’s license. I don’t like having to wait for my mom to pick me up from production nights or dances or to drive me to school in the mornings. It’s just, getting my license requires giving hours I don’t have. Hours I could be re-outlining my government essay or editing Ethan’s gym story. Driver’s ed will mean staying up even later on weekends. But worse than the intrusion on my schedule, I kind of hate driving. Or rather, I hate learning how to drive. As much as I do want my license and everything that comes with it, I do not enjoy having my age and inexperience exposed to adults watching me fumble with lane changes and parallel

* 43 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 43 1/8/21 12:22 PM parking. I’m not particularly used to being so objectively bad at things every other adult around me can do easily. With my parents, it’s worse. Driving lessons expose me as the “kid” of the household. It’s not a feeling I relish, nor is it one I need reminding of. Not when I constantly feel hopelessly behind the curve of where their lives would be without me. It’s left me working to conceal my seventeen-ness wherever possible, chasing to catch up with who I should be in their nearly retirement age. Someone older. Someone independent. Because I am independent. I am mature. I just also have to wait five minutes for my mom to get in the driver’s seat and take me to school.

* 44 *

WhatsNot_9781984835864_ALL_5P_R1.indd 44 1/8/21 12:22 PM SARAH KUHN

VIKING nce upon a time, a beautiful princess Olived in the magical kingdom of Los Angeles. Always alone, she belonged to no one—and no one belonged to her. She dreamed of one day finding someone who shared her passions, a handsome prince obsessed with monstrous mythical creatures and exploring all the weirdest corners of her kingdom. Or alternately, she dreamed of kicking ass and winning the regional judo championship, which came with a really awesome trophy. Neither of these things happened, so she revealed herself to be a nure-onna (an actual monstrous mythical creature), transformed into a snake, and ate everyone’s faces off. The end. ONE 3

Never argue with the Nikkei Week Queen of Little Tokyo. Auntie Suzy gifted me with this advice when I was six, and I probably should’ve taken it to heart. But “never” sounds like a long time when you’re six, and I must have known deep down that there would be so many things I’d want to argue about. “Ugh, Rika-chan, why won’t you just stop fighting with me!” My sister Belle—the current Nikkei Week Queen of Little Tokyo—gives me an impressively regal glower. “You have the worst temper in the whole entire world.” “False,” I say, even though it’s kind of true. “I’m actually suppressing my kaiju-temper extra hard because I’m trying not to fight with you. Even though you’re the one who’s blocking my bedroom door and waving random bits of fabric in my face.” “It’s a scarf!” she retorts, flapping the floaty bit of FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE cloth she’s been trying to tie around my neck for the last five minutes. “And you need it.” “I do not need a scarf,” I retort, batting her hands away. “We live in LA—no one ever needs a scarf.” “It’s decorative,” she insists, her face screwing into that look that means I’m being a total pain the ass. I would argue—see, again with the arguing—that she’s the one being the pain in the ass, since she’s keeping me from what I actually need to do. I have to get over to the dojo, where my fellow judoka are preparing for our big martial arts demonstration today. We always put on a show at the parade that kicks off Nikkei Week, the annual festival in Los Angeles’s downtown neighborhood of Little Tokyo celebrating all things Japanese and Japanese American. I’m really trying not to deploy my temper—Auntie Och calls it “Rika-chan’s kaiju,” or giant monster, after all the Japanese creature movies she watches on “the YouTube,” holding her phone screen way too close to her face. I’d swear her tone sounds almost . . . admiring? But the truth is, my temper always gets me in trouble. It’s somehow even more monstrous than Godzilla or Mothra or any of the titans rampaging across Auntie Och’s screen, destroying entire miniature cities. It’s one of the snarling

3 SARAH KUHN beasts in the Japanese folklore stories I’ve been obsessed with since I was a kid, clawing through my blood and rattling against my rib cage, dying to escape and gobble up those who insist on provoking it. Like the guy who thought it would be funny to “pretend choke” me after I tapped out during a sparring ses- sion in judo. I was only eight, so I bit him—and almost got kicked out of the dojo over it. Or the anime-obsessed white girls who frequent my Aunties’ katsu restaurant and order me to speak to them in “an authentic Japa- nese accent.” I once dumped a full can of Coke on Queen Becky, the Ultimate White Girl Who Just, Like, Loves Asian Culture, and it felt so good—until that particular Becky’s mother started an online petition to shut down the restaurant, and Auntie Suzy wearily explained to me the need for our family to appear “respectable.” (That one . . . did not happen when I was eight, by the way. That was last week.) I don’t want to be in trouble all the time, so I try to keep my kaiju-temper leashed. But my kaiju-temper doesn’t care about what I want. Even now, I can feel it rising up, swirling through my bloodstream, tempted to bite at Belle for derailing what should be a big day for both of us simply because she hates my outfit.

4 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE

Oh yes, that’s what started this—my sister hates my outfit. “Rika.” Belle brandishes her decorative scarf again and gives me the imperious look that’s made her the benevolent but unchallenged leader of the cool kid crew at Tataki High. “Seriously. All eyes are about to be on you at this parade and that’s what you want to wear?” “All eyes are about to be on you,” I counter. “You’re temporary royalty, ruling over the glorious smog of downtown LA. I’m merely one of your subjects—” “—who just happens to be the reigning judo star of the Little Tokyo Dojo, about to kick every available ass in the Nikkei Week parade’s demonstration.” She gives me that imperious look again. “Don’t act all modest, Rika-chan, I know you’re proud of your fighty abilities.” Even though my temper’s still simmering, a burst of warmth pokes through—like a tiny sparkle of a fairy trying to distract my kaiju. She’s right, I am proud. I’m sparring in today’s centerpiece match, the crown jewel of my dojo’s demonstration. It’s a chance to be part of the parade’s magic—in a way that feels like me, rather than what my scarf-obsessed sister might want—and I can’t even pretend I’m not thrilled. “The dojo is the one place where I can be proud of my fighty abilities,” I say, giving her a half smile. “And

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I’m excited about today—for both of us.” Belle has dreamed of being crowned Nikkei Week Queen since she was old enough to say “tiara.” Every year, six Japanese American girls are chosen from the local high schools and two from the middle schools and one is crowned queen. Belle was a junior princess in sixth grade, a princess-princess the summer before our junior year, and now that we’re about to be seniors, she’s achieved her dream. And as for me . . . well, I’ve worked my ass off to ascend from Rika the Biter to the top-ranked spot in my dojo, have pretty much made it my goal ever since Auntie Suzy put me in judo in order to channel my “aggressive tendencies” into something productive. I love the precision, strategy, and control of judo—they help me tame my kaiju-temper, or at least focus it on doing something useful. “Belle-chan,” I say through gritted teeth. “My outfit will be totally covered by my judogi anyway, so what does it matter?” “You need! The! Scarf!” she insists, her voice twisting in that high-pitched way that always makes Auntie Och’s ears hurt. “Why is this scarf so important?” I snap, snatching it from her grasp and unfolding it to reveal . . . huh. It’s

6 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE a pattern, some kind of colorful embroidery forming a vague shape that kind of resembles— “Wait a minute,” I say, scrutinizing the embroidery. “Is this supposed to be Nak?” “Yes, it’s my precious puppy,” Belle says, jabbing at the embroidery with her index finger. I can now sort of see that Nak (short for “sunakku,” which means “snack” in Japanese), her tiny mutt of a dog, is embedded in some kind of pattern of interlocking swirls. “He’s my mondokoro, my crest—I designed it myself. You should wear it during your match—it will make you look so regal. And it will give you a meaningful way to represent—” “I am representing in a meaningful way,” I protest, gesturing to the ratty T-shirt I’m wearing, the one she hates so much. “This is my mondokoro.” My T-shirt bears an illustration of a nure-onna, one of my favorite monsters from Japanese folklore. She has the head of a woman and the body of a snake and bloody fangs, like she’s just indulged in a feast of tasty humans. The nure-onna is my aspirational monster—she totally eats people, but she’s cunning about it. She plots and plans before she strikes; she doesn’t let her temper sweep her away and fuck everything up. I still haven’t mastered that part yet. But while Belle

7 SARAH KUHN was dreaming about all the princess things when we were kids, I was dreaming about being the nure-onna. I bought the shirt for five dollars at Bunkado, a neighborhood gift shop that’s been around for decades and is still run by the same family that opened it when they returned home after the Japanese American incarceration of World War II. Its eclectic shelves are crammed with stationery and teapots and vintage Japanese vinyl—and this amazing T-shirt, which was the only one of its kind. The saleslady gave me a major discount because she could tell I just had to have it. I thought wearing this nure-onna shirt would show off my Little Tokyo pride. Totally appropriate for the parade. I’ve completed my look with roomy basketball shorts (excellent ventilation to keep me cool in the blazing late-August heat) and gold Adidas that are waiting for me by the door (kinda royal in their own way, no?). I can tell from Belle’s expression that she’s not really seeing the crest-like power of the nure-onna, though. “Listen,” she says, rolling her eyes, “wearing this scarf is kind of the least you can do, since you straight-up refused to be in my court—” “Oh—oh no!” I sputter. “I should have known: this is about princess shit!” “Everything is about princess shit!” Belle explodes.

8 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE

“And every girl wants to be in the Nikkei Week court. The fact that you spat on that honor—even though you could have performed princess duties in addition to your judo demo—is . . . just . . .” She shakes her head, like she’s a robot short-circuiting. “I’m not princess material,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at her. “We all know this.” “But you could be,” Belle retorts—and now she’s back to waving the scarf around. “If you would just be open to letting me do you up, like Cinderella—” “Cinderella’s stepsisters cut off their toes to fit into the glass slipper,” I fire back. “That’s the real story—not exactly happily ever after.” “Do. Not,” Belle says, thwacking me on the arm with her scarf. “Cinderella’s my main bitch.” I release a long breath, trying to shove down my temper—which is now slamming itself against my breast- bone, wanting more than anything to get out. It’s not that I want Belle to give up on her fairy tales, with their sanitized happy endings. It’s just that I want her to open up to my version of fairy tales, my melan- choly stories from Japanese folklore. Where the endings are often bittersweet—emphasis on the “bitter.” Where it’s possible for, say, a girl with a dead mom and a dead- beat dad to triumph somehow, even if it means casting

9 SARAH KUHN aside idealized notions of love and turning into a monster. The nure-onna, after all, always gets a certain kind of happy ending—really, the only kind I can see for myself. Solitary yet satisfied. Fighty abilities top-notch. No prince in sight. You’d think Belle would be open to all that after her umpteenth overly dramatic relationship imploded because the girl or guy she thought she was crushing on simply couldn’t execute an Instagram-worthy promposal. “Why are you guys yelling?” Rory, our twelve-year- old sister, stomps into Belle’s room. I’ve never seen someone stomp quite like Rory, who walks everywhere like she’s trying to shake the ground. She insists this is her natural gait—all the more impressive when you consider her minuscule frame. “I can hear you all the way down the hall,” she continues, cannonballing herself onto my bed. She lands with a whump. “Ugh, you can hear everything in this apartment,” Belle says, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Why bother having walls at all?” “Rika, what are you wearing?” Rory sits up in bed, her cute little eyebrows drawing together. “See!” Belle whirls around, her bright pink fingernails whipping toward Rory. “Rory thinks you should dress up more, too.”

10 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE

“Rory didn’t actually offer an opinion, just a question,” I retort. “Rory thinks the outfit is bad,” Rory says. “Opinion given, no questions.” “Thanks for nothing, Aurora,” I say, calling her by the full name that only gets dragged out when she’s in trouble or when people feel like being overly proper. Sometimes I can count on her to form an alliance with me against Belle. As a math genius who hasn’t felt chal- lenged by the curriculum since kindergarten, Rory tends to be more practical-minded. “You should look like a princess, too,” Rory says. “To match us.” Oh, right. Even with the genius-based practicality, Rory still buys into that princess shit—she’s a junior princess in Belle’s court. Whenever she and Belle form their own alliance (#TeamPrincess), I get a little twinge that reminds me they’re technically not my sisters— they’re my cousins. Peas in a pod who were named after actual Disney princesses. I’m always supposed to match them, not the other way around. Even though they’re built differently—Belle is all generous curves to Rory’s spindly limbs—they both have the same perfectly straight manes of black hair and flashing dark eyes, the same flawless creamy skin, the same cute

11 SARAH KUHN little round noses. When they stand next to each other, the effect is almost comical: as if Belle has somehow mani- fested a smaller, more serious-faced version of herself. I, meanwhile, have always looked like the outcast cousin—so much so that Belle’s and my teacher on the first day of second grade asked Auntie Suzy if she was “sure” we were both hers, giving me the suspicious side- eye, like I was trying to con my way into going home with people I didn’t belong to. “She’s half!” Belle had declared, stomping her foot at the teacher as if that settled it. “And we claim her as a whole Asian!” I have wavy, tangled hair a few shades lighter than the rest of my family—sometimes picking up brassy glints of red in the sun. And smatterings of freckles in various places, including across my wider bump of a nose. I do look Japanese (especially to all those Beckys who want to hear my accent, I guess), but it’s in that way where, as I accidentally overheard the confused second-grade teacher say later, “You can tell there’s . . . something else going on.” When we were younger and less aware of stuff, Belle dubbed me “Asian Lite.” We both thought this was funny until Auntie Suzy wearily informed us that it was not. Auntie Suzy is Belle and Rory’s actual mom, and she

12 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE took me in after my mother—her sister—died in childbirth and my “white devil” father took off for who knows where. Belle was still a baby when all this happened, only six months older than me. To this day, the murmurs still run through Little Tokyo. How Auntie Suzy did her Good Asian Duty by taking care of family. How my mother was such a tragedy, she’d had such potential before she got pregnant at fifteen—so beautiful and charismatic, able to charm the pants off of anyone she met with a smile. How it must be tough on the remaining Rakuyamas since I look so . . . different. There’s always that weird pause before “different,” as if the greater community of gossiping Little Tokyo Aunties and Uncles are carefully assessing my appearance, clocking all the ways I look . . . well, Asian Lite. Some of them simply refer to me as “a mistake.” I’m not sure which is worse. I refuse to buy into their Tragic Hafu narrative. But that’s another reason I don’t want to be a princess— because I’d definitely be the worst princess ever, and I don’t need to stand out even more than I already do by being that bad at something. I know some of those gossip- mongers would have no trouble gossiping extra loud from the sidelines, vocalizing the thing that’s always dancing around the back of my head:

13 SARAH KUHN

What’s she doing here? I’m good—no, excellent—at judo. Sparring is one of the only times I don’t feel like some kind of weirdo, bad- tempered Asian Lite mistake, trying to go home with families I don’t belong to. It clears my mind and settles my restless body, and I can connect to the pure magic of Little Tokyo that I love so much. In other words, the only time I feel truly at home is when I’m fighting something. And if I push myself to be outstanding today . . . I mean, my judo teacher, Sensei Mary, told me there will be a UCLA scout in attendance, assessing our perfor- mances for scholarships. I dream of ascending the college ranks, kicking ass on the competitive circuit, maybe even helping Sensei Mary run the dojo one day. Basically, this is my ideal future as the nure-onna, defeating all enemies who stand in my way and eventually settling into a life where my fighty- ness is an asset. And if I can do the community proud, maybe the gossip, the whispers, the lingering stares will . . . stop. Maybe I’ll finally feel like I belong here, to this place that flows through my blood as naturally as the sizzle of my temper. “So, who do you think the grand marshal will be at

14 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE the parade?” Rory says, snapping me back to the present. “And why is it always such a big secret?” “It’s for the drama, Rory, they do a big reveal every year,” Belle says, rolling her eyes. “But honestly it’s probably some boring old person we’ve never heard of— as usual.” “I have to go,” I say, suddenly realizing my door is now unblocked and I can continue on my quest to the dojo. “Wait!” Belle protests as I dart toward my exit. “I’ll wear it like this!” I shout over my shoulder, hastily using Belle’s scarf to tie up my unruly hair. “Rika-chan!” I let out a yelp and jump back as my bedroom doorway is blocked yet again, this time by Auntie Suzy. She’s swaddled in an old yukata with a fading sakura print and Adidas slides with socks, and she looks like this day has already exhausted her, even though it’s barely nine a.m. Nak scampers around her feet, tail wagging. “Rika-chan,” Auntie Suzy repeats in a way that’s probably meant to be admonishing but is, as usual, too absentminded. She reminds me of a kindly witch who can’t remember what spell she’s supposed to cast. “Are you girls fighting already?” Her gaze lands on me, and her nose crinkles. “And what is that . . . shirt?”

15 SARAH KUHN

Nak gives me a scolding look, as if to agree with her, and trots over to Belle. Okay, so everyone in this family disapproves of my amazing T-shirt. Even the dog. “It’s a nure-onna,” I say. “A Japanese fairy creature who morphs into a half snake and seeks revenge on those who have done her wrong—” “Mmm, why can’t you like the nice fairy tales?” Auntie Suzy shakes her head. “Fairy tales aren’t nice,” I mutter, twisting the hem of my shirt. Stubbornly, all of them being so against it makes me want to wear the shirt even more. “Anyway,” I say, edging my way toward the bedroom doorway again, “I really need to get down to the dojo and warm up because—” “No.” Auntie Suzy’s voice is sudden and firm—a marked contrast to her usual dreamy cadence. “What?” I stop cold in my tracks, unsure that I’ve heard right. Auntie Suzy deflates a little. “I’m sorry, Rika-chan, but you can’t participate in the demonstration today. I need you to work at the restaurant—we’re having a much bigger crowd than usual.” “What?” I shake my head, confused. My Aunties’ restaurant, Katsu That, is located right below our apart-

16 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE ment, and their claim to fame is they will katsu literally any foodstuff. The whole family works regular shifts there, but I’d specifically asked for today off. “I’ve been training for this all year. I mean, really for most of my life, considering how long I’ve been in judo.” My voice is already rising, my face flushing, my temper bubbling to the surface. “I’m sorry, Rika-chan,” Auntie Suzy says again, but now my kaiju is roaring, threatening to consume my entire body, and I have to make her understand. “I finally made the number one spot this year—do you know how hard that was?” I say, struggling—and mostly failing—to keep my tone even. “Natalie Ito and I have gone back and forth since we were nine, and she is a legit beast at sparring—she beat me out three times in a row for the regional championship, remember? But I finally did it, I beat her enough times in class, and now I get to lead warm-ups and be in the centerpiece match, and I can finally—” My voice catches, hot tears filling my eyes. I can finally show everyone I belong here. Auntie Suzy cocks her head at me, something I can’t recognize passing over her face. “Rika,” she says slowly, “why must you make everything so difficult?”

17 SARAH KUHN

Really, her weary tone is one of the most infuriating things. How can she be so unbothered, so dismissive of something so important to me? “You wouldn’t be doing this if I were a princess like Belle and Rory!” I blurt out. “Technically I’m the queen,” Belle murmurs. “Because that’s important, right?” I bulldoze on, ignoring her. “You get why that’s important, them wearing fancy dresses and waving to the crowd, but when it’s something that’s important to me—” “Your sisters are performing a service to the community,” Auntie Suzy interrupts, her tone still flat. “You had your chance to do that, too, and you chose not to— so now you can be of service to your family—” “I’m barely part of this family!” I spit out, my temper exploding. My face feels like it’s on fire, and the tears are starting to run down my cheeks, and I’m just . . . so . . . frustrated. “None of you will even try to understand why I like my monster-woman shirt and why I don’t want to be a princess, and by the way, part of this isn’t just about my resistance to all things princess—I also don’t want to deal with Uncle Taki death-glaring at me from the sidelines because he thinks only ‘pure Japanese’ girls should be Nikkei Week Princesses, and—” “Ma Suzy.” Belle’s voice is soft and placating. I can

18 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE feel her sidling up to me, gently adjusting the scarf in my hair. I also feel Rory’s hand take mine. “Rika is the best at the dojo. She’s earned the chance to show everyone how good she is, right?” I swallow hard and look at the floor, trying to shove the temper back down. But it doesn’t want to go. When it’s like this, it feels like it has nowhere to go. It’s a blaze consuming my body, obliterating everything else. “I’m sorry,” Auntie Suzy says again—and now she really does look sorry, that sadness she always has about her brimming to the surface. “Your family needs you in the restaurant, Rika-chan.” Then she turns and shuffles out of the room. I feel Rory squeezing my hand, Belle messing with my hair. I love them and I know they mean well—but it feels like they’re trying to soothe something that can never be soothed, to slap a coating of princess over the messy remnants of my snarling monster. I feel the distance growing between us—and there’s that twinge again. The one that says no matter what, I will never belong here. And I will never belong to my family as fully as they belong to each other.

19 TWO 3

I escape to the closest thing I can find to a comforting dark corner—the floor of Auntie Suzy’s dusty walk-in closet. The closet is the only room in our apartment that feels big, even though it’s stuffed to the brim with Auntie Suzy’s collection of vintage dresses and kimono. As the story goes, Auntie Och—Auntie Suzy’s wife—used her handyperson skills to knock down a wall between two smaller closets and make one giant one, back when they first got married and spent all their time being hopelessly in love. Sitting on the cool floorboards, shrouded in a rainbow of crammed-together patterns and colors, you can almost feel the soft sweetness Auntie Suzy used to pos- sess, before she was just tired all the time. Also before she was so into crushing the dreams of her only niece. I take a deep breath and worry the silky hem of a bright orange yukata between my fingers, trying to get FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE my temper under control. I glance over at the mirror hanging on the closet’s door, nearly hidden by all the kimono. Whenever I look in the mirror, I see the nure- onna staring back at me: bloody fangs, flashing red eyes, unadulterated rage. Ready to take down her enemies. I find it comforting, to be honest. It tells me the armor I’ve worked so hard to build up is firmly in place. That I can get through anything. Although I don’t quite feel like that right now. I should be getting ready for my newly acquired shift at the restaurant, but my mind is stuck on the dojo, working furiously to figure out how I can still do the demonstration at the parade. I love the parade, because it’s the one day a year when all the magic bubbling under the surface of Little Tokyo comes out to play, amplified by the wonderstruck crowd of locals and tourists. The cavalcade of bright colors is more vibrant, the creepy hidden-away nooks and crannies are even darker, and the juxtapositions of things that shouldn’t go together are just more. That crumbling, overstuffed souvenir shop crammed next to the modern swoop of the most elegant hotel in the city looks even more beautifully improbable. The blazing sun shines even brighter, illuminating the crimson and ivory lanterns strung through the air and making for a cheery

21 SARAH KUHN facade—but that facade gives way to shadows lurking in grubby alleyways and abandoned warehouses. Those soft, comforting shadows are what I sink into when I feel my legendary temper flaring. It was at the dojo where I found the shadows. It happened the day I finally beat Natalie Ito for the very first time, when we were both nine. She usually won every single match, but that day, I somehow managed to get her into a kata-gatame hold and willed myself to stay put, staring resolutely at one of the shadowy spots where Sen- sei Mary always forgets to clean, little pockets of space populated by spiders and dust and wilting, discarded hand-wraps. These corners seem in direct contrast to the rest of the dojo, with its big, bright open space, its soft mats to catch your falls, its high ceiling with skylights that soften the relentless Little Tokyo sun. It’s that juxta- position of things that shouldn’t go together but do. That characteristic that defines so much of the neighborhood. Those dark corners are my favorite. As a kid, they always seemed to me like doors to other worlds. I always thought that maybe if I stared hard enough at one of the dark corners, the nure-onna would emerge. She’d kick ass at judo. My discovery inspired me to search out other magi-

22 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE cal dark corners in Little Tokyo. Whenever I felt my kaiju-temper flaring, I’d find one—I’d go hide under the biggest tree in the garden behind the community center or retreat to the back of Uncle Hikaru’s ancient mochi shop on First. I’d crouch among the wild assemblages of plants and flowers or the unwieldy stacks of packaged mochi and dusty snack boxes and random trinkets. And I’d read one of my Japanese monster books until I felt better. Slowly, I’d be soothed and held by the shadows. I’d feel like I was home. I sometimes wonder if my mother was like me, gravi- tating away from #TeamPrincess and toward tales of monstrous snake-women and hopelessly sad endings. Sometimes the whispers about me drift to the mysterious nature of her death. How there was no funeral, even—it was like she simply ceased to exist. Vanished into the ether. Some say it’s because Auntie Suzy was ashamed, but I don’t see how that could be. Auntie Suzy seems too exhausted and dreamy for that kind of shame—I think she was just sad. And still is, to some degree. Whenever I try to talk to her about my mother, she says the same stuff everyone says about how beautiful and charming Mom was, then changes the subject or finds some chore for me to do.

23 SARAH KUHN

So I guess I’ll never know. I freeze in place as the closet door creaks open and light spills in, startling me from my thoughts. I try to make myself smaller, huddling more fully underneath the canopy of kimono. A pair of feet wearing mismatched socks—one has a stripy pattern, the other is covered in bright yellow cartoon Minions—shuffles in my direction. “Rika-chan!” a voice bellows, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I should have known I couldn’t hide from her. “Down here, Auntie Och,” I call out. She kneels and moves the orange yukata out of the way, her stern face sizing me up. Auntie Och has the same incredible mane of jet-black hair as Auntie Suzy—but hers is starting to streak with white. Which just makes her more formidable. “Almost time for the parade, ne?” she barks at me. Auntie Och can never seem to manage less than a bark. “What you doing down here?” “I . . . um . . .” “I need a kimono,” she says abruptly, her gaze turning to the orange yukata. “I’m going to drive Belle and Rory through the parade in my Mustang.” “Oh . . . cool,” I manage. Every member of the Nikkei Week court has to come up with their own mode

24 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE of parade transportation—there’s no central float. So it’s usually some kind of family car where you can put the top down and wave to the crowd. Auntie Och has had her Mustang convertible since she was a teenager. Apparently she was quite the hell-raiser, back when she and Auntie Suzy met as princesses in the Nikkei Week court and Auntie Suzy fell for her rebellious charms. Auntie Suzy was eventually crowned queen—which is probably why she’s always told me to “never argue with the Nikkei Week Queen of Little Tokyo.” She was basically telling me not to argue with her. I guess we can see how that worked out. “Suzy always liked this one,” Auntie Och says, rising to her feet and freeing the orange yukata from its hanger. “It was a special-occasion yukata, only for Nik- kei Week.” Her harsh features soften as she gazes at the yukata, lost in memories. I’m also suddenly fixated on the yukata, but for different reasons. Because my overactive brain has finally worked out a way I can still do the judo demo and . . . I gnaw on my lower lip. Wait, is this ridiculous? Or . . . The pretty blue-and- yellow flower pattern cascad- ing over the yukata’s voluminous sleeves shimmers, as if encouraging me. “Auntie Och,” I exclaim, scrambling to my feet

25 SARAH KUHN before I lose my nerve. “What if I drive the Mustang in the parade?” Her bushy black eyebrows draw together. “I thought you were supposed to work in the restaurant with Suzy.” “I . . . I am,” I say. “But Auntie Suzy said something about me turning down the honor of being a princess, and . . . and it really got to me! I want to be in the parade with my sisters. All princess-y and stuff.” I give her what I hope passes for a winning smile. Her bushy brows are still drawn together, suspicious. I don’t think she believes one single word I’ve said. But then one of her brows quirks upward, trans- forming her expression to thoughtful. “I would rather work in the restaurant than deal with driving in front of the Watanabes’ flower-shop float,” she muses. “George Watanabe, he always yell at me for braking too fast. Even though I am a much better driver than him.” She hems and haws for a few moments, then nods decisively. “Hai. Okay. You drive the Mustang. I’ll tell Suzy.” “Can you not tell her, actually? I mean. Not right away,” I say quickly. “I want it to be a, um, surprise. Since she wanted me to be a princess so bad.” “Mmm.” Auntie Och nods—but looks suspicious

26 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE again. She thrusts the orange yukata at me. “Wear this.” “Oh, but I’m already . . .” I gesture to my nure-onna T-shirt, anticipating how freaking hot and uncomfortable the yukata will be. But Auntie Och shoves the yukata at me more insis- tently. “You will wear,” she says in that way that’s definitely an order. “You want to be princess now, ne?” I guess . . . I do? Even though I don’t plan on being a princess for long. I take the yukata with a smile, the kind I imagine the nure-onna flashing right before she strikes the killing blow.

I emerge from our building to blazing heat. It’s only nine thirty, but the sun is unrelenting. Downtown—and Little Tokyo in particular—is always hotter than most of LA thanks to the rays bouncing off all the tall, reflective buildings of the business district and baking the sidewalks. During the summer, the air seems to shimmer, casting a magical, muggy haze over everything. There’s nothing magical about the sweat patches already forming at the small of my back and under my arms, however. Even though it’s a lighter cotton mate-

27 SARAH KUHN rial than some kimono, the yukata is still an excess of fabric for this weather. Auntie Och finished it off with a giant purple obi around my waist, and I already know the stiff, clunky bow affixed to the back will shove me forward in the driver’s seat, adding about a thousand degrees of difficulty to my task. Luckily, I managed to escape before she popped geta on my feet, which would have made driving near impossible. My gold Adidas aren’t quite covered by the yukata’s length, but they’ll be hidden by, you know, the entire car. I asked Auntie Och to send Belle and Rory out once they’re finished assembling their royal looks—but also asked her not to tell them I’m their new driver. I don’t want to risk one of them letting it slip to Auntie Suzy. The minutes before the parade starts are the only time this neighborhood is ever quiet. The charmingly cramped assortment of ramen shops, mochi emporiums, and that one slightly illicit-looking place that sells boot- leg DVDs of martial arts movies and disintegrating old kimono are all closed for the parade. The neon chop suey sign that’s been a fixture for decades and usually casts a wild rainbow glow over First Street is dimmed. And the temple across the street is deserted, silent, and a touch eerie—lending credence to the rumors that it’s totally haunted.

28 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE

It feels like the whole street is taking a nap. When it’s quiet like this, the shadows become more prominent, and I can truly sink into them. It’s like that underbelly of Little Tokyo I love so much is singing to me. My phone buzzes, and I do the clumsy dance of exhuming it from the yukata’s cavernous pocket. This will be a fun game I get to play for the rest of the day. It’s a text from my judo buddy Eliza Hirahara (who is my third best friend after Belle and Rory, mostly because Belle and Rory would riot if I referred to anyone else as my best friend). She wants to know why I’m not at the dojo, getting ready for the demonstration. Eliza joined the dojo when we were both seven, and she’s my exact opposite—quiet and calm, as even-keeled as they come. We were destined to become either mortal enemies or inseparable. We’ve gone the latter route, especially after my whole biting incident. None of the other kids wanted to spar with Rika the Biter, and some of their parents even demanded I be kicked out of the dojo. I’d resigned myself to staring resolutely down at the mat as my cheeks heated with humiliation while the other kids paired up, leaving me all alone. Until the day Eliza toddled up to me and extended a hand. She was so sweet, so kind. And she still maintains to

29 SARAH KUHN this day that she hadn’t done that because she felt sorry for me. “It was because you were so good, I didn’t care what anyone else said,” she always says, warm brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “I wanted a worthy opponent—not like Craig Shimizu, who cheats his way through.” It’s probably a half lie, but I love her for it. And once I had a regular sparring partner, other kids started wanting to spar with me again, too. Which helped me get started in my quest to work my way to the top. Eliza’s also excited about the UCLA scout today— we’ve been practicing extra hard the past few weeks, hoping we can both kill it and land matching scholarships and show Sensei Mary that all her hard work has paid off. She’s been training us since we were tiny, and she’s made sure the dojo feels like a second home to us. She’s the one who’s kept me from getting kicked out, even when other parents protested my Rika the Biter moments, even when my kaiju-temper got the better of me. I text back that I have to join the judo crew mid- parade, and I’ll explain everything later. Then I shove the phone back in my pocket. I try to breathe deeply, to relax into the hazy heat.

30 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE

Unfortunately, the sweaty patch has spread up my back and down my sides, and the yukata is clinging to me in a way that’s about as far from relaxing as you can get. I reach behind me, trying to scratch a spot that’s becoming unbearably itchy. My hand is instantly blocked by the obi, which I’ve decided is pretty much my nemesis. I let out a sputter of indignation, my gaze going to the other side of the street, where Auntie Och’s convertible is parked. The convertible is also supposed to be relaxing, preparing for its big moment in the spotlight. But instead . . . I frown. There’s some . . . guy hovering around the car, running his fingertips along the hood. A baseball cap obscures his face. We’re the only two people on this supposed-to- be-napping street. What the hell is he doing? “Hey!” I bellow before I can stop myself. I gather my yukata in my sweaty hands and race across the street, once again thankful that I managed to preserve the Adi- das portion of my outfit. My voice is a strange, sharp note puncturing the soupy air. The guy’s head snaps up, and he jumps back from the car like he’s been caught doing something illicit. I mean, maybe he is doing something illicit—maybe

31 SARAH KUHN he’s a saboteur from another Nikkei Week Princess’s camp, angry that Belle landed the queen title. Am I about to nab a would-be vandal? Will I be the savior of the Nikkei Week parade? I try to imagine myself being feted, surrounded by Japanese American dignitaries and Asian celebrities, smiling as they clap for my heroic feat. Somehow that just isn’t right, the picture won’t cohere— “Yaaaaaaargh!” I’ve gotten so wrapped up in my fevered imagin- ings that my yukata slips out of my sweaty hands, and before I realize what’s happening, I’m tripping over the hem and crashing headfirst into the possible vandal. I’m not sure who makes that bullhorn-like sound of distress. Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe both of us at the same time. We crash into the lava-hot concrete of the street in a tangled heap. He ends up on the bottom, so he bears the brunt of it, letting out a hearty “oof” as we hit the ground. “I . . . sorry,” I manage, trying to pull myself up. My hands are on his shoulders, attempting to avoid the blazing concrete. His hands have clamped onto my hips. His hat’s gone flying and I finally get a good look at this possible

32 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE vandal, who I have just apologized to for some reason. He looks like he’s about my age. His shiny black hair is doing that K-pop/J-pop thing, playfully mussed in a way that has to be on purpose, perfectly complementing his golden-brown skin. Sharp cheekbones contrast with dark eyes that hint at mischief—although they’re currently overtaken by consternation. “I mean . . . sorry for knocking you over, but not sorry for foiling your attempts at vandalism,” I amend, trying to give him a stern look. I feel totally undercut by our awkward position and the fact that the yukata has decided to tangle itself around both of our legs, making it impossible for me to pull away from him. “Vandalism?” He gives me an incredulous look. “What, why? I didn’t even touch the car!” “But you were planning on it?” “Shouldn’t I be asking why you just crashed into me out of nowhere?” he retorts. He scans my face like he’s looking for signs of malfeasance. “Are you some kind of Little Tokyo Citizens Patrol?” “I could be,” I say, trying to straighten up again. Any movement I make only seems to entangle me in my yukata/his legs further. “I could totally be on patrol.” For some reason, that makes his face relax a little,

33 SARAH KUHN a bit of that mischief sparking in his eyes. “Well, then, Officer,” he says, “I’ll confess: I wasn’t vandalizing, I was appreciating.” “Oh?” I find myself scrutinizing his features further. He’s a little too cute—the kind of cute that knows he’s cute and uses it to his advantage whenever the opportunity presents itself. There’s also something oddly familiar about his face, but I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe he’s one of Belle’s vast, interconnected crowd of cool kids. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s a ’66 Mustang, right? You don’t see a lot of those in such good condition.” “It’s my Auntie’s,” I say. “She was wild when she was younger, but we all know if we get a scratch on it, we’ll pretty much be murdered.” He lets out a surprised laugh, deep and rich—it’s not the laugh I would expect from someone so focused on his own cuteness. It’s too unguarded, too full throttle in its joy. He’s on the verge of a snort, even. That laugh reverberates through my body. I mean, it’s kind of impossible for it not to—we’re still pressed together, tangled in my yukata. I suddenly feel even warmer than I did before, the sweat gathering at the base of my neck and behind my knees and other places I didn’t even know you could sweat.

34 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE

“Um, anyway,” I mutter. My face flushes as I yank my yukata free and scramble to my feet, silently thanking Auntie Och for tying the obi so tight. It’s basically glued to my waist, and that’s saving me from flashing the empty streets of Little Tokyo and this person who is apparently not a vandal. Belatedly, I remember he’s still on the ground and offer him my hand. He quirks an eyebrow and gives me an amused look. I stiffen. “I’ve laid out guys twice your size in judo,” I blurt out. God. Why am I blurting so many random and oddly defensive factoids to this too-cute- for- his- own- good stranger? “I’m not smiling because I think you’re incapable of helping me up,” he says, his grin widening. “I’m smiling because you look so—” He gestures to my ensemble. “I look so what?” I say, my face flushing further. “Never mind,” he says, his smile getting so big, it’s absolutely infuriating. He takes my hand but doesn’t really put any weight on it, leaping to his feet with catlike grace. His long limbs, ribboned with lean muscle, look dancer-y. “I just . . . I like your outfit,” he says, gesturing to my yukata. “Pretty unusual for an officer of the law.”

35 SARAH KUHN

“Not my regular day wear, really,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “You know that was a compliment, right?” He gives me an easy half grin. I can’t help but think everything is easy for him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Belle and Rory emerging from our building. Shit. I need to send this Apparently Not a Vandal on his way before Belle starts crafting our fairy-tale happy ending. “I don’t have time for compliments,” I say to him, waving a hand. “I need to get to the start of the parade route.” “You’re a princess?” he says. “Just a driver,” I say, my tone more defiant than I mean it to be. I see Belle and Rory getting closer, two bright splashes of color floating into view. “Ah, okay,” he says, looking a bit skeptical. He points to me. “Not a princess.” He points to himself. “Not a vandal. Nice to meet you.” And with that, he picks his baseball cap off the ground and strolls away. I . . . wait, is he whistling? Like he’s in some kind of old-timey musical? I tilt my head at his retreating form, trying to make sense of this . . . person. Suddenly, Belle and Rory are screaming in my ear. “Rika!” Belle yanks on my arm, jumping up and

36 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE down. Rory looks Rory-level excited, her little eyebrows waggling. “Do you . . . was that . . .” “What?” I say irritably, shaking her off. “That was Hank Chen!” Belle shrieks. “Remember, he was on that show we watched in middle school, about the traveling kids’ show choir—” “And then he won Dance! Off! last season,” Rory chimes in, naming her favorite competitive reality show. “He had that routine with all the backflips and splits and—” “Riiiiiight,” I say, fragments of memory floating through my brain, images of some boy smiling and charming his way through a jaw-droppingly acrobatic routine, the sparkle in his eye never fading. “Is he here for the parade?” Rory wonders, her brow crinkling. “I dunno, maybe he’s the grand marshal?” I suggest. “Oh my god, no,” Belle says. “Didn’t you see? The identity of the grand marshal got totally leaked. It’s . . .” She pauses for effect, dark eyes flashing with glee. “Grace Kimura.” Oh god. As if I need more princess shit in my life. Every little Asian American girl who dreams of fairy tale–worthy happy endings has grown up swooning as they watch Grace Kimura get hers over and over and

37 SARAH KUHN over again. She’s the reigning Asian American rom-com queen, one of the modern world’s chief perpetuators of the whole happily-ever-after thing. She’s starred in a seemingly endless cycle of rom-coms, running through countless airports and wedding ceremonies and rain- soaked streets to tell a string of blandly handsome men that yes, she does truly love them. She’s gotten her heart broken onscreen dozens of times, only to have it mended by the end. Her hair is always shiny, her bold lip always on point, her mascara smudged in an artful way that never detracts from her perfect ingénue beauty. She’s her own kind of princess, Belle’s ultimate vision board come to life. One of my family’s favorite pastimes is to marathon her movies, gathering around the TV with fuzzy blankets and multiple flavors of shrimp chips, Rory oohing over the goopiest scenes, Belle mouthing along with the dia- logue she’s committed to memory, Auntie Suzy misting over whenever Grace Kimura cries. I can sometimes be tempted to join by the shrimp chips, especially if they get the spicy ones. But I always find myself getting twitchy once Grace Kimura starts running through the airport or whatever. It’s another thing that binds all the Rakuyamas except me.

38 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE

“That’s probably why Hank’s here,” Belle says, practically vibrating with excitement. “He’s in Grace Kimura’s new movie. Maybe he’s supporting her. God, he’s cute.” “We need to get this show on the road,” I say, fishing around once again in my yukata pocket—this time for Auntie Och’s car keys. We don’t need to get into a full- on analytical discussion of Hank Chen’s cuteness, and I know Belle well enough to know that’s what she’s just about to do. “Wait, what’s this ‘we’?” Belle says, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. She studies me, clocking my outfit. “Why are you wearing that?” “I’m your driver,” I say, giving a little bow. “Finally embracing my inner princess.” “Bull. Shit!” Rory yelps. “Rory, no garbage mouth,” Belle says. “But seriously, what the fucking hell, Rika. That is so not what you’re doing!” “All right, all right,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender. “The truth is, I thought I could drive y’all to that first big stopping point—where the ondo dancers do their routine? Then jump out of the car and book it over to the front of the dojo for the demonstration. I need to . . .” I pause, gnawing my lower lip. Now that

39 SARAH KUHN my kaiju-temper isn’t flaring, I can’t find the words to explain to them how important this is. “Rika-chan.” Belle smiles at me. She looks every inch a queen—she’s also wearing vintage from Auntie Suzy’s closet, but her outfit’s not from the yukata section. It’s taffeta from the fifties, nipped in at the waist and decorated with obscenely large cabbage roses. She’s added a frothy petticoat underneath to make the skirt even more cupcake-esque, and the whole thing fits her curves perfectly. “Of course we’ve got your back,” she continues. “You deserve this.” For the second time this morning, my eyes brim with tears, and I hastily wipe them away. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for . . . wait a minute.” Now I clock what Rory’s wearing. She’s pulled her hair into two tiny Princess Leia buns and sprayed her whole head with glitter. Then added little white cowgirl boots and a short purple “dress” that appears to be . . . I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing her more closely. “Aurora,” I say. “Is that my nure-onna T-shirt ?” She shrugs. “It looks better on me.” I open my mouth to protest, then close it. The thing is, it really does.

40 THREE 3

The obi complicates driving even more than I thought it would. Not only is its bulk pushing me forward in the seat, but it’s tied so tight that it holds the yukata in place in a way that makes moving my arms a challenge. I have a limited range of motion as I steer the convertible, and I’m thankful that I don’t have to make any sharp turns or parallel park or something. I mentally reverse my pre- vious thankfulness to Auntie Och for tying the obi so snugly. Maybe flashing the streets of Little Tokyo and smug-ass Hank Chen wouldn’t have been so bad. That thought makes me flush for some reason, and I order myself to refocus on the task at hand. I definitely don’t need to be any sweatier. I pilot the convertible forward in painstakingly slow fashion, mindful of the ondo dance group walking— and occasionally stopping and performing—in front of us and the float for the Watanabe family’s flower shop behind us. SARAH KUHN

The car carrying Grace Kimura is in front of the dancers—top down, like the Nikkei Week court’s cars, so everyone can bask in her beauty. Belle and Rory are practically beside themselves with excitement. Still, they’re trying to carry on with their queenly/princessly duties. They’re both sitting up on the back of the convertible, feet resting on the back seat, waving to the crowd. Occa- sionally, we catch a glimpse of Grace’s brilliant smile when she turns her head, her glossy mane of raven hair swishing around her shoulders. The sun has moved high in the sky and beats down on us with brutal intensity. I feel hot everywhere. It’s like the sun is slithering its way into every possible bit of my being, down to the roots of my hair. The roots of my hair feel like they’re about to catch on fire, actually. I’m going to take like ten thousand showers after this parade. Or maybe just roll around in ice cubes or something. “Rika, stop!” Belle’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts, and I hit the brakes. The stop is a little abrupt and jerky—I hear the people on the flower float behind us grumbling. “Dance break,” Rory says, gesturing in front of us. The ondo dancers are going through their routine again, identical smiles in place. The crowd claps along to

42 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE their steps appreciatively, and I can’t help but wonder if any of the dancers have ever cracked and gone on a mur- derous rampage, fed up with having to smile and perform the same steps over and over again in punishing summer weather. Why don’t you like any of the nice fairy tales? Auntie Suzy says in my head. I put the parking brake on so the car won’t roll forward into the dancers. Auntie Och’s convertible is not super reliable at the whole not-rolling-forward thing. “Being a Nikkei Week Princess is boring,” Rory grumbles. “Rory!” Belle admonishes. “It’s an honor to serve our community.” “A boring honor,” Rory says. “I like watching the parade because we see everything and we see it once. Whereas being in the parade means we only see, like, two things and we see them over and over again. I thought being a princess meant I’d get to do cool stuff, like make my own all-you- can-eat mochi buffet or claim one of those warehouses on the edge of Third as my new kingdom.” I can’t help but smile. Rory’s logic is often indeci- pherable to anyone but Rory, but there are moments when it just makes sense. She occasionally gets close to

43 SARAH KUHN envisioning a version of princessdom I could actually get behind. “Let’s liven it up, then,” Belle says. “Let’s try to get Grace Kimura’s attention! Maybe she’ll see how amazing we look and put us in her next movie.” “How?” Rory says, intrigued. Belle, of course, already has a plan. “Grace!” she calls out—loud enough to be heard over the clapping, not loud enough to disrupt the dancers. “Grace Kimura! Little Tokyo loves you!” “You’re our, um, queen!” Rory says, her voice less assured. “I thought Belle was the queen,” I can’t help but add. “Right, you’re our other queen!” Rory attempts, getting a little louder. “The whole point of a queen of any given area is that she’s the only one,” I say. “Stop ruining our fun,” Belle says, reaching down to swat me on the shoulder. “Grace!” Rory yells, committing more firmly to the bit. “Queen Grace Kimura!” “Queen! Grace! Kimura!” Belle cries out, giving it a rhythm. I don’t know how exactly it happens—these things always seem to happen when Belle decides to bend a

44 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE large group of people to her will—but suddenly others take up this chant and then it syncs with the clapping and the dancers get in the same rhythm and it’s like we’re all part of a weird spontaneous flash mob with the sole purpose of getting Grace Kimura’s attention. “Queen! Grace! Kimura!” everyone yells, Belle’s voice the loudest. “Queen! Grace! Kimura!” Grace Kimura finally turns in our direction, because . . . well, how could she not? She’s still all smiles, charisma radiating from her every pore, beaming the full wattage of her beatific expression on us. Being on the other end of her smile really does feel like being showered in glitter and sunlight—you can’t help but smile back. She gives Belle a wave and a gracious nod, like they’re communicating in some special queen-to-queen language. Her gaze moves to Rory, and she gives her kind of an “aww” look—but not in a condescending way. It’s like she’s fully honoring Rory’s adorableness. “Oh my god,” Belle gasps, and I hear Rory rustling around behind me, sitting up a little straighter. Damn, Grace Kimura is really freaking good at being a movie star. Grace’s gaze finally wanders down to me, the sweaty person behind the wheel.

45 SARAH KUHN

And the blood drains from her face. I barely have time to register that before all hell breaks loose. Because all of a sudden, Grace Kimura is definitely not acting like a movie star. Her smile has been totally wiped from her pale face, bright red lips turned downward. A shadow passes over her eyes. And then she’s scrambling down from the car and leaping into the street. “Holy shit,” Belle says. “What is she doing?” A bunch of people start shouting, the dancers stop dancing and look around in confusion. Someone on the flower float whines, “What is goingon ?” because they can’t see. A man in a dark suit—Grace’s bodyguard, maybe?—springs from the passenger seat of the car Grace was just riding in and takes off after her. But Grace, in addition to being a movie star, is surprisingly fast. She zigzags through the confused dancers, looking like she’s effortlessly navigating an obstacle course. There’s a bunch of confused murmuring among the dancers as they dodge this way and that, trying to get out of her path. Some freeze in place, unsure of what to do. Like should they try to stop her or . . . ? The vibe from the crowd on the sidelines is similarly confused, but they’re calling out to her: “Grace? Are

46 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE you okay? Grace, what’s wrong? Grace . . . Grace . . . Grace . . .” The weird but genial flash mob we had going a few minutes ago has morphed into something else, threads of shared panic and worry and just not knowing what to do winding themselves through the air. Sweat prickles the back of my neck, the tips of my ears. Even now, sweat is finding all new fun places to take root. I hear someone in the distance call for security. “Ms. Kimura!” yells the man in the dark suit, Body- guard Guy, his voice commanding. “Please. Stop!” But she doesn’t listen. She darts past the last confused clump of dancers and barrels straight for our car. Her face is still ashen, her eyes haunted. Her hair has somehow worked itself into a wild tangle. I lock gazes with her, unable to look away. In an instant, Grace Kimura has transformed from beautiful princess to monstrous wild woman. Something pings in my heart, a strange connection that forms as her eyes hold mine. “Rika!” Belle hisses. “Do something!” I snap to attention, reacting instinctively. I unbuckle my seat belt, throw the car door open, and catapult myself in front of Grace Kimura. And for the second time today, I’m part of a unit of two people crashing into each other.

47 SARAH KUHN

Only this time, I’m the one being crashed into. Belle’s and Rory’s screams ring in my ears as Grace and I slam to the ground. I feel the impact of my backside on concrete and wince. She lands on top of me, and my arms fling themselves around her waist, as if trying to protect her. Ow. I know how to brace my falls pretty well thanks to judo, but being unexpectedly knocked to the ground still hurts a whole hell of a lot. Grace looms over me, her eyes searching my face. She looks like she’s really panicking now, her breath quick and uneven. She reaches out with shaky fingers and touches my face. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound comforting. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You . . .” She shakes her head quickly, as if to indicate that she’s definitely not okay. She leans in close to me and manages to push a single word from her lips, barely a whisper. Then she slumps against me, passing out. It all happens so fast, but it seems like time slows way down as Bodyguard Guy finally catches up to her and scoops up her limp form. Security guards for the parade are hot on his heels, and they swarm around him and Grace, blocking them from view.

48 FROM LITTLE TOKYO, WITH LOVE

“Rika-chan!” Belle is at my side, and she looks terrified. Rory’s head pops up behind her. “Are you okay? Do you need a doctor? Should we take you to the hospital or call an ambulance?!” I sit up slowly, totally dazed. I’m barely aware of the tears that have filled my eyes, and I don’t register any of her questions. Because my brain has hooked itself onto one thing, and it’s totally obsessing on this one thing, and there’s no way anything else is getting in there. Right before she passed out, Grace Kimura whispered one word. It was my name.

49 PERFECTLY Parvin

OLIVIA ABTAHI

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

Copyright © 2021 by Olivia Abtahi Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available. Printed in the United States of America ISBN 9780593109427 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Design by [tk in mechs] Text set in [tk in mechs] This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. what about this theory the fear of not being enough and the fear of being “too much” are exactly the same fear, the fear of being you.

—NAYYIRAH WAHEED For all the daughters who look nothing like their mothers.

7 AUGUST

Things I have going for me: • My BFFs, Ruth and Fabian • Summer vacation at the beach • Parents who let me order pizza last night • An awesome aunt who teaches me how to do my makeup over video chat • Good grades Decent grades

But most important: • A boy who I like . . . and who I think might like me back. TUESDAY

The Beach 1:00 p.m.

“Wesley!” I ran toward the dunes. The beach was packed with families and rogue sun umbrellas that threatened to hit someone in the wind. Seagulls circled overhead, waiting for someone to drop a stray French fry from their lunch onto the sand. Was it the most romantic spot? Not exactly. But who cared? I’d made friends with a cute boy and he was waving back at me. “Come on, Wesley—they found it!” He smiled that shy smile that made his braces sparkle and I swooned. “Let’s go,” he said from across the beach. Wesley was tall and gangly, and he wore cool board shorts with elephants on them. Obviously, I had a massive, massive crush on him. I ran toward him in my pink bikini. Mom had helped me wax just about every part of my body to be able to wear this thing and I was abnormally proud of it. If only Wesley knew how much I’d done to look like the rest of the girls here at the beach—the ones

11 who definitely didn’t need to worry about shaving their toes. All Iranians came with their own carpets, and half Iranians like me were no exception. I caught up with him and we hurried over to one of those guys with a metal detector, the kind they waved around the beach looking for lost wedding rings. He was digging frantically toward something, and more people gathered to see what it was. He kept saying things like “It’s a big one!” or “Definitely from a shipwreck!” and swatting away kids who tried to help, saying it was “his discovery.” Too bad he was digging for the fake treasure Wesley had helped me plant last night. The metal he was searching for would barely buy him a soda if he scrapped it for parts, and it was hard to not laugh and potentially spoil the whole thing. Wesley clenched my arm, willing me to be quiet, but I could tell he was struggling to be silent, too. My skin prickled where he touched it. “I see it,” the man cried. “There’s gold in there, for sure!” He had on a bucket hat and a big stripe of zinc oxide on his nose. He looked like a demented camp counselor. Wesley grabbed my hand, his whole body vibrating with quiet chuckles. I’d never held a boy’s hand before. It felt nice, though a bit sweaty. Maybe all boys’ hands were sweaty? We watched as the gold digger unearthed a metal box and threw it back up onto the sand. He clambered out the hole he’d dug. A hush fell over the whole beach, waiting to see what was inside. The lid creaked open.

12 “AHHHH!” he screamed. He slammed the lid shut and turned to the huge audience now waiting to see what was inside. Only, his face was completely blue. “It sprayed me!” he spluttered. “It’s booby-trapped!” “BA-HA-HA-HA-HA!” I cackled along with the rest of the crowd. I’d rigged the box to squirt ink the second it opened and filled it with rusty tools to set off the metal detector. Wesley and I’d both agreed that since this was our last week at the beach, we had to leave with a spectacular prank. But this was better than anything I could have imagined. “I can’t . . . breathe . . . ,” Wesley wheezed next to me, tears streaming down his pale face. His eyelashes were so blond I could barely see them. The metal detector man tried to wipe the ink away with a beach towel and got sand in his eyes instead. “Whatever’s inside must be even more valuable to be protected!” He blinked rapidly as he addressed the group. “We’ll need to get the authorities involved!” I couldn’t take it anymore. “THAR SHE BLOWS!” I screamed in a bad pirate accent, bursting into laughter. The man with the metal detector flinched and stumbled, almost tripping over his “treasure.” A mother next to us gasped, yanking her child away from me. Clearly, we looked deranged. I turned to Wesley. “Let’s go.” We’d be long gone before “the authorities” got here. “Race you!” We ran toward the ocean, shouting “Yarrr!” and “Avast, mateys!” Wesley held my hand the whole time.

13 WEDNESDAY

The Boardwalk 8:00 p.m

The next night I led us to the shops by the beach. “Do you want to get some ice cream?” Wesley nodded. It was our last day together, and I was weirdly quiet, even though I’d spent the whole summer talking his ear off. Wesley was a good listener like that. We’d met that summer on the beach. I’d noticed Wesley watching me play backgammon a few weeks ago, when Dad had gotten all the other Middle Eastern people vacationing here in on his game. I’d clocked how Wesley’s parents were the kind of people who were absurdly proud of their fancy cooler, and how his dad wore a gold college ring on his finger. All their beach towels were monogrammed. I finally asked Wesley if he wanted to play, and when he said yes, his mom and dad looked terrified and moved their umbrella farther away. Who doesn’t like backgammon? Still, he hung out with us anyway.

14 Wesley was cute and skinny with sandy hair bleached blond by the sun, and his lips seemed permanently chapped from the salt. He didn’t talk much, but he was always interested in what I had to say. Whatever I suggested, from ice cream to boogie boarding, he usually said yes. For once, I had a friend at the beach while my BFFs, Ruth and Fabian, were stuck in the DC suburbs. Though I was secretly hoping Wesley and I could be more than friends. We got our ice cream cones, walked to the water, and sat down on the cool sand. I shivered in my dress. Wesley wore a nice sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes, and I won- dered if he thought my brown eyes were just as beautiful. “Are you cold?” he asked. “A little.” I took a bite of my freezing cold ice cream. “Here,” he said, putting his arm around me. Whoa. He didn’t even pretend to yawn or anything! Friends didn’t just sling their arms over each other, did they? Oh, wait. I did that with Ruth and Fabian all the time. Either way, I hoped Wesley would break out of his shy shell and make a move. After all, starting high school with a boyfriend would be amazing. Everyone in middle school had already coupled up by the end of spring, and Ruth and Fabian had even turned people down. It was time for me to get a boyfriend of my own, even though nobody from middle school had been interested. Wesley didn’t even have to be my soul mate or anything, just someone who would laugh at my jokes and hold my hand.

15 Knowing someone thought I was cute would probably be the best feeling in the world. But I had no idea. It hadn’t happened to me before. “Are you nervous about school?” I asked, inhaling his sweater’s salty, soapy smell. Wesley was from my part of town back near DC and was starting at the same high school as me. He didn’t know anyone going to James K. Polk High, since everyone else from his private school would be going on to Sacred Heart High. He said his parents were switching him because it made more “economic sense,” but I think that just meant that James K. Polk was cheaper, as in, free. I would have been freaking out about the change, but Wesley didn’t talk about it much. “I’m a little nervous,” he admitted. I could feel his arm shaking as he rested it on my shoulder. He leaned into me. “Yeah?” I breathed. We were really close together now. C’mon, Wesley! I communicated with my eyes. Make a move! He gulped. “Yeah.” Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Mom and Dad were probably texting me to come home soon since we had an early drive back to Northern Virginia in the morning. Not now, parents! Couldn’t they tell Something was about to happen? I had no idea what that Something was, of course, but it felt important. “Listen, Parvin,” Wesley said suddenly. He pronounced my name the way it was spelled, even though the correct pronuncia- tion in Farsi was PAR-veen. I’d never bothered correcting him.

16 “Mm?” I replied. Was he going to ask me to be his girlfriend? Or even better, his date to the fancy Homecoming that Polk High threw every year? Or what if he was just going to tell me his arm had fallen asleep, and yank it back? But instead of saying anything, he leaned toward me. I realized what was happening just in time and shut my eyes. His face crashed into mine, the imprint of his braces digging in. I’d never been kissed on the lips before. It felt like eating a melted Popsicle, only with more teeth. It’s happening! My brain kept shouting. THIS IS RE- ALLY HAPPENING! Thank god I had gotten my braces off before coming to the beach, otherwise they would have tangled with Wesley’s. This was a dream come true. He pulled away. I wiped my lips. Kissing was messier than I thought. “I think you’re really cool, Parvin,” he said. Finally! A boy liked me! I didn’t want to leave the beach and drive home tomorrow. I wanted to stay in this moment forever. “Thanks, Wesley,” I said, not sure what else to say. My bright orange lip gloss was all over his face, and somehow by his right ear. “Er, you’re pretty cool, too.” He wrapped a thin arm around me again. “Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked, his face super serious. Which was hard, considering all the lip glitter shimmering on it. YES! I fist-pumped in my mind. This night was going even

17 better than I could have imagined. YOU’RE GONNA START HIGH SCHOOL WITH A BOYFRIEND! HA-HA-HA- HAAA! “Sure,” I said casually, as if my head wasn’t filled with exploding fireworks. “That would be cool.” Wesley grinned. “So, is this our first date?” he asked, inching so close I could see the freckles on his face. I felt like I was seeing a different side of Wesley—someone who was more confident than the boy I’d dragged around the beach all summer. I laughed. “Is this a normal first date? Is this what people usually do?” But Wesley just smiled even wider. “Normal is overrated, Parvin.” And then he kissed me again, lip gloss and all.

18 FRIDAY

James K. Polk High Orientation 5:00 p.m.

To say I had anxiety about starting high school was an under- statement, but freshman orientation night was supposed to help with that. Right when it felt like we’d gotten the hang of middle school, we were punted off to a building five times its size and made to start all over again. At least Fabian and Ruth were starting with me, and I’d get to see Wesley after being apart for a couple of days. Just the thought of starting high school with a boyfriend made me giddy. I was a girl with a boy who liked her. That fact alone was enough to get me through tonight. My phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message from my aunt in Iran, followed by a picture of flowers. Why did Iranians always message each other bouquets of flowers?

19 5:05 pm Sara Mohammadi: Good luck at orientation, azizam! You’re gonna be great!

My whole body vibrated with happiness. Everything was coming up Parvin. “So, where’s this boyfriend of yours?” Fabian asked, grabbing a seat next to mine in the auditorium. I scanned the crowded theater for Wesley but didn’t see him yet. I’d worn my favorite floral T-shirt, and Ameh Sara had helped me with a special silver eyeshadow tutorial earlier today. My outfit was perfect for my Wesley reunion. “He’ll be here.” I’d told Fabian and Ruth everything the second I came home that night from the beach, my lips still tingling. Fabian had kissed plenty of boys and was not impressed. Ruth, however, was in shock that I had somehow landed a kiss at all. Fabian just chuckled, his brown skin more tanned since the last time I’d seen him. “Remember when you told everyone you had a boyfriend in fifth grade? And it turned out he was a cartoon?” “He was very lifelike!” I elbowed him, mussing up his perfectly styled outfit. Fabian put a lot of effort into looking sophis- ticated, but also liked to pretend he didn’t care. “Go easy, Fabian,” Ruth piped up, her straight black hair in two high buns for her “special occasion” hairdo. Thank you,

20 Ruth. At least someone was a true friend around here. “Let her be delusional if she wants to be.” “Yeah!” I said, sticking my chin out defensively. “Wait . . .” “Parvin, can you blame us for thinking this guy sounds too good to be true? You do tend to exaggerate.” Fabian patted my arm kindly. “I never exaggerate!” I cried. Just then, the lights in the auditorium dimmed and the whole theater fell silent. “Welcome, freshmen class!” a voice called out. Electronic music blasted from the speakers and lights flashed. We watched as a bunch of teachers entered from stage left and began to dance very, very badly. “I think I’m gonna have a seizure.” Fabian shuddered as our eyes were massacred by the faculty’s terrible (but enthusiastic) dance moves. Then he began streaming it on his phone, for pos- terity. Teachers waved their arms, inviting us to dance with them as Ruth sank lower into her chair. Nobody joined them. “WHOOOO!” I shouted, just because I felt a little bad for the grown-ups who were dancing so hard up there. One of them gave a pained smile, like she knew how embarrassing this whole thing was. “GET IT!” Fabian shouted, still filming from his phone. The music suddenly stopped, and microphone feedback echoed throughout the auditorium. “Generation Z? Meet Generation WE!” a man shouted.

21 He wore a brown suit that looked two sizes too small, and had the kind of expression that can only be described as “desper- ate.” He stepped into the spotlight, clutching his chest as he tried to catch his breath, his round baby face so red it looked like a cherry. “Let’s give it up for our amazing teachers!” He gestured toward the staff who’d been awkwardly swaying around him. Fa- bian and I clapped loudly as a teacher took a puff of his inhaler. “My name’s Principal Saulk, and welcome to James K. Polk High School freshman orientation!” he shouted, spittle flying from the patchy beard he was trying to grow. “And here are your student ambassadors who came to share their high school expe- riences!” Principal Saulk gestured to a group of students standing on the side of the stage, and one of them quickly grabbed the mic. She wore head-to-toe black, and had pale skin with dark purple hair. She looked cool, in a terrifying way. “High school,” she whispered into the microphone, “is a prison.” “Becca!” Principal Saulk shouted. “You’re not supposed to be here!” He chased Becca offstage, but not before she bowed to the rest of us. “That was amazing,” Fabian said into his phone. He had shared the performance with his followers, and I could see comments like “BECCA4EVA” and “We love you Fabian!!111” fill his livestream feed as he pointed the camera at the stage. Being a dancing sensation on Instagram meant Fabian had thousands of

22 fans. But I could barely get him to be a fan of believing I had a real, flesh-and-blood boyfriend. “High School’s not actually a prison though, right?” Ruth twitched, looking upset despite her sunny-yellow K-pop T- shirt. “Making high school a prison would be illegal, right?” I shrugged. Middle school hadn’t been a prison, per se, but it hadn’t been a walk in the park, either. Who knew what high school would be like? My dad had gone to James K. Polk High decades ago, back when he was fresh off the boat from Iran. His advice was zero percent helpful. My heart sank as every student ambassador following Becca gushed about high school, almost as if to make up for Becca’s warning. I got the feeling Principal Saulk had chosen a very select social group to speak at orientation, full of good- looking upperclassmen who were thriving. He had completely stacked the deck. Where was the student ambassador who talked about how it was okay to be nervous and sweat too much and accidentally walk into the boys’ bathroom like I had before assembly? Be- cause that was the ambassador for me. Ruth was so excited for orientation she drafted a list of questions and kept squirming in her seat, waiting for some kind of Q&A. She’d even brought her own name tag, the custom gold foil glinting in the auditorium lights while everyone else used the stickers provided by the school. Meanwhile, Fabian ignored all the speakers and answered questions from his zillion social media fans. I don’t think he looked up from his phone once.

23 “Being a high school freshman can be intimidating, for sure,” a guy on the football team was now saying. “But it’s, like, so much more chill than middle school, you know?” No! I wanted to scream. I don’t know! So tell me what I don’t know! “It’s, like, way harder, but also, more relaxed?” he went on. Oh my god. Of all the students they could have chosen for orientation they went with the vaguest person ever. When were we going to go over the important stuff? Like, when did we have to take the PSATs (and were they optional)? Was showering/being naked in front of my classmates after gym class mandatory? And did the vending machines have Hot Cheetos (and where were the vending machines)? But most important, where was Wesley? We needed to start plotting our next prank, like swapping all the ketchup dispensers in the cafeteria with hot sauce or something equally romantic. I glanced around at the auditorium full of five hundred kids, hoping to find him. James K. Polk was so big I wished it showed up on Google Maps. Ruth, Fabian, and I got lost just trying to find the auditorium. I honestly wished my parents were here for once so they could ask embarrassing questions that were secretly helpful. All of Ruth’s questions in her binder were about the arts and crafts closet, and whether you could use the industrial-size paper shredder in the front office. Her obsession with crafting was out of control, and I hoped she’d keep it together so everyone could assume we were just as popular and cool as the ambassadors on-

24 stage. If only for a couple hours, at least. “And, like, there’s a new squat rack in the gym? So. There’s that.” “Thank you, Kyle!” Principal Saulk started clapping enthu- siastically. I didn’t think Kyle was actually done speaking, but then again, Kyle was clearly useless. Fabian unglued himself from his phone. “Do you think he’s why our football team is so bad?” “All right everyone, we’re going to go ahead and break out into tour groups. Outside the auditorium are student ambassadors in blue and red shirts—please line up next to one. No more than ten people per group, please!” Principal Saulk shouted before shimmying offstage. “Finally,” I groaned. Ruth whined, clutching her binder. “I didn’t get to ask any of my questions!” “Come on, Parvin,” Fabian said, holding out a hand adorned with rings in the shape of snakes and skulls. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wesley. His sandy-colored hair had been chopped off in favor of a buzz cut, but he still looked cute, despite his white polo and khakis. That was strange, since he usually wore a T-shirt and jeans. But at least I could finally introduce him to my friends. “Wesley!” I waved. “Hey!” Wesley turned around and I almost swooned then and there. His braces were off (gasp!), and he looked like a completely new person. He gave me a small wave from where he was sitting next

25 to some students I’d never seen before, and I dragged Ruth and Fabian over. “Hey, Parvin,” he stuttered, getting up quickly. He herded me away from the people he’d been hanging with, clearly wanting to have me all to himself. Gosh, it had only been a couple days since we’d last seen each other but I’d missed the shy, nervous way Wesley talked. I couldn’t stop staring at his braces-free teeth. Just smelling his brand of soap again made my lips tingle from that night at the beach. “Wesley, these are my friends,” I exclaimed proudly. Hah! Now I had proof that Wesley wasn’t made up! “Meet the Fa- bian Castór,” I began. “Charmed,” Fabian purred, sticking his hand out palm down, like he was a duke or something. Fabian had high standards for boys, and he didn’t hold his hand out to be kissed by just anyone. I could tell he thought Wesley was handsome, too. Instead of taking Fabian’s hand, though, Wesley just stared at the black nail polish and rings Fabian wore. I watched as his eyes tracked up Fabian’s frame, noting the motorcycle boots, the frayed black jeans, and the smoky eyeliner. I thought Fabian looked amazing today, but from the way Wesley cringed, maybe I’d been wrong. “Hi,” Wesley squeaked, keeping his hands in his pockets. “And I’m Ruth Song.” She gave a quick wave, trying to gloss over that awkward moment, but Wesley took a step back. Ruth dropped her hand, self-conscious.

26 What was going on? Why was Wesley acting so weird? “Wes? Are you feeling okay?” “These are your friends?” he asked. Then he glanced back to the group he’d been sitting with. They all wore the same kind of Polite Youths outfit Wesley had on, and were just as pale as his white polo. I followed his gaze and was met with a wall of frosty looks. “Do you know her?” one of them called, gesturing to me. He wore a button-down shirt and something my dad called “slacks.” He looked like he was preparing to run for senate—or at least student-body president—both of which could be possible here in Northern Virginia. His name tag said hudson. “A little bit,” Wesley replied. A little bit? Hello! You just asked me to be your girlfriend! For some reason this Hudson guy thought Wesley’s response was hilarious, because he started laughing coldly at me as he walked over. “What kind of name is Parvin, anyway?” Hudson read my name tag, pronouncing it Par-vin, and not PAR-veen, like Ruth and Fabian did. What was going on? Why wasn’t Wesley sticking up for me? I felt my friends bristle beside me, ready to step in. Too late. “Don’t you have some used cars to sell?” Fabian sneered, gesturing to Hudson’s outfit. “Yeah!” Ruth added, a bit unhelpfully. But in that moment I could have kissed them both. Fabian and Ruth were my ride-or-die BFFs. They weren’t going to let just anyone make fun of me. After all, making fun of me was their job.

27 Wesley stared uneasily at the floor. Why was he friends with this jerk? And why wasn’t he saying anything? I was starting to get annoyed now. “Let’s go over here,” he said finally, leading me alone to an empty hallway away from Hudson and his crew. Gone was the happy twinkle in Wesley’s eye from whenever he saw me. Now he looked as nervous about high school as I felt, and he kept running his tongue over his braces-free teeth. “How do you know those guys?” I asked. And why won’t you look at me? It felt like the second I’d introduced my friends, Wesley had clammed up. Was he intimidated by how awesome they were? Being BFFs with an influencer could be nerve-wracking, sure, but Fabian had been on his best behavior just now. “They go to my church, actually. I didn’t know they’d be here until yesterday.” I nodded. I was glad he was starting school with some friends, even if they seemed dumb. He still wouldn’t meet my eye. “Wes?” I took a step closer, reaching for his hand. But he shoved them both into his pockets. Fabian and Ruth gave me a sympathetic look from where they waited over by Wesley’s church friends. They were probably wondering where the hysterical boyfriend I’d bragged so much about had gone. I’d told them how funny Wesley was, but he was completely different from the boy in front of me. For someone who had asked me to be his girlfriend a couple

28 days ago, Wesley sure wasn’t acting like my boyfriend. “Listen, Parvin,” Wesley started, finally making eye contact. “I’ve thought about it a lot and I think it’s better if we just stay friends. You’re just . . . a little . . .” My heart stopped. I held my breath, waiting for Wesley to explain the punch line. This had to be a joke, right? Who dumped someone two days after asking them to be their girlfriend? “Loud,” he said finally. He gestured to all of me, as if I could read his mind and understand what that meant. I gasped. Loud? Moi? This had to be another one of Wes- ley’s jokes, like the time we covered the lifeguard chair in body glitter. “Shiver me timbers, Wes,” I snorted, remembering how much he liked my pirate-speak earlier this week. “Good one, Captain!” But Wesley just shook his head. “It was fine at the beach and all. But things are different now. You’re just really . . . um . . .” He looked at the ceiling tiles, as if he’d find the right word up there. “Too much.” This couldn’t be happening. This had to be a prank. “What does that even mean?” I chuckled, but it was a strained, shaky sound. He remained silent. I reached for his hand again, but he kept it in his pocket. “We’re still on for hanging out after orientation, right?” I pressed. I had already scoped out the school’s parking lot, and if I moved each assigned parking space over by

29 one, Principal Saulk wouldn’t have a spot to slide his Prius into tomorrow. It was the perfect trick, and I needed Wesley’s help since Fabian and Ruth refused to help with my little schemes anymore. “Ummm,” he said uncomfortably. The laugh I’d been holding back for when he yelled “Just kidding!” died in my throat. Was this really happening? Wesley had never mentioned before that I was “too loud” or “too much” all summer. He had seemed happy enough listening to me explain why mint chocolate chip was the best ice cream flavor, or why I still wore bronzer, even though my skin was already pretty bronze. Wesley just shook his head. “Sorry, Parvin. I don’t think you should be my girlfriend anymore.” He walked away, back to his church friends. And then I died.

30 Five Seconds Later

Oh, look, a comfortable patch of linoleum. I think I will lie down for a bit.

Hallway 10 minutes later

Fabian emptied a bag of Hot Cheetos and Ruth had been using it to resuscitate me. “Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in . . .” I tried to make the bag expand and collapse with my breath, but it felt too hard, and the Cheeto dust kept making me cough. Why bother with breathing? Or existing? I was so upset I was shaking. Tears of fury pricked at the corners of my eyes. How dare he dump me at orientation? How dare he dump me at all? “Parvin, do you feel any better?” Ruth rubbed my back. “You look like you’re going to cry.” “I’m not sad,” I insisted. “Just mad.” “I can’t believe him.” Fabian shook his head. “That guy is a total loser.” He was forming a human shield in front of me and Ruth so I could hyperventilate in peace under the water fountain by the

31 lockers. “Exactly.” I huffed. “I’m way too cool for him. If anything,I should have dumped him!” The truth was, I was still in shock. I didn’t understand why this was happening or how I could have misread my relationship with Wesley so badly. My head hurt from all the thoughts spiral- ing around inside it, wondering what I’d done to make him think I was too much for him, and why being loud was such a bad thing in the first place. Ruth bit her lip. “Maybe he was just nervous about his first day? It’s scary starting over.” “So? You can’t dump someone for no real reason!” Fabian pointed out. I nodded mutely. If I opened my mouth, I’d cry. For better or worse, Fabian and Ruth had seen the whole thing. And Hudson and his group probably had, too. Not only had I been dumped, I’d been dumped with an audience. I moaned, the shame too much to bear. Fabian exhaled angrily through his nose and whipped out his smartphone. “I’m tempted to sic my Faby-fans on him.” “Just forget about him, P.” Ruth gently plucked the smartphone out of Fabian’s hands. “He’s not worth ruining orientation. Not when you could be asking questions about the school’s sewing machine.” I gulped down hot tears in the back of my throat. Today was a disaster.

32 Just then, a student ambassador came over. He had light brown hair, green eyes, and wore a T-shirt with the Polk “Parti- sans” mascot on the front, which was a donkey/elephant hybrid. He looked older than us and was even taller than Fabian. “Do y’all have a group already? Want to join ours?” he asked. Ruth shoved the Cheeto bag into her skirt pocket before he could see it—a true friend. “Yessss.” Fabian sparkled, fluttering his eyelashes at the student guide, who was, admittedly, pretty cute. “Hey, are you okay?” the guide asked me. “What’s your name?” He held out his hand, helping me up from the sticky floor. “Um—” I swallowed, not answering the first question. “Parvin Mohammadi. Or PAR-veen, if you’re fancy,” I added. Most people pronounced my name with a soft “A” sound, but it was actually a hard “A,” like in “patio.” He shook my hand. “Cool. My name’s Matías, but my friends call me Matty.” “¿Hablas Cristiáno?” Fabian shot back in Spanish. “Pues claro, mi cuate.” Matty smiled, revealing a row of even white teeth that nearly blinded me. “Ooof,” Fabian breathed next to me, equally stunned. “Please tell me he’s gay.” Matty had a nice smile, I guess. I didn’t know. Wesley had a nice smile, too. Where was he now? I craned my neck, wonder-

33 ing whether I could see him in another tour group with his stupid friends. What was it about me that wasn’t girlfriend material? Was I really so dreadful to be with? I didn’t have much experience with boys. Wesley had been my first kiss, after all. Maybe I was missing something? Whatever excitement I’d had for this tour had turned into a heavy block in the middle of my stomach. How could Wes- ley just shrug and walk away from me like that? How could the world still spin on its axis and continue as normal when a boy who’d spent a whole summer with me had cut out my heart? Was nothing sacred? “All right,” Matty said. “Let’s get this tour started!” We followed him to a couple other freshmen, none of whom had gone to the same middle school as we had, and crowded around our guide. I tried not to sink into a pit of despair. I really just wanted to go home, blast the AC, and grab ten different blankets to wallow in. Matty clapped his hands. “If you have any questions, just hold them until the end, okay?” Ruth put her hand down, devastated. We followed Matty through the halls as he showed us the arts wing, science labs, language arts center, and library. I could feel Ruth practically vibrating with even more questions, but she restrained herself. As Matty went over stuff like how our classes were scheduled, how lunch period worked, and how to open our lockers,

34 I could feel some of my first-day-of-school jitters shrink a tiny bit. Finally, someone who knew what they were talking about! Fabian had even pulled his nose out of his phone to hear what Matty had to say, and I could see Ruth smile when Matty made a joke about the cafeteria food. “That’s everything!” Matty said after he showed us both gymnasiums and the band room. We were on the football field’s bleachers now, all of us sitting below him on the metal slats in the fading light. “Time for questions.” Ruth’s hand shot up like a rocket. I prayed she’d ask a cool question. “Can everyone use the laminator machine in the library? Even freshmen?” Oh my god. Instead of cringing like me, Matty laughed. “Wow, okay, yeah, let’s start with that. I’ve never actually seen the laminator. But I bet if you asked the librarians, they’d let you use it.” Ruth nodded, satisfied. I could feel her gearing up for another question, but Fabian swooped in. “Is there a Gay-Straight Alliance?” he asked, looking up from the Polk extracurriculars brochure. “I don’t see one in here.” Finally, a cool question. Ruth inhaled sharply. She hadn’t come out to her family yet, but Fabian had. “Great question,” Matty replied. “I’m actually in GSA myself—we meet twice a month and it’s sponsored by Ms. Kaiser,

35 the band teacher.” “See you there.” Fabian winked, fanning himself with the brochure. Ruth made another note in her notebook. Matty looked at me just then, his grin so sincere I felt myself beaming back. “Did you have a question?” Gosh, his eyes were so bright. And he smiled at everyone, even if they asked a stupid question like Ruth’s. Were all sophomores this nice? I blinked. “I—sorry?” What were we talking about? Matty laughed, his dimples catching sunlight at just the right angle. I felt my pulse accelerate, reminding me of Wesley’s dimples and how they popped up when he smiled. What was I going to do? “It’s okay. If you have any questions, you can always find me in the sophomore hallway, all right?” I didn’t remember what other questions were asked. By now I could feel my heartbeat in my forehead, the beginnings of a headache coming on. Wesley’s words rang in my mind, and the phrases You’re too much and You’re too loud echoed painfully. I felt ugly and gross, the shame spreading through me despite Fabian assuring me that Wesley was a loser. You just got rejected by your first boyfriend, Parvin Mohammadi. The truth was, I thought Wesley liked me because I was loud and too much. Sure, there were older girls who would rather tan themselves on the beach and read magazines, but that didn’t look like a lot of fun. The beach was where you dug for

36 sand crabs and ate enough saltwater taffy to get a cavity. Was tan- ning and reading magazines silently what he wanted all along? If so, he never said anything to me. What changed? And why didn’t I get the memo? The group started breaking up. I hadn’t noticed the tour end. Fabian leaned over and whispered kindly, “You look devastated.” “It was nice meeting you, Parvin,” Matty said, shaking my hand. Fabian opted to say goodbye with a hug, and Matty just laughed as he squeezed Fabian back. “Parvin, come on,” Ruth whined from below the bleachers. “My mom’s driving us home.” I walked down the empty steps in a daze, still remembering how Wesley could barely look me in the eye when he made it clear he didn’t want to hang out, much less have anything to do with me. “You gonna be okay?” Ruth bit her lip. I wished she hadn’t asked. I could feel my throat spasm from holding back a sob. I clenched my jaw and tossed the hair I’d styled perfectly for orientation behind my shoulder. “I’m fine, Ruth. Dwen jang-a,” I repeated in Korean, having picked up the phrase from Ruth and her mom. Being half Iranian meant languages came easily to me. Ruth frowned. “You just called yourself a soybean.”

37 Home 8:00 p.m.

By the time Mrs. Song dropped me off at home the sun had set, just like my love life. “How was orientation?” Dad asked. He was putting together dinner at the kitchen counter. By “dinner” I meant a bunch of sliced cheese, lavash, and olives. He made his cheese boards whenever he and Mom had a long day and were too tired to make anything else. It was best if Mom didn’t cook at all. Dad turned around just as tears began to stream down my face. They felt hot and itchy, and paired perfectly with my over- whelming sense of humiliation. “Parvin joonam, what’s wrong?” Dad hugged me tight, his bristly mustache tickling my forehead. He smelled like black tea and pumpkin seeds: classic Dad smell. “Daph?” he shouted. “Could you come here?” Mom raced up from the office in our basement, her blond bun filled with markers and pens. She and Dad owned an ad- vertising studio in the lower floor of the house, where Mom did most of the visuals and Dad wrote the words and copy for each advertisement. Now that we were back from the beach, they were working longer hours. “I . . . got . . . dumped!” I wailed into Dad’s button-down shirt. “Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, embracing us both. “I didn’t real-

38 ize you were dating someone?” “I mean, we were only together a couple of days . . .” I trailed off. Explaining how you got dumped to your parents was almost as humiliating as having the Sex Talk. “Wait, was it that boy you were playing with at the beach? Winston?” Dad asked, his thick eyebrows bunching in concern. “Wesley.” I nodded. Oh no. I could feel more sobs coming on. “But . . . you’re too young to date! How did I not know you had a boyfriend?” Dad seethed, looking at Mom. “Daphne, did you know?” She threw her hands into the air, shaking her head in response, then peered down at me, her blue eyes turning serious. “Did you go on any dates? Like to the movies and stuff?” “No, we just hung out on the beach.” I looked between the two of them. Oh, crap. They’d never specifically said I couldn’t date. But I didn’t exactly ask them for permission, either. Was I about to get in trouble? Another drop of shame slid into my belly. I was boyfriendless and probably grounded. But instead of getting mad, Mom stroked my hair. “Do you want to talk about it?” “H-he said that I was too loud!” Dad’s face went from seething to bewildered. “He said what?” His eyebrows were so big and bushy that he could never have a poker face. Meanwhile, Mom had to fill hers in with something called brow pencil every day. “That’s what he said? And that’s why he dumped you?” She

39 asked this at a normal, less ear-splitting volume than Dad. I remembered the way Wesley had gestured to all of me, as if I were one big problem. “He said I was ‘too much’ in general!” I sobbed. “What does that even mean?” “I’m going to kill him,” Dad growled, taking off his nice watch like he was getting ready to punch someone. Mom put a pale hand over his. “Mahmoud, leave it.” She turned toward me, resting a cool palm against my warm face. “Listen to me. Sometimes people—mostly men—call women ‘too loud’ when it means they have a lot of opinions, or they have a lot to say. Guys at work used to call me ‘bossy’ for the same reasons.” Dad nodded furiously. “Besides, who wants some boring girl who never opens her mouth?” This day felt like a bad dream. Freshman orientation was supposed to prepare me for the first day of school. Instead, it had just made me feel a zillion times worse. How could I start high school now? I could barely wrap my head around what Wesley said to me, much less remember my locker combination. I’d gone from angry to sad to confused in the span of two hours. All I felt now was leg-meltingly tired. “Is it too early to call Ameh Sara?” I asked. Dad looked at his watch. “She should be up in a few hours. You can call her then.” Mom must have noticed me fading fast. “It’s all right, sweetie. Just go upstairs and I’ll bring you some food later.”

40 Dad kissed my forehead, brushing my curly baby hairs back. “It’s gonna be okay, baba jan. Go rest.” I nodded and trudged up the stairs to my room, but I could already hear their argument begin. “Mahmoud, it wasn’t like he was taking her out and driving her anywhere, they were just horsing around on the beach!” Mom said. “Still,” Dad growled. “I am going gut that boy like a fish. Pedar-e-sag!” Oh no. He’s busted out the Farsi. He basically called Wes- ley a son of a dog, but not in a nice way. I scurried the rest of the way up the stairs away from Dad’s wrath.

41 My Room 10:15 p.m.

I staggered onto my bed and checked my phone. Wesley still hadn’t called or texted me, which meant this breakup was ce- mented now. No “just kidding!” could ever take us back to the way things were before. Being with Wesley had made me feel so good, as if I was this fun, interesting girl because he wanted to be around me. Not only that, but we’d swapped saliva. Like, actual germs! How could you look at someone you traded lip gloss with and dump them only two days later? It had seemed pretty personal and special, but maybe he didn’t feel the same way anymore. I had a lot of things going for me, but getting a boyfriend had seemed like the ultimate triumph. Now that he wasn’t mine, it was hard to think about anything else. I opened my laptop and double-clicked the video chat, dialing my aunt. Ameh Sara’s face instantly filled my computer screen, her brown eyes looking a lot like mine, although she had a different nose from her own mom. Ameh Sara was my dad’s half sister, from when my grandpa (aka Baba Bozorg) had decided to move back to Iran after my grandma died, while Dad stayed in the US for college. I hadn’t seen Ameh Sara in person since Baba Bozorg’s funeral in Iran, almost eight years ago. She’d tried to visit us for my tenth birthday, but she couldn’t get a visa. She was going to try to get a visa to see us again this fall.

42 “What is it, Ameh? Is everything okay?” Sara asked. In Farsi, the language of Iran, ameh means “father’s sister,” like an aunt. Sara was my only ameh, though. You repeated your title back to someone as a sign of affection. “Ameh,” I wailed, “Wesley broke up with me!” “WHAT?” Ameh Sara cried. I’d told Ameh Sara everything about me and Wesley this summer, even more than I’d told Ruth and Fabian. She looked as shocked as I felt. “I know!” I replied. It felt good to see her look as flabber- gasted as I was, like I wasn’t crazy for being confused. “I don’t understand,” Sara began. She spoke with a slight accent, the word understand sounding like “under-eh-stand.” “But he kissed you! He asked you to be his girlfriend!” I hung my head. “I know. He dumped me during freshman orientation.” “Did he say why?” “Yeah,” I replied, my voice small. “He said it was because I was too loud.” Ameh gasped. “He tried to silence you?” Living in Iran meant that Ameh Sara couldn’t sing, dance, or be loud in public, or the modesty police would give her a ticket or—worse—drag her off to jail. I forgot she’d probably have a lot of thoughts on me being called too loud. “I mean, he didn’t try to silence me,” I replied quickly, worried I’d make Sara go on a political rant against people trying to keep women quiet. Our Skype call was, after all, potentially

43 being monitored by the Iranian government on Sara’s end, and I didn’t want her getting arrested. “Cheh olaghi,” Sara fumed. What a donkey. I could practically see smoke coming through the computer screen. “How many girls in America as cultured as you? Or wear such interesting makeup and clothing? Many people would die to have your confidence and be . . . what was it again?” “Loud,” I finished for her. “Yes, loud!” Sara flapped her arms passionately. My thoughts stuck on what she said earlier. “You think I’m confident?” Nobody had ever called me that before. Obnox- ious? Yes. Confident? Not so much. “Yes, Ameh! You’re so funny, and you always take initiative. And it was your idea to video chat me, remember? You were six when you set up Skype for us in Iran.” “Yeah?” I swelled with pride. “I forgot about that . . .” “See? Whatever is going on is Wesley’s problem, not yours. When I come visit you at the end of September, we can take your mind off this boy.” I knew talking to Ameh Sara would help. “Thanks, ameh,” I replied, feeling a bit better. “I’m sorry I called you so early.” She waved me away. “It’s okay, Parvin joonam. But I need to get ready for class. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Ameh Sara was in her last year at the University of Tehran, where she was studying graphic design, just like Mom had. Job prospects in Iran weren’t great, though. She was going to visit us in the fall, and Mom was going to teach her how to make 3D

44 designs to hopefully give her a leg up for the job hunt. I couldn’t wait until she was here. “I love you, Ameh,” I said. “Love you too, Ameh. It’ll be okay.” Sara blew me a kiss and hung up, the now-empty computer screen reflecting my puffy eyes. I inhaled deeply. Yeah, whatever happened, I’d be all right. Who was Wesley to make me doubt myself? I was pretty great, after all. Not just anyone could cover themselves in seaweed and scare an entire section of the beach into running away. Or mentally calculate the seven-and-a-half-hour time difference to Iran every time I wanted to call my aunt. Ameh Sara was right. Whatever had just happened, it was Wesley’s problem, not mine. I was going to be totally fine.

45 SATURDAY

Fabian’s House/Mansion 10:00 a.m. Ish.

Who was I fooling? Everything was not fine. If I was so great, then why didn’t I have a boyfriend? Why weren’t there boys kicking down my door, demanding to be within five feet of me? I thought I felt okay last night but today I just felt worse, with puff- ier eyes and the same number of boyfriends I had since Sara’s empowering Friday night Skype call: zero. We scheduled an emergency BFF meeting. Well, Ruth did. I spent all this morning scrolling through photos of me and Wes- ley from the beach, wondering where I went wrong. The picture of the two of us buried in the sand as busty mermaids was not helping me feel better. I still wasn’t sure what “too loud/much” meant, but I had a feeling sand mermaids were included in its definition. “Parvin!” Ruth clapped, snapping me out of my downward spiral. “Don’t go to the dark place in your head again, okay? We’re worried about you.”

46 Fabian handed me a peanut butter cup. “Eat,” he demanded. Fabian’s basement was the best meeting spot because his parents were never home. His mom and dad worked some fancy job at the Mexican embassy, which kept them super busy, and meant they got to live in this amazing house. They’d even con- verted this entire floor into a dance studio for him. That’s how Fabian had gotten so many followers: He uploaded videos of the different dance routines he choreographed and performed. He was almost up to a hundred thousand and had been verified on multiple platforms and everything. My parents, meanwhile, never seemed to leave our house. Having their design studio in the basement meant they were steps away from making sure we didn’t eat junk food, even though they rarely remembered to make dinner. Ruth’s mom was the best cook, though, she was the most terrifying adult I knew. She worked at Georgetown as a professor of data science or something like that. Who gets their eggs frozen before their PhD studies and only considers sperm donors who went to Har- vard? Mrs. Song, that’s who. Fabian and Ruth had tried calling last night but I’d gone straight to bed after talking to Ameh Sara. Only to wake up and realize I was still dumped and dateless. I didn’t just hurt because Wesley had broken up with me—I hurt because I’d lost a friend. Over the summer Wesley and I had spent every waking moment together, and losing my accom- plice stung, too. “Want to open some of my PR mail?” Fabian suggested, like

47 he was asking a little kid if she wanted to play. I nodded pitifully. He handed me a sleek black box. “Oooh, luxury packaging,” Ruth noted. She squirreled away the black ribbon from the box to use for one of her crafting projects. Inside was a pair of sneakers in shiny, metallic fabric. They looked like an oil slick, with a faint rainbow running throughout. I picked up the card. “ ‘ Dear Fabian—Hope this helps with your next routine!’ ” I read out loud. Fabian rolled his eyes. “They just want me to wear those sneakers in my next video.” “Tough life.” I handed him the shoes. “Can I keep the box?” Ruth asked. Doubtless she would turn it into another project, like an oven mitt holder or a paper- clip organizer. “Sure,” Fabian said, handing me another box. I opened that one, too, and it was filled with workout clothing. I helped Fa- bian stack them into a pile. “Do you want to talk about Wesley?” he asked. “Fabian!” Ruth scolded him. “She’ll talk when she’s ready.” Fabian shook his head. “I know, I know. I just wanted to put the offer out there. In case you did.” I folded a pair of purple sweatpants from the box. I was done crying. And not talking about it somehow gave Wesley even more power. I cleared my throat. “Am I loud?”

48 Fabian shrugged. “I mean, yeah. But that’s why we like you.” “WHAT?” I cried. “But in a good way,” Ruth quickly added. “You make us laugh. And we have fun with you. Why does being loud have to be a bad thing?” Why was it such a bad thing? “Is that what being loud means, though? Having fun and making people laugh?” “I think it’s when you’re not afraid to be yourself. You stick up for what you believe in, and you let everyone know it.” Ruth chewed a peanut butter cup thoughtfully. “I just thought being loud meant you had too many opinions and stuff. Like you were obnoxious, or immature,” I said, remembering what my Mom had told me last night. “Then that means all boys are loud.” Fabian put another box in my lap. “According to the dictionary, loud means ‘strongly audible; blatant, or noisy; conspicuous, ostentatious, or garish,’ ” Ruth read from her phone. “ ‘Antonyms: quiet, shy, restrained.’ ” “Garish?” I spat. “As in . . . ‘to gare’?” I wasn’t totally sure what the word meant, but it couldn’t be good. Nobody said anything. I opened Fabian’s other PR box. Inside was a Mexican flag, a bottle of tamarind Jarritos, a pack of Abuelita hot chocolate, and a single flip-flop. I checked the note—it seemed to be fan mail. “Do you think they know I’m Mexican?” Fabian asked sar- castically.

49 Ruth silently dragged the flip-flop over to her pile. Lord knows what she was planning to do with it. “But don’t you think it’s strange?” I pressed on. “I’ve never had a boyfriend until Wesley. Fabian—you’ve had, like, twelve. And Ruth got valentines every year from random emo boys who were obsessed with her!” “That’s just because I’d make valentines for the whole school,” Ruth insisted. “What are you saying?” Fabian looked up. “That maybe there’s some truth to what Wesley told me. Maybe I am too noisy or too much when it comes to getting a boyfriend. Otherwise I would have had a million dates by now, right?” Fabian went quiet. He and Ruth exchanged a nervous glance. What weren’t they telling me? “The thing is, Parvin”—Ruth fiddled with the black ribbon—“some people at school do think you can be a little . . . um . . . passionate.” I gasped. Passionate? How dare they! Passionate hadn’t seemed to be a bad thing, but now, knowing people thought it behind my back, it definitely was. “But that just means you need to wait for someone who sees how great that is. You can’t be upset because one person can’t handle your amazingness.” “So, let me get this straight: The whole school thinks I’m this passionate person who doesn’t shut up and is probably really annoying and obnoxious? And nobody thought to tell me?”

50 “Parvin, that’s not what we’re saying,” Fabian objected. But I barely heard him. Who cared if my friends and family liked my “amazingness”? If potential boyfriends didn’t, then what was the point? What Wesley told me yesterday was right: I was too much. I was noisy, definitely “blatant,” and (I checked my leopard print jumpsuit) 100 percent ostentatious. I was Parvin “Loud” Mohammadi. It seemed like everyone knew it but me. Someone’s phone buzzed, but I was too busy having my realization to care. “Oh my gosh,” Ruth wheezed as she checked her phone. She stared at it like she’d seen a ghost. “What is it?” Fabian asked. “Gah!” Suddenly, she threw her phone to the other side of the room, as if she’d seen a big spider on it. It bounced away in its giant glitter case. I jerked out of my shame spiral. “Ruth, what is wrong with you?” Fabian demanded. “N-nothing,” Ruth stuttered. “Absolutely nothing is wrong.” Fabian narrowed his eyes, staring between Ruth and her far- flung phone. He scurried toward it, flipped it over, and gasped even louder than Ruth did. “What? What?” I exclaimed. The blood had drained out of Fabian’s face. “Just a white person wearing a sombrero. It was offensive, so I gasped,” he replied too quickly to be believable. “Fabian,” I growled. “Show me the phone.” “Fabian, don’t—!” Ruth shouted.

51 With a sigh, Fabian handed it over. And there, at the top of the #JamesKPolkHigh photo feed, was Wesley holding hands with a girl who looked vaguely familiar. homecoming date! the caption read, followed by a bunch of heart emojis. “WHAT?” I screamed, throwing Fabian’s new shoes across the room. “We’re broken up for less than twenty-four hours and he gets a new girlfriend?” Ever since that kiss, I’d been hoping I would be his Homecoming date, even if yesterday had quickly deflated that dream. Besides, Homecoming wasn’t until the beginning of October. Who had dates lined up already? “I told you,” Ruth shot at Fabian. “She’s in a fragile state.” I zoomed in on the photo and realized the girl was one of Wesley’s church friends from orientation who’d been completely quiet as Hudson made fun of my name. To top it off, she had the smallest, daintiest nose I’d ever seen—the complete opposite of the massive one I’d inherited from my dad. “She’s so white they look related,” Ruth said in awe, staring at the photo of her and Wesley in matching polos. “They’re definitely having a plantation wedding,” Fabian said. I clicked into her account, “Teighan_23,” and instantly wished I hadn’t. Her entire feed was perfectly curated, from photos of Teighan with her friends to staged shots of her notebook and sunglasses collection. “At least her brand is consistent,” Fabian observed. “Oooh, look at her flower arrangements!” Ruth squealed. “HELLO?” I howled, hurling Ruth’s phone into a PR box.

52 “Whose side are you on?” I thought I’d been done with the crying portion of this breakup, but it felt like a new pipe had burst. How could Wesley get over me so quickly? Was I that forgettable? Or had Wesley been so repulsed by me that he’d gone running into the arms of this other girl? “Want to open another box, P?” Fabian asked, handing me a sparkly one with Fabian’s name embossed on top. “I think this one has Hot Cheetos in it,” he added, trying make me feel better. This was an actual nightmare. I’d been dumped for a girl who was tall and hairless and knew how to take the perfect selfie. Basically, she was everything I was not. I guess this was the kind of quiet, non-loud girl Wesley wanted in the end. “I just want to go home.” And sob into my pillow. “Want me to walk you?” Ruth asked. I shook my head, half-heartedly eating a Cheeto. We were supposed to help Fa- bian film a new dance routine so he’d have better camera angles than just sticking his phone on a tripod. Ruth needed to stay and help, seeing as how I was useless. I’d swing by tomorrow when I felt better. Now that I was in high school, I didn’t have to go to the Farsi school my parents forced me to attend anymore, which meant my Sundays were wide-open. “I just need to be by myself for a little bit.” I tried hard to smile but failed. Ruth put a couple peanut butter cups into my pocket. “Just in case,” she whispered.

53 Kicked Out of My Own House 5:00 p.m.

My phone buzzed as I sulked around my neighborhood.

5:32 pm Fabian: parvin, how long are you going to mope for? it was just one kiss. it wasn’t like . . . a real relationship

5:33 pm Ruth: Let her mourn, Fabian! Remember how sad you were when the dance team lost nationals last year?

5:33 pm Fabian: ok, fine—you get one more day of mourning parvin!

5:40 pm Parvin: So generous, Fabian. So kind.

5:41 pm Fabian: and then you have to help me pick out my first day of school outfit after we film! i only have two days to perfect it!

54 I put my phone away in the blinding afternoon sunlight and put on my headphones. Mom had forced me out of the house, saying she needed to fumigate my room for cockroaches because of all the food I had left in my bed. She could be so dramatic sometimes. I walked past the old church in our neighborhood, and through the park where the vines were so thick you couldn’t tell where one tree ended and another began. I’d been holed up with my air conditioner all day after Fabian’s and had forgotten how humidity made going for a walk feel like swimming in warm soup. My curly hair had probably frizzed out into oblivion, but who cared? Nobody was going to see me, and nobody was ever going to think of me as pretty or worth dating again. Better to begin my life as an old crone now. There was nothing to do about the Wesley situation that could make me feel better. I had Fabian and Ruth, didn’t I? As long as I had my friends, I would be okay. Fabian was spending the rest of today editing the dance routine they’d filmed this morning, while Ruth finished prepping her freshman year memory book. Life was moving on without Wesley. I guess it was time for me to move on, too. I kicked a rock and turned onto a street where everyone was barbecuing for Labor Day weekend. I smelled burgers and hot dogs cooking from almost every house on the block, and some of them even had slip-and-slides out front. Dad loved to grill Iranian kabobs but had been too busy this year to go to the halal

55 grocer and get the ingredients. We were just going to order in again tonight. “Parvin?” a voice called out. I took my headphones off and turned around. When I saw who was talking to me, I almost passed out. There, in the middle of the sidewalk, was Wesley. And he wasn’t alone. “Oh . . . um . . . hi,” I squeaked. What was he doing here? He lived on the other side of the beltway, in one of those neighbor- hoods that had been randomly glommed onto our school district. His cute dimples were out in full force, but he wore another boring polo/khaki combination. Worse, his new girlfriend, Teighan, was with him. How could this be happening? “I didn’t know you lived around here,” Wesley said. No Hi, Parvin, how are you doing since I broke your heart yesterday? “Yep,” I replied, trying not to cry. “I’m a couple blocks over.” “Wesley, my parents said lunch is ready.” Teighan tugged Wesley toward a house with a bunch of SUVs and the old DC football flag. She completely ignored me. “Oh, sorry, Parvin, this is Teighan. My . . . uh . . . ,” Wesley started, trying to introduce us—as if I hadn’t stalked her online all night. “Girlfriend,” Teighan announced. Welp. Time to leave before my soul exits my body. I started to retreat, ready to flop back onto my fumigated bed and live there from now on. Running into an ex-boyfriend was mortify-

56 ing. But running into him with his new girlfriend was an entirely different circle of the underworld. Then, a man came out of Teighan’s house, clicking barbecue tongs. It looked like they were having a big party. “Hey, Wes—who’s that?” he asked. “Hey, Dad, this is my friend Parvin.” Did his dad not recognize me from the beach? His parents had spent enough time avoiding eye contact with mine you’d think he’d recognize me. This was a new low. I could see a flush start to creep up Wesley’s face. It made me glad that he was just as uncomfortable as I was. “Huh,” his dad said, frowning at me. “Just making sure you knew each other.” He walked back inside. Well, that was bizarre. Most parents would have insisted I join them for burgers or something, not make sure I wasn’t selling their children drugs in a cul-de-sac. “Sorry about that,” Wesley said, looking practically sun- burnt he was blushing so hard. “My dad can be overprotective sometimes.” “Overprotective?” I asked. I was a fourteen-year-old girl. Why did he feel the need to protect his son from me? “Our parents go to church together,” Teighan said, giving me a fake smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “When Wesley asked me to Homecoming, they were sooo excited.” Why was I standing here? Why couldn’t I make up some excuse to leave this conversation? “Are you going to Homecoming?” she asked, smiling that horrible smile. Was she grinning because she knew Wesley and

57 I had kissed, and she was trying to make me feel terrible? Or did she not even know Wesley and I had gone out? Was this what non-loud people did—ask embarrassing questions with a smile pasted to their face? For someone who had just been dumped for being too much, I couldn’t help but notice that Teighan was definitely too much in her own way. Wesley waited for my answer, though he knew I didn’t have a Homecoming date and probably wouldn’t go. But I couldn’t tell them that, could I? Then I would melt into a puddle of shame and slip into a storm sewer. Before I knew what was happening, my mouth opened without my permission. “Yeah, actually,” I replied. “My date and I are sooo excited.” What was I saying? If I looked into my date jar there would be zero dates inside it. Wesley balked. “Really?” he asked. “You already found someone?” “What do you mean ‘already’?” Teighan turned toward him, her long blond hair flying into my face. “Wait, how do you two know each other again?” Busted. Wesley clearly hadn’t told her anything about us. That coward. Still, that meant Teighan hadn’t heard me get dumped yesterday, and for that I was grateful. “Oh, um, from around. Does he go to Polk?” Wesley de- flected, trying to sound casual as his voice cracked. I hated how he assumed I was taking a boy to the dance. What if I wanted to take a friend, since I probably wouldn’t get asked? Or maybe I

58 was pansexual, like Ruth, and planned on taking a girl or nonbinary person? How dare he define me! Even though I was, unfortunately, straight. “You’ll see them soon enough.” I shrugged, ignoring Wes- ley’s shocked face. I got out my phone, even though no one had texted me. “Well, looks like I gotta go help my mom with a social media campaign for one of her clients.” I sighed, as if it was a huge imposition. That was also a lie—Mom worked on social media cam- paigns, but there was no way she’d let me crash into her Pho- toshop files and help her with one. But after combing through Teighan’s feeds, I knew it was just the thing to say to impress her. “Oh, wow.” Her frosty smile momentarily melted. “That’s, like, my dream job.” Wesley didn’t say anything. He just stared right at me, clearly hurt. And guess what? It felt really, really good to be the one causing pain for once. “Wesley! Teighan! Your burgers are ready,” a voice called out from Teighan’s house. “See ya later.” I smiled back. This conversation wasn’t a competition, but I’d definitely won. Wesley just grunted. “I guess I’ll see you at school, Parvin.” “I guess so, Wesley,” I said back. Nice one, Parvin. And then I walked away, noticing how all the cars parked in Teighan’s driveway had square red stickers on them, asking us to Make America Great Again. “Who was your friend?” I overheard someone ask as I

59 walked away from the barbecue. “No one,” Wesley replied.

H a sty Retreat 6:05 p.m.

EMERGENCY! I texted Ruth and Fabian. CODE RED. 911.

6:07 pm Fabian: what? what is it?

6:08 pm Ruth: Did you eat too much dairy again?

6:08 PM PARVIN: I just ran into Wesley and his new girlfriend! And . . . I told them I already had a date to Homecoming!

6:08 pm Fabian: yOU WhAT?

6:08 pm Ruth: (crying emoji) Why would you do that?

60 6:09 pm Parvin: I don’t know! I panicked!

6:09 pm Fabian: now you have to get a date, you fool!

6:10 pm Ruth: But who’ll go with her?

6:10 pm Parvin: Ruth! I’m right here!

Why did I say I had a date to Homecoming? Could Wesley tell I was lying? He seemed pretty upset, though. Homecoming at Polk was a real step up from the sad Fall Ball we had in middle school, where the gym was decorated with a maximum of two streamers and there were no slow songs to discourage any “close proximity.” I’d spent most of our middle school functions next to the soda table, watching Fabian dance so well that circles formed around him while shy boys asked Ruth if she wanted to dance. But still—this lie would seriously backfire if I didn’t show up to Homecoming with someone impressive. Someone cool, who would make Wesley feel like dumping me was a mistake. I needed a date to prove I was different from Middle School Parvin, and that I could wake up in the morning and have that amazing feeling again—the feeling of knowing someone liked me.

61 I walked home in a daze. How could I find someone like that? And even more important, how could I con them into being my date? Because chances were someone that awesome would want nothing to do with me. I thought I had lucked out with Wesley because he liked me just the way I was, but the second he got to school, it was like he was embarrassed to be seen with me. Something about me was just too much for public con- sumption. If I wanted a date who didn’t dump me the second we were in front of their friends, I’d need to do a serious personality change. But what should I change it to? By the time I got home, I still had no clue. Clearly, I needed a plan.

My House 8:00 p.m.

Emergency sleepover. Tonight Ruth and I were going to paint our nails and basically apply everything from my bathroom onto our bodies at the same time, while hopefully brainstorming ways to get me a Homecoming date. Ruth also suggested we watch some of our favorite movies to cheer me up. I’ll try anything at this point. She queued up The Little Mermaid, The Princess Bride, and My Big Fat Greek Wedding. She even brought over sheet masks for us to

62 swap out between films, and Mom and Dad actually provided sustenance in the form of takeout kabob, complete with crunchy rice and Iranian desserts. We were getting our Labor Day BBQ after all. Before I started the first movie, I called Fabian, just to see if he was still busy. “Parvin, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I want to come to girl’s night. I’m still a dude,” he explained patiently to me. “It’s not girl’s night, Fabian. It’s just a movie night to help me feel better, because I am in the throes of heartbreak. So, you don’t want to watch films and eat kabob with us?” “Yes,” Fabian explained. “Exactly.” “Or do face masks,” I confirmed. “Wait.” He paused. “Yes?” “Are they Korean face masks? The fancy ones?” “Yep.” “Give me ten minutes.” I knew it.

My Room 10:00 p.m.

We have consumed three orders of chelo kabob, a Styrofoam thingie of baklava, and an entire packet of Swedish Fish. Fabian

63 nursed a cup of black tea my dad made him, sipping it with his pinky up like an adult. Who was he even? Ruth moaned, clutching her stomach. She didn’t know that the secret to eating kabob was not to fill up too much on rice, but now her stomach was stuffed beyond reason. I couldn’t blame her, though—it was sneaky rice, filled with sour cherries and pis- tachios, and too delicious not to eat. Meanwhile, Fabian inhaled a handful of peanut butter cups and reached for more. Where did it go? He was thin as a rail and could probably win one of those eating competitions and then grab a milkshake on the way home. I adjusted my sheet mask, my first one of the night. It was already drying out. “Should I use a peach one afterward? Or one that smells like coconut?” “You should use the peach one,” Fabian explained. “It promotes elasticity.” Whatever that was. I put on the new mask and cuddled up next to him. “Get your own blanket,” he said, snatching it back. I cuddled up next to Ruth instead. “Ruthie, are you okay?” She nodded meekly, taking a sip of water. I tried rubbing her tummy but she batted my arm away. She must have hit a food coma. We were getting near the end of The Little Mermaid, one of Ruth’s favorite animated movies. She used to dress up as Ariel every year for Halloween and comb her hair with a fork and everything. When the movie finished, I popped inThe Princess

64 Bride. We watched as Buttercup ordered Farm Boy around in what was the weirdest kind of flirting ever. “Hey, isn’t Farm Boy’s name Wesley?” Ruth asked. “It’s Westley,” Fabian corrected. My body froze up. Just the mention of Wesley’s name made me clammy all over again. I could feel the memory of him from that night at the beach dragging me under like dark waves. The glint of his braces loomed closer, leaning in for a kiss. I could practically taste the orange lip gloss I’d worn. “Parvin? Parvin?” Ruth was shaking me. I resurfaced, blink- ing back through my sheet mask. “Are you okay?” she asked, looking worried. I had almost forgotten where I was. Fabian was staring at me, equally concerned. She handed me a peanut butter cup. “I’m sorry I brought him up.” “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” Fabian asked, giving me some of his blanket. “He was my first kiss,” I whimpered. Fabian rubbed my shoulder. “I’m sorry, P. Boys suck.” He sighed, taking another dignified sip of tea. “Let’s just watch the movie,” I said and smiled, trying hard not to dissolve into tears. I swallowed the lump in my throat as Ruth pressed play, ready to get sucked back into the story of pirates, deadly eels, and adventure. Like The Little Mermaid, the leading lady in The Princess Bride rarely had proper conversations with

65 her true love. Neither of the women actually did anything. They simply stared longingly and smiled as they waltzed away into the sunset with their true love. “THAT’S IT!” I shouted, upsetting a bowl of popcorn as I stood up. Fabian yelled. Ruth groaned and rolled away from me; her stomach still too full to flinch. “What is it?” he asked, picking popcorn out of his slicked- back hair. “All of the women in these movies, they’re all the same!” I exclaimed, getting excited. “You mean, they’re white?” Fabian asked. “No, yes, no, I mean—they all act the same. They’re all really coy and quiet and they let guys make the first move and end up with them,” I said, like, duh. “They are the exact opposite of loud.” Ruth sat up with some effort. “How do you mean?” “Check it out.” I pointed to the different streaming thumb- nails from the queue we’d made on my laptop. “The Little Mermaid signs away her voice in exchange for legs, so she doesn’t talk at all. My Big Fat Greek Wed- ding? Doesn’t he just see her through a travel agent window after her makeover, where she got an eyebrow wax and a blowout? And then The Princess Bride . . . I mean . . .” Ruth nods. “All Buttercup does is act pretty. She doesn’t actually say anything.” “Like Aladdin!” Fabian shouts. “Remember how worth- less Jasmine was in the original?”

66 “Exactly! Thank you.” I jumped onto my bed. I had finally cracked the code for why I’d never had a boyfriend before, and why the one I did have had dumped me so quickly. How could I become one of those mysterious, alluring female protagonists while talking all the time? Clearly, I was too chatty for a love story of my own. “I need to speak less,” I diagnosed. “I have to become one of those mousey, quiet girls who only laughs and smiles.” Af- ter flailing around for hours, I had finally figured out what “too loud” meant, and it was the reverse of these leading ladies. “Straight people are so weird,” Fabian whispered, clearly in awe of my brilliance. “Agreed.” Ruth shook her head. “But, Parvin, even if that is how girls get the guy, would you want to date someone who’s into that?” I flopped back onto my bed. “Yeah,” I said out loud to my ceiling. “I would.” “How could you even pull it off?” Fabian asked. “You gasp every time you get a text message. And yesterday you screamed like a fangirl for the entire faculty at their orientation dance.” “They needed encouragement.” Fabian pursed his lips and said nothing. Ruth continued holding her belly and grimacing in the corner. “Clearly I am undateable in my current form. So how do I change that?” “Umm, you don’t?” he replied. “Easy for you to say!” I pointed accusingly. “You get asked

67 out all the time. You’ve already had half a dozen boyfriends.” Fabian shrugged. “Because I don’t try to be someone I’m not. They like me the way I am.” “Yeah, because you’re a cool and interesting person,” I huffed. “I’m just a walking kick-me sign.” “Who cares if you even go to Homecoming or not?” Fabian popped another chocolate into his mouth. That kid had a hollow leg. “Have you never had a revenge fantasy before? I need to make Wesley jealous and feel bad that he dumped me.” “This is stupid. Why don’t I go to Homecoming with you?” Ruth shuffled over. “That way you won’t have to worry about finding someone.” “Or you could go with me,” Fabian added. He tucked a carved radish garnish from our takeout behind his ear and blew me a kiss. Having Ruth or Fabian go with me to Homecoming would definitely solve my date issues, but Wesley already knew they were my friends. I needed someone who would make him look like the idiot who let me go and help me save face in front of Teighan. “Thanks, y’all. But you should go with whoever asks you. Which I’m sure will happen.” Fabian had probably been asked already by some online fan. Ruth gave a happy sigh. “Someone could ask me to Home- coming. Like a Promposal, but with autumnal colors. And then we could go get dinner somewhere romantic where they have

68 real candles on the table. I could even wear a pink dress while we slow-danced.” Ruth’s eyes went misty as she imagined her perfect night. It looked like I wasn’t the only one fantasizing about a Homecoming date, either. “I just need to tone myself down a little bit, and I’ll have a boyfriend in no time.” Fabian snorted, grabbing a Swedish Fish. “I won’t even bother talking you out of this stupid idea because there’s no way you can pull off not running your mouth all day.” I chewed my lip. I had no idea how I was going to be one of the quiet women from these films. After all, I could barely keep myself from speaking like a pirate while being dumped. “I’m just gonna have to remind myself,” I said firmly. “But you won’t act like that with us, right?” Ruth asked. “Don’t worry, Ruth, I’ll never shut up for you.” I grinned. Ruth rolled her eyes. But I’m pretty sure she smiled.

69 SGirlsDo_9780593112533_TX_2p

SOME GIRLS DO

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ALSO BY JENNIFER DUGAN

Hot Dog Girl Verona Comics

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JENNIFER DUGAN

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Dugan, Jennifer, author. Title: Some girls do / Jennifer Dugan. Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2021] | Summary: “An openly gay track star falls for a closeted, bisexual teen beauty queen with a penchant for fixing up old cars”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2020039410 (print) | LCCN 2020039411 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593112533 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593112540 (epub) Subjects: CYAC: Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Bisexuality—Fiction. | Lesbians—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—fiction. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.D8343 So 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.D8343 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020039410 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020039411

Printed in the United States of America ISBN 9780593112533 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Design by Suki Boynton Text set in Chronicle Deck

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To anyone who’s ever had their life turned upside down by love

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1 RUBY

There’s an art to the extraction. First, I take Tyler’s arm— heavy across my stomach—and slide my fi ngers beneath. I lift it slightly and move centimeter by centimeter to the right side of the bed. And, when I’m mostly free, I grab one of his pillows—warmed by my own overthinking head—and slip it under his arm. If I’m lucky, he’ll snuffl e softly in the moon- light streaming into his messy bedroom, hug the pillow, and stay sleeping. If I’m unlucky, he’ll wake up and ask me where I’m going: Ruby, just stay. Ruby, please. Ruby, it won’t kill you to cuddle. I don’t have the energy for that. Tyler’s messy brown hair falls into his face as he smiles in his sleep and hugs my pillow replacement a little tighter. I got lucky tonight—in every sense of the word. I grab my boots, leftovers from one of the ten million Western-themed

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pageants I’ve smiled my way through over the years, and creep out the front door barefoot, careful not to let the screen door slam and wake his parents. The motion-sensor light clicks on as I shove my feet into my boots and beeline it for my car, my soul, my lifeline: my baby-blue 1970 Ford Torino. Yes, it’s old as hell, but it’s the one thing in this world that’s truly mine. I bought it, rusted and rotten, off my great-aunt Maeve’s estate for three hundred bucks. I painstakingly put it back together, scavenging pieces from junkyards and flea markets.I restored it to its current state of splendor. Me. I did that. Okay, so maybe I had a little help from Billy Jackson, the town’s least-crooked mechanic, but still. I climb inside and shift it into neutral, taking off the emergency brake and letting the car coast backward down Tyler’s long hill of a driveway and into the street, where I finally flick the ignition. It rumbles to life, the sound closer to a growl than a purr. I resist the urge to rev the engine—god, I love that sound—and point my car toward home, feeling loose and boneless, relaxed and happy, content in the way one only can during that tiny glint of freedom between chores and obligations. Not that Tyler is an obligation—or a chore, for that matter. He’s nice enough, our time together fun and consensual. In another universe, we’d probably be dating. But we live in this one, and in this universe, I love exactly two things: sleep and my car. Tyler is a great stress reliever, an itch to scratch, a good time had by all. Nothing else. We have an arrangement, a

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friends-with-benefits sort of thing. No strings. If he called me tomorrow and said he wanted to ask a girl out, I’d say go for it as long as it isn’t me—and I’d mean it. I hope he’d say the same. Which is why I’m driving home from his house two hours after getting a text that simply said: big game tomorrow, you around? Be still my heart. But then, a couple weeks ago, I texted him: pageant in the AM, come distract me? And he was crawling in my window within minutes. See, it’s not an all-the-time thing; it’s an as-needed thing. Some people get high; Tyler and I get twenty minutes of consensual, safe sex—always use a condom, people—and a sub- sequent awkward exchange about how my leaving right after makes him feel weird. Thus, the sneaking out once he falls asleep: the ideal compromise, at least on my end. I pull into the dirt-patch driveway in front of my trailer. It might not seem like much to some, but it’s ours and it’s home. Just me and my mom. Well, some of the time, anyway. The better times. But the lights are still on in the kitchen, the TV flicker- ing in the living room, and my heart sinks. Mom works the overnight shift cleaning offices, and her car’s not here, which means this will not be one of those “better times.” Literally nothing could drag me down from a good mood faster than having to be around her boyfriend, Chuck Rathbone. Chuck and my mom have been together off and on for the past few years—and unfortunately for me, lately they’ve been more on than off. “Getting more serious,” I heard her say to

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a friend. Which is why he has unrestricted house privileges. Along with eating our food and wasting our electricity even though we can’t afford it privileges. I get why Chuck can’t help chasing my mom around—my mom is the kind of beautiful that even hard jobs and tough luck can’t dull, a beauty queen and Miss Teen USA hopeful right up until that second line showed up on her pregnancy test eighteen years ago. (Sorry, Mom.) But I don’t really understand why my mom always takes him back. Chuck is, objectively, the worst. I’d crash at my best friend Everly’s house if I wasn’t so sure Chuck had heard my car—my engine is less than stealthy, and normally I like it that way. But if I leave now, he’ll definitely tell Mom, and that’s one guilt trip I don’t need. On a scale of “needs an oil change” to “engine’s seized,” being rude to my mom’s boyfriend rates somewhere around “blown head gasket”—not a fatal blow, but like most things when it comes to my mother, expensive and difficult to fix. I turn off my car, listening to the tick of the engine as it cools down in the spring air. The curtains in the living room move, no doubt Chuck stumbling around, trying to see what I’m doing and why I’m not inside. I reach into the back seat to grab the bag of stage makeup Mom made me pick up earlier and get out. Our door creaks as I yank it open, ignoring the siding falling off next to it, and step over a particularly suspicious stain on the carpet. Five yapping Jack Russell terriers come tearing down the hallway. Mom’s other pride and joy. Please, god, do

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not have let them in my room; they’re barely house-trained— and by “barely,” I mean not at all. “Shut those mutts up!” Chuck yells from the kitchen as he pulls open the fridge, as if I have any control over them. As if anyone has control over them. Mom likes them a little wild; she says it’s more natural that way. I’d personally prefer if their “wildness” could be contained only to the rooms with vinyl flooring. I crouch down and pet as many of them as I can, as fast as I can, while being tackled by the others. Tiny paws dig into my sides and legs as they fight for attention. “Shh, shh, shh,” I coax, calming them as much as it’s possible to calm five under- exercised terriers that rarely see the outside of our home. “Goddamn dogs,” Chuck says, carrying two cans of beer over to the recliner in front of the blaring TV. Fox News. As usual. He drops into the recliner, drips of beer falling onto his faded black T-shirt, which reads don’t tread on me. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in days, flecks of gray poking through his brown stubble. “You’re home late.” “Yeah, sorry. I was studying with a friend,” I say, standing up once the dogs decide that sniffing one another is more interesting than tackling me. I wonder if they can smell Tyler’s cat. Chuck raises his eyebrows, the last wisps of hair on his head flopping comically. “Your mom might fall for that garbage, but I know what girls like you do at night, and it’s not studying.” “What would you know about studying?” I say, hating that he’s right but determined not to give him the satisfaction.

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“I know you don’t get hickeys from math homework.” He laughs and his eyes flick to the talking head on the TV. Goddammit, Tyler, no marks means no marks. My hand reaches up to my neck as my cheeks flame. “Hey, hey, it’s all right, I won’t tell your ma.” I look at him, waiting for the catch. “Come here, darlin’,” he says, but I stay where I am, poised for a quick escape. He leans forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. “So, what did you really get up to tonight?” “What time is Mom coming home?” I change the subject with a smile that shows too many teeth. He frowns slightly. “I don’t know. It’s slow this week, she said. They lost another client.” “So anytime, then?” I ask, and he looks back at the TV. “I’m gonna head to bed. Night.” “You sure you don’t want one?” he asks, gesturing toward the beer can beside his on the tray. And did he, what, think I’d get wasted and spend the night watching conservative shit- heads spout lies on cable TV with him? No, thanks. “It’s a school night.” “Does that really matter to you?” On the TV behind me the host blabs on and on. I stare at the wall, taking a deep breath. I won’t take the bait. “This shit’ll rot your brain, Chuck,” I say, grabbing the remote and clicking it off. Because I will not be intimidated in my own home. I will not take crap from any stupid man sitting on the recliner that I got Mom with my Little Miss Sun Bonnet winnings years ago. I will not be scared of the Chuck Rathbones of the world.

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“Fuck off.” He laughs, chugging his beer and turning the TV back on. I scamper to my room and lock the door behind me, praying to any god that will listen: Please don’t let this be my future too.

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2 MORGAN

“Do you have everything?” “Yes!” “Do you have lunch money?” “Yes, I have lunch money.” “Your track schedule? Practice goes until at least fi ve thirty most days, they said.” “Yes, and then I’m gonna jog or walk to the apartment after.” “Okay, I’m usually at the shop until about six thirty, so if you beat me home and I’m not there, don’t worry.” “Oh my god, I’m not worried. I can handle being home alone.” “I just want this to be good for you. You deserve it after—” “Can we not talk about that? Fresh start and all?”

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“Okay, well, what would Mom say?” “I don’t know. ‘I love you’? ‘Have a good day’?” Dylan smiles, a serious look in his eyes. “I love you. Have a good day.” “Holy crap, Dyl, (a) your impression of Mom needs work, and (b) you’re taking this ‘in loco parentis’ thing a little too seriously.” “I just don’t want to screw anything up,” he says. “Mom and Dad will kill me if I break you or lose you or whatever you do with kids.” “Dude, I’m seventeen.” I groan, pulling my long brown hair up into a ponytail. The car behind us beeps, and someone shouts, “The drop- off lane is for drop-offs. Get out or get moving.” “Yikes,” Dylan says, looking into the rearview mirror. “Yeah, hell hath no fury like a suburban mom late for her latte,” I say. “But don’t worry, I’m going to be fine. And you need to go.” I give him a quick one-armed hug and then dart out of the car before he can stop me. But despite what I told Dylan, I have no clue what I’m doing. A bunch of kids bustle past me, laughing with their friends, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m new. I shift my backpack higher on my shoulders—or at least I try to, which is exactly when I realize it’s missing. Crap. “Dyl!” I call, but of course he can’t hear me on the other side of the parking lot with his windows up. So I do what I do best: I run, fast. I fly through the parking lot, weaving between rows, hoping to cut him off as he moves slowly through the traffic jam that’s formed in front of the school entrance. I’m

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just about there, one more row to go, when a loud horn and the screech of brakes makes me freeze in my tracks. And there, a foot away from my hip, is the bumper of a very shiny blue car. Seriously? I look back to Dylan’s car just in time to see it pull out and disappear down the road. “Dammit!” If it weren’t for this stupid car, I would have made it. I wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the parking lot of a new school without my schedule, a notebook, or even a friggin’ pencil. “What is wrong with you?!” I spin around, slapping my hands on the hood of the car. “Watch where you’re going!” I look up to glare at the no doubt macho asshole driving this stupid muscle car and am struck with the brightest pair of blue eyes I’ve ever seen—which promptly narrow and glare back at me. “You’re the one running through the middle of a parking lot,” she says, hopping out of her car and shoving me out of the way to inspect her car hood. “If you so much as put a scratch in this—” “You could have killed me!” “It would have been your fault if I did,” she says, straight- ening up so we’re nearly nose to nose. “Where were you even going? School’s the other way, if you haven’t noticed.” And oh no. Oh. No. She’s . . . very . . . cute. And before I know it, my brain is unhelpfully making a list of everything I should not be wondering about. Like how her perfectly tanned hand might look linked with my lighter, peachier one. And whether there are tan lines underneath her fitted gray hoodie and obscenely tight jeans. And oh god, I am a creep.

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It would be so much easier to stay angry with her if she really were some asshole dude, but this is a complication. One that will require a full system reboot if I want to get out of this without embarrassing myself. Step one: close my mouth, which is currently hanging open like I’m witnessing a miracle. Step two: pull it together with a quickness. Like, the objective part of my brain recognizes that she still technically sucks. But the nonobjective part of my brain still really wants her name and number, and to know if she’s single and how she would feel about dating a marginally disgraced track star of the female persuasion. “Hello! I asked you a question.” She waves her hands in front of my face. And yes, that was helpful. Please keep being an asshole, car girl. “I forgot my backpack in my brother’s car,” I answer the second my brain comes back online. “I was trying to catch him before he left.” “Why didn’t you just call him?” She looks pointedly at the phone sticking out of my pocket. And okay, good question. “Instinct?” I say. “I’m a runner. I run. It’s what I do.” “Yeah, well, don’t run here. This is a parking lot. For parking. It’s what it’s for,” she says, mocking my tone. “It was an emergency situation.” The girl huffs and pulls her hair—long dirty-blond strands that look like they’ve been highlighted to within an inch of their life—into a messy bun on top of her head. “You’re lucky there’re no scratches from you punching my—” “I didn’t punch your car. I lightly pressed my hands against it in frustration.”

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“Sure. Well, the good news is all it’s going to cost you is a car wash to get your grubby prints off the hood.” She smiles in a mean kind of way that should not make my stomach flip down to my toes but absolutely does. And seriously? Seri- ously?! Can I just for once not be attracted to someone who looks like they could eat me for dinner without batting an eye? “I am not paying for you to wash your car just because I touched it.” She shrugs and walks back to her still-open door. “It was worth a shot. She’s due for one anyway.” And now when my mouth pops open, it’s with annoyance instead of awe. “Worth a shot? Are you—You almost killed me! You almost killed me, and then you tried to scam me into paying for a car wash you’re already getting? What kind of a monster are you?” “The kind that didn’t forget her backpack and isn’t going to be late for homeroom,” she says, before sliding into her car and reversing down the row. “Asshole!” I yell, flipping her off for good measure, but she just rolls her eyes and laughs. I have the good sense to wait until she’s out of sight before admitting defeat and pulling out my phone. Dylan answers on the first ring, sounding totally panicked. Once I reassure him that, yes, I’m fine, the world has not ended, nothing irre- vocably bad has happened in the five minutes or so since he dropped me off—barring almost being run over by the rudest girl in rude town, which I definitely donot mention—he calms down enough to promise to bring me my backpack.

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I find a bench near the track with a good view of the parking lot and wait. So much for coming early to find my classes. There are a couple girls running on the track, no doubt members of the school team, and I wonder if they’re making up a practice or if they’re running penalty laps. My old coach at St. Mary’s was big on those. Coming in early was good for the soul, she used to say, although my body wholeheartedly disagreed. I recognize one of the girls as she runs by: Allie Marcetti— we’ve run against each other a few times, and I kind of know her. She’s fast, but not as fast as me, and definitely not for as long. No one is. Well, no one around here anyway. I heard a rumor she was switching to sprinting for her final season anyway. They rush past me, their matching ponytails streaming behind them, and I bounce my leg, wishing I were running too. I can’t wait until later, when it’s finally my feet slapping the track, pushing myself until my muscles burn and my stomach shakes and . . . I stop, reminding myself I’m technically not an official member of the team yet, not until my waiver comes through. If it comes through. But with my past ranking, Coach had no qualms about letting me practice with them for the last couple months of school. I even signed an early letter of intent to run for my dream school—although at the moment it’s “on pause” while they “evaluate the incident.” I’ve spent a lot of time convincing myself this is all fine and none of it hurts. That going from star athlete to high school

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scandal is a totally normal progression that I am both equipped for and totally saw coming. But, yeah, I look away as the girls cross the finish line, trying really hard not to think about how that should be me, at my old school, with my old friends. My mom keeps saying it’s just a matter of time before I’m cleared to compete again and everything is sorted with my college. Apparently, being given the choice to withdraw or be formally expelled from your old school—a school your parents are currently suing for a myriad of reasons including but not limited to: discrimination and harassment—makes it seem a lot less likely that your new school is poaching elite athletes. Let’s just hope the High School Athletic Association agrees when they finally rule on my case. Coach didn’t poach anyone. We both just got lucky that my brother has an apartment in a school district with a decent running program in the same conference, and the school happens to have a spot for a distance runner. If it were up to me, I’d still be racing with my old crew at St. Mary’s, but it’s not. That’s what happens when you lose it on a teacher who tells you that being queer is against the code of conduct at your stupid private school . . . and then decides to make your life a living hell because of it. We tried the homeschooling route when everything first went down. We naively thought we could just remove that one part of my life and everything else would still be the same. But then the local news picked up the story, and I started to feel like everyone was watching me or something. Maybe it was in

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my head at first, but then my friends stopped calling, and their parents stopped texting my parents. And then I just had to get out of there. Whatever. No wallowing. Fresh start. New me. Out and proud. Taking a stand. So fun! This waiver just better come through before states, or they’ll have to chain me to the bench to keep me from competing. I will not miss the final track season of my senior year, so help me god. The first bell rings, and everybody rushes inside, the parking lot and school grounds becoming a ghost town in seconds. And I stay sitting, waiting for Dylan. Late for my fresh start already.

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3 RUBY

I laugh when she fl ips me off , because me?I’m the asshole? She’s the one darting between rows of parked cars like a squirrel on speed. If anybody is wrong here, it’s her. Defi - nitely. So what if I did try to scam a car wash out of it? The girl slapped her hands on my baby. She’s lucky I didn’t cut them off . I pull into a parking space, far enough away that I don’t think she can see me, but where I can still sorta see her and her very angry big brown eyes. There was a second there, when the sun hit just right, that they almost looked amber. Not that I’m really interested in her or her kinda amber, mostly brown eyes. More mildly curious. It’s a pretty small school, and I’ve known most of these kids since I was little. It’s not often we

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get new kids, especially not this late in the year—there’s got to be a story there. A tap on my side window pulls my attention, and I turn to see Everly—literally the only person on earth cleared to touch my car besides me—giving me a funny look. I pop my door open and she steps back, running her fingers through her twists. One of the boys from the lacrosse team whistles as he walks by with his teammates, flashing her a grin and tacking on a “Looking good, ladies” to round things out. Everly clucks her tongue. “Wish I could say the same for you, Marcus.” Marcus grabs his heart dramatically, walking backward as the rest of the team falls into a chorus of “ooooh” and “ouch.” Everly gets that a lot. I mean, when you’re Harrington Falls’s answer to Amandla Stenberg, it’d be hard not to, but still. I’ll take “Looking good, ladies” any day over what people say to me when she’s not around. I guess that’s what you get when pretty much everybody considers you a trashy time bomb. Like it’s only a matter of time before I start spitting out kids and ruining lives or something. I push my seat forward, shoving a pair of heels, my tap shoes, and some garment bags out of the way to grab my backpack. “You know he’s into you.” “I do.” She smiles. “But?” “But nothing. He hasn’t asked me out, and I’m not about to ask him.” “Wow,” I say as we start to walk toward the building

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entrance. “Way to set back women’s rights about ten billion years. If you like him, you should go for it.” “Says the girl who sneaks around with Tyler Portman every time he texts her for a hookup.” “Hey.” I hold up a finger. “There’s nothing wrong with owning your sexuality. I text him as often as he texts me. And it’s a mutual understanding. No pining, no feelings—” “The boy likes you.” “He does not!” “That hickey on your neck says otherwise.” I snap my hand up to cover it. “I put makeup on it!” “Yeah, well, not enough.” She laughs. “Credit to Tyler, though—it’s amazing you can even see it with all that spray tan you got on.” “That was my mom’s doing,” I say, holding out my arms and frowning when I notice a small streak. “Yeah, well, tell your mom if she makes your white ass go full Kardashian, I’m gonna stop shooting you on principle until you turn back to the shade of skin god gave you.” I huff; I don’t even remember what shade that is anymore. My skin and nails and hair have been tanned and painted and bleached since I was a little girl. Sometimes—all the time?—I wish I could peel it all off, just to see who I am underneath. “You think I’m playing?” Everly smirks. “Maybe your mom will leave you alone if she has to start paying for those Instagram pics.” Everly is obsessed with photography, and it shows in her work. She’s fantastic. She’s been doing my headshots for the

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last couple of years and providing content for the Instagram account my mom manages for me. Mom thinks it will lead to modeling gigs or something, but all it’s led to so far is creepy dudes in my DMs. But forget posed pictures and promoted posts. Everly is the queen of candids. She’s always got her Nikon around her neck, shooting when we least expect it. Her entire senior art project is based on the idea that candids can show you who a person really is, without their guard up. I wouldn’t know; my guard is never down. I pull my hair out of its messy bun and fluff it around my shoulders, covering my neck as best as I can. “Better?” She flicks her eyes over to where Tyler has joined Marcus and the rest of the lacrosse team. “I guess that depends on who you’re asking.” “Oh my god, Everly. A hickey is a sign of an overzealous night, not a lasting declaration of love!” “Uh-huh, well, what about when you combine it with his whole please don’t leave me, Ruby, why can’t you stay the night?” She claps her hands together like she’s begging. “Never happening.” I give her a shove, but I’m laughing. “Uh-oh.” She gasps. “What?” I look around, trying to figure out what just freaked her out, but the only thing remotely out of the ordi- nary I see is the new girl pouting alone on a bench. “Oh, nothing. Just your daddy issues showing.” “Screw you,” I say, but I don’t really mean it. If there’s one person on this earth that can and does call me on all my

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bullshit on the regular, it’s Everly. “It’s not daddy issues. It’s I don’t want to be tied down to a dumb boy in high school and end up like my mom issues.” Everly opens her mouth to say something else, but I can’t hear it over the sound of the bell signaling that we all better drag ourselves inside before we get marked as absent. “Saved by the bell,” Everly says as we catch up to Marcus and the rest of the guys. He slings his arm around her and whispers something in her ear that makes her giggle. Tyler stands on the other side of him, watching. He hangs back from the crowd a little, slowing to match my pace. He’s a catch by most standards—six foot one, all lean lacrosse muscle, with floppy hair and a kind face that lights up when he smiles. I’d run, honestly—anything to avoid this awkward morning-after dance . . . except he’s in my first period. “You left again,” he says when the others are out of earshot. “I leave every time.” I still don’t understand why he’s so surprised by that. “And you left a mark,” I add, shifting my hair just enough for him to see. I don’t miss the hint of a smirk on his face before he pulls his features back into place. “Did you do it on purpose?” I ask, loud enough that Everly turns her head to look at me. “Relax, it was nothing. I just got a little overexcited.” “Well, if you could not get a little overexcited on my body, that would be great.” He leans in. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of our whole arrangement, then?”

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I shove him away with my shoulder. “Just don’t do it again. Okay?” “It was an accident, Ruby,” he says, his tone becoming less playful. “You’re not gonna make me feel like an asshole because you came over to get some and I delivered.” “Jesus, Tyler. Don’t be a dick.” “I’m not the one being a dick.” “What does that mean?” I drop my bag onto my desk. And okay, I guess this is going to be the theme for the day. First I’m the asshole, and now, apparently, I’m also the dick. Perfect. “You know exactly what I mean,” he says, and crosses the room to his seat. Except I don’t. I really don’t. Unless he means the leaving thing, which, no. I glance out the window, a headache already forming behind my eyes. I watch the new girl get off the bench and walk over to a shitty Honda Civic—gray, with little spots of rust on the bumper. I catch a glimpse of the driver as he leans over to pass her a book bag. Definitely not her dad—way too young—but the way he ruffles her hair when she takes the bag means not a boyfriend either. A teeny-tiny piece of me relaxes at that realization. I try not to think too hard about what that means. I search my backpack for a pencil, anything to tear my eyes off the girl outside, grateful when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to find about a dozen texts from Mom, reminding me that I have tap class tonight at six thirty, and to wear the good shoes, and to smile, and to be sure to post- date the check a week, and . . . and . . . and . . . There are always

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more instructions. Mom likes to say, “The only thing better than being a pageant queen is being a pageant queen’s mama,” except I find that really hard to believe. But there are some things you can’t say out loud: like how her dream isn’t my dream anymore, hasn’t been for a while, no matter how hard I try to force it. Like how I wish that post- dated check were for bills and groceries and not tap lessons I hate and spray tans that won’t do anybody any good. Like how I’ve been faking my smile for so long, I’m scared I don’t know what the real one feels like anymore.

SGirlsDo_9780593112533_TX_2p.indd 22 TEXT REGULAR 1/4/21 5:27 PM CO MORGAN THE PASSING PLAYBOOK

Isaac Fitzsimons

DIAL BOOKS DIAL BOOKS An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

Dial & colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 9781984815408

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Design by Cerise Steel Text set in Maxime Pro

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. For my mother. What an adventure it has been. & For trans, nonbinary, gender-creative, and gender-fierce youth. You are seen. You are precious. And you are so, so loved. ONE

Spencer’s morning went to hell when some asshole on a dirt bike swerved in front of Mom’s Subaru. Mom slammed on the brakes and flung her arm across Spencer’s chest, despite the fact that he was wearing a seat belt, and even if he weren’t, it’s not like her arm would keep him from hurtling through the windshield and becoming sausage meat. At least she’d already finished her coffee. The last thing he needed was to spend all day smelling like the inside of a Starbucks. “Is everyone okay?” Mom twisted around to check on Theo in the back seat, but his eyes remained glued to the nature show playing on his tablet. Spencer was impressed by how nothing seemed to faze his little brother. “Maybe we save the vehicular manslaughter for tomorrow,” said Spencer. He didn’t want to be known as the kid whose mom ran over someone at drop-off. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be known as anything. As far as he was concerned, the less he stood out, the better. 2

Mom ignored him as she steered the car more carefully up the tree-lined drive and parked at the curb. “Promise me you’ll make an effort today. Talk to people. Smile sometimes.” She tugged on one of his earbuds, pulling it out of his ear. A muffledda- da-da-dun-da-da-da-dun from the song he was listening to trickled out into the car. “It wouldn’t kill you to be more social.” “It might.” Mom’s jaw clenched. “That’s not funny, Spencer. Not after last year.” “Too soon?” said Spencer. If he turned it into a joke he could pretend that he didn’t still wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing, drenched in sweat thinking about The Incident. He called it “The Incident” so he wouldn’t have to remember it all in excruciating detail: the threatening email, the picture of his face in crosshairs stuffed in his locker, the call to the school that prompted a lockdown, huddling in the corner of a dark classroom, the cold tile leeching heat from his body, and knowing that if someone got hurt, it would be all his fault. “I’m serious, Spence. We don’t have other options if this doesn’t work.” “I know. I’m sorry.” The back of his neck grew hot and prickly like it had whenever he was awakened in the small hours of the day by the creak of the staircase as Dad crept up to bed after spending all night preparing for the extra college courses he was teaching that summer to pay for Spencer’s tuition. 3

Even with the extra work, it didn’t take a math genius to figure out that Dad’s paycheck was barely enough to send one kid to private school, let alone two. So after two years in a Montessori program his little brother, Theo, who was autistic, had to go to public school for the first time. Theo had spent his summer stretched out on the living room carpet in front of the TV watching anything and everything with the word planet in the title. Spencer wasn’t sure how well an encyclopedic knowledge of the mating behavior of amphibians (called amplexus, according to Theo) would go over with other eight-year-olds. “Hey, what’s with the face?” asked Mom. “This is going to be a great year. For both of you,” she added, reaching around to pat Theo on the knee. Spencer picked his backpack up off the floor and squeezed it to his chest. He reached out to open the door when Mom said, “Are you sure you want to keep that there?” She pointed at the I’m here, I’m queer, get over it pin on the front pocket. Spencer’s fingers brushed over the pin. He’d had the same conversation with Aiden over the phone last night. “Think of it as a test,” Aiden had said. “If someone makes a big deal out of it, you’ll know to steer clear. Besides, how else will you find the other queers?” “I’m just saying,” continued Mom, “it’s a bit . . . provoca- tive for your day one. Why don’t you wait and see how the QSA meeting goes first? That’s today, right?” Spencer nibbled his bottom lip. Last night he had agreed 4 with Aiden, but now, seeing the glittery, rainbow letters sparkling in broad daylight, the idea of walking into the building with it on felt like sticking a target on his back. Sure, Oakley might brag about being the most liberal school in the county—after all, that’s why they’d chosen it—but it was still in rural Ohio, where just that morning they’d passed by half a dozen churches, one of which had a sign that said: Don’t be so open-minded your brains fall out. He undid the clasp and tucked the pin in his backpack, hoping Aiden didn’t ask him about it when they debriefed after school. “All right, do you know where you’re going?” asked Mom. “I think so,” he mumbled. “If you’re not sure, you need to ask for directions.” “I know.” He tried to keep the tinge of annoyance out of his voice. When Mom got anxious, she tended to treat him like a baby. But this was a big day for all of them. “Here,” said Mom. She rolled down Spencer’s window, and leaned over him, calling, “Hey, you with the bike!” Spencer slouched lower in his seat as several kids, including the boy on the dirt bike, turned to stare at them. “Mom, what are you doing?” The boy on the bike reversed, rolling backward to the car and stopping outside Spencer’s window. “I’m sorry about cutting you off earlier, ma’am. I didn’t want to be late.” His voice was low and gravelly and muffled inside his retro motocross helmet. 5

“That’s quite all right,” said Mom, clearly charmed by his slight Appalachian twang. Her own accent, courtesy of a childhood in West Virginia, came out stronger. “This is my son Spencer. He’s new this year.” “Nice to meet you.” The boy stuck a gloved hand through the window. The worn leather was as soft as a lamb’s ear against Spencer’s palm. “Do you think you could show him to his first class?” asked Mom. The helmet visor hid the boy’s expression, but Spencer imagined the amusement in his face at being asked to play babysitter. “It’s okay—” he began, longing to turn around, go home, and try again tomorrow, but then the boy lifted off his helmet and Spencer’s words died in his throat. He was cute—all farm boy tan in a navy polo and Wrangler’s. But what really made Spencer’s insides feel like he’d just been dematerialized and rematerialized in a trans- porter was that this kid, with his brown eyes and megawatt smile currently aimed right at Spencer, was a dead ringer for Wesley Crusher from Star Trek: The Next Generation. Spencer’s nightly ritual was watching Star Trek with his dad, who would disown him, not as a son but as a fellow Trekkie, if he knew that the only reason he put up with the cheesy special effects was because of his teeny-tiny crush on acting ensign, wunderkind, Wesley Crusher. Mom gave him a little nudge. “I have to go put Theo on the bus. Have a good day, sweetie.” 6

Spencer climbed out of the car, careful not to trip over himself, and slammed the door behind him. Did she have to call him sweetie? In front of him? What was wrong with bud? Or sport? Bike Boy’s parents probably didn’t call him sweetie, especially not at school. He waved them off, watching the Subaru disappear around the corner, and trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest. “So, what grade are you in?” asked the boy, parking his bike and waiting for Spencer on the sidewalk. Spencer’s thoughts became all tangled up in his head as he tried to shape them into words. “Are you a first year?” Bike Boy prompted. “No,” said Spencer, a little too forcefully. He pulled himself up to his not very tall height of five feet. He wasn’t insecure about it, not really, but it would be a long year if everyone, especially cute boys, thought he was a middle schooler who got lost on his way to class. “I’m a sophomore.” “Cool, me too.” He followed Bike Boy up the path to the gated entrance. On the way the boy waved to a couple kids and high-fived another, but he didn’t introduce Spencer. Then again, what would he say? This is the kid whose mom almost ran me over and then made me walk him to class? Not exactly the first impression Spencer wanted. “Let me guess, you were kicked out of your old school for 7 talking too much.” Bike Boy shot Spencer a wide grin. His two front teeth overlapped slightly, which Spencer found oddly endearing considering that most of his friends had been put in braces as soon as they hit double digits. Spencer searched for something witty to say back. Something to show Bike Boy that he wasn’t a complete weirdo, but his words got lost again. The smile on Bike Boy’s face slipped off. “Wait, were you actually kicked out? I’m sorry, I—” “I wasn’t kicked out.” “It was just a joke.” “I know,” said Spencer, growing frustrated that even the most basic of conversations left him flustered. Not wanting to prolong the agony, he made a decision when they reached the entrance. He knew where he was going. Sort of. He had taken a tour earlier that summer when signing up for classes. “So what’s your first class?” asked Bike Boy. He opened his mouth to respond when someone going past pushed him from behind, and he fell into Bike Boy, who reached out a hand to steady him. Spencer pulled back his arm like he’d been burned. “It’s okay. I know where I’m going. But thanks for your help.” Bike Boy searched his face as if trying to see if he was telling the truth. “Are you sure?” Spencer nodded, scuffing his foot against the floor. “All right, then. I’ll see you around, I guess,” said Bike 8

Boy, his voice lilting slightly like he was asking a question. He hitched his backpack higher and turned to join the swarm of students on their way to class. Spencer watched him leave, not with relief, but with something that felt a little like guilt. Maybe he should be a touch nicer to the guy who had offered to help him, despite narrowly escaping death at the wheels of his mother’s Subaru. Hell, Spencer didn’t even know who he was. Before he could stop himself, he called out, “Wait, what’s your name?” Bike Boy turned and flashed Spencer a smile. “Justice. Justice Cortes.” Justice Cortes. Spencer silently mouthed the name before another wave of students knocked into him. He shook his head. The last thing he needed was to think about Justice Cortes, or any boy, really. What he needed was to keep his distance. If he didn’t get too close to people, they wouldn’t find out his secret. If they didn’t find out, they couldn’t use it against him. Nobody at Oakley knew he was transgender. Spencer needed to keep his head down, study hard, and escape Apple Creek, population 1,172, where the only traffic jams were caused by tractors and Amish buggies. But first he’d have to survive PE.

· · · 9

After a few wrong turns, he finally found the locker rooms just as the warning bell rang. When he opened the door the nauseating stench of body spray mixed with floral air freshener blasted him in the face, invading his nostrils and making him light-headed. Spencer hovered awkwardly at the door as a few strag- glers in various stages of undress glanced up at him from the wooden benches lining the room. Maybe he should change in the nurse’s bathroom like Ms. Greene, his guidance counselor, had suggested. Private stall, a door that locked, and nobody who’d snap him in half like a twig if given the chance. But then someone might wonder why he didn’t change with the rest of them. First rule of passing: Don’t be different. He found an empty corner and untied his shoes, avoiding eye contact. He wiggled his toes as a chill from the concrete floor seeped through his socks. After a minute the only sounds in the locker room were the thumping of his heartbeat and the dripping of a leaky faucet. Alone at last, he jumped into action, wriggling out of his jeans and pulling on shorts from his backpack. He tugged on his T-shirt, grateful, not for the first time, that he hadn’t needed top surgery or to suffer through wearing a binder. Starting hormone blockers at thirteen prevented too much growth and almost one year on testosterone replaced whatever fat there was with smooth muscle. 10

The late bell rang and he slipped into sneakers, shoved his clothes and backpack into a locker, and hurried out the door. With its towering oak trees and ivy-covered walls, the Oakley School looked impressive on the outside. But inside, the lemony scent of disinfectant and the squeak of his shoes against the linoleum as he jogged down the hallway connecting the locker room to the gym told Spencer that this was more like the charter school Miles Morales attended than the Xavier Institute. The hallway, which had teemed with the hustle and bustle of chattering students five minutes ago, was empty. He snuck into the gym, where a dozen or so boys were flinging foam balls at each other. One sped toward his face, forcing him to duck. Where was the teacher? “You’re late.” Spencer jumped and twisted around to see a man in a baseball cap standing beside him. The man wore saggy sweatpants and a ridiculous-looking cardigan with a hood— a hoodigan?—and had a toothpick dangling from his mouth. “Are you Coach Schilling?” he asked, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, I—” “Name?” Coach Schilling cut him off. “Spencer Harris.” “Harris, eh?” He surveyed his clipboard, rolling the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Sweat pooled clammy and moist under Spencer’s armpits. 11

The principal, Mrs. Dumas, had assured him that his school records would have the correct name and gender, but that didn’t stop the panic rising in his chest. If someone had made a mistake, he’d be outed in his very first class, and all of it—his dad working overtime, Theo switching schools— would be for nothing. “You’re new,” said Coach Schilling. It wasn’t a question. With a school this small, new students must be easy to spot. “Make sure you’re on time tomorrow.” He pulled a magazine from the back of his sweatpants and began thumbing through it. “Could you tell me what’s going on?” Spencer sidestepped as another ball hurtled toward him. Coach Schilling, preoccupied with uncovering the secret to getting rock-hard abs in thirty days, barely glanced up from his magazine and said, “Dodgeball.” “Right,” said Spencer. “But what should I actually be doing?” Coach Schilling raised a bushy eyebrow and gave three sharp bursts of his whistle. A hush fell across the gym. Spencer’s face burned as all eyes turned on him. Coach Schilling picked up a loose ball and shoved it in Spencer’s hands. “Take this and throw it over there.” He pointed across the painted line in the center of the gym. “No head shots, no crotch shots. Got it?” Spencer nodded. 12

“Good. Have fun.” Coach Schilling blew his whistle to start the game then went to sit on the bleachers with his magazine. Spencer’s knees knocked together as he joined his teammates. At least if it was a total disaster he could probably duck out after attendance tomorrow and Coach Schilling wouldn’t even notice.

After a few minutes of playing, Spencer’s pent-up anxiety about the first day of school dripped away with the sweat. He might be small, but he was nimble on his feet. He ducked, dived, and even got in a few hits himself, until he was the last man standing on his team and found himself outnum- bered, two to one. His first opponent, a tall boy with shaggy brown hair, chucked a ball at him. Spencer did a clumsy pirouette and it whipped past. He grinned as his teammates called out encouragement from the sidelines. His second opponent threw a ball, which Spencer caught. His team erupted into cheers as the player moved to the sidelines, out of the game. Now it was Spencer and the shaggy-haired kid. The boy launched the ball into the air. Spencer used the ball in his hands to deflect it back, then threw his second ball, forcing the kid to defend both shots simultaneously. 13

To Spencer’s shock, his opponent reached out with hands the size of Spencer’s face and caught both balls. Spencer was out. Coach Schilling blew his whistle. “All right, game over.” Spencer threw his head back. He didn’t consider himself a sore loser, but he disliked losing enough to make sure it didn’t happen very often. When it did, it was like a kick to the shins: incredibly painful, but unlikely to cause any real damage. He forced his grimace into a smile as his opponent approached him, hand outstretched. “Nice moves out there, Twinkle Toes.” He winked at Spencer. Spencer’s cheeks ached with the effort of keeping his smile from falling. He took the kid’s hand, squeezing it limply. He couldn’t tell if he was making fun of him or not. As the kid turned around and started walking back to his buddies, Spencer’s pulse raced. He imagined him telling them what he’d just called Spencer and the nickname spreading around the school. His eyes fell on a ball in front of him, and before his brain caught up with his body, Spencer pulled his leg back and let loose. The ball made a perfect arc in the air before smacking the kid in the back of his head. The kid whirled around, his cheeks flushed and eyes flashing. Spencer’s brain finally caught up. Oh, shit. “Who did that?” shouted the kid. All eyes turned to Spencer. Even the girls playing 14 badminton over on the other side of the gym with their own teacher stopped their game. The kid rounded on Spencer. Spencer flinched. “Did you throw that at me?” Spencer couldn’t exactly lie, not with a room of witnesses. “No, I kicked it.” “With your right foot or your left foot?” asked the kid. “I— What?” asked Spencer, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything. The kid took another step toward Spencer, who found himself backed up against the wall. “That shot. Did you make it with your right foot or your left?” “Left. My left.” To Spencer’s surprise, the boy smiled and turned to Coach Schilling. “Did you see that, Coach?” Coach Schilling was also staring at Spencer with a curious look on his face. “That I did, son, that I did.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Macintosh, why don’t you head to the nurse and get an ice pack. You.” He pointed his whistle at Spencer. “Harris, right?” “Yes, sir,” said Spencer. “You’re coming with me.” TWO

If there were a record for fastest expulsion, Spencer had crushed it. Maybe he could do online classes or Mom could homeschool him again. That is, if she didn’t kill him when she found out what he’d done. He followed Coach Schilling into a dingy room the size of a broom closet. A whiteboard with scribbled, half-erased plays was stuffed in the corner. Coach Schilling squeezed himself behind a tiny desk and indicated for Spencer to sit on a metal folding chair. Spencer was so cramped that his knees collided against the front of the desk, which was bare except for a framed photograph of a boy with a toothy grin holding a baseball bat, and a placard that said Luck is for the Unprepared, which wasn’t helpful, as Spencer wasn’t feeling lucky, nor prepared. Coach Schilling steepled his fingers together and eyed Spencer. “I’ve got one question for you,” he began, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Where the heck have you been all my life?” 16

“I—uh—what?” Maybe private school handled discipline differently. “I’ll give it to you straight: I need a player like you on my team.” “Your team?” He’d figured “Coach” was some sort of honorary title bestowed upon PE teachers after a certain number of years forcing kids to climb ropes and run a timed mile. “Soccer, football, the beautiful game. Whatever you want to call it. Surely you’ve played before. I was watching you in dodgeball. You’re agile and have an innate intelligence for finding space. And the way the ball collided with Macintosh’s head tells me your shot has accuracy and power.” “Yeah, I used to play midfield.” Thinking of his old team brought back warm memories of playing cards during long bus rides to games, and monthly chili dinners at his coach’s house. “We’re neck deep in football country, which means I don’t even have enough players for a separate JV team because they’d all rather get concussions fighting for a pig- skin. I need someone like you if we have any chance at winning the League Cup this year.” Framed team photos lined the wall behind Coach Schilling. Row upon row of boys stared back at Spencer, the passage of time measured by their hair getting shorter and their shorts getting longer. He recognized his opponent from PE wearing the goalie kit in the most recent photo, 17 which explained how he had blocked Spencer’s shots. Then he found another familiar face in the lineup. “That boy, there. He’s still on the team?” he asked, doing his best to sound casual. Coach Schilling followed to where he was pointing. “Ah, that’s Justice Cortes. Sophomore. Scouted him myself. He also plays midfield.” Well, shit, that was just what Spencer didn’t need. He’d barely been able to string two sentences together when he spoke with Justice earlier that morning, and that was when they were both fully clothed. He’d probably become completely comatose if he had to change in front of him. Coach Schilling watched him expectantly. The thing was, he knew he was a boy, but he didn’t know if he belonged on that wall of players with their broad shoulders and narrow hips. None of them had to worry about getting changed in the locker room or where to hide their tampons in case they started their period. Besides, being on a team again and getting that close to people had risks. Worst of all, if everything went haywire, it wouldn’t just be him who’d be affected. There was Mom, Dad, and Theo to think about. On the other hand, that twenty minutes playing dodgeball was the first time in a long time that he felt like he belonged to something bigger than himself, like other people had his back. It was a nice feeling. “I don’t know,” said Spencer. 18

Coach Schilling scratched his days-old stubble. “Well, you signed the handbook, so I assume you’re familiar with our zero-tolerance policy for violence. Maybe Principal Dumas will be lenient on you since you’re new, but zero tolerance generally means, well, zero tolerance.” Okay, that changed things. “And if I join?” “When I fill out the incident report, I’ll call it an accident.” Getting blackmailed by his PE teacher hadn’t been part of his plans, but Coach Schilling’s offer had to be better than whatever his parents would do to him. “Can I think about it?” Coach Schilling handed him a piece of paper. “Have your parents sign this. Tryouts are tomorrow after school.”

By lunchtime, Spencer’s brain was fit to bursting with all the information he had to remember from his morning classes: how to get to them, the names of his teachers, the page numbers for the homework he’d been assigned, even though it was only day one. He slipped past the cafeteria, which sounded like it had been taken over by wild animals, and instead made his way to the classroom where the Queer Straight Alliance was meeting. He double-checked the number by the door, making sure it matched the one that Ms. Greene had sent in an email a few days ago. If he couldn’t wear his pin, Spencer 19 figured this was the next best method of meeting other queer students. He steeled himself, then opened the door. Inside, the desks had been arranged in a semicircle. Spencer counted six other students. It looked like he was the last to arrive. A boy in a deep V-neck shirt and a pair of skinny jeans so tight they could have been painted on looked up at the sound of the door opening. “Here for the QSA? Come on in. we’re about to do names and pronouns.” Spencer took a seat at the desk nearest to the door. “I’ll start,” continued the boy. “My name is Grayson Condon and I use he and him. This is my third year at Oakley and my second year as president of the QSA.” He turned to the kid slouched in a chair to his left. “I’m Riley.” Chin-length blond hair with purple streaks peeked out from under the kid’s hoodie. “And your pronouns?” asked Grayson. Riley stared at the floor. “I . . . I don’t know. I’m still figuring everything out.” Grayson leaned forward. “Hey, this is a safe space. You can use whatever pronouns you want here.” He gave the kid a reassuring smile. “They, I guess.” Riley uncrossed their arms and sat up straighter. “Okay, then, they it is. Let us know if anything changes.” 20

Spencer nodded at Riley encouragingly. Coming out was never easy, even when it went well. The first time he came out was in a Kroger parking lot when he was thirteen. He had endured awkward puberty talks from his parents and his health teacher, and intellectually he knew that one day he’d grow boobs, and hips, and look like the women he saw on TV. But there was part of him that thought, What if I didn’t. Before he went to bed each night, Spencer would pray that he would wake up as a boy. It never worked. Then, one day when he was in eighth grade, one of his teammates came up to him after soccer practice. Even with a strand of hair stuck to her glossy lips, she carried herself with a sort of unself-consciousness that Spencer had never felt before. She was like everything a girl should be, and everything that Spencer wasn’t. “Look,” she said, “this is awkward, but maybe you should think about wearing a sports bra. You can borrow one of mine if you want,” she added, trying to be helpful. “I think it will really improve your game.” A red, hot tingle started to prickle Spencer’s scalp and crawled down his back. There was no meanness in her comment, but the idea that someone had been inspecting his body, especially that part, made him feel sick. If she had noticed he needed a bra, then other people did too. 21

So, Spencer didn’t show up for the next game. Then he skipped a few practices and stopped going to team sleepovers. He stopped doing much of anything. One day Mom dragged him out of the house to the gro- cery store. As they were leaving, her phone rang. She pulled back into their parking spot to check the caller ID. “Mom, can we go home? The ice cream is going to melt.” He didn’t really care about the ice cream, but he wanted to be back in his bedroom, the only place where he could truly be himself. “You know I don’t like talking and driving. It’s your coach. This will only take a minute.” She answered the phone. Spencer took out his own phone to lose himself in an endless scroll through social media but was brought back when Mom’s voice rose. “Excuse me, what?” Mom swiveled in her seat to look at him. “I’m going to have to call you back.” She hung up and frowned at Spencer. “Coach Ireland says you haven’t been going to practice.” Spencer avoided her eyes. “Can we talk about this later?” “No, we’re talking about it now. Do you know how much money we spend for you to be on that team? I’m talking about your kit, gas to drive you to games and tournaments, that summer camp you went to. And you can’t even be bothered to show up for practice? What’s going on with you?” Silence filled the car. Mom spoke again. “Do you not want to play anymore?” 22

It was as if an ice cube were stuck in his throat. He shook his head. “Then why didn’t you tell me you wanted to quit soccer?” “I don’t want to quit soccer.” Spencer’s voice came out raspy. “I just don’t want to play on that team. I want to play on a boys’ team.” Mom drew in a breath. “I have to say, I’m disappointed. You know that girls play just as hard as boys.” Leave it to Mom to turn his coming out into a speech about feminism. “No, it’s not that. It’s just, I just—” He paused, unable to continue. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be a girl.” He stuffed his hands under his legs to stop them from shaking. Mom stared straight ahead. “I don’t understand.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want boobs.” “Sweetie, lots of girls feel that way. It’s natural to be uncomfortable about your changing body.” “It’s not just boobs. It feels wrong when I get my period.” “You got your period, when?” “A couple months ago.” He’d stuffed his underwear with a hand towel and thought that if he ignored it, it would go away. She didn’t say anything for a long while. Spencer’s chest felt tight, like a cord had been wrapped around it. Then she said, “Thank you for telling me. I want you to know that I’ll always love you, whether you feel like you’re a girl or a boy or whatever.” And the cord around his chest loosened. 23

A week later, they went to Supercuts for his first short haircut. Examining his fresh fade in the mirror afterward, he finally looked more on the outside how he felt on the inside. One evening, not long after, Mom went out and Dad said she was meeting a friend. She came home late and knocked on Spencer’s door. He was on his bed, his laptop on his thighs. She entered the room. “Can I sit?” Spencer moved his laptop, which had gotten too hot for his legs, and pulled his knees up to his chest. “I went to a support group for parents of transgender and gender non-conforming kids. That’s what you are, right?” “I guess.” “There were a lot of nice people there who gave me some great advice. This is all new to me, so tomorrow I’m going to make an appointment for you to see a therapist who spe- cializes in these types of issues and get you the support you need.” “Really?” She put a hand on his knee. “I’m not going to make you grow up into someone you’re not meant to be.”

“Name and pronouns?” asked Grayson. Spencer realized that the room had grown quiet and looked up to see everyone staring at him. 24

He swallowed; his throat felt like sandpaper. “I’m Spencer—” “Can you speak up?” interrupted Grayson. “Sorry,” he said, louder. “My name’s Spencer, I use he, him, his.” “Awesome, thanks Spencer,” said Grayson. When everyone had introduced themselves, Grayson took the floor again, sharing a bit more about the QSA and the different programs they did each year. “We have to do something for National Coming Out Day in October. Then in November there’s Transgender Day of Remembrance. And we always do something big for Pride before school ends in June. If you want to take the lead on planning anything, let me know.” The rest of the meeting passed smoothly, a welcome oasis from all the chaos that morning, and Spencer grew hopeful that maybe he’d found a place at Oakley where he could belong. Still, Spencer was glad when the meeting ended early since it gave him the chance to use the bathroom before everyone else exited the cafeteria en masse. He even managed to find a stall where the toilet wasn’t completely covered with pee. He quickly took care of business, then left, almost bumping into Riley outside the door. “Sorry,” he said, holding the door open for Riley. Riley hesitated. Spencer read the anxiety in their face. 25

“There’s nobody in there, if you want to go in now,” he said. Riley still looked unsure. “I can wait outside and tell anyone who tries to go in that there’s a leak or something.” Riley cracked a smile. “You’d do that?” Spencer shrugged. “Of course.” He leaned against the wall and waited, nodding awkwardly at people as they passed by. His anxiety spiked each time it was a guy. Still, it felt good to use his passing privilege to help Riley. To Spencer’s immense relief, no one tried to use the bathroom, and after a couple minutes Riley came back out. “Thanks,” they said, hanging their messenger bag across their shoulder. As Riley started down the hall, Spencer noticed a patch with Aiden’s band name sewed to their bag. “Wait, you know The Testostertones?” he called out. Riley turned back. “They’re like my favorite band.” “No way. Aiden Nesbitt is one of my best friends,” said Spencer excitedly. “Seriously?” “Yeah, I met him . . .” Spencer trailed off. He’d met Aiden at a two-week sleepaway camp for trans kids. But he wasn’t ready to come out, not yet, even to Riley. “I met him this summer.” “Is he as awesome as he seems online?” “Better.” To be honest, Spencer often suspected that lots 26 of people considered Aiden to be their best friend. That’s just who he was. It helped that he was the drummer in a punk rock band, ran an active YouTube channel document- ing his transition, and had an internship at a popular online queer zine. “If you want, I could introduce you sometime,” said Spencer. “His band has a few gigs coming up. I could see if he can get us tickets; we could all hang out.” “That would be amazing,” said Riley. “Cool. Give me your number and I’ll let you know.” Spencer couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face as Riley punched their number into his phone. Maybe this whole making friends thing wouldn’t be so hard after all. THREE

Music Appreciation was Spencer’s last class, and the one he’d been looking most forward to. For the first time all day, he made it to class early. The classroom was deep in the school’s basement. Guitars with chipped necks lined the wall and mismatched chairs were arranged in a semicircle. The stained, mustard-yellow carpet and lack of natural lighting suggested to Spencer that his tuition money wasn’t going toward funding the arts at Oakley. Especially when he compared this room to the state-of–the-arts science lab he’d seen during his tour of the school. Mom had clutched his arm excitedly at the sight of it, her nails leaving half-moon–shaped indents in his skin. Spencer liked science. He was good at it, great even. The science fair medals pinned to the corkboard in his bedroom proved that. At his old school, he’d been allowed to take chemistry a year early. But when he’d told her that he wanted to take Music Appreciation instead of physics, she acted like he’d said that 28 he wanted to enroll in a Klingon language course instead of English. “Do you really want to choose a music elective over science? That’s not like you, Spence.” The thing about moms is that they think they understand you better than you do yourself, just because they changed your diaper for a couple years. Along with an affinity for science, Spencer also inherited his mom’s complete lack of musical talent. Dad, on the other hand, still slept in the T-shirt from his college a cap- pella group. Neither of his parents did sports, but at least he could geek out over science with his mom. If he took Music Appreciation, he’d have something more to talk about with his dad too. In the end, Ms. Greene made the decision when he was signing up for classes after his tour of the school earlier that summer. “If I may,” said Ms. Greene, sitting up straighter in her chair, “I think we should let Spencer sign up for the music elective. Physics can wait until next year. Here at Oakley we encourage expanding the mind through academic exploration.” She sounded like she was quoting one of the motivational phrases plastered around the walls of her office. No such posters lined the walls of the music room. Instead, there were the typical pictures of musical notes, plus black-and-white photos of musicians. Some Spencer recognized from Dad’s record collection—Mahalia Jackson, Duke Ellington—and others he didn’t know. 29

Spencer picked his seat and watched the rest of the students trickle in after the warning bell rang. A few of them looked familiar, but they didn’t acknowledge him. Good, at least he was flying under the radar. A few seconds later, the teacher walked in. Her dress, made out of yellow kente cloth, fanned out around her. Spencer hadn’t thought it was possible for a teacher to be cool, but there was no other word for it. She looked like she had just got back from vacation in Wakanda. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Ms. Hart. Welcome to Music Appreciation.” Her smile seemed to light up every corner of the drab room. She started with roll call and then launched into an explanation of the syllabus. She was just going over the part about how while this class may be an elective, she still expected everyone to take it seriously and anybody who was anticipating an easy grade could leave right now, when the door opened and Justice Cortes, the dirt bike riding, soccer playing, Wesley Crusher look-alike, strolled in. Spencer’s heart fluttered like hummingbird wings in his chest. He’d been low-key disappointed that he hadn’t had any classes with Justice, until he remembered his disastrous attempts at conversation that morning. Considering Ms. Hart’s lecture at the beginning of class, Spencer braced himself for her reaction to Justice’s tardiness. Justice aimed his crooked grin at Ms. Hart. “Did you miss me?” 30

Ms. Hart opened her arms. “Come give me a hug.” She wrapped her arms around him and rocked him side to side the same way that Spencer’s aunt hugged him whenever they visited her in New York. “Sorry I’m late. I was talking to Coach about something.” “It’s okay. Find a seat.” As if Spencer’s thoughts were sending out a homing bea- con, Justice looked over in his direction, making eye contact, and Spencer understood what Gimli saw when he gazed upon Galadriel. But, no. Just no. He hadn’t even known this kid existed five hours ago. It was scientifically impossible to develop a crush in that amount of time, right? And, besides, he wasn’t in the position to be crushing on anybody. But of course, Justice chose the empty seat right next to him. For the next ten minutes Spencer tried very hard to concentrate on what Ms. Hart was saying, but it was difficult because his leg kept brushing against Justice’s in the small circle. Finally, Ms. Hart put down the syllabus in her hand and said, “Okay, everybody up. I know it’s almost time to go home. Let’s shake off this afternoon sluggishness.” She then led them through a series of stretches. Spencer became very aware of every sound that Justice made next to him as he stretched, and had to remind himself to look at Ms. Hart and not at Justice when she demonstrated a weird hip-swiveling routine. 31

Spencer was relieved when they finally finished and he could retreat to the safety of his seat, but Ms. Hart had other ideas. “Now, just because this isn’t choir, doesn’t mean I’m not going to make you sing.” Maybe he should’ve taken physics after all. Spencer had never been good at singing, but his voice had become much more unpredictable lately even when he was only talking. Ms. Hart moved to the piano and played a scale. “We’re going to do sirens. Start on the low note and I want you to slide up to the high note and back down again.” She demonstrated the exercise, her voice rich and melodic. “Got it?” She cued them in and Spencer opened his mouth to sing. He hit the low note all right, but then his voice cracked, sounding like a tortured goat. He saw the corners of Justice’s mouth turn up. The tips of Spencer’s ears went red and he switched to mouthing for the rest of the exercise. When the torment was finally over and they were allowed to sit down again, Ms. Hart addressed the class. “This semester we’re going to be exploring different music genres. Where there are people, there is music. I’m sure you all listen to music all the time. Like right now. Cole, I can see the AirPod in your ear.” Cole, a white kid with a buzz cut, sheepishly removed the AirPod. “But who can tell me, what is music?” asked Ms. Hart. The class shifted uneasily. 32

When nobody answered she said, “Come on, folks, this isn’t a trick question.” A girl raised her hand. “It’s like organized noise.” “Organized noise. Nice. What else?” A few more kids raised their hands and she called on them. Spencer opened his notebook to start writing down notes, but jumped when Justice’s voice whispered in his ear. “I heard you’re trying out for the soccer team.” A shiver ran down Spencer’s spine. He shrugged. He didn’t trust his voice enough to speak. “Are you any good?” Spencer kept his eyes on Ms. Hart, not wanting to look at Justice. “I guess,” he whispered back. He’d led his old team to championship victory in middle school, but he couldn’t tell Justice that since it was a girls’ team. “Coach seems to think you are, anyway,” continued Justice. “And Macintosh was practically skipping when he told me what happened in PE.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen anyone so happy to be belted with a ball before. But a word of advice: This isn’t like playing in the backyard with your little brother. We’re ranked second in the league. You’ll need to be able to keep up.” Spencer bristled at that. “What makes you think I can’t keep up?” The words left his mouth too loudly, causing Ms. Hart to pause and look over in their direction. But seriously, 33 who did this kid think he was? He’d never even seen Spencer play. Justice waited until Ms. Hart went back to her lesson to answer. “No offense, but you’re like half the size of everyone else on the team. Not to mention the rest of the league. Look, come to tryouts if you want, but I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.” Spencer opened his mouth to tell Justice where he could shove his hopes, but Justice was looking intently at Ms. Hart as if the conversation had never happened. Still disgruntled, Spencer attempted to do the same. “Music can be found in every country,” Ms. Hart was saying. “In every culture, and across every time period. Who can tell me where music began?” Justice raised his hand so fast that it created a breeze that ruffled Spencer’s hair. Ms. Hart called on him. Spencer expected him to say Nashville because of his country twang, but to his surprise he said, “Africa.” Ms. Hart smiled, her teeth flashing white against her dark skin. “That’s right. Every genre can be traced back to its African roots. This semester, we’re going to study how music has evolved over time. For your final project, you’ll choose a song that has been covered by multiple artists across genres and identify how the different interpretations affect its message. I’ll give you more information about that later on in the year. Now, I know it’s been a long day. Let’s finish up 34 by listening to some music.” She put on old-school R&B similar to what Spencer’s dad jammed to when cleaning the house. Spencer crossed his arms and tried to let the music wash over him, but his mind kept wandering back to Justice’s comment. The more he thought about it, the more annoyed he got. Who was Justice to tell him what he could and could not do? Though trying out for the team didn’t exactly mesh with keeping his head down, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Justice have the final word.

The fridge cast a blue glow as Spencer chugged orange juice straight from the carton later that evening. He peered through the doorway to the dining room, where Dad graded papers and Mom was setting the table for dinner. “Cliff, can you move your stuff, we’ll be eating soon. Spencer!” she called. Spencer swallowed his mouthful. “I’m right here.” Mom looked into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. “Use a glass, Spence. And close the fridge door. You weren’t raised in a barn.” Spencer let out an oink before closing the fridge like she’d asked. He left the kitchen and snuck up behind Dad, throwing his arms around his neck. “Look who finally decided to leave his room,” Dad said as he wriggled out of Spencer’s grasp. 35

“I was recharging.” “Connie, did you forget to plug him in last night?” Spencer rolled his eyes. Being an introverted child of two extroverts was exhausting. He took a seat at the table next to Dad. “Are we waiting for Theo?” “Let’s go ahead and get started,” said Mom. “He needed a little chill-out time after school. He’ll come when he’s ready.” She piled some chili on his plate. “So, tell us more about your day, you hardly said anything on the ride home.” She kept her tone light, but a slight waver to her voice betrayed her nerves. When she’d picked him up after school, Spencer had kept to mostly monosyllable responses, too drained for anything else. Spencer shrugged. “It was all right.” “Thank you for that description, Mr. Shakespeare,” said Dad. “It’s like I was actually there.” He turned to Mom. “We’re paying how much to send him to that place, and he can barely string a sentence together. Shaking my head.” Spencer rolled his eyes again. His parents had done their best to hide negative reactions to his transition, but he’d heard enough to know that some people called them abusive for supporting him. He wished he could tell them that the only abuse he suffered was his dad’s corny jokes. “Dad, first of all, it’s SMH. Second, you only write it online. Third, nobody really uses it anymore.” “Thank you for that enlightening lecture, Professor 36

Harris. It’s not like I have a PhD or anything,” he added under his breath in a mock whisper. “Call me Spencer. Professor Harris is my father.” Dad tossed his crumpled napkin at him and attempted to put him in a headlock. “Cliff, please unhand our child.” Mom sighed dramatically and turned back to Spencer. “Did you meet anybody nice?” Spencer noticed that she had barely touched her chili. Spencer hastily shoveled another spoonful in his mouth to avoid answering, burning his tongue in the process. Just then, Theo entered the dining room wearing nothing but socks and underwear with blue manatees on them. “Hey sweetie, we wear pants at the table, remember?” said Mom. Theo looked down. “Oh yeah.” He ran back out of the room. “What about Theo?” asked Spencer, thankful for the dis- traction of his younger brother. “How was his first day?” Mom and Dad exchanged a glance. Mom lowered her voice. “He had a little trouble getting on the bus this morning after we dropped you off, so I had to drive him. And his teacher called; they want to set up a meeting this week. I just hope we made the right decision moving him.” Dad reached over and squeezed Mom’s hand. “There’s always tomorrow, right?” said Spencer. “Right,” said Mom. “Oh! Tell Dad about that boy from this morning. Do you have any classes with him?” 37

Spencer’s fork missed his mouth. “Yeah, one.” He leaned down to pick up a bean that had fallen on the floor before his tabby cat, Luna, could eat it. If the table hid the pink blush spreading across his cheeks, that was only a bonus. “What’s his name?” Spencer sensed an incoming rapid-fire round of ques- tioning. Mom used to be an ER nurse and was a pro at weaseling out information from mortified patients about what they were trying to stick where. It was only a matter of time before she cracked him. “Justice.” Justice, who didn’t think he could hack it on the soccer team, he thought bitterly. Which reminded him . . . “He’s on the soccer team. I also met the coach, who said I should come to tryouts.” His voice went up at the end, turning it into a question. Mom choked on her water. “The boys’ team?” “Well, yeah.” What other team would he mean? “I’ve got the permission slip here.” He took the form out of his pocket and handed it to Mom. Mom scanned the form. Then his parents had a word- less conversation that involved lots of raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Mom broke the silence. “We don’t think that’s the best idea.” “Why not?” said Spencer, raising his voice. “The plan was that you were going to ease into this transition,” she said. “Let’s not complicate things. Think about it: Where would you shower? And what about overnights? 38

There might be hazing rituals that involve nudity. There’s a boatload of things that could go wrong. We don’t want to go through what happened before.” Of course, Spencer had similar concerns. But it was his life and it should be his decision. “But this morning you were going on about how I needed to make friends.” “Yes, but there are other ways to make friends. I’m sure there are other activities you can join that maybe aren’t as physical.” And there it was: She didn’t think he could handle playing with the boys’ team. He waited for Dad to step in to back him up, but he was adding spoonful after spoonful of sour cream to his chili, and not looking at him. Mom continued, “What about AV club? You used to love making those little movies with Theo.” “Yeah, like a million years ago.” “Let’s make a deal. This semester you join AV club, then Dad and I will think about soccer for next year.” Mom folded the permission form and put it in her pocket. Conversation ended. Spencer stabbed a bean with his fork. His parents might support his transition, but they would never truly see him as a boy.

After dinner Spencer went into his bedroom, shut the door against the world, and sank into his beanbag chair. He 39 groaned when he heard Luna scratching at the door outside. He got up and opened the door for her. She leaped onto his bed and began kneading his blankets, purring. He nuzzled his face against her fur, then picked up his phone and called Aiden. He’d know what to do. “So, how was it?” Aiden picked up after the first ring, and his familiar, raspy voice formed a warm cocoon around Spencer. It was wild to think he’d only known him since June. At trans camp they’d discovered that they only lived about thirty minutes away from each other and Aiden had invited Spencer to a local trans support group, which met every month. “Not too bad, I guess.” “Dude, seriously? Has anyone told you that you’re kind of hard to read? Don’t make me claw it out of you.” “It was okay. Oh, I met one of your fans.” “Are we talking YouTube, music, or memes?” Spencer could practically hear Aiden grinning through the phone. “Is the zine still not taking off the training wheels?” “You could say that. I get that they hired me as the Gen Z whisperer, but I want to be able to write a story that matters, not recycle Twitter posts and TikToks. Anyway, back to my number one fan.” Spencer groaned good-naturedly. If it were anyone else, he’d be annoyed at the arrogance. Luckily Aiden’s heart was twice as big as his head. “Their name is Riley. They listen to your music. I . . . might have said you could hook us up with tickets.” 40

“Trying to shoot your shot, huh?” Spencer gave a slight shrug. “No, Riley’s nice, but not my type.” “What is your type?” It wasn’t the first time Aiden had asked him that. He was always suggesting people Spencer might be interested in, but Spencer had a hard enough time learning to love and accept his own body, let alone inviting someone else to. Justice’s face came unwillingly to mind. Spencer shook his head to clear it. “I don’t want to talk about my love life or inflate your already humongous ego. I need your advice.” Spencer explained the situation about soccer tryouts and his parents not letting him go. “I know what you want me to say. You want me to tell you that you should disobey your parents and go to prove to them that a trans guy can keep up with a bunch of cis boys. That way, when they find out, which they will because no offense, dude, you’ve got all the stealth of a drunk rhinoc- eros, you won’t feel as guilty because I gave you permission.” That was what Spencer liked most about Aiden, he kept him honest. “So I shouldn’t go to tryouts?” “I didn’t say that. But you need to make the decision. Not me. You’re not roping me into this one. Your mom already thinks I’m the anti-Christ.” 41

“That’s not true. Number one, my mom’s an atheist and I’m pretty sure you need to believe in Christ to believe in an anti-Christ.” “Interesting theory. Not sure if it holds up. Look, I have to finish a post for tomorrow. Just do what you think is best. I’ll see you on Saturday, right?” On Saturday there was a barbecue for the trans support group they went to. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Thanks Aiden. I think I’m going to do it.” “Good luck, bro. Love you, bye,” said Aiden. Spencer settled back on his beanbag and turned on FIFA. He controlled his favorite soccer player, Rafi Sisa, on the screen. If Sisa, the son of a dirt farmer who grew up playing barefoot in Ecuador, could become a professional soccer player, then he sure as hell could try out for a high school team. FOUR

The only sound in the car the next morning was Theo recit- ing the narration to the show on his tablet seconds before the narrator said it. When they finally reached Oakley, Spencer opened the door and got out without a word. Mom rolled down her window. “I’ll pick you up after AV club. Have a good day, sweetie.” Thanks, but I’ve got other plans, he thought. Plans that didn’t include AV club. He held tight to his backpack where he had hidden his boots last night. His PE kit would have to do for clothes. They were playing basketball in PE, which wasn’t Spencer’s favorite sport on the best of days. It didn’t help that he spent the whole period second-guessing his decision. He jumped when Coach Schilling pulled him aside after class and said, “Ready for tryouts, Harris?” It looked like he had actually brushed his hair that morning and put on better-fitting, less grungy sweatpants. He was still wearing the hoodigan. 43

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” “Good man,” said Coach. He clapped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “See you after school.”

At lunchtime, the smell of burnt fish sticks and tater tots turned Spencer’s stomach. Or maybe it was just nerves as he searched for a place to sit and eat his lunch in the crowded cafeteria. He found an empty seat at the end of a table and opened his lunch, trying not to feel too sorry for himself, eating alone in a cafeteria full of people. His eyes settled on a long rectangular table where Justice, Macintosh, and a half dozen other boys sat. If everything went to plan that afternoon, soon he’d be sitting there too. With lunch over, he counted down the seconds until the end of the day. When the last bell finally rang, he decided to change in a bathroom stall instead of the locker room with the rest of the people trying out. By the time he made it outside, several boys were already there, passing the ball around the soccer pitch. He spotted Justice laughing after he nutmegged another player, sending the ball between his legs, sprinting behind him and picking the ball up again before the player even knew what happened. He sat in the grass and pulled on his old boots. He hadn’t 44 worn them for at least a year and they pinched his toes. He hoped he had enough money saved to get new ones. Then a whistle blew from the pitch and he stood, wiping his sweaty palms on his shorts. He was usually a good kid. He didn’t have much choice. When Theo turned two, it became obvious that he was different—not bad, just different. At first, Spencer didn’t understand why Theo would have meltdowns if his peas touched his chicken nuggets, or when the seam in his socks rubbed his toes the wrong way. At his preschool open house, while the other toddlers sang a song, Theo stood on the bleachers with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clasped tight over his ears. After that, his parents were so busy getting Theo tested, driving him to his speech pathologist, working with his occupational therapist, that Spencer was often left alone to do his own thing. With Theo, there was always something to worry about, so it fell to Spencer to make life easier for his parents. He didn’t want them to have to worry about two kids. Sure, sometimes his parents missed his games, and during his middle school graduation, Dad had to take a screaming Theo out of the auditorium before his name was called, but that didn’t bother Spencer. Too much. But when Spencer did screw up—maybe he forgot to do his homework, or talked back to a teacher—he could count on Theo doing something that would make his errors pale in comparison. 45

But if he did this, and he wanted to, there was absolutely nothing Theo could do that would erase the fact that he deliberately disobeyed his parents. He’d have to be careful, he couldn’t get caught, and if he did, he had to make sure he had something to show for it: proof he could make the team. After a brief introduction and drills, Coach Schilling split them up into two teams to play a scrimmage, which disinte- grated into complete chaos seconds after he blew his whistle with everyone playing like fourteen teams of one. Spencer soon found himself lost in a crush of players all fighting for the ball. The one time he did manage to get a touch, he was steamrollered by Travis, a human brick wall. He lay on the ground, thinking it would be more convenient to stay put. Coach Schilling’s voice boomed from the sidelines. “For heaven’s sake, you’re on the same team. Save that aggression for a real game.” Travis helped Spencer to his feet. “Sorry, are you okay?” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Travis brushed grass clippings off his shoulder. Spencer’s knees buckled. The kid really didn’t know his own strength. “Thirty-second water break,” said Coach Schilling. His hair stood up in tufts from where he pulled it in frustration. Spencer got his bottle from his backpack and sprayed 46 water into his mouth and assessed his performance. It was amazing how quickly his body had remembered how to play. He’d done well during the drills, but he needed to step it up in the scrimmage if he had any chance at making the team. Justice came up alongside him and grabbed his own water bottle from the bench. “I did try to warn you,” he said. “What are you talking about?” asked Spencer. “You’re being crushed out there. I can see it. Coach can see it. No shame in quitting.” Spencer stuffed his water bottle back into his backpack. “Screw you.” He walked back onto the pitch with renewed vigor. The scrimmage had taught him two things: One, he wasn’t the strongest or the fastest, but what Spencer could do was find open places that the other players didn’t see. Two, Justice underestimated him, which meant the others likely did too. He needed to use that to his advantage. Plus, with his small frame, he would probably be left unguarded most of the time anyway. So, when the game started up again, instead of getting crushed in the scuffle, Spencer paced around the field scanning for opportunities. His moment came when one of the players on the other team lost the ball and it whizzed past him. Spencer intercepted it and took off running toward the goal. He showed off his footwork, step- ping over the ball to keep it from his opponents. 47

Once he was in shooting range of goal, he looked up to see Cory, a tall, gangly Asian kid who was trying out for goalie, trembling between the posts. He reminded Spencer of a baby giraffe: leggy with no coordination. Spencer could take him. He dribbled forward, feinting right, then left, daring Cory to come off his line. When Cory moved forward, Spencer curled the ball across the goal to Micah, a Black boy who was a striker, meters away from an open goal. Micah drew back his foot and kicked the ball. It whooshed through the air and slammed into the goalpost. “God bless it, Jenkins,” yelled Coach Schilling. “How could you miss that?” Spencer understood Coach’s frustration, even if he didn’t understand his method of swearing. By Spencer’s count, they had a defender who couldn’t defend without fouling, and a striker who couldn’t hit a target three feet in front of him. What next? A goalie who couldn’t save? The ball rebounded in Justice’s direction. He controlled the ball, then glanced around to see who he could pass it to. “I’m open!” called Spencer. He read the conflict in Justice’s face. Justice hesitated, then flicked it to Spencer. It stuck to Spencer’s feet like Velcro. He locked eyes with Cory. But it wasn’t the face of a scared boy looking back. Instead, he saw his parents telling him he couldn’t play boys’ soccer. He saw Justice telling him he should quit. And he saw Coach in the team photograph last year, looking 48 hollow in defeat, and the knowledge that he, Spencer, could be the missing puzzle piece to winning the League Cup. Spencer feinted left this time, then right, and smashed the ball into the back of the net.

After changing back into his regular clothes, Spencer splashed water on his face and doused himself in Axe. Still flushed from the exertion, he headed up to the grassy hill by the drop-off/pickup area to wait for Mom. His legs shook like jelly, but his body felt purified, like he’d sweated out all the stress and anxiety from the last couple days. His head was clearer than it had been in months. This sense of calm was one of the things he loved most about soccer. He took out his phone and saw he had a text from Aiden wishing him luck at tryouts. As he began typing a reply, he heard voices come from the direction of the parking lot below. He recognized one of them as Macintosh’s. “What do you think about the new talent?” “The goalie needs work.” That was Justice. Spencer ducked lower so they wouldn’t see him if they happened to look up. “He has potential. I can work with him,” said Macintosh. “Forwards?” “Micah’s foot is a rocket but he needs to improve his aim.” 49

“Agreed. Midfield?” There was a pause. “The twins were good,” said Justice, referring to a pair of identical twins named Zac and Wyatt. “And Spencer?” Another pause. Spencer held his breath. “I know you like him, but I have to be honest, I don’t see it.” Spencer released his breath. He’d suspected that Justice didn’t like him for whatever reason, but hearing it confirmed out loud hurt more than he thought it would. “Why not? Did you see that pass to Micah? He reminds me of—” “Don’t say Nate. He doesn’t belong in the same sentence as Nate, let alone the same team. He’s not at our level.” Spencer couldn’t hear Macintosh’s response over the angry pounding of blood rushing through his ears. He took several deep breaths to calm down as he watched them leave, Macintosh in his Jeep and Justice on his bike. He was still seething when Mom’s car pulled up to the school. He stood, brushing grass off his pants. “Hey sweetie, been waiting long?” she asked when he climbed in. “Not really.” She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. “Why do you smell like a middle school dance? Did you try to drown yourself in body spray?” Spencer made a mental note not to use enough Axe to blast a hole in the ozone layer next time. 50

“Can I see the AV room?” interjected Theo. “Um, maybe later,” said Spencer, thankful he couldn’t see Theo’s face in the back seat. Lying to Theo felt ten times worse than lying to his parents. “How was AV club?” asked Mom. “It was fun.” She opened her mouth to ask another question but Spencer cut her off before she could dig deeper and uncover the truth. “Mom, I’m tired. Can we talk about it later?” She frowned slightly, but said, “Of course, sweetie. I’m sure you had a long day.”

Spencer stretched out on a towel soaking in the late summer sun. The smell of hot dogs filled the air, along with the sound of children shrieking and the sizzle of burgers on a grill. It was Saturday afternoon and he was at an end-of- summer barbecue for Family and Friends of Transgender Kids and Teens of Northeast Ohio. He couldn’t think of a better way to recover after surviving his first week at Oakley. He allowed himself to relax after being on constant alert for days. It hadn’t helped that he’d been having trouble sleeping since tryouts. Coach Schilling said he’d be posting decisions soon, but Spencer had checked the bulletin board outside the locker room every morning since, and hadn’t seen a thing. 51

Beside him, Aiden groaned. Spencer cracked open an eye to look at him. “What?” Aiden tossed his phone on the towel. “It’s my boss.” “You want to talk about it?” “Nah, it’s boring. Just another pitch shot down.” Aiden looked disappointed. His black-dyed hair and snakebite piercing might make him appear intimidating, but Spencer knew he was a softy, even if Mom still eyed him suspiciously sometimes. “What was your friend’s name? The one who likes my band?” asked Aiden. “Who? Riley? We’re not really friends.” Aiden rolled over on his side to look at Spencer. “Have you thought about inviting them to our next meetup? It might be good for them to meet other trans kids.” Spencer bit his cheek. “No, I haven’t exactly come out to them.” “Still want to be completely stealth, then?” Aiden nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just feel like the fewer people who know, the better. The more people who know, the greater the risk of rejection.” “Or acceptance,” Aiden said. “What?” asked Spencer. “You’re always assuming the worst. Yeah, coming out could go badly, but maybe you’ll find a new ally.” 52

Spencer rolled a piece of grass between his fingers. It was different for Aiden. His moms were lesbians, so he’d been around queer spaces his whole life. “If you had the option of being stealth at school, would you take it?” asked Spencer. Aiden turned on his back again and drummed his fingers against his chest before answering. “Honestly, no. Some people at school don’t know I’m trans and it’s not like I lead with it when I meet someone, but I don’t mind being open about it. I think it’s about what you’re comfortable with. But listen, Riley probably feels pretty alone if they’ve only just come out.” “Mm.” Spencer tossed the ball of grass away. He could invite Riley, but he wanted to keep those parts of his life separate. Besides, Riley’s happiness wasn’t his responsibility. Spencer told himself all that, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it.

On Monday morning, Spencer arrived at first period early. Coach had all weekend to make decisions. Surely, he’d announced the team by now. Spencer raced to the bulletin board, but there was nothing about tryout results. Feeling deflated, he went into the locker room and sat down heavily on a bench. But a moment later, Macintosh sidled up to him in only his boxer briefs and swatted him playfully with his shirt. 53

“You might want to check the bulletin board after class, Twinkle Toes.” He winked.

Spencer spent the rest of the class buzzing with excitement. As soon as they were dismissed, he pushed his way through the throng of people in front of the bulletin board, his heart pounding as he got closer. He found the team list for boys’ soccer and scanned for his name. There it was, written in black ink—Spencer Harris. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to see Coach Schilling grinning. “First practice is tomorrow. You and me, kid. This is our year.”

Spencer’s excitement carried him all the way through lunchtime, when he brought his tray of microwave-warmed spaghetti to the QSA meeting. After doing names and pronouns, Grayson took the floor. “Okay, let’s hear some ideas for what we can bring to the administration to make Oakley a better place for queer students. Last year, we petitioned for all-gender couples’ tickets at school dances, which ended up being a huge success. What do you think we should do this year?” Riley raised their hand tentatively. “What about gender- neutral bathrooms?” 54

“That’s a nice idea,” said Grayson, “but we’re looking for something that will benefit more students. Like with the tickets, now friends can buy couples tickets, which are cheaper, and go together.” “What about cis kids who want privacy while using the bathroom,” asked Riley. “I’m just saying it would probably be pretty difficult to per- suade the administration to go for it just because some people are pee shy,” said Grayson. “Let’s hear some other ideas.” Riley stuffed their hand back in the pocket of their hoodie. Spencer had a choice to make. Being an ally to Riley when nobody was around meant nothing if he wasn’t willing to stand up for them publicly as well. “So, we just shouldn’t do it because it’s hard?” asked Spencer, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. Everybody turned to stare. He thought about backing down, but he was too far in. “I mean, yeah, dances are great, but peeing is kind of essential. And it’s not just trans kids,” he continued. “What about kids with disabilities?” he said, thinking of Theo. “They’ve got accessible stalls,” said Brianna, a girl with an undercut. “But if their aide is a different gender, then they’d be able to help them out in the bathroom.” The room fell into a tense silence until Grayson said, “Good point, Spencer.” 55

The conversation moved on, but Spencer could still sense eyes on him. He felt a little embarrassed, but also a little something like pride. Even if he wasn’t out, he could still support his community. After the meeting, Riley hung back until everyone had left. “Thanks for sticking up for me,” they said. “No worries. They were being pretty crappy allies.” “Yeah, but sometimes I expect that from cis people. No offense,” they added quickly. Spencer glanced around the empty room. It was just the two of them. He could let Riley assume he was cis, or . . . “None taken. I’m not exactly cis.” “Wait.” Awareness dawned on Riley’s face. “You’re—” “Yeah, but please don’t tell anyone.” “Of course not.” Even though the more people who knew he was trans, the less likely it was he could stay stealth, he felt like he could trust Riley. He thought back to his conversation with Aiden. “I talked to Aiden. He said he’d try to get us tickets. Also, there’s this meetup group we go to. I’ll send you the info.” “That’s awesome. Thanks, Spencer.” “Don’t mention it.” He walked to his next class feeling lighter than he had in weeks. CAMERON LUND An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

First published in the United States of America by Razorbill, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available. Names: Lund, Cameron, author. Title: The best laid plans / Cameron Lund. Description: New York : Razorbill, [2020] | Audience: Ages 14+ Summary: When eighteen-year-old Keely Collins decides to lose her virginity, she fears Dean, a college student, will be turned off by her inexperience, so she decides to startCIP with DATA lifelong TK friend Andrew. Identifiers: LCCN 2019036730 | ISBN 9780593114919 (hardcover) ISBN 9780593114926 (ebook) Subjects: CYAC: Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Virginity—Fiction. | Sex—Fiction. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.L8484 Bes 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record availableISBN at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019036730 9780593114940

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The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. To the friends who have seen all the worst parts of me and love me anyway NOW

IT TAKES ME A SECOND to realize I’m not in Jordan’s bed. My head is pounding—a throbbing ache at my temples—and before I pry open my eyes, I’m struck by how bright the light is on the other side of my lids. I reach a hand out, expecting to feel Jordan’s warmth beside me, envisioning his smile, the crooked tooth that only makes him cuter. I’ve been waiting half my life to wake up next to Jordan Parker. Instead, my hand touches what feels like grass, wet with morning dew. That’s when I open my eyes. Because I’m not in bed at all. I’m on a lawn chair in Jordan’s yard. I scramble to sit up, and as I do, a wave of nausea rolls through me, my stomach twisting. I’m not sure whether it’s from the alcohol still coursing through my system, seeping out my pores like sweat, or whether it’s from the knowledge that Jordan and I did not sleep together last night, in any sense of the term. That

1 CAMERON LUND somehow I ended up on this chair and I can’t exactly remember how I got here. I stumble to my feet, noticing then that my shoes are missing, the hot pink high-tops Olivia and I bought together last week. We’d wanted to match. When you match with somebody, it proves to the rest of the world you’re important; you’re part of something. And everyone wants to be part of Olivia. Now both my shoes are gone, one foot totally bare, the other covered in a slimy wet sock. My knees are bruised, but I don’t remember falling. Actually, I don’t remember much of anything. Dinner with Olivia and Katie at the place downtown with the endless breadsticks and the waiter that never cards; piña coladas and margaritas and daiquiris, because the best drinks are the kind you can take pictures with, that make it look like you’re on vacation and make everyone else on Insta- gram jealous. I remember leaving dinner, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, laughing so hard in the Uber it felt like I might pee. Then later, dancing to Lana Del Rey in Olivia’s room, helping her apply the perfect smoky eye. The feel of Jordan’s arms around me when we got to his house, the way his cheek felt scratchy against mine; the smell of him, something earthy and exciting, a thrilling reminder of our plan for later. But the rest of it is a blur. How did I get out here on the lawn? And why didn’t anyone bring me inside? I pull my phone out of my pocket—thank god I haven’t lost it too—and check the time. It’s nine a.m., which isn’t as late as I’d usually sleep after a party, but isn’t that early either. I must have been out here for hours. I don’t have any texts, which is unusual. In the mornings, my phone is typically buzzing like

2 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS crazy—conversations happening on every app about the night before. Did you see Brett and Darlene making out? How drunk was Katie? You looked so hot last night. Love ya, babe. Love ya love ya love ya. But right now, it’s quiet, the screen darker than it’s been since sixth grade, back when I was still Pukey Penelope. Back before Olivia discovered me. I can’t help the buzzing fear that something is wrong. Be- cause if everything were normal, I wouldn’t be out here. There’s something I can’t remember, something I’m pretty sure involves Olivia. I can feel it in my gut. And I’m scared of what she might say. Olivia has always had a way of telling the truth to your face and making it sound like a kindness, her dazzling smile tricking you into thinking she’s on your side. Maybe next time, don’t be such a sloppy mess. Girls like us are better than that. It’s just I’m not usually on the receiving end of it—not since we became best friends. These were comments meant for Katie, who’s always a little too eager and embarrassing; for Myriah, who cries in school over bad grades; for Romina, who always ditches us to hang out with the guys. No, I’m always on Olivia’s good side, the one she laughs about it with later. But maybe I’m overreacting. I probably told my friends I was heading home and then couldn’t get a ride or something. I bet this chair just seemed like the best option at the time. When I go inside, everything will be totally normal. Olivia will be asleep on the L-shaped couch with Katie, grumbling and hungover, but happy to see me. I knew you wouldn’t disappear before breakfast sandwiches! she’ll say, laughing and unpacking the eggs and cheese and muffins we bought yesterday to prepare for today’s hangovers. Jordan will be upstairs in his room, the bed with the fresh

3 CAMERON LUND sheets he washed just for us, because last night was meant to be special. Our first time. Jordan and I officially started dating last December, but I’ve been in love with him for years. He finally asked me to be his girlfriend right before winter break, and then Olivia was dating Jordan’s best friend, Kai, by Christmas. I love that we got boyfriends at the same time, and even though Kai is one of the most annoying people on the planet, I deal with him for Olivia’s sake. Last night was supposed to be perfect—the final night of our junior year, the first day of summer, officially seniors, the ones in charge of everything. Now I’m not so sure. I’m still in my junior class shirt, the one we all wore to school yesterday so everybody could sign them. Some of the signatures are smudged now, the Sharpie running from the wet grass. My hair is still in its twin braids, same as Olivia’s, hers blonde to my brunette. I don’t want to see my face. I’m sure it’s a disaster. I really went for it—full contour, highlight, brows. I wanted to look like the kind of girl Jordan would be proud of. I’ll have to run to the downstairs bathroom to clean up before I see him. Raising a hand to shield my eyes, I turn toward the house. Sun roasts the back of my neck, the heat of it making me dizzy. I squelch through the damp grass in my sock to the sliding glass door that opens up to the TV room and try to pull it open, but it’s locked. Peering inside, I see Katie asleep on the couch in a position that can’t be comfortable, one foot on the floor, an arm thrown above her head. I knock on the window, and she startles awake. When she sees me, a wave of emotions passes over her face—first a smile, then a grimace, finally settling on confusion, her eyebrows knitted together, frown lines on her

4 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS forehead that are sure to cause wrinkles. It makes me nervous. It makes me even more sure something is wrong. She stands up from the couch, coming over to me, dodging piles of trash—cans, red cups, spilled chip bags—that have become a maze on the floor. Katie’s got these unruly black curls that are almost bigger than she is, and right now, they’ve tripled in size from her night on the couch. She unlocks the sliding door and pulls it open, just barely, not enough that I can fit inside. “Penny,” she says, almost a whisper. “What are you still doing here?” “What do you mean?” I say. “Come on, Katie. Open the door.” She glances behind her. “I really think you should go.” “But this is my boyfriend’s house.” Even right now—even feeling like this—I can’t help the little burst of pride that blooms inside me as I say it. Katie claims to have a boyfriend too—a guy named Matt she met at summer camp and never stops talking about—but none of us have ever seen a picture, so we’re not sure he’s real. “You can’t block me from Jordan’s house, Katie. That doesn’t make any sense.” Katie presses her lips together in a tight line. “I’m trying to help you.” And there it is again—the buzzing in my chest. Some- thing went horribly wrong last night, and Katie knows what it is. “I guess I spent the night on the lawn?” I try to put a smile in my voice. If I can pretend this whole thing is funny, then maybe everything will be okay. “I thought you went home,” she says. “After everything that happened.” “Katie, what happened?” My stomach clenches. The nausea is worse now, and I’m sweating in earnest, the sun on the back of my neck unrelenting.

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“Penny, you should leave.” This isn’t how things work with Katie and me. I’m usually the one in control, the one on the better side of the door. My brother once told me that popularity wasn’t real, that I should stop worrying about something that doesn’t matter. But he’s a guy, so of course he doesn’t get it. I told him I could rank every girl in our class in order. Olivia is number one, obviously. I’m number two, and Katie is number three. Darlene is number fifteen, because even though she’s weird, people still hang out with her to buy weed. Sarah Kozlowski, who doesn’t wash her blue hair—who pricked her finger once in biology so she could study her own blood under the microscope—is number fifty-six. Dead last. It’s not something that’s ever really talked about; everybody just knows. It’s important to know your place in the world. It gives you a road map of how to act— who to be friends with, who you’re allowed to date, who you need to avoid at all costs. “Katie,” I say again. “Please let me into the house.” “Fine.” She sighs heavily and pulls open the door wide enough for me to squeeze by. Inside, the hot summer air is trapped with the stale stench of trash and sweat. There are other people in the room, I realize. Danny Scott is asleep on the other side of the couch, and Romina and Myriah are curled up on an air mattress in the corner. “Thanks,” I say to Katie. “I’m gonna get cleaned up. I feel like roadkill.” “You look like roadkill,” she says back, which I should have expected. She shakes her head, pausing before she adds, “Are you okay?” “I’m fine. I love the fresh air.” I know I sound ridiculous, but

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I can’t make any of this a big deal. Not if I want the story to go away. I’m about to walk into the downstairs bathroom when I’m stopped in my tracks by a familiar voice. “What the hell are you doing here?” Olivia has just appeared at the top of the stairs and she’s looking at me like I’m the enemy. Her blonde hair is out of her braids—so that we no longer match—and her skin is fresh and dewy; Olivia’s hangovers don’t show on her face. She’s still in the same junior T-shirt as I am, and I can see my message for her there, right over her left boob: love you forever. I want to read it to her, make her remember I’m the girl that put it there only yesterday. “Hey, Liv,” I say, forcing out a laugh. “You’ll never believe where I slept last night.” “I don’t care where you slept.” She folds her arms, looking down at me with a sneer. “Oh . . . okay,” I say, still hesitant. “Should we start breakfast?” We’ve made breakfast sandwiches at every sleepover since middle school, and even though our sleepovers have now turned into parties, we would never let the habit die. Maybe right now, the sandwiches will make everything better—will smooth over whatever went down last night. “So you’re just gonna pretend you don’t remember?” Olivia puts her hands on her hips, and I know that eggs will not magi- cally fix anything. “I don’t remember, Olivia. I mean, I remember parts of last night, but if we got in a fight or something, I’m sure it wasn’t a big deal.” My voice is really wavering now, and my nose starts to itch as I hold in the tears. Katie sits down on the end of the couch, watching us with big eyes. The others are waking up

7 CAMERON LUND now too—Danny yawning and pulling out his phone, Romina and Myriah laughing quietly, whispers back and forth like the hiss of snakes. I can’t cry, not in front of an audience. “How convenient for you,” Olivia says. I rack my brain, trying to think of anything I could have said to offend her. But everything yesterday was sofun . It wasn’t a real school day—the teachers dismissed us early because we were all so hyped up on summer. We gathered in the field to sign each other’s shirts, but Danny had sneak-attack pelted us with water balloons, and soon it was all-out war—Olivia and I teaming up on Jordan and Kai and dropping balloons on them from the second-story stairwell. Then we’d gone home and dried off and gotten ready to go out, laughing and dancing around in her room. Olivia had been excited about Jordan and me. She’d looked up silly sex tips online—the ridiculous ones from Cosmo that I swear no one has ever tried in real life. We’d read one that suggested throwing a handful of pepper into the guy’s face while in the act and died laughing so hard Olivia fell off the bed. I’d brought a little pepper shaker to the party with me as a joke and when I showed her later, she’d screamed. Whatever happened to ruin all that must have been bad. “If I said anything that hurt your feelings,” I say, “I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry,” Olivia repeats, her voice flat. “Well, that changes everything.” “Where’s Jordan?” I start walking up the stairs, pulling off my sock when it squelches into the carpet. Whatever went down between Olivia and me, I know Jordan will take my side. I need him to tell me that everything is going to be okay. “Why would you care?” Olivia laughs, but there’s no humor in it, and suddenly I’m terrified. Is this all about Jordan?

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“Liv, what are you talking about?” My voice catches, and I have to clear my throat. “I love Jordan.” She steps to the side, blocking me from passing. Jordan’s room is across the hall at the top of the stairs. I can see the bumper stickers on the door: keep tahoe blue, bob marley, santa cruz beach boardwalk. “Oh really? Did you think about him at all last night?” she asks. “No, wait, you can’t remember anything.” “You don’t live here,” I say, dread pooling in my stomach at her words. “Let me talk to him.” She pauses and then smiles. “Okay. Let’s talk to him. That sounds fun.” She steps aside, and I walk past her and up to the door. I push it open and then there he is, lying on the bed, a sheet twisted around his bare torso, dappled sunlight shining through slits in the closed blinds. He’s beautiful—tan skin and clean, hard lines. I’m not the only one obsessed with Jordan—we’re all half in love with him. I’m just the lucky one who actually got him. “Jordan,” I say, coming into the room and sitting down on the edge of the bed. I glance behind me and see Olivia hovering in the doorway, watching. There’s a peal of laughter from downstairs, someone telling someone else to “shut up.” I want to close the door. I want Olivia to leave. But I want to fix things with her, so I don’t say anything. “Jordan,” I say again, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. He groans, shuffling around under the sheet, and then jerks awake, his eyes flashing back and forth between Olivia and me before settling firmly on my face. “Penny,” he says in a gust of air. “What are you still doing here? I thought you went home last night.”

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“No, I . . .” I trail off, not wanting to fill him in on the rest of the details. I’m holding my breath, waiting for something else to go wrong. “I’m so sorry about last night . . . if something happened.” I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, but it seems like the right thing to do. “Penny doesn’t remember anything,” Olivia says, taking steps into the room. “She has amnesia.” “I just drank too much.” I turn back to her, the tang of the piña coladas, margaritas, and daiquiris still sharp and sweet in the back of my throat. “You were a mess.” Jordan sits up, and the sheet falls down around his waist. “I know,” I say. “I know, and I’m sorry.” Are we okay? Do you still love me? That’s what I really want to ask. Jordan has always been too good for me, our relationship so tenuous. “Come on, Penny,” Jordan says. He reaches out like he’s going to take my hand for a second and then pulls back, clearly mad at himself for doing it. “This is seriously unfair. You do something fucked up, but you don’t remember it, so then you don’t have to feel guilty?” His words cause a flare in my stomach, the feeling like I’ve lost control of my car on the freeway. “What happened, Jordan?” I’m trying to keep my voice steady. “I love you.” How can I make him believe it? I repeat the words in my mind, like I’ll be able to imprint them on Jordan’s heart. I love you, I love you, I love you. Olivia sits down next to me on the bed. “Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you made out with my boyfriend.” “What?” For a second I think Olivia must be joking. It’s a well- known fact that Olivia’s boyfriend, Kai, and I don’t get along.

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And besides that—I would never do anything to hurt Olivia. But then, there’s a flash of memory—I’m leaning into Kai, my hands in his hair, a feeling of want pooling in my stomach. I instinctively shake my head to make the image go away. It’s not a full memory, not exactly, just a flicker of feeling. It’s like what we learned last year about Plato’s cave; I can’t see the image, just a shadow of the image reflected onto the wall. “Do you need me to repeat it?” Olivia asks. “Jordan.” I turn to him. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t do anything with Kai. I don’t even like Kai.” “Olivia walked in on you guys kissing,” he says. “In the laundry room.” And I know it’s true. I can see the basket of folded clothes up- turned on the floor, can feel my back pressed against the washing machine, can remember leaning in to kiss him, trying to con- vince him I wasn’t that drunk, him pulling away. It’s all there in my memories—a horrible movie reel of terrible decisions. No no no no no. It doesn’t make any sense. Last night was supposed to be special. I’d been planning it for weeks. Why would I ruin that? Why would I ruin that with Olivia’s boyfriend? “I’m . . . sorry,” I say, my voice weak. I know sorry doesn’t cover it. I know there isn’t anything I could actually say to make this better. I’m the worst person in the entire world. I remember lying with Olivia on her bed last night before the party, the conversation drifting from Jordan and the question- able Cosmo sex advice over to Kai. “I just can’t figure him out right now,” she’d said, unsure. “I feel like we’re drifting apart.” “What if you stuck an ice cube down his pants?” I’d suggested with wiggling eyebrows, referencing one of the stupider tips we’d read.

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“Yeah, that’ll win him over.” She’d laughed and then we’d moved on, like the conversation hadn’t even happened. And I’d made everything so much worse. She’d been upset about things with Kai and instead of being a good friend, I’d kissed him. “I think you should probably leave,” Jordan says now. “I don’t really want to do this anymore.” “Do this like . . . this conversation?” I ask softly. “Or, like . . . us?” “I mean, I don’t think we should be together.” I feel bile rise at the back of my throat, tears stinging the corner of my eyes. I have to get out of here before anything gets any worse. I can’t cry in front of everyone. Worse—I can’t throw up. Pukey Penelope will not be making another appearance. I’ve worked so hard for this, to be here in Jordan Parker’s bedroom, best friends with Olivia Anderson, finally a girl everyone else wants to be—a girl with friends who make her feel like she matters. There’s no way they’ll still want to be friends with me. I wouldn’t want to be friends with me. “Did anything happen last night with you and Olivia?” I ask Jordan, working at a hole in his sheet with my fingernail. It’s the question that’s been nagging at me, a sliver of unease in the back of my mind. It’s the way her hand is still on his shoulder, how she’s sitting on his bed like she belongs there. This problem with Jordan is fixable—I know I can get him back, so long as Olivia hasn’t gotten to him. In a competition against Olivia, anyone would lose. “Anything going on with me or Jordan is none of your business,” Olivia answers. “You lost the privilege to know anything about us when you stuck your tongue in Kai’s mouth.”

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“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know it’s not enough. “I don’t know why I kissed him. It doesn’t make sense. I love you guys.” I shake my head, trying to clear the memory away, like if I can forget it happened, everyone else will too. I know that’s why I couldn’t remember it when I woke up. It was self-preservation. My mind flashes again to the way Kai’s hair felt between my fingers, his hands on my back before he pulled them away. I wish I could make this all his fault, but I know it’s not. He’d tried to stop me, but I’d kissed him. And I’d liked it. That’s the worst part. Because besides the horrible fact that he’s with Olivia, there’s also this: Kai ruined my life in elementary school. And yeah, maybe we grew up and were forced to hang out, but I’ve never quite gotten over it. According to chaos theory, a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a tornado all the way across the world, events flowing outward like ripples on the surface of a lake. All of this started when Kai moved to our town from Hawaii in fifth grade—Pukey Pe- nelope, my friendship with Olivia, falling for Jordan; all the moments of my life built one upon the other. And this right now? This is the freaking tornado. “I have to go.” I stumble out of the room and down the stairs, holding my breath so the tears don’t fall. I can hear Olivia’s footsteps behind me. “Yeah, get out!” Her voice is sharp as a knife, her words twisting in my gut. Katie’s eyes are wide, mouth hanging open. Romina has her phone pointed in my direction, and I see the light that means she’s recording. Soon my misery will be posted all over social media. Soon the whole school will know what I did. I pull open the screen door and race out into the yard, Ol-

13 CAMERON LUND ivia right behind me. The sprinklers are on, and I run through them, the cold water shocking me awake. My bare feet squelch through the grass and then I’m on the blacktop, tar burning hot from the sun, and running down the driveway. It’s not until I’m out onto the street, around the corner, where I know Olivia can’t see, that I start to cry.

14 THEN

JUNIOR YEAR—SEPTEMBER

I WAKE UP EVEN earlier than usual the morning of the first-day-of-school pep rally so I can take the necessary million years to get ready. Each of the grades was assigned a color for the day—green for the freshmen, blue for the sophomores, red for the seniors, and black for us. Whichever grade has the most school spirit gets a Friday off at the end of the month, so it’s going to be war. My friends decided to go all out—lots of dark eyeliner and fishnets that will probably get us in trouble with Principal Han- son but are totally worth it. I laid my outfit out on the floor the night before—a black Thrasher T-shirt and a pair of pleather pants I transformed into shorts. I went to the touristy thrift store by the lake for accessories—I even got a pair of those Madonna gloves from the eighties to complete the lewk. “You’re actually wearing that shit to school?” my brother, Sebastian, grumbles when he sees me. Olivia is coming to pick

15 CAMERON LUND us up since there is no way she would ever leave me to die on the bus with the freshmen. “What’s wrong with my outfit?” I glare at Seb. He doesn’t know the hours I spent on YouTube learning how to sew a perfectly straight hemline. “You’re breaking about thirty dress code rules.” Seb is wearing all green, but not in a way that looks purposeful. Not like he means it. He’s got a Redwoods High School baseball cap backward on his head, ears sticking too far out the sides. I’ve got the same ears, which is why I can never ever wear my hair in a ponytail. “Dress code rules are meant to be broken. Is Mom still here?” I ask, although the question is unnecessary. There’s a ten-dollar bill on the counter for each of us for lunch money, a sticky note with a smiley face on it indicating she’s already left for work. I crumple the note and throw it into the trash, tucking the money into my pocket. I know it’s stupid—that in the grand scheme of things, it really shouldn’t matter—but I was kinda excited to show this outfit to my mom. Except I should have known better. She’s a nurse at a rehab hospital, and they’re stupidly understaffed, so they’re always calling her in at crazy hours. Sebastian and I are used to fending for ourselves—lunch money on the counter, frozen pizzas and ramen noodles, little notes with smiley faces that are supposed to be suitable fill-ins for an actual human parental presence. A horn beeps outside, and I grab my backpack from the closet. “Come on, Liv is here.” Olivia has a green punch buggy, and Seb punches my arm as soon as we get outside, which I should have expected because it happens every time we see her car. But somehow I’m still

16 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS caught off guard. “Ow!” I say, pulling my arm away and thwacking him back. Olivia rolls her window down and lifts her sunglasses to perch them on top of her shiny blonde head. “Could that be my best friend, Penelope Ann Harris, or has a beautiful supermodel angel taken her place?” “Are you saying I’m not usually a beautiful supermodel angel?” I ask, all faux-offended, and climb into the front seat of her car. Olivia laughs, deep and scratchy. She’s got a low voice for a girl, but it works for her. She’s pretty much the embodiment of a sexy war-era lounge singer draped across a piano. “Actually, I misspoke. You are all devil today, girl.” “Back at you.” Olivia is dressed almost exactly the same as me. She’s in a huge vintage AC/DC T-shirt that goes down to her mid- calf, matching fishnets, and big black combat boots. People are generally scared of Olivia even when she’s wearing her standard flouncy dresses and floppy hats. Today, in this outfit, no one will fuck with her. “I need you to do my makeup when we get to school,” Olivia says. “I need your winged liner skills. I tried to do it myself this morning, and I looked like a wet raccoon.” She turns around and eyes my brother. “Hi, Sebastian. No good morning for me?” Seb’s face immediately flushes pink, and he clears his throat. “Good morning.” Like every other living, breathing straight male on the planet, my brother has a huge crush on Olivia. And she totally knows it. “Don’t be gross,” I say. It was okay when Sebastian was still a little kid, but now that he’s growing up—now that he actually looks like a boy that could date her—the teasing feels a lot weirder.

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“I’m just being nice.” Olivia gives me a toothy grin. “Sebastian and I are friends. Aren’t we, Seb?” His eyes light up. “Yeah, if you say we’re friends, we’re definitely friends.” “But don’t worry.” Olivia turns to me. “I would never replace you, Penny. You’re the spicy tomato soup to my extra-sharp Ver- mont cheddar grilled cheese.” This is a game we’ve played for a while. It started back in eighth grade with fairly normal combinations: You’re the milk to my cookies, the Kendall to my Kylie, the Batman to my Robin. But over the years the comparisons have gotten a lot more creative as we’ve run out of ideas. Making it strange and specific is part of the fun. “You’re the fashionably ripped fishnets to my badass combat boots,” I say, wiggling my foot in her direction. “Oooh, very on brand for today.” She grins. At times like this it’s easy to forget that Olivia and I haven’t always been close—that I spent all of elementary school alone with my nose in a book. But those days are behind me. All that matters is we’re here now; we’ve found each other and we won’t let go. Olivia knows everything about me: how my dad left when I was little—the way I sometimes like to pretend he doesn’t exist so I don’t have to think too hard about how a guy could do that to his own kids. She knows how mad I get sometimes when my mom is pulled into work, how much it sucks when she uses her limited free time to go out on dates instead of hanging out with Seb and me. Olivia has been there with me too many times— big bowls of Easy Mac at the kitchen counter—when my mom comes home with some dude she’ll only see for a night, intro- ducing him to us like he actually matters.

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“What do you think Jordan is gonna say when he sees your outfit?” She turns to me again, waggling her eyebrows. Anoth- er thing Olivia knows: all the details of my lifelong debilitating crush on Jordan Parker. I flush, embarrassed because Seb is in the car, but also because this is a natural reaction I have every time Jordan’s name is brought up. I’m in love with Jordan for all the obvious reasons— he’s tall and fit and amazing at basketball with dimples that are actually soul-crushing. But for the not-obvious reasons too. He’s just so nice. A guy like Jordan doesn’t have to be one of the good ones; he could be a huge douchebag and everyone would probably still worship him. So every kind gesture feels like it matters even more. “Jordan isn’t going to notice my outfit,” I say quietly. “There is no way anyone could not notice your outfit,” Seb grumbles from the back seat. “You look like a baby prostitute.” Olivia spins around in her seat—a dangerous feat considering she’s still driving the car—and glares at him. “You know, I take that as a compliment, Sebastian. You’re saying she looks like a strong, independent entrepreneur who celebrates her sexuality.” Then she turns back to me. “And believe me, Jordan will notice.”

When we get to school, Olivia pulls into her spot under the shady tree toward the back of the lot. It’s not technically her spot—we don’t have assigned parking at RHS—but everyone knows Ol- ivia’s green buggy, and they know to keep space cleared. It’s just one small example of Olivia’s power—people probably don’t even know they’re doing it; she just gets away with things mere mortals can’t. To be honest, if I weren’t always reaping the ben-

19 CAMERON LUND efits by carpooling with her, this would probably be supremely annoying. Seb unfolds his too-tall body from the car and pulls his backpack onto one shoulder. “You gonna sit with me at lunch, Ol- ivia?” he asks with a smirk as he walks away. “I mean, if we’re friends and all.” “In your dreams, freshman!” Olivia shouts at him, laughing. “Will you please for the love of all that is holy stop flirting with my brother?” I shut the passenger door a little too hard. “He is like five years old.” “It’s harmless,” Olivia says. “Come on, I want to take some shots of you before first period. Got to commemorate our win today.” “We haven’t won yet.” The truth is the seniors usually win the extra day off, which is completely unfair considering they get out for the summer a whole month before we do anyway. Even so, I feel good about our chances. These outfits took work. Olivia pulls her camera out of her bag as we walk, skirting around the side of the building to the expanse of grass behind school. There’s a soccer field back here, a baseball diamond, and some old tennis courts slightly overgrown with weeds. “Tennis courts?” Olivia asks, leading me there before I’ve answered. The weeds are looking especially plentiful this morning, which Olivia has said is part of the charm. She likes the combination of the chain-link fence with the overgrown grass: industrial meets natural. We take photos here a lot. Olivia is Very Serious when it comes to her camera—she only uses real film and pretty much lives in the old darkroom after school. Once she’s developed a photo at least three times to find the exact right exposure, she’ll scan it and put

20 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS it on Instagram. We’ve got a photo series going, which she’s dubbed the Tennis Court Kids—black-and-white shots of all our friends posed back here like we’re on some album cover from the nineties. I do what I can with hair and makeup, but Olivia has a gift. We snap a few pictures, and then the bell rings in the distance signaling we’re about to be late. Since it’s the first day, we’re meeting in the gym for the pep rally before homeroom. Olivia tucks her camera lovingly into her bag, and then we sprint back across the field, joining the crowds of people swarm- ing down the hallway toward the junior locker area. There’s a banner proclaiming a junior blackout hung across the ceiling beams taped up by the kids that got here early, black balloons strewn about the floor, black streamers twisted around col- umns. And everyone is wearing all black too—black hats, black leggings, black boots, with smudged football stripes across their cheeks. It’s amazing. But then my eyes catch on a singular white T-shirt, its wearer nonchalantly pulling a book from his locker, ignoring the chaos behind him. Kai. “Are you kidding me?” I say, more a grumble under my breath than to Olivia. Of course Kai Tanaka would ignore the pep rally, would think himself above showing even a little bit of school spirit. “He’s the only one who didn’t dress up.” “Who?” Olivia asks. She walks over to her locker to put her camera away and I follow. We got to pick our lockers last week at orientation, so most of our group’s are in the same corner. This means that every time I stop by my locker between classes, there is the exhilarating and terrifying possibility of running into Jordan. But it also means I have to deal with him.

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“Kai.” I nod my head over to his stupid white T-shirt, and Ol- ivia calls out: “Hey, Tanaka!” Kai looks over at us, shutting his locker. “No,” I say, swatting Olivia’s arm. “Don’t call him over here. I’m not in the mood for—” But it’s too late. He’s grinning and heading in our direction, and soon he’s right in front of us. Olivia and Kai have been friends ever since he moved here and I don’t understand why. He’s the kind of person who always has to make a stupid joke when things get too serious, who doesn’t care about anything that matters, who talks to fill space that doesn’t need to be filled. “You never texted me back last night,” Olivia says, pouting her lips. “Yeah, I fell asleep part way through the episode.” He shrugs. “Her British accent is so soothing, and every time she starts talking about the cupcakes, I—” “So do you just not give a shit?” The words are out of me before I’ve thought about them. Kai turns to me. “About who wins the Bake-Off? Of course I do.” “No, about who wins the pep rally!” He chews on his lip for a second and then laughs. “Um, yeah, for sure. I most definitely don’t give a shit about the pep rally.” “It would have taken you like three seconds to pick out a black T-shirt.” “Oh, lighten up, Penelope,” Kai says. “If I want a day off school, I can skip. What’s the issue?” “You can’t just . . . cut class all the time, Kai. That’s not how this works.”

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“It’s not a big deal,” Olivia says, ever the mediator between us. “Come on, you still need to do my eyeliner.” And I know she’s right. I know it’s not a big deal. I can’t control how other people act, can’t force them to take things seriously. But I can’t let it go. Because it’s not just the T-shirt. It’s a million little moments built upon each other: all the times Kai has told me to “lighten up,” the way he always makes fun of the effort I put into things—as if the act of caring is something to be ashamed of. Before this, it was last year in Mr. Simon’s English class, when Kai and I were partnered up for a project and despite my incessant pestering, he’d written his share of our poem twenty minutes before it was due. It’s when I didn’t get any cards in my Valentine’s Day box in fifth grade, and instead of ignoring it to make me feel better, Kai pointed it out to everyone; when I came to school with the flu and threw up all over myself and Kai said: “It’s Pukey Penelope!” and the name followed me down the hallway for the rest of the year. Pukey Penelope smells like barf. Don’t let her touch you. So yeah. Maybe this white shirt isn’t a big deal to everyone else, but it is to me. “This doesn’t make you cooler than everyone,” I say. “Just because you’re not dressed the same.” Kai laughs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I could never be cooler than you.” “Even if you don’t want the extra day, the rest of us do.” I pull the black Madonna gloves a little tighter on my hands. “Besides, I actually think dressing up is fun. You should try it sometime.” “So I can look as fake as you do?” I’m about to lunge at him when Olivia steps between us.

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“Children, please. Tanaka, settle down with the insults. Today is supposed to be a happy and momentous occasion, and I don’t want my two besties fighting.” She boops me on the nose and then spins around and boops Kai’s nose too. “You are both perfect in your own ways.” “No, don’t encourage her,” Kai says with a maddening grin. “Penelope already thinks she’s perfect.” “I just don’t get you,” I say, speaking to him over Olivia’s head. That’s the thing about being almost a foot taller than her—she may be strong, but I’ll always have the height advantage. “I don’t see what’s so hard to get,” Kai says with an infuri- atingly indifferent shrug, like he’s not even bothered by this conversation at all. That’s when I see Jordan approaching from down the hallway behind him, and my response shrivels up on my tongue, my mouth a dry husk. He’s smiling that megawatt Jordan smile, holding an old boom box up on one shoulder with AC/DC’s “Back in Black” blaring from it. He’s got tall black knee socks below his shorts, two black football smudges across his cheeks. Of course he does. Jordan always goes all in. “Hey, Jojo!” Olivia says when he reaches us, leaning in to give him a quick hug. We took that love language quiz last year and Olivia unsurprisingly got physical touch—she’s always draping her body around people, pulling us into hugs, tapping us on the nose. Jordan holds up a fist for Kai to bump and then brings it in my direction too. I tap my fist against his, reveling in the brief moment of contact when his skin is on mine. I can feel the flush of heat to my cheeks indicating I’ve gone completely red. From a fist bump. Pathetic. “’Sup, Harris?” He nods, and I nod back, hoping he doesn’t no-

24 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS tice the color of my face. “I like your outfit. Very cool.” He waves a hand over the whole of me, and I am trying not to freak out about the fact that he is maybe kind of checking me out. “Nice gloves,” Kai says to me. “Are you trying to look like a Victorian woman who just killed her husband?” “They’re eighties,” I say. “Not Victorian.” “Michael Jackson, right?” Jordan asks, and I die a little inside because that is so not an association I want him to make with me. “It’s supposed to be Madonna?” I say, my voice lilting like it’s a question. I clear my throat and try again. “Madonna. It’s supposed to be.” Great. Now I sound like Yoda. For the millionth time, I curse the fact that Jordan Parker turns me into a puddle incapable of human speech. “Don’t you like my outfit, Jojo?” Olivia asks, with a spin. “You fishing for a compliment, Anderson?” Jordan smiles, showing off the dimples. “You know you’re a dime.” “And don’t you forget it.” The second bell rings, indicating it’s time to head to the gym, and we pour down the hallway, black shirts coming from all directions. “So, you gonna wear those gloves all day?” Kai asks from beside me. Olivia and Jordan have fallen in step ahead of us, and with the crowd, I can’t really move up next to them. So I’m stuck with him. “I was planning on it, yes. Why is that a concern of yours?” “I dunno, seems like you wouldn’t be able to text with them on.” “I’ll manage, thanks.” “It’s just, you know, you’re usually always on your phone.”

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“Jealous?” I ask, turning to him. “You know, when you’re fun to be around, people actually text you to hang out.” Kai laughs then—loud enough that both Olivia and Jordan turn back and glance at us with confused expressions. “You? Fun to be around? That’s hilarious. I didn’t know you were capable of making jokes, Penelope.” “Ha ha,” I say in a sarcastic tone. “Just because I don’t turn everything into a joke doesn’t mean I’m not fun.” “Yeah, when I look back on high school, that’s how I’ll remember you. Penelope Harris. She was so much fun.” I hate to admit it, but his words sting a little bit. I want to be above it. I don’t want to let stupid Kai Tanaka keep affecting me. Still, I know I could be more fun. I know I could loosen up a bit, try to care less about things, but who is this boy to think he knows better about my own life than I do? Besides, it’s not like Kai knows me the way Olivia does. He wasn’t there all those times we put on her old dance costumes— sequined leotards and pink cowboy hats—and shimmied around the living room. He wasn’t there the night we mixed frozen strawberries in a blender with her parents’ whiskey and ended up calling everyone in school. He doesn’t know that side of me. He only knows the me that’s constantly on the defensive. The truth is, the reason I suck so much when I’m around him is just because he sucks more. “Don’t act like you know me,” I tell him. He shrugs. “You’re right. I don’t know you because you’re exactly the same as everyone else.” He motions between my combat boots and Olivia’s, our matching black tights, and waves his arms in the general direction of every other person around us— the sea of black T-shirts.

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“It’s spirit day,” I grumble. “That was the whole point.” We round the corner into the gym, and I use the opportunity to move away from him. My legs are a little bit longer than his, so I take the biggest, most aggressive strides I possibly can and push my way up toward Jordan. I’ve always been a fast walker, have never understood the concept of strolling, or god forbid, moseying. I am a girl with places to be. I let myself daydream briefly of two Septembers from now, speed-walking to my first college class at UCLA, where Olivia and I are planning to go together. If Kai was moving slowly in front of me, I would push him out of my way. Maybe dump a coffee on him for good measure. The vision fills me with a special kind of warmth as we enter the gym. Until I look to my left and Kai is still there. I was so sure I lost him, but he’s like a cockroach. He just won’t die. “What are you smiling about?” he asks, nudging me gently with his elbow. “I was thinking about dumping coffee on you,” I say. “You daydream about me a lot, Penelope?” He grins. “I’m flattered.” “It wasn’t a daydream,” I answer. “It was a nightmare. You are my sleep paralysis demon.” The noise of the gym is deafening—a sea of colors all around the bleachers as each of the classes enter, trying to one-up each other on school spirit. I hate to admit it, but the seniors are definitely going to win. Their section is bright red—red cowboy hats and ribbons and T-shirts. One of the soccer players, Gabe Pinker- ton, is dressed like Moses in long red robes with a huge fake beard and staff. There’s another guy dressed in a full Spider-Man costume, a mask covering his face so I can’t even tell who it is.

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Everyone has whistles and tambourines and cymbals—anything to make noise. “See?” I shout to Kai so he can hear me. “The seniors are going to beat us. They actually care about spirit day.” “I know,” Kai says. “It’s so sad, isn’t it?” I roll my eyes and turn away from him, finding our friends in the juniors section. They’re all waiting for us—Katie laughing with Danny Scott, Myriah and Romina sitting close and whisper- ing about something. When they see us approach, they all turn in our direction, making room. “Parker, my man!” Danny says, raising his fist for one of those complicated bump-handshake things that guys do. Jordan takes a seat next to Danny, and I try to maneuver so I can slide in beside him, but then Kai is there, taking the spot that was supposed to be mine. Typical. Olivia shoots me an apologetic look, and then sits on the bench in front of Jordan. I decide to sit next to Myriah and Romina because I do not want to spend another second near Kai Tanaka. “I heard Luke Stevens wanted to ride in on a horse,” Myriah is saying, referring to one of the seniors. “That would have been amazing, but the school wouldn’t let him.” “Where the fuck would he get a horse?” Romina says, then turns to me. “Nice outfit, Harris. You are a vintage queen.” “Thanks,” I say. “You look awesome too.” Romina shaved the side of her head in an old-school Skrillex way sophomore year after a particularly bad breakup with her girlfriend Harper. Her parents freaked out—they’re Persian and can be strict—but she knew if they could get over the fact that she’s gay, they would get over the hair.

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Right now, she’s in this amazing dark red lipstick—like she’s a vampire—her hair twisted up into a million little buns. “Ugh, I can’t wait until college so I can get my nose pierced.” She sighs. “I feel like a nose ring would have made this so much better.” “You look beautiful either way,” Myriah says. She reaches out as if to squeeze Romina’s knee and then pulls her hand away before it makes contact. In complete contrast to Romina, Myriah is in one of her black ballet leotards, her wavy light brown hair held back by tiny black butterfly clips. She has tiny black hearts dotted like freckles across her cheeks. “Only you would be able to find black butterfly clips,” I say, and she smiles, reaching up to touch one of them. “She has butterfly clips for every occasion,” Romina says. “I like what I like,” Myriah says. “Butterfly clips are cute.” “I think Myriah might actually be made of cake,” Romina says to me. Myriah frowns. “Is that a good thing?” “Duh,” Romina says. “Everyone loves cake.” It’s funny that Myriah and Romina are best friends because in a lot of ways they’re so different. But they’ve been close since elementary school—back before anyone knew Myriah would grow up to become a gentle, soft-spoken horse girl, and Romina would become a person who generally hated most gentle, soft- spoken horse girls. But they just fit. And ever since Myriah came out as bi last summer, they’ve become inseparable. We spent all of fourth grade obsessing over Kim Possible, Romina joked to me once. I should have seen the signs. “I saw you talking with Tanaka,” she says now, leaning closer to me with her voice lowered. “You guys gonna pound it out or what?”

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My whole body shudders at Romina’s words. “Did you just use the phrase pound it out?” “Ride the Pound Town Express.” She grins. “A one-way ticket to Pound Town.” I roll my eyes. There’s a common theory among our friends that Kai and I are secretly into each other or something—that all our fights stem from displaced passion and one day we’ll fall in love. But sometimes an annoying guy is just an annoying guy. “Ewwwwww,” Myriah whines, pushing against Romina’s shoulder. But then she giggles. “They wouldn’t go to . . . Pound Town,” she hesitates on the words, tripping over them. “They would make love. A one-way ticket to Falling-in-Love Town.” “Doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Romina says. Myriah thinks for a second. “Lover’s Lane?” “Soul Mate City,” Romina answers. I give them my best Are you done? face. “I’m not going to be taking any train rides with Kai Tanaka to any destination.” “Oh, come on,” Romina says. “Your sexual tension is insane. If you guys would hook up already, we could all move on with our lives.” I feel myself flush with heat, can tell my cheeks have turned a spectacular shade of scarlet. Because before I can help myself, I’m thinking about it. Kai may be the absolute worst, but he’s got this power—that effortless cool I hate so much, but which seems to make all the other straight girls in our class love him. And yeah, he has high cheekbones, a wide smile, black hair that flops down into his eyes. I guess his face is objectively attractive, even if it’s extremely punchable. I shake my head, embarrassed to have been complimentary

30 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS to Kai, even inside my head. If he knew what I’d been thinking, his ego would grow so monstrous it would crush cities. “Would you keep it down?” I say, trying to shush her. Kai and Jordan are both right there on the bench in front of us, like four feet away. “She’s not denying it,” Romina says with an evil grin. “I don’t like Kai like that,” I say. “I like . . .” I trail off, nodding my head to where Jordan is sitting. He’s too close for me to possibly say any of this out loud. “Yeah, we know,” Romina says. “Penny is madly in love with Jordan.” And oh my god, her voice has not gotten any quieter. It feels like it’s ricocheting off the walls of the gymnasium. It’s so loud in here right now, practically vibrating with school spirit, but I swear her words have carried above all of it. It feels like everybody around us can hear. I risk a glance to my right to where Jordan is sitting, and notice with horror that he’s looking at me. Our eyes meet, just for a moment, and then he turns away, flipping around to laugh at something Danny is saying. Did he hear what Romina said? Does Jordan Parker know I have a crush on him? And then it gets so much worse, because Kai is looking at me too. If Kai heard, he’ll use this against me for the rest of our lives. This will be more ammo for him, another thing to throw in my face. Penny is madly in love with Jordan. And obviously Jordan doesn’t like me back. “Romina,” I say, her name a gasp. My stomach is churning like maybe I’m about to be sick. “Relax.” She shrugs. “No one heard.” “Maybe it’s a good thing if someone heard?” Myriah reaches

31 CAMERON LUND out and squeezes my hand. “How are you and Jordan ever going to get together if you don’t make a move?” “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” I sputter, not able to find the right words. Because she’s right. I’m so terrified of Jordan, so scared to talk to him, that there’s no way we’ll ever get together unless I can get over it. But I can’t imagine opening myself up to anybody like that. If you show someone interest, you’re only giving them an opportunity to reject you. It feels so much safer living in the daydreams inside my head. “You gotta go for it,” Romina says. She motions vaguely in the direction of Jordan and Kai. “One of those boys is gonna get you in trouble this year. Good trouble. I can feel it.”

32 NOW

I CALL SEBASTIAN AND WAIT on the side of the road for him to come pick me up. It’s embarrassing having to ask a favor from my little brother, but I don’t have much of a choice. Our town is spread out, houses buried between the trees, neighbors only a relative term. It’s hard to walk anywhere unless you have a gallon of water and a tent. Seb pulls up twenty minutes later, and I take a few deep breaths, wiping at my face before pulling open the door of our mom’s Toyota. He just got his permit, which means technically he’s only supposed to drive if there’s an adult with him in the car, but I’m so glad he’s here. “You look like shit,” Seb says, and then when my face crum- ples, he changes tactics. “Whoa, please don’t cry.” “I’m fine.” I take another deep breath. It feels a bit like I’m choking every time I inhale. “Um, where are your shoes?” He pulls the car out onto the road, hands gripping the wheel so hard they’re turning white.

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“Do you want me to drive?” I ask instead of an answer. “I got it,” he says, and it’s probably for the best. There’s a chance I might still be drunk. “Do you . . . want to talk about it?” I love him for trying so hard, but I don’t want to dump all my emotional baggage on my brother. “Everything’s fine,” I tell him. “Can you just take me home?” All I want is to sleep for a million years in a real bed. “I think Mom’s actually home for once,” he says. “We’ll have to sneak you past her. No way she can see you looking like this.” “Seb, do you ever drink?” He turns to me briefly before fixing his gaze firmly on the road. “This . . . feels like a trap.” “You shouldn’t,” I tell him, running a finger over the bruise on my knee. “People do stupid things when they’re drunk.” It’s crazy how one terrible, drunken decision can unravel relationships that took forever to build—thirty seconds canceling out five whole years. Memories flash in my head before I can scrub them away, sickening reminders of everything I’ve lost. Giving each other silly makeovers in eighth grade, wearing giant sunglasses and feather boas dancing around her room to old Miley Cyrus songs. The trip we took with her parents to LA, sitting front row at our first big musical, how we promised each other we’d both end up there together when we grew up—her as a famous fashion photographer and me as her assistant. I need you there with me, Olivia told me once, the two of us lying out on sandy towels at the lake. You’re my muse. And Jordan—thinking about him feels even worse. When I think of Jordan I think of his hands—how we always laughed because his fingers were so much longer than mine when we

34 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS pressed our palms together. Lying for hours on the floor of his tree house, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. How excited we were to spend senior year together, the days spread out endlessly before us. I had so many plans. I watch the trees pass by on either side of the car, bright green in the sun. It’s officially the first day of summer, a day that was supposed to feel magical. I’m mad at that other girl, the one I barely even remember being. I’m not the one who did this horrible thing. It was her. If I can hate her, maybe I won’t hate myself.

When we get home, Seb gets out of the car first and looks around before coming back and opening my door. “Okay, so the good news is that Mom is upstairs,” he says. “But the bad news is she’s not alone.” That’s when I notice the other car in our driveway. My mom probably had a date last night, and I do not want to see the grisly aftermath. I learned years ago it’s better to slip by unnoticed than to have to deal with these awkward, one-sided conversations. And today, when I’m looking and feeling like this? Defi- nitely not gonna happen. “Let’s hope they’re preoccupied,” I say, and Seb sticks his tongue out. “Gross.” We creep quietly up the path to the front door, and I can hear a low rumbling of voices coming from an open bedroom window, my mom’s high, clear laughter and something lower and distinctly male. “That’s not even her real laugh,” I say. “There’s no way this guy is actually funny.” Seb opens the

35 CAMERON LUND front door so quietly it makes me wonder if this isn’t the first time he’s snuck in or out. To me, Seb will always be spilled Cheerios, lost front teeth, smelly gym shorts, and fuzzy pajamas, not the almost-grown-up he is now. I hope this story about me doesn’t get around to him, but I know it will. I just don’t want him to think I’m a horrible person like everyone else. We both tiptoe into the hallway, and Seb takes off his shoes. I don’t have any shoes to take off, so I peel off my single wet sock and slip by him in my bare feet. The house is bright and sunny and smells like coffee. It’s so normal, the sight and smell of any other summer morning, and it makes my chest ache. I want so badly for last night not to have happened, to have woken up in my bed and come down to this same house as the girl I was yesterday. “You run upstairs,” Seb whispers. “I’ll get us some coffee.” “You’re a baby,” I whisper back. “Babies don’t drink coffee.” But then, “Thanks.” He’s being sweet, helping me sneak in like this. I step quietly down the hallway, turning the corner to the stairs, and then stop short because my mom is right there. She’s hand in hand with her date, both of them frozen in place. The irony is not lost on me—my mom trying to sneak someone out of the house while I’m trying to sneak back in. She straightens, clears her throat. “Penelope, hi. You’re home!” She seems to remember the man behind her then. “This is Frank. He was just leaving.” “Hey, sport,” the man says, like I’m five years old. I watch my mom’s eyes roam over me, finally noting all the parts that aren’t quite right. I still haven’t seen myself in a mirror, but I know I must look terrible. “What happened?” she asks.

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“Nothing happened, Mom. I just didn’t get any sleep.” Seb rounds the corner then too, two mugs of coffee in his hands and my mom turns to him. “Wait, Sebastian—were you driving? You know you’re not supposed to drive. You’re too young.” “Seb just picked me up from Olivia’s,” I say. My mom doesn’t know that Jordan’s parents were out of town last night at a work conference. Actually, my mom doesn’t know that Jordan exists. I mean, she knows who he is—our class is tiny, and we’ve all been together since kindergarten. But my mom doesn’t know about Jordan and me, that we’re a we—or, I guess, that we used to be. We don’t really talk about that stuff. I usually just tell her I’m staying over Olivia’s, no matter where I go, and she never questions it. Things used to be different once. Before she went back to school and got her nursing degree—back when she still had time for us—we were always together. When I was little, I’d follow her around the house, chattering about some drama or other from my elementary school classes, who had been mean to me that week, who had pushed who on the playground. But somewhere along the way, we grew apart. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being a priority. Now she lingers in the doorway for a moment. “We’ll talk about this later, okay, baby? I’m really late for work. But I want to hear about your night.” Then she grabs her keys from where Seb has left them on the hook, ushering Frank past her and out the door. “We’ll talk when I get home, I promise.” I’m used to these kinds of promises, and I know she means them when she makes them, but we both know the truth is she’ll come home after I’m already asleep and she’ll be too ex-

37 CAMERON LUND hausted from work to chat even if I weren’t. But maybe it’s for the best this time. I don’t know how I could explain to her that I kissed Olivia’s boyfriend when I don’t even know how it happened myself. “Go to work,” I say, because I know she needs to believe I’m okay before she leaves. “Everything is fine.” “Okay, baby girl. I left some money on the counter for you guys. Make sure you buy some veggies or something healthy this time. What kind of medical professional would I be if I let you both live off pizza?” And then she’s gone. I head upstairs and into the bathroom, turning on the shower as hot as I can get it. I want to burn the night off my skin, peel back the layers until I’m someone else. I wait for the water to heat, and that’s when I finally look in the mirror. My immediate thought is: Jordan saw me like this. I look like I’m melting, mascara running down my face in tracks. I pull my hair out of its braids, my hand catching on a tangle the size of a dead rat. Usually, I’m pretty. I know I am—it’s the only way I could have possibly overcome who I was in elementary school, probably one of the reasons Olivia first started being my friend, although there’s more to it than that now. I have big lips, eyes that are usually bright blue when they’re not red-rimmed from crying. I’ve always thought it was strange to like my face and know that half of it came from my dad, a guy who I can only remember from pictures. At least he gave me one good thing. I’m not as pretty as Olivia, but that’s because it’s basically impossible. She’s half Swedish and half Italian, a combination that

38 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS makes her naturally blonde and tan and curvy. I’m a little too tall, a bit too skinny, weirdly pale and flat and gangly in all the ways Olivia is not. I get into the shower, letting the hot water roll down my back. I examine myself, looking for more clues about last night. Besides the bruises on my knees, I don’t look bad, and once I wash my hair, I barely seem any different at all. Outside, everything looks fine. It’s inside that feels like a mess. It’s hard to believe anything happened with Kai. I have this theory that a kiss lingers on you, that you can feel it on your skin the next day, proof of what you’ve done. Right now, I just feel nothing.

I pull on my softest pair of sweatpants and climb into bed, curling up under the covers. The sun is beaming through the window, so bright it hurts my eyes, so I pull the shutters closed. I could stay here under this blanket for two whole months, I realize, only crawling back out when it’s time for school. Maybe by then, everyone will have forgotten. I could pretend I’m traveling, that my mom took Seb and me on some amazing trip—South America, or Iceland, or Greece. People fake Instagram posts all the time. But that would never work. I click on my phone and stare at the picture on my lock screen. It’s of Jordan and me from Christmas this past year. He got me a blue Gonzaga baseball cap to match his own, and I’m wearing it proudly, beaming at him. I swipe and delete the picture, feeling the loss of it like a stomach punch. Then I finally do what I’ve been dreading: look for any posts

39 CAMERON LUND about what happened last night. Evidence I’m officially over. Romina has posted the video, my mascara-streaked face for the world to see, Olivia chasing me down the stairs and screaming, “Get out!” It has thirty-two likes. There are dozens of comments underneath, and against my better judgment, I scroll through them. It’s so enthralling, watching my own destruction, and I can’t stop looking, like I’m passing a wreck on the freeway. Wow, did you hear what Penny did? That makeup is so tragic. Are Kai and Pukey Penelope actually a thing? My stomach clenches at the last one. I thought I had made everyone forget that nickname, thought I had become untouch- able. I should have realized how precarious it all was. I keep scrolling, hoping I might find something that will spark a few more memories and dreading it at the same time. Myriah posted a story, and I tap through it. There we all are in Jordan’s kitchen, wasted and laughing in our matching junior- class shirts. There’s Olivia and me dancing on the countertop. I don’t remember how we got up there. There’s Romina kissing Danny’s cheek, Katie with a milk carton on her head. It’s all vaguely familiar, like it happened in a dream or a past life. Then there’s one of Jordan and Olivia. He’s got an arm around her waist and her shirt is bunched up so you can see the flat, tan skin of her stomach. Looking at them together makes my chest feel like it’s splitting open. I click on the next picture and grow cold. Kai and I are beside each other on the couch, faces close together. It’s clear he’s saying something to me, probably only leaning in close so I can hear him over the noise of the party, but in this picture, it looks like we’re about to kiss. There’s a funny feeling in my stomach as I stare at it. I know how this will look to everyone else.

40 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS

I have to text him. I have to find out what’s going through his head—if he’s as confused and regretful as I am. I find his number and type.Can we talk? He answers right away. Do you want to come over? I’ve hung out in Kai’s barn before—movie nights out on the crooked old TV, games of flip cup and beer pong on his picnic table, spin the bottle back when we were in eighth grade. But I always tried my best to avoid him. I’ve never been inside his house. I’ve never been alone with him. But I want answers.

I’ll be there in twenty.

41 NOW

I PARK THE CAR IN KAI’S DRIVEWAY and step out into the hot afternoon sun. It’s even warmer now than it was this morning, the kind of summer day meant for picnics, hikes, and swims in the lake. The weather doesn’t know it should be dark and miserable like my mood. Kai’s mom answers the door. She’s a tiny Japanese woman with a round, friendly face, black hair thrown up on top of her head with a banana clip. I met her once before at a terrible birthday party Kai had at the lake in middle school—I was only invited back then because she’d wanted him to include the whole class. This was back before I had any friends, and when I’d arrived, setting down the copy of Lord of the Flies I’d brought as a present, Ol- ivia had placed a hand on top of her soda. Careful, she’d warned everyone, or she might puke in your drink. I’d run to the parking lot to cry, and Kai’s mom had been there to comfort me with pizza and a hug. I wonder now if she remembers me.

42 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS

“Penelope!” she says with a smile, and I’m relieved she does. “What a nice surprise. It’s so great to see you again.” “Actually, it’s Penny now.” I’ve tried to distance myself from Penelope ever since Kai’s nickname. I don’t like reminding people of that dark time in my life. “Of course.” She opens the door wider, ushering me inside. “You look just the same. Always such a beautiful girl.” “Thanks, Mrs. Tanaka.” Her words feel like a hug right now, one I desperately need. I glance down at my bruised knees, hoping she doesn’t notice them. I’ve put on a bit of makeup, trying to cover up the tired effects of last night. I want to look like the girl Kai’s mom still thinks I am. It’s crazy how parents can be so oblivious to everything. Kai’s mom has no idea what happened between her son and me last night. She doesn’t know he has a habit of consistently ruining my life. “Oh, please,” she says. “Call me Mari. If you wouldn’t mind taking your shoes off—we’re a no-shoes house.” “Sure,” I say, reaching down to untie my sneakers. It’s quiet inside, the humming of the refrigerator the only sound. I like the way it’s decorated—huge patterned rugs, bright paintings on the walls. And there are more plants than I’ve ever seen inside a house before, tall, leafy trees and succulents in colorful pots by the windows. It looks like his family brought a bit of Hawaii here with them, a little piece of home. I hate that I like it. I don’t want to like anything about Kai, even his stupid tropical house. “Kai is in his room,” Mari says. “I can call him for you.” And then he’s bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and when he’s right in front of me he stops short, almost

43 CAMERON LUND tripping in his attempt to slow momentum. He’s disheveled, brown pants cuffed at the ankles, a black soccer team T-shirt so old it’s worn a few holes. There’s that flash of memory again—bringing him toward me, crushing my stupid traitorous lips against his, and him pulling away. The shame of it all makes me want to fold up in on myself. The embarrassment is twofold—it’s the fact I kissed him and the even worse fact I’m pretty sure he told me to stop. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Hey.” “Um, hi.” I feel a bit like I might puke again, which absolutely cannot happen. I take a deep breath to calm myself. “Do you want to go up to my room?” He pulls his hands out of his pockets and cracks his knuckles. “Or, like . . . maybe not. Would that be weird?” I don’t know if I want to be in his room, a place with a bed and a closed door. But I also don’t want his mom to hear us talk. “It’s fine,” I say. “Wherever.” “Okay, cool.” He turns around and walks back up the stairs. I guess I’m supposed to follow. His mom is still watching us with a sweet mom-look on her face, like she wants to get us drinks or make us a snack or something, but that is so not what this is. “Thanks, Mari,” I say, following Kai. “It was nice seeing you again.” “You’re welcome anytime, Penny.” We walk into Kai’s room and he shuts the door. It feels a bit like being in an enemy lair. It’s nothing special, typical boy stuff: a guitar in one corner, poorly taped pictures of surfers on gigantic life-threatening waves, dirty laundry strewn on the floor. He’s got the same Endless Summer poster as Jordan, and I wonder if

44 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS they got them together. Still, I look around, soaking it in, like all these little pieces of him are clues that might help me destroy him. He kicks a pile of laundry under the bed and sits down. Then he stands back up and pushes his desk chair in my direction, pat- ting the seat like I’m a dog. I roll my eyes, but sit anyway. I don’t want to follow his instructions, but more than that, I don’t want to sit next to him on the bed. We look at each other for a minute. I feel like I’m trying to read his mind. I wish I could see into it, could play his memories back like in that episode of Black Mirror. “So,” he says. “Last night was . . . weird, huh?” He smooths his fingers down his pant legs. “I don’t know if weird is the word I’d use.” I cross my arms. “Did you get home okay after everything? Jordan kicked me out, so I couldn’t stay over, obviously. I got a ride home with some of the soccer guys and then felt like an idiot for leaving you.” He smiles faintly, as if everything is okay. How can he treat this like it’s something worth smiling about? “No, I didn’t get home okay,” I say. “Spent the night on a lawn chair, actually.” Kai’s face turns red. “Are you serious?” He stands and takes a step toward me, holding out his arms like he might try to give me a hug, but then thinks better of it and sits back down. “I’m sorry. You could have called me.” “It’s fine.” There’s no way I would ever ask for Kai’s help with anything. “I survived the elements.” “I can’t believe they didn’t bring you inside, though. That doesn’t seem like Jordan.” “It’s not his fault. He thought I left.”

45 CAMERON LUND

“Oh.” He cracks his knuckles again. “So did you guys talk everything out, then?” “He broke up with me. If that’s what you mean.” “Oh, fuck,” Kai says. He runs a hand down his face. “This is all so messed up. This wasn’t how any of this . . .” He trails off, shaking his head and looking down at the navy blue rug. “Have you talked to Olivia?” “Did you guys break up last night too?” He pauses for a minute, chewing his lip. “Well, yeah. We’re done, obviously.” “I’m sorry.” Even though I don’t like Kai, I still feel like a horrible, destructive person for ruining his relationship. “No, it’s not your fault.” “But I . . . kissed you. Right?” The words make my face flame with heat. It is so strange to be talking about this. “I kissed you back,” he says. “We’re both equal-opportunity assholes here, okay?” It’s weird he’s being so nice to me. I’m not used to it. I feel like this peace offering between us is made of glass—that at any moment it will shatter, shards scattering all over the carpet at our feet. But right now, we’re on the same side. “I just feel bad that I came between you guys.” “I mean, it’s not . . . Wait.” Kai chews on the side of his fingernail. “What can you remember about last night?” He takes out his phone and starts tapping it against his palm. “I don’t know,” I say, looking down because eye contact right now feels excruciating. “I remember kissing you, I think. We were in the laundry room. And then . . .” I strain, trying to make the memory sharper—Olivia opening the door, the sound of her

46 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS shouting. “Olivia saw us. I think she was crying.” The thought makes me sick, and I shake it away. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.” He keeps tapping the phone against his palm. Tap-tap-tap. I want to grab it out of his hands to make him stop. It’s like he always has an incessant need to make noise. “What happened, Kai?” I know we kissed, but what I don’t understand is why. That’s what I’m really asking: How did we get here? Why the hell did I kiss you? “You got sick,” he says. “I found you throwing up in that little bathroom off the side of the laundry room.” I wince at his words. Of all people to find me puking. He probably ran and told everyone about it—that’s why they’re all calling me that name again. It’s hard to breathe all of a sudden, and I know I’m going to cry. “You could have kept it to yourself.” I’m mad he escaped the party last night—that he didn’t have to deal with any of this morning’s repercussions. I had to live through everything twice. “I was trying to help you. I cleaned you up, got you some mouthwash.” “Yeah, and then you told everyone you saw me puking.” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know where you’re getting that idea from.” “Where do you think?” I snap. The tears are falling now because I can’t hold them in as I think about how this morning was supposed to feel, my future with Jordan brighter than ever. I hate that I’m crying in front of Kai. I look so weak. “Hey, that’s not what happened. I don’t call you that stupid name anymore, you know. This isn’t middle school.” “Yeah, instead you just call me fake and shallow, which is so much better.” I narrow my eyes.

47 CAMERON LUND

“Come on, that’s not what this is about.” He smiles again, and I don’t understand it. “Besides, you can’t hate me that much based on the way you jumped my bones last night.” “I did not jump your anything.” The tears have stopped now, replaced by buzzing, red anger. This is so typical. Kai has never bothered to care about anything else in his life—why would he care about this? “You wanted me.” He is full-out laughing now, his eyes twin- kling. “You can admit it.” “This isn’t funny,” I say. “It’s a little funny.” He reaches out like he’s actually going to touch me. I scoot farther away from him. “No. It isn’t. We messed up, Kai. What were we thinking?” Olivia and Jordan. Our two best friends. It doesn’t make any sense. “I wouldn’t cheat on Jordan,” I say. “Especially with you. I don’t even like you.” “Thanks,” he says, glancing up at me and then returning his gaze back to the rug. “You’ve been pretty clear about that fact, Penelope.” I narrow my eyes at his use of my full name. It feels like an insult, even though it’s my name, a part of me. But Kai is the only person who always insists on using it. “You can say what you like,” Kai continues, “but the fact is you did cheat on Jordan. You kissed me because some little part of you deep down wanted to, and I guess I wanted to kiss you back. Although I have no idea why, considering you’re the most obnoxious person on the entire planet.” “Oh, get over yourself,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “We can’t change what happened,” Kai says. “Sue me for trying to be a little lighthearted about it. We can’t change the past. So what’s the point of worrying about it? Some of us don’t like to

48 HEARTBREAKERS AND FAKERS spend our entire lives in a constant state of panic. Some of us like to make jokes and laugh about the shitty situations we can’t fix.” “Are they really jokes when you’re the only one laughing?” “Yes!” Kai says, standing up. “I don’t care if I’m the only one laughing. At least I’m laughing. I’m trying to lighten the mood, Penelope.” “Okay, well . . . darken it a little! My entire life is ruined, Kai. Olivia isn’t talking to me anymore. I threw away everything I had with her, everything I had with Jordan, all because of you? You’re not worth it.” Kai isn’t smiling anymore, thank god. He’s chewing his bottom lip again, staring down at the carpet. There’s another knuckle crack. “Wow. Okay,” he says. “I don’t know why I even came over here,” I say, standing abruptly. I thought maybe talking to Kai would explain everything—that somehow he might have the answers. But I don’t feel better at all. I feel so much worse. “Yeah, me either,” Kai says, standing too. “Apparently I ruined your entire life.” “That’s what I said.” I walk back out into the hallway. “So this was a huge mistake,” he says. “Obviously.” I spin around to shut the door in his face, but I’m too slow, and before I can reach out, he slams it closed in mine first.

49 ~ ~ HANNAH REYNOLDS h

SmLostLe_9780593349724_BOM-tx_1p_r1.indd 5 11/12/20 1:38 AM One ~

April 6, 1958 I am going to try to explain. I’m not sure I can. I’m not used to explaining things to you, maybe because usually we understand each other so well. I picture us like two roses on the same stem, us against the world, surrounded by thorns ready to prick anyone else who dares to come close. But I’ve realized with some things, we will always have a different perspective, because we’re standing in different places. You see ~ family so differently than I do, because you come from a luckier, happier world. Sometimes I’m drowning in jealousy, the way you take your family for granted. I love you. Passionately. Consumingly. Loving you, some days, has been the only thing keeping me going. But romantic love is only one love, and not the most important. (I can see you shaking your head here, but stop. Even if you dis- h agree, understand I believe this. I prize other kinds of love as highly as being in love.) You are not a knight and I am not your lady in the age of chivalry, and we are not the pinnacle of what matters. I love you and I want you, but what I want and what is right are not always the same. You haven’t always had to think about the difference before (you know you haven’t), but please do now. I’m making the right choice.

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I love you. But I am not going to change my mind.

rowing up, my mom liked to play a strange version of Would GYou Rather. It happened when she picked me up from a friend’s house—from Niko’s, whose mom baked mochi cake, or Haley’s, whose mom knit scarves. Would you rather have Niko’s mother, Mom would ask, or me? Would you rather have Haley’s mom or me? Even during the worst fights between us, I knew better than to cross this line. Fights between mothers and daughters transcend- ed almost to an art form: I knew how each thrust and parry would land, and how to aim shots low or high. But even when casting words meant to draw blood, I’d never take this shot. This was the soft spot behind the skull, water to the Wicked Witch, Achilles’s unprotected heel. You only struck this spot if you struck to kill. “You,” I always told her, as we walked away from Niko’s manicured lawn, or left Haley’s porch with its bunting flag in red, white, and blue. “I’d rather have you.” h The doorbell rang in the middle of a storm. The rain pounded against the eaves, nearly drowning the chimes out. Sheets of water streamed across the living room’s French doors, distorting the yard and forest into shifting blurs of green and brown. March in New England might officially be springtime, but in reality it was chilly and wet and dark. I sat curled on the sofa, reading Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. The combination of gothic novel and weather had me on edge, despite

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the room’s bright lights and my steaming mug of peppermint tea. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home for hours; they’d gone to a town hall meeting, which basically counted as a date night in their world. My brother, Dave, was sleeping over at his best friend’s house. Mom had worried about leaving me home alone, but I’d shooed her and Dad away; my parents deserved a night out. Besides, I liked having the house to myself. Most of the time. The chime sounded again while I stayed frozen on the couch, book clutched in both hands, heart racing. No one had ever accused me of being sensible (“You have a tad of an overactive imagination,” Dad often said, holding his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart)— but honestly, who wouldn’t at least consider whether a doorbell during a storm heralded a serial killer? Best not be a sitting duck for my prospective murderer. I pad- ded through the house toward the front door, positioning my back ~ against the wall as I craned my neck to peer out a window. A USPS truck lingered in the driveway, headlights cutting through the rain, and a figure dashed toward the cab and leaped inside. The truck backed away and sped into the dark. Oh. Cool. Anxiety draining out of me, I opened the inner door to the mud- room, a small, chilly space filled with umbrellas and boots. My toes h curled as they hit the cold stone floor. I quickly unlocked the outer door, and wet wind lashed at me. The trees in the front yard bowed back and forth under the gust. A rain-splattered box sat on the stoop. I grabbed it and retreated inside, locking both doors and carrying the box to the living room. Dr. Karen Cohen, 85 Oak Road, South Hadley, Massachusetts, the address read. Mom. The sender: Cedarwood House.

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Made sense. O’ma’s nursing home had told us they’d be sending over a box of her stuff recently found when cleaning out her closet. I could wait for Mom to come home before opening it. Which a less nosy, more respectful daughter would do. Or. Got the box of O’ma’s stuff! I texted. Will let you know if it contains secret riches. I slit the packing tape with a key from the kitchen odds-and-ends drawer. The box flapped open to reveal a cursory note from the nursing home and a brown-paper- wrapped package. Now I hesi tated. This had been O’ma’s, this twine-tied bundle, something she’d packed away so long ago it had been forgotten. Carefully, I tugged the brittle bow loose, then unfolded the brown paper. At the core lay the treasure: a pile of envelopes, all addressed to Ruth Goldman. O’ma’s maiden name. Bright curiosity cut through me. A hundred things could be inside. We knew so little about O’ma’s life, especially from before she met O’pa. Ruth Goldman instead of Ruth Cohen. Who had she been? I knelt on the living room floor and spread the envelopes in an arc, marveling at the thick parchment and the way the ink bled into the fine weave of the paper. Fifty envelopes at a guess, with a Lower East Side address. The envelopes didn’t have return addresses. I picked up the first envelope and slid the letter out. Neat, slanted writing filled the page. My darling Ruth, it began. I still can’t believe you’re gone. I keep looking out the window expecting the car to pull up and you to emerge and say this has all been a mistake. Please come home soon. O’pa, I thought, though it didn’t sound anything like how my

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gruff, funny German grandfather had sounded. My eyes slid to the date in the righthand corner: June 1st, 1952. O’ma would have been eighteen. A year older than me. I flipped to the back of the letter for the signature. Love, E. O’pa’s name was Max. I scanned the next letter. My dear Ruth, It has been too long since I last saw you. Yesterday I walked through the garden and saw a cardinal on the trellis and thought of the kisses we used to steal. I can’t even look up at the widow’s walk without remembering the way you used to pace there . . . Wow. The most romantic letter I’d ever received had been a text from Matt last year saying Homecoming: Yes/no? No wonder we didn’t last. I sent Mom a picture of the letters along with a flurry of texts: ~ Me: Turns out the box has LOVE LETTERS in it

From some guy named E

Do you think O’ma had a grand love affair before she met O’pa???

Mom must have felt her phone buzz, because she texted back h immediately.

Mom: What do u mean love letters?

Me: Like there’s some real purple prose here

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They’re addressed to MY DARLING RUTH

“It has been too long since I last saw you”

!!!

Mom: Maybe u shouldn’t read them?

Me: hahahaha

Mom: Wait for me!!!

Me: sorry nope

I’ll text you the best parts

Mom: Who r they from

Seriously, Mom had both terrible reading comprehension and terrible punctuation. Why did I need to go to school if adults didn’t know how to write?

Me: I don’t know, some guy named E. Gotta read more, have fun adulting

Outside, rain slashed away. Inside, I sank into the letters. E’s writing made it clear O’ma had moved to New York City and loved it,

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though he seemed skeptical anyone could enjoy the city. Different bits jumped out at me: What we do is none of my mother’s business. A bakery, Ruth? Are you sure? He wrote about painting the ocean: I’m happy to report my Monet- esque attempts have become more palatable, though I doubt I’ll accurately capture the light on the sea if I paint every day for the rest of my life. Yet never fear; I shall rise to the occasion. The attic no doubt looks forward to being crammed with my poor attempts. Mostly, though, he wrote about missing her. He wrote about missing her in the gardens, on the beach, in the gazebo. He seemed wracked with a hundred memories of her. He wrote Nantucket is not Nantucket without you. Nantucket. The name conjured up a speck of an island off Cape Cod. The Cape: a hooked arm of national seashore and small towns southeast ~ of Boston. But while the Cape and the islands were standard vacation spots for Massachusetts families, O’ma had spent most of her life in New York. When had she ever been to Nantucket? Impatient, I skipped to the last letter (I was the kind of person who sometimes read the last page of a book first; never let it be said I handled curiosity well). It was short and dated almost six years after the first—May 3, 1958: h

I’m not mailing the necklace. If you want it, come back to Golden Doors and talk to me. —E

And dammit, Ruth, don’t you dare say this is about anything other than your damn pride.

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Surprise swayed through me. What had happened? When had these romantic letters switched to anger? Served me right for reading out of order. Hoping for more context, I opened the penultimate letter. Can’t we talk about this in person? The operator won’t even put me through anymore. You’re far too proud, and you don’t need to be. Man, an operator. What an age. The one before:

Ruth, You’re being ridiculous. I’m catching the next ferry to the mainland. Don’t do anything stupid before I get there. I love you. Edward

A shiver skirted across the back of my neck. Lowering the letter, I stared out the French doors. The rain had lessened, no longer obscuring the woods encroaching on the backyard. Tall oaks and pines shot into the sky, their trunks soaked black. Winter had been harsh this year, and even now, mid-March, I had trouble imagining I’d ever feel warm again. I had trouble imagining O’ma as an eighteen-y ear- old, too. You’re far too proud, the letter-wr iter had said. Had O’ma been proud? Elegant, yes. Smart, curious, a little sad, a little difficult. But proud? Though what did I know? I hadn’t even known O’ma had been on Nantucket. I definitely didn’t know who this Edward was, or what necklace O’ma wanted back, or why she’d left him in the first place. Come back to Golden Doors, Edward had said. I opened my laptop and began to type.

SmLostLe_9780593349724_BOM-tx_1p_r1.indd 8 11/12/20 1:38 AM THE SUMMER OF LOST LETTERS 9 h Several hours later, the door swung open and Mom’s voice echoed through the house. “Abby?” “Here!” She walked into the living room, slinging her coat around the back of a chair. Dad followed. He’d hang her coat up later. “You’re still up.” “How was the meeting?” “Eh, fine. What are you up to?” She dropped down on the couch beside me. Dad kissed the top of my head and left for the kitchen to make tea. “I think I figured it out.” I handed her the letters. “They’re signed ‘Edward,’ and mention a place called Golden Doors, which is the name of a house in Nantucket. The house’s current owner is also named Edward, and he would have been twenty-two years old in 1952. O’ma would have been eighteen. She could have spent a sum- ~ mer on Nantucket with him.” “On Nantucket?” Mom flipped through the letters. “She never mentioned visiting Nantucket.” I gave her an arch look. “Shouldn’t you have known about someone who writes ‘my darling Ruth’?” She nudged me with her shoulder. “As though daughters ever ask about their mothers’ personal lives.” h “Rude. I know about your high school boyfriend and the guy you traveled around Ecuador with after college.” I pointed at a company’s website open on my laptop. “I was thinking I’d email and see if I could get in touch with him.” She peered at the screen. “They’re connected to Barbanel?” “You’ve heard of it?”

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“It’s one of the big accounting firms.” “Yes, the internet told me as much. But what exactly do accounting firms do?” She laughed. “They do financial consulting, audits, taxes.” “So they’re not connected to Barbanel, they founded it. It’s their company. The Edward I was talking about is Edward Barbanel.” Mom’s brows shot up. “Really. Well. Explains the house on Nantucket.” “Do you think it’s okay if I try to get in touch with him?” She hesitated. “What for?” “What do you mean what for? He knew O’ma when she was young. He could know all sorts of things. He could know about her family.” “Abby . . . O’ma was so young when she left Germany. She barely knew anything about her family. Why would anyone else?” “Because they were in love! And maybe she talked about them when she was younger. Maybe she wrote about her family or her hometown in a letter she sent him.” “I don’t want you to get your hopes up about discovering any family history.” “Okay, fine. But even if I don’t learn anything—don’t you think it’s weird she went to Nantucket and never mentioned it? It’s weird she was in love with some fancy rich dude and we’ve never heard about it. And why would some rich guy steal a necklace?” I knew the general progression of my grandmother’s life: She’d left Germany at four years old, traveling first to Paris, then to the States via a steamship. A Jewish family in Upstate New York took her in until she turned eighteen, at which point she moved to the city. She married my grandfather, another German Jew, moved back upstate, raised three children, and retired to West Palm Beach. Was widowed.

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Got dementia. Moved to a nursing home. Stopped recognizing her family. Died. The only time I’d seen Mom cry was when we got the phone call about O’ma. “What does it matter?” Mom said. “If she’d wanted us to know about this man or Nantucket, she would have told us.” “Bull. You’re just mad she didn’t tell you, so you’re pretending you don’t care.” Mom looked startled, then pressed a kiss on my temple. “Thank you for your diagnosis, Dr. Schoenberg.” “I’m right, you know. So you don’t mind if I try to talk to him?” “Go for it.” Over the next few days, I dived deep into Edward Barbanel’s life. He’d grown Barbanel from a successful local accounting firm, already one hundred years old in the 1950s, to a massive multinational organization, though still privately owned. According to a wedding ~ announcement in the New York Times, Edward had married the same year he’d sent his last letters to O’ma, writing Don’t do anything stupid. I love you. On his eightieth birthday, he handed the running of the company over to his son. It turned out it was very, very hard to get in touch with the chair- man of the board of an exceedingly wealthy company. Emails, phone calls, DMs all went unanswered. However. Wills and ways. h “I talked to Ms. Chowdhury at the library,” I told my parents over breakfast, two weeks after the box arrived. “Her sister-in-law knows someone with a family friend whose daughter owns a bookstore on Nantucket. She said she might be able to get me a summer job there.” Mom practically spit out her coffee. “What?” “That was a very long list of people,” Dad said. “Did you remember all of them or make some up?”

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“Since I can’t get in touch with Edward Barbanel, I thought I’d go to him.” “You’re not going to Nantucket for the whole summer.” Dad sighed. “No one ever listens to me.” “Why not? I need a summer job.” “Not in Nantucket.” Mom’s voice rose several decibels. “Don’t you think you’re being a little extreme? What about the library? You like working there!” “Think of what a good college essay this would make. You know how competitive scholarships are.” I’d need a full ride to afford a private college, and while my grades were decent, a good essay could set me apart. Especially if I showcased how my devotion to studying history was so strong, I’d spent my entire summer digging into primary sources about my family. Hopefully that kind of dedication would impress the admissions boards—because honestly, something needed to. Scholarships weren’t exactly flying off the shelves for prospective history majors. “Honey . . .” Okay, I might not get a scholarship no matter what, but I didn’t want to hear it. “Niko and Haley and Brooke aren’t home this summer anyway. What’s the point of staying?” Mom’s face cleared as though she’d been struck by understanding. “This is about Matt, isn’t it? Abby, I know you’re upset—” “Oh my god, Mom, not everything is about some stupid boy.” Though admittedly, I really didn’t want to see Matt, especially after his gracious offer to be “casual” post-breaking up with me. Dad wisely picked up his tea and retreated from the room. “Are you sure? You read the letters two weeks after you and Matt broke up. You’re fixated on them. You can’t run away from things, Abby.”

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My stomach clamped up, squeezing tight around the hurt inside of me. “I don’t want to talk about this.” “Abby, honey—” Mom’s face melted and she reached for me. I evaded her touch. “I’m seventeen. I’m funding this and leaving for college next year anyway. I’m not doing anything dangerous.” “I don’t understand why you care so much about this!” “I don’t understand why you don’t! It’s a huge gap in O’ma’s life.” “Why don’t we compromise and go for a weekend?” “Mom, I don’t want to be here this summer!” She froze. Her voice came out soft and small. “Oh.” Regret rose immediately. We were twined together, Mom and I, our emotions rising and falling based on the other’s. “I’m sorry. Just— I want to find out more about O’ma. Don’t you? Aren’t you a little bit curious?” She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture reminiscent of her mother. “She didn’t tell me, so I don’t know why I should care.” ~ I wasn’t buying her cavalier act. You’re far too proud, E had written. Maybe O’ma hadn’t been the only one. I’d spent my entire life watching how hurt Mom became whenever O’ma stonewalled her. Their relationship had been strained in a way ours had never been, filled with tense silences and it doesn’t matter and how morbid. Maybe Mom really believed what she’d told me: maybe if O’ma hadn’t wanted to tell her, she didn’t want to know. h But I didn’t believe it. I knew my mother; I’d seen the look in her eyes when we read the letters. O’ma mattered so very, very deeply to Mom. And while she might be too proud to seek out her mother’s past, I didn’t have to pretend not to care. I could do this for her. Go to Nantucket. Find Edward Barbanel. Find out about O’ma’s past. And at the end of the day, what could my parents protest? A nice summer job at a nice bookstore in a nice town? One of Mom’s

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colleagues even had an aunt on Nantucket with a room to rent (or at least a bed in a room, if I didn’t mind sharing). So my parents drove me to Hyannis for the ferry (Dave came too, but he mostly played video games). Mom asked over and over if I’d packed my toothbrush and my vitamins and my acne cream until I burst out I wasn’t an idiot, and she looked horribly sad, and I felt like a monster. They stood on the ferry dock and watched me go. Dad wrapped his arm around Mom’s shoulder, and she leaned into him. For the first time, they looked small. They waved and waved and I waved back, unsure of what would happen if I turned away before they did, if it would be better or worse to snap the cord.

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he high-speed ferry sliced through the Atlantic. I tipped my face Tup, savoring the heat soaking through my skin, the way the back of my eyelids turned red-gold. Salty wind tangled my hair above my head, then whipped strands into my mouth. A bright, cerulean world surrounded me, all endless ocean and cloudless sky. A small secret: Mom was right. I did run from things. Hard to stop, when the act of being in transition made me happier than anything else. I could leave things behind: I had no weights, but ~ no new expectations. The world around me felt charged with potential. I could start again. Anything could happen. Something would happen. Something to distract me from Matt, ideally. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been blindsided by his decision to break up. “I need to concentrate right now, you know?” he’d said on the last day of February break, when we were out eating burrito h bowls. “Harvard’s so picky, especially for kids from in state. They want diverse candidates, like from Kansas.” “From Kansas.” Two seconds before, we’d been making plans to see the latest blockbuster. Now I watched him shovel rice and beans into his mouth, while my own meal sat like lead in my stomach. He was breaking up with me because of valedictorians from Kansas? “And I need to be doing more interesting stuff, like the start-up

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internship. I don’t have time to date. I like you,” the only boy who’d ever seen me topless said. “But, you know.” I’d thought we were going to get married. I barely believed in the institution of marriage, and I’d still thought we’d stand beneath a ch- uppah. “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.” He nodded, then pointed at the chips left in my platter. “You gonna eat those?” “Go for it.” I pushed them over. “Great, well, uh, thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you in Psych tomorrow.” He spoke mid-crunch. “You don’t have to go. We can talk about it, if you want.” “What would we talk about?” My forehead started sweating. I hadn’t even known foreheads could sweat. “You made a decision. Good for you, I’m glad you know yourself so well that you know you don’t want to date me. Great. I don’t want to date someone who doesn’t want to date me, so . . . we’re not dating anymore. Bye.” I awkwardly scooted out of the booth, walking away with as much grace as I could manage. Perhaps pride was a heritable trait. A horn blew, and people rushed to join me at the rail. A stretch of land had surfaced on the horizon, and soon we could make out a haze of details: tiny gray houses, heaps of green trees, the spikes of steeples. Our ferry curved around a sandy point crowned by a squat lighthouse, then pulled into a painfully picturesque harbor. Dozens of different kinds of boats bobbed on the water, and seals warmed themselves on wooden docks. Above us, gulls cried out, soaring through a blue sky dotted with cotton-like clouds. People geared up to disembark. Nantucket. Summer home of some of the wealthiest people in America. Home sweet home for the next few months.

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The stream of passengers carried me onto the docks, which merged seamlessly with the cobblestone streets of downtown. Leafy trees lined the sidewalks and American flags waved. Clothing bou- tiques and ice-cr eam shops stood shoulder to shoulder, and the people strolling through the quaint downtown looked sun-touched and happy. I clutched my suitcase handle tightly as I rolled it past well-dressed mannequins and nautical bric-a-brac, under hand-lettered signs hanging from horizontal posts. Nantucket seemed like an Epcot version of America, both beautiful and bizarre. I was Alice down the rabbit hole, Lucy through the wardrobe, Dorothy not-in-Kansas-anymore. I’d googled the island, but it still hadn’t wholly prepared me. It had given me the island’s general history, though: Originally settled by the Wampanoag, Nantucket had boomed in population in the early 1600s when people on mainland Massachusetts fled disease and invasion, coming to the island for safety. But the British soon fol- ~ lowed them, and the majority of the Wampanoag on the island died from disease by the 1760s. Then the Quakers came, then the whaling industry, then the wealthy, who stayed and conquered. I’d always loved history, but I hadn’t realized you could seriously study it until this year. It seemed too easy, like I’d be getting away with something. Like—you could go to school to read stories about people from the past? That was wild. Literally all I wanted was to go h on Wikipedia deep dives about ancient societies and women rulers and the Belle Époque. I’d read everything Stacy Schiff and Erik Lar- son had ever written. The idea of writing a college essay actually ap- pealed to me, if it meant I could write about family history. If, you know, I found something to write about. Following the directions on my phone, I turned at a beautiful brick mansion, then walked down progressively smaller streets until

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I reached a narrow lane. Gray-shingled houses stood close together on either side of it, surrounded by small lawns and rose bushes. There was an inherent coastal air to these weatherworn homes, with their American flags and signs sayingAll You Need Is Love and the Beach and Home Is Where the Beach Is. I paused at a house with a wooden plaque that read Arrowwood Cottage. Tiny white flower buds were carved in the corner. I jumped my suitcase the three steps to the porch, took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell. An older woman answered, her silver-streaked gray hair cut in a bob, her purple tunic flowing. Blown-glass baubles dangled from her ears. “Hello.” “Hi. Mrs. Henderson?” I’d met her niece—my mom’s coworker— a handful of times when I’d been dragged to college functions. The vague similarity in their features put me more at ease. “I’m Abby Schoenberg.” “Yes, of course. Did you just arrive?” “Yeah. Yes. I took the ferry from Hyannis. My parents dropped me off.” I followed her inside. To the left lay the kitchen, open and airy; to the right a living room, shelves filled with books. A golden retriever jumped up from a rug, barking sharply and hoisting her floppy ears high. She had a coat like browned butter and the long, awkward legs of a dog not yet full-grown. “That’s Ellie Mae,” Mrs. Henderson said. “Come on, Ellie, she’s a friend.” The golden barked again, then trotted forward and shoved her nose at the front of my shorts. I fell into a defensive crouch and caught her narrow head. She had gentle eyes and tufts of fur behind her ears and knees. “Hi, girl.” She licked my face and panted at me with her terrible dog breath.

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Mrs. Henderson laughed. “She’s the worst guard dog in the world.” I’d met many of the worst guard dogs in the world and loved them all. “How old is she?” “Eighteen months. Do you like dogs?” “Adore them. My grandmother has a beagle.” My dad’s mom lav- ished her dog with even more indulgence than she did me and my brother. “I’ve always had goldens, but one of my good friends has hounds. You should see her dog point.” She smiled fondly, then waved me up. “I’ll give you the grand tour.” Ellie Mae trotted faithfully after us as Mrs. Henderson showed me the house. Along with the kitchen and living room, the first floor had a dining room and office. The latter opened into a fenced backyard. On the second floor, she pointed out her own bedroom and her late husband’s study. She smiled self-deprecatingly. “Sometimes I think ~ about turning it into another rental, but I haven’t had the heart.” To reach the third floor, we climbed a narrow staircase with steps sloping downward in the center. This floor was a single hall, light spilling in from windows on both ends. Mrs. Henderson pushed open a door. “Here we are.” White walls brightened a tiny room with a slanted ceiling. A braided oval rug, blue and white, lay on the pale wooden floor. One h of the two twin beds had been neatly made up with white linens and a comforter, while clothes covered the disheveled second. A night- stand with a turquoise lamp stood under the window between the beds. “This used to be the maid’s room, when the house was first built. I’ve tried to make it a little nicer, though.” “It’s great.” I rolled my suitcase to the free bed, and looked out the

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window. I could see Mrs. Henderson’s yard, filled with purple flowers and a delicate bird bath, and the neighbors’ yards, too, since the cot- tages were so close together. “Thanks so much.” “The bathroom’s across the hall—you and Jane will be the only two using it. The other room up here is for storage.” She handed me a key. “Welcome to Nantucket.” After she left, I hung my dresses in the hall closet and lined up my shoes below the bed. I tucked Horse, my childhood companion, under the covers. The site of a ragged stuffed cat on my new roommate’s pillow comforted me. I’d done it. I was here. Now what? Muted merriment floated in through the open window. At home, only the unchanging song of crickets filled summer evenings, a more calming noise than this one, which tugged at my chest and made me feel like I should be out there, laughing and shrieking and living. Okay. I was only feeling weird because I was lonely, which would go away after I started my job in two days. No reason to start wondering if I’d made the right choice. Of course I’d made the right choice. I’d spent the last three months holding on to the idea of Nantucket like it was a lifesaver. You couldn’t long for something—lust for it— then feel hollow as soon as you achieved it. Could you? I felt like I’d abandoned Mom. I knew I hadn’t, technically; she had Dad, who was fairly competent at humaning (not too competent; if I asked him a particularly thorny question while he was walking, he would literally stop walking in order to think, and I’d have to go back and retrieve him). And Mom had her temple friends and college bestie and friends from her Children of Survivors group and the parents of my friends who

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she’d befriended. And she had Dave, my brother, I supposed. Come to think of it, Mom had a lot of people. Only sometimes I didn’t think she realized it. Sometimes she seemed to think she was all alone. She wasn’t, of course. Even if none of those others had existed, she had me. Except I’d left her. “Get yourself together,” I muttered, sinking down into my new bed. Shoulders back. Deep breaths. I considered calling Mom, but she’d sense my panic. Then she’d panic, and we’d descend in an esca- lating spiral of panic. So I sent her a cheerful selfie instead and called Niko. My best friend’s face filled my phone, framed by a Stanford dorm room. “Hey! Are you there? How is it? “ “So beachy, you wouldn’t believe it, and there are roses everywhere. Wait, are you wearing lipstick? Are those bangs?” ~ “Badass, right?” Niko turned her head so I could admire her high- low cut and the straight shot of bangs across her forehead. “I’m reinventing myself.” “You look amazing.” “I know. I figured no one here knows I’ve never worn lipstick in my life, so why not. Did you know people put on a lip primer before they put on lipstick? What the hell?” h “How’s Palo Alto?” “Everyone bikes everywhere, and no one jaywalks, and they call highways freeways, which is cute. How is bougie island life? Are you wearing cardigans and pearls yet? Is everyone white?” I made a face. “I’m freaking out. What am I doing? Why am I here?” “Breathe. You’ve been there literally two seconds.”

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“What if I don’t make any friends? How did you make friends at coding camp? We haven’t met new people since we were six!” Niko frowned. “Who did we meet at six?” “It was an arbitrary number.” “Anisha moved to South Hadley when we were twelve, so maybe she’s our newest friend.” “Nikoooo.” “Okay.” Niko put on her serious face. “Think of this like college practice. You’re going to meet people, and you can be whoever you want—you can reinvent yourself, too. Focus on more than your grandma, because you’re seventeen, not seventy. Go crazy. Be bold. What’s your dad say? Have some chutzpah!” “My dad is literally the dorkiest person alive.” “I love your dad. Remember how excited he was when you let him chaperone the aquarium trip?” “Don’t remind me.” “He loved the tiny penguins so much. I’ve never seen anything so pure.” I felt better by the time we hung up. So I’d sent myself to an island thirty miles off the coast where I didn’t know anyone. But no panicking. I had video calls and deep breathing and towels. At a little past nine, the door flew open and a girl blew in, a tangle of tiny black braids and flour dusting her shirt. She had double- pierced ears and dark skin and three inches on me. She stopped abruptly. “Hi.” “Hi!” I bolted upright. “You must be Jane.” “Yeah. You’re Abigail?” “Abby.” “Cool. You’re working at Prose Garden, right?” She tore off her

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T-shirt and pulled on a red top. “Sorry I’m a mess, I just finished my shift.” “Oh? Where?” “My aunt’s bakery.” She turned to the mirror and swept two perfect winged lines on her lids. “I’ve come up the last two summers to help, and also to avoid my brothers and sisters. Thank god Mrs. Hen- derson has this room for rent. I’m from Rhode Island. You?” “South Hadley—it’s in western Mass—” “Yeah, nice, I’m thinking about applying to Smith.” She straight- ened. “Okay, sorry to rush in and out, but I have to run.” “Oh.” I tried not to wilt. Last thing I wanted was for my roommate to think I was clingy. “Nice to meet you.” She hesitated. A space hung between us, charged with risk and potential. I was an unknown quantity, overeager and possibly too much effort. She had a life and friends and plans and no responsibility toward a stranger. ~ Yet she offered me a kindness anyway. “You want to come? I’m meeting my friends on the beach. There’ll be a bonfire.” Relief and gratitude pooled through me. The anxiety wrapping around me all evening began to unspool. “I’d love to.” h h The setting sun dyed the sky royal blue as we walked out of town, down North Beach Street and Bathing Beach Road. Sand edged the pavement, cropping up beneath the patchy grass. “So, how’d your aunt end up on Nantucket?” I asked my new roommate. “Did she just decide to open a bakery here?” Jane laughed. “God, no. We’re from here.”

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“Seriously? That’s so cool.” “Yeah, there’s a decent Azores and Portuguese population on Nantucket. It’s the same latitude, you know, so traders crossed back and forth a lot.” She pointed to the globes of blue blossoms I’d already noticed all over the island. “They say the hydrangeas here were actually originally brought from the Azores, which is between Nantucket and Portugal. It’s the first land you hit if you sail east.” Eventually the road opened up to the beach parking lot, and we crossed to the sands, the water beyond dark and endless. The moon hung low in the sky, half-full and butter yellow. We kicked off our sandals, and tiny grains of sand scraped at my feet. Jane led us past clusters of people until we reached a bonfire with kids our age gathered around it, drinking from red solo cups. They wore cable-knit sweaters and striped shirts and Nantucket-red shorts, and their laughter mingled with the scratch of the low-tide against hard sand. Jane wove her way through the crowd and I followed in her wake. I’d thought teen beach parties only existed in movies, but the scene fit into my heart like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Summer nights were meant for this: toes burrowed in the sand, waves crashing, the scent of salt and seaweed and burning wood. Be bold. “Want a beer?” Jane handed me a plastic cup. Right. Alcohol. Cool cool. I was a teen and we drank alcohol. Fine, I didn’t because my friends and I tended toward sleepovers featuring She’s the Man and homemade brownie sundaes. Also, what if I turned into a weepy drunk who sat in a corner and cried? But. Screw being the boring girl next door. Screw following rules. Screw Matt—or not, because he’d dumped me. The problem with your generation, Mom always said, is you’re too rule-abiding. In her own youth, Mom had made a career of not following rules. I had the insane urge to send her a picture of me, beer

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in hand, but came to my senses. She’d probably meant for my generation to get better at civil disobedience, not getting drunk at the beach. Whatever. I took a gulp of the pale amber liquid and almost spit it out. Wow. Okay. Screw beer, too. “This is Abby.” Jane pulled me toward a trio. She nodded at a short white girl with fashionable glasses and a leather jacket. “Lexi, my old roommate, who abandoned me.” “Don’t hate me,” Lexi said, an uncomfortable amount of earnest- ness underlying her wry tone. “I suppose you had a good reason. Is Stella here yet?” “She gets in tomorrow.” Jane waved her cup at the others in the circle: a Black boy in pale green plaid and khakis, and a South Asian guy. “Evan’s from Boston and our token rich kid. Pranav’s from London and is an intern at an architecture firm.” ~ Both boys nodded at me. “Hi.” I clutched my solo cup like a safety blanket. My friends and I shared the same jagged edges, fitting together like broken pottery. What should I do here? Wrap myself in gauze so I didn’t cut anyone, or would I then be so blunted I had no shape at all? I took another sip of beer. It still tasted terrible. Oh well. Maybe the alcohol chilled me out, though, or maybe Jane’s friends h were the best, because within five minutes they’d absorbed me into the group, and we were ears deep in an intense debate: If you were leaving Earth and could only take three cheeses on your spaceship, what would they be? “Mozzarella,” Jane said decisively. “You can’t make pizza without mozzarella.” “Sharp cheddar,” her old roommate, Lexi, said. “And maybe brie

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or camembert. But I also could see a good parmesan being helpful.” “What about American?” Evan said. Jane stared at him. “Are you kidding me? You can only take three cheeses to eat forever, and you’d include American?” “I like American!” “It depends what else you’re bringing,” Pranav said diplomatical- ly. “Also, paneer.” “It’s true, brie might be dumb if you don’t have baguettes,” Lexi said. “You definitely can’t have baguettes,” Evan said. “It’s space! Crumbs!” “Does cream cheese count as a cheese?” I ventured. “Because I don’t want to say goodbye to bagels forever.” The group looked at me with consternation, and for a second I was sorry I’d spoken, sure I’d said something horribly embarrassing. “Oh man,” Lexi said after a moment. “I didn’t even consider cream cheese.” “Good point,” Evan said gravely. “And sticky buns have cream- cheese frosting.” “If we’re going to space, we’re not going to have time for sticky buns,” Jane protested. “Sticky buns give me joy, Jane,” Evan said. “Do you want to deny me joy?” Slowly, I relaxed, until I was laughing with the rest, laughing and teasing and feeling like a member of the group, and happy, for the first time all day, to be here. “So you study architecture,” I said to Pranav later, once I’d reached the bottom of my solo cup. “Do you know about the houses on the island?” Pranav shrugged. Inane to think he was fancy because he had an

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accent to die for, but I wasn’t evolved enough to think otherwise yet. “The important ones.” Lexi rolled her eyes. “You’re so pretentious.” I plunged onward. “Have you heard of Golden Doors?” “Yeah. It’s a great example of Federal architecture. Gorgeous. Built in the mid-1800s, before all the rules.” “Rules?” “Height limits and materials and stuff,” Pranav said. “The entire island’s a National Historic Landmark District, but Golden Doors was built way before then.” “The Barbanels are one of the super-wealthy island families,” Jane told me. “Actual islanders, not like the recent blow-ins. They’re also Portuguese! Sort of.” I cocked my head. “I mean, they’re Jewish. But a Portuguese sort of Jewish.” My attention sharpened. I hadn’t realized the Barbanels were ~ Jewish; I wouldn’t have expected a Jewish family to summer on Nantucket. Though what did I know of the extraordinarily wealthy? They could summer wherever they wanted. As for Portuguese— “Sephardic?” “What?” “Oh. It’s what you call Jews from Spain or Portugal.” Though they’d been kicked out during the Inquisition. My own family was h Ashkenazi—descended from Jews who’d settled in France and Ger- many around the eleventh century. “Cool.” Jane turned a high-w attage smile back on Pranav. “Pra- nav’s right, their house is stunning. They open it up for tours once or twice a year.” Lexi nodded. “I actually have a gig there tomorrow.” I swiveled in her direction. “What kind of gig?”

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“Catering. They’re having a ‘start of summer’ party.” She shook her head at Evan. “Rich people are weird.” “I plead the fifth.” “Do any of you know them?” I asked the group. “Edward Barbanel and his family?” Jane gave me an odd look, and I realized the others were, too. I’d come off too intense. “Why so interested?” my new roommate asked. Evan smirked. “Noah?” I hesitated. I didn’t know these people. They might think it was super weird, me coming to Nantucket to dig into my grandmother’s connection with the Barbanels. Also, a large part of me wanted to hold the reason close, like a dragon guarding its hoard. To change the subject by saying, Who’s Noah? But how would I find out anything if I didn’t talk to people? What kind of historian didn’t do interviews? “I think my grandmother visited Golden Doors decades ago. She died recently and we don’t know much about her past, so I’m trying to find out more.” “Did she know the Barbanels?” Evan asked. “I’m not sure. I think—” I hesitated. “I think she knew Edward. They wrote letters.” “What kind of letters?” Jane asked. Pranav smirked. “Love letters?” I looked at my feet. “No,” Jane exclaimed happily, and everyone else looked properly interested. “Are you serious?” “I think so.” “What are you planning to do?” “I figure I’ll check out the house, just to see it—I saw those garden tours online. Maybe talk to Edward Barbanel.”

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“You should go with Lexi tomorrow,” Jane said. “Get the lay of the land.” “I don’t want to impose—” I said, hating myself for sounding stiff and timid even as the words left my mouth. “I mean, I do, but—” “You should,” Lexi said, her brows slightly raised. “Ms. Wilson is always willing to hire more hands. And honestly, I’m all for shaking up some bougie rich people.” “Thanks,” I said. “I won’t be trouble or anything.” “You’re only invited because I hope will be,” Lexi said, cracking a smile. “We feed on drama.” “Cheers to that,” Pranav said, and we all laughed and lifted our plastic cups. So the next day, I headed to Golden Doors. ~

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exi picked me up at five, in a Jeep crammed with other kids from L the catering company. I squeezed in the back, wearing black shorts and a white top like the others, and let their music and conversation wash over me as they gossiped casually about people I didn’t know. As the elevation climbed, the houses grew farther apart. Hy- drangea bushes, with their globes of tiny flowers, blossomed everywhere, beneath shady trees, over white fences, climbing up trellises. Sea views dipped in and out of sight, the water sparkling like dia- monds. I draped my arm out the window and turned my face up to soak in the late-June heat. We passed rolling green fields, our view of the ocean now almost unbroken, a line of ever-present blue beneath the constant sky. Only giant mansions, with colonnaded porches and drives made of crushed white shells, interfered. Eventually, we turned down an unpaved lane. And Golden Doors came into sight. The pictures I’d seen hadn’t captured the grandiosity. The house was sprawling and elegant, all gray cedar shingle and peaked roofs and gables and chimneys. Two dozen windows were set on the side facing us alone. A veranda circled the first story, while balconies dotted the second. A widow’s walk crowned one branch of the house. “It’s a lot,” I said.

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“Twenty- five million dollars,” the girl next to me said. “Not that they’d ever sell.” Wow. It was nice, but not that nice. “It’s not just for the house,” a boy added, when he saw my face. “It’s also the land.” A first I didn’t get it, but then, as we drove around the side of the house to the parking area, I did. The land. While everyone else bustled about, I stood still. Exquisite lawns and gardens spread behind the house, until the earth dropped away, falling toward the shore and sea itself. Just as I’d known it would. I knew the gardens E had written of, and the ocean he’d painted. Past the manicured hedges and neatly planted flowers lay a rose garden and a gazebo, and riotous hydrangeas tumbling down dunes to the beach. A shiver cut through me— of recognition, or foreboding. Maybe I’d trespassed too far. ~ “Come on, Abby,” Lexi said. “Let’s find Ms. Wilson.” Too late now. She led me across the lawn, where people raised white tents and strung up fairy lights. Tablecloths billowed in the air before landing on folding tables, where bouquets were then placed at intervals. A clump of workers set up a sound system, and behind them, a woman consulted a clipboard: Lindsey Wilson, who ran the catering com- h pany. We’d spoken on the phone this morning, and she greeted me briskly. “The Barbanel parties are always easy,” she said as I scrawled my signature across several forms. “But they’re a private family, so don’t poke around.” Lexi smirked. We moved trays of food from the catering trucks to tables and

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fridges. Trays of sharp Manchego and soft Port Salut; tiers of strawberries and pineapple and cantaloupe; watermelon and feta with sprigs of mint; asparagus and snap pea salad; bowls of olives and of hummus and of baba ghanoush; brie baked in dough with fig jam. I caught glimpses of the house, since the party would extend from lawn to living room. Glass light fixtures hung from the high ceilings, and sand-colored curtains framed French doors. The armchairs and sofas were upholstered in cool blues and off-whites to match the low tables. A painting of the beach hung above one fireplace; a gilded mirror above another. Potted plants and fresh cut flowers filled corners. A row of books spanned both mantelpieces. “There’s the current CEO.” Lexi nodded at a middle-aged couple standing in the center of the yard, talking to Ms. Wilson. “Harry Bar- banel and his wife.” Harry, son of Edward, and Helen Danziger, the wealthy woman he’d married the same year he told my grandmother he loved her. Harry had lots of hair (Dad would be jealous) and dressed in Nan- tucket reds (known as salmon to the rest of the world). His wife wore a shiny jacket and constant smile. They looked like they belonged in a magazine. They couldn’t have been more different from the adults in my parents’ circle, who had an argumentative, unpredictable, hippie vibe. Often, I’d wind up in a debate, and whenever I felt about to win, they’d pivot and say, “Have you considered being a rabbi? You’d make a good rabbi, you’re good at arguing. You should come to shul more,” and suddenly I’d be politely rejecting letting them plan my career tra- jectory (“But why don’t you want to be a rabbi?”). Then we wouldn’t be talking about me at all, but the new young rabbi at temple who had given such a good sermon on elder orphans, but Joan’s neighbor didn’t like her because she was too progressive, and also did anyone

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know if the rabbi had a partner? Susan’s daughter might be a lesbian and probably they should get married. I knew how to deal with my parents’ friends. I doubted the same methods would work on the Barbanels. At seven, guests started arriving in droves. People in white linen pants and monochrome outfits stood in loose circles, stemless wine glasses dangling from their fingers. I circled the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes, unease curling in my stomach. Had O’ma really spent any time here? Had she laughed and tilted her head like these women? Had she stood on this lawn in an hourglass dress, her hair in curls like a character out of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel? The letters had made it sound like she’d spent plenty of time here, but I couldn’t imagine it. Maybe she hadn’t visited during these parties, or maybe she’d been staff, like me. O’ma’s life had always seemed like a story: dangerous and glam- orous, and here was one more unexpected chapter, pages that I ~ hadn’t realized had been stuck together. Had she looked as happy as everyone here did? Hard to picture. All her life, she’d seemed a little sad. Every so often, one of the other caterers would point out a board director or a CEO. Even a senator made an appearance. “Is it always like this?” I asked Lexi when we both dropped off our trays of empty glasses at the same time. “All these famous people.” h “Everyone comes to Nantucket in the summer.” Everyone in the one percent, maybe. By 9:45, the party was in full swing. We’d been told to use the bathroom off the kitchen, but the wait was interminable, so I went searching for another. I wandered deeper into the house, taking in the perfectly placed mirrors on the hallway walls, the tiny tables with fresh flowers. I found another bathroom, filled with thick, lush

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towels, and seashells, and prints from old newspapers. Good lord, this bathroom was better decorated than my whole room. On my way back, I peeked down an empty hall and caught sight of framed photos and paintings. I paused. A quick look couldn’t hurt, could it? I walked down the hall, all my senses on alert, aware I wasn’t supposed to be here. In this part of the house, the sounds from the party were softened, muted, like they belonged to another world. What was I even looking for? A photo of O’ma? A framed letter? Ha. A door to my right swung open. I jumped back, but the man exiting didn’t see me as he strode in the opposite direction. The slowly closing door displayed an office with a giant painting of the ocean. A Monet-e sque painting, if you would. I stuck my foot out to stop the closing door. And froze. Still as the girl in Jurassic Park trying to avoid detection by dinosaurs; still as Medusa’s victims after they’d been caught in her sights. Because I didn’t do this. I didn’t break into places. I didn’t break rules. But the painting— A chime of laughter sounded nearby, and I dove inside and shut the door. I leaned against it, heart in overdrive and hands sweaty. I could get in so much trouble. I needed to leave. But what if I opened the door and someone saw me? And arrested me for trespassing? And threw me in jail (did Nantucket have a jail? Nantucket had to have a jail. Who was housed in Nantucket’s jail? Tax evaders? Joy- riding teens?) And what if they posted bail but no one paid and my parents were too far away— I took a deep, calming breath, counting to ten. Okay. Breathing. Important to remember.

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I walked over to the framed oil work hanging on the wall behind a massive desk. I doubt I’ll accurately capture the light on the sea if I paint every day for the rest of my life . . . But this painting had. The artist had used greens and yellows to suggest light penetrating the waters’ depths, so the ocean glowed from within. I was used to paintings where the ocean looked foreboding or refreshing; not many made me long to wade into the water. In the bottom right corner, white script stood out against the blue. Even in scribbled cursive, the two initials were clear—an E and a B. My hand rose as if to trace the letters, but years of museum- going stopped me short. Instead, I leaned close, holding my breath as though it might move the waves. I didn’t need any more proof. It had been Barbanel. Edward Barbanel had written my grandmother love letters. I drew back and took in the room. It had all the hallmarks of a ~ well-used study: papers and pens littered the desk; packed bookcases lined the walls. A luxurious carpet covered most of the dark wooden floor, but what I could see gleamed. Beneath the painting, a fireplace was set in the wall, and to the right, a window alcove with heavy velvet curtains looked like the perfect place to curl up and read. I’d already trespassed—was it kosher to look around a little more, h or should I duck out? Okay, it probably wasn’t one hundred percent kosher, but surely it was more like marshmallows than bacon. Hesitantly—as though walking with caution would make my actions any better—I moved to the bookcases, scanning the spines. Nonfiction all: books on business and history and accounting. Fun. Farther down, I noticed flatter spines with handwriting. Binders. I

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knelt on the ground, tilting my head to see the labels more clearly. 1990–1994. 1994–1996. 1997. Albums. Dozens of them. And these were the most recent ones. A dozen more sat on the shelf below, and my eyes jumped to them, almost faster than my mind. I was afraid to hope, afraid to think they would go back so far— 1947–51. My breath caught so quickly it felt like my heart had been hooked on a rib. The letters had begun in 1952. 1951 might have been the year O’ma visited Nantucket. Almost reverently, I pulled the album into my lap and opened the green cover. Not an album—a scrapbook. Small, square sepia-toned photos filled most pages, with the occasional colorful postcard or paper pressed between the plastic. Strangers smiled up at me, women with bouffant hairstyles, men with cigars— O’ma. The photo captured her in a moment of laughter. Her perfectly curled hair blew in the wind, and her dark lips were parted. She must have been around my age, skin unlined and eyes wide. I barely recognized her. Wide-legged jeans buttoned high around her ribcage, and a short-waisted, high-collared jacket finished the outfit. She looked so young. And so alive. In her last years, she’d been small and frail. Who was this vibrant girl who’d been so in love, who’d come to this island and left it and never spoken of it again? I’d known my grandmother; I’d known Ruth Cohen, who’d baked pies and spun stories and com- plained about air-conditioning, but I didn’t know this bold, bright young Goldman girl, who didn’t have a husband and a daughter and a granddaughter and a condo in Florida. Who was she? “What are you doing?”

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I screamed. Just a little scream, shrill and quickly silenced. I twisted so quickly I toppled off-balance and sprawled on my back. The ceiling spun as I tried to catch my breath. A boy my age stood in the doorway, limned by light. He stepped inside and closed the door. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Hi.” Scrambling to kneel—why was I such a hot mess?—I shoved the album back onto the shelf and jumped to my feet. A thunderous frown crossed his face. “Who are you?” He was alarmingly good-looking, in the kind of way that meant I never would have spoken to him normally, with bronzed skin and dark eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to slice hearts in half. He wore navy slacks and a white sweater. In one hand, he held a single flower with petals both yellow and purple. “I’m—I’m, um . . .” Crimson embarrassment crept up my cheeks. ~ I didn’t dare name the catering company for fear of getting them in trouble. “I’m a cleaner. I’m cleaning.” “And all I wanted was some peace and quiet,” he murmured, looking skyward before pinning me with his gaze again. “You’re cleaning.” I winced. “Yes?” “The study.” h In for a penny. “Yes.” “In the middle of a party.” His voice was low, almost melodic, as he coolly unraveled my story. “Without any cleaning supplies.” Right. Hm. “It’s a—new. Kind. Of cleaning.” He lifted his brows in a mute response. “I’m studying the room to see what I need in order to clean it.” “You’re a terrible liar.”

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I know, right? I almost said. Instead, I sagged against the desk and spread my hands apologetically. “Are you a thief?” “No! God, no, I don’t steal things.” “You just break into places.” I could see how one might be confused. “I didn’t break in. I just— accidentally entered.” “What?” He stared at me like I’d spoken in tongues. “It just happened. I was in the hall—and then I wasn’t in the hall—” “If you are a thief, you’re the most incompetent one I’ve ever met.” All of a sudden, I had thief pride and he’d offended it. “Oh, and you’ve met so many thieves? What are you even doing here?” He ignored me, gaze falling to the bottom shelves of the book- case. “You were looking at the photo albums?” “No.” I didn’t even know why I denied it, unless, along with my thief pride, I had a heretofore unknown affinity for deception. “Hm.” He crossed to the fireplace, lifting a tiny vase from the mantel and placing the flower in it. “Why were you looking at them?” “You’re missing water.” “Thank you,” he said, voice so dry that if any water had been present, it would have evaporated. “I hadn’t noticed.” Eesh. What an honor, to meet the king of sarcasm. I looked at the strange multicolored petals again. “What kind of flower is it?” “A poisonous one.” “Oh.” I drew back. “Do you usually walk around fancy parties with poisonous flowers?” “Only when I need to confront secretive thieves.” “I’m not a thief.” I scowled, then held up my hands. “See? Noth- ing.” I darted a glance at the door. He was several steps away. If I dashed for it—

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I dashed. He moved faster, throwing his body before the door. I skidded to a halt an inch away from him, and now we were too close, so close I could see each of his black lashes. My pulse ratcheted up and I hopped back, unable to catch my breath, unable to stop staring at him. His throat worked convulsively, his chest rising and falling like he, too, couldn’t find enough oxygen. But any momentary enchantment died when he opened his mouth. “Empty your pockets.” “These are girls’ shorts,” I shot back. “They don’t have pockets. They’re fake pockets.” He blinked. “That’s ridiculous.” “I know.” “Your purse, then.” “Why should I listen to you? You’re sneaking in here, too.” “Because I actually belong here.” ~ I sighed and handed my bag over. I’d brought almost nothing— phone, keys, wallet. He flipped open the wallet. “Abigail Schoenberg,” he read. His eyes flicked up. There were cues you looked for when you were trying to decide if someone else was also Jewish. Abigail could go either way, but my last name and my dark corkscrews were a strong signal. (And fine, my nose wasn’t precisely subtle.) His gaze returned to my license. “Nice picture.” h It was not a nice picture. “If I was going to steal something,” I said witheringly, “I wouldn’t put it somewhere so obvious. I’d tuck it in my bra or something.” He looked up. The corners of his mouth twitched. Shoot. “Which you’re not checking. Obviously if I had, I wouldn’t have planted the idea in your head.” “Unless you’re really cocky.”

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“I’m not. Trust me.” “You do seem like a shitty thief.” He held my bag high. “Tell me what you’re doing here and I’ll give it back.” “You can’t take my stuff hostage.” He didn’t say anything. Apparently he could. “Fine. Whatever.” I swept my hair out of my face. “I was snooping. What about you? What are you doing here?” The knob behind him twisted. I inhaled sharply, and the boy jumped out of the way as the door swung open. Uh-oh. An older man entered, then stopped short, a frown etched on his brow. He looked me up and down, then focused on the boy. “Noah. I thought you might be here.” “I was getting a vase.” He held up the flower. “Mrs. Greene picked this. It’s endangered. Why don’t people get that endangered means you’re not supposed to pick it?” “There are vases in the dining room.” “Giant vases. I wanted this one.” “Hm. Your parents are looking for you.” His eyes slid back toward me. “Who is your . . . friend?” “This is Abigail Schoenberg. Abigail, this is my great-uncle Bertie.” I gave a self-conscious wave. “Hi.” “Mm.” He appraised my outfit. “Are you with Lindsey’s?” For a minute I stared blankly, before remembering Lindsey’s was the name of the catering service. “Yes?” “Then shouldn’t you be out front?” I glanced at Noah—ridiculous, since he had no reason to cover for me. But. Solidarity in youth. Old people clearly couldn’t be trusted, not after they’d so casually ruined the planet.

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For whatever reason, Noah stood up for me. “I wanted her help with something.” The man’s brows rose perilously high. Oh, great. Great-uncle Bertie definitely thought we’d been hook- ing up. “But we’re done now,” I said hurriedly. “You’re right, I should get back to my job. Those champagne flutes won’t serve themselves.” Honestly, sometimes I said things so cheesy I made myself lactose intolerant. “Someone else can handle it,” Noah said. “Noah.” His great-uncle sounded impatient. “You should say goodbye.” Noah’s lips pressed together, and I thought for sure he’d rat me out. Instead, he nodded. “Give us a sec, then I’ll find Mom and Dad.” Looking mulish, the older man backed out of the room and closed the door. ~ Not entirely, though. Noah pushed it the rest of the way shut. Turning back, he hoisted my bag. “Well?” But something had clicked in the back of my mind. “Your name’s Noah.” He shot me an impatient look. Why so interested? Jane had said when I asked about the Barbanel house, and Evan—we althy, summer-people Evan, who ran in these h circles—had said, Noah? “You’re a Barbanel.” He nodded. “Be a little weird if someone outside the party ducked in here, wouldn’t it.” A strange sensation swept through me—déjà vu, though of course we’d never seen each other before. “You’re Edward Barbanel’s grandson.” “So?”

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I laughed, a little frantically. “It’s just funny, is all. You. And me. Here.” He looked at me like I was insane. “What?” I gestured. “The painting captures the light on the water.” “Is it always this difficult to talk with you?” The doorknob rattled, and we both jumped. Noah glared at the door like he could will the outsider away. Instead, a girl’s voice made its way in. “Noah! I know you’re there. Your dad wants you, like, yesterday.” Noah sighed and opened the door. A girl a year or two younger than me squeezed in. “Uncle Bertie wouldn’t say—” She stopped, and her tone shifted. “Oh.” Noah groaned. “Tell them I’ll be there soon.” She ignored him and studied me. Against her, I definitely came up lacking. She wore a black dress with colorful flowers embroidered along the hem, and had curls the glossy brown of tempered chocolate. My own hair frizzed à la Anne Hathaway in the first half ofThe Princess Diaries, and even after I’d learned the First Hair Command- ment (finger comb instead of brushing your hair post shower), my curls still dissolved as the day went on. She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?” “Abby. Hi.” She regarded me critically. “Are you . . . on the catering team?” “Um.” I tried to push my glasses up and poked my nose bridge. Right. I’d worn my contacts today. “Sort of.” “Okay.” She turned an expressive gaze on Noah—you’re making out with the help? “I’ll tell Uncle Harry you’ll be there in five. You owe me.” After she left, I spread my hands. “Seems like you really have to go.”

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“You’re going to tell me more about this. Tomorrow.” He pulled out his cell. “What’s your number?” I typed it into his phone. “I’m working tomorrow, though.” “I’ll meet you after. Where and when?” “Five. I’m at the Prose Garden.” He frowned. “You work at a bookstore as well as catering?” “Oh. Um.” I swallowed. “The catering is more of a—one- off thing.” He let out an exasperated breath. “You had better have a damn good excuse for being here, Abigail Schoenberg.” “I do. I swear I do.” Did intense curiosity count as an excuse? I was so very, very screwed. ~

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RASH DECISIONS

Navdeep Singh Dhillon

DIAL BOOKS

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Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 4 12/15/20 8:21 PM CHAPTER 1

THE LIFE PROMTASTIC

ver look in the mirror and think to yourself: I look fan- Etastic. My face, my nose, my eyes, the blond streak in my hair, my body, these clothes. Everything is lit. Yep. Me neither. I’m in the gender-neutral bathroom at prom, where an alarming number of people are not washing their hands. I’m staring at my phone, unable to commit to pressing the “add to story” button on this post. I hit delete and take more photos from several different angles, experimenting with various facial expressions ranging from Oh, I didn’t see you there to I am Sunny Gill Rebranded: Hear Me Roar. It’s a little jarring looking at this new face in the mirror. I’ve been in here for eight minutes and counting, trying to regroup. I was ready to do this thing, make this my big night. Then I find Stefan sitting front and center at the table I was randomly assigned to. Of all people, it had to be him, the dude who made my life a fucking nightmare from seventh grade on. So I bolted straight to the bath-

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 1 12/15/20 8:21 PM room, and now I’m reassessing all the grooming choices I’ve made since Thursday. Including the blond streak I had added at Super Cuts, hoping for a bit of whimsy. It’s not that I don’t like this new face. It just feels like a stranger staring back at me—the beard and turban gone, replaced by gelled-up, wavy, shoulder-length hair. My beard was never a sexy Jason-Momoa-as-Aquaman beard, or wild and dangerous like Dafydd the Feeble’s from the Jamie Snollygoster series me and Ngozi are obsessed with. Not as cool as my brother Goldy’s manicured designer dari, with the twirled-up mustache, or as intimidating as the rough bristles of Papa’s salt-and-pepper beard. But it was uniquely mine: a sparse, soft layer of black sprinkled over my cheeks. Almost all of the older warriors and sorcerers in Jamie Snollygoster have beards, a sign of wisdom and courage, hard-won from a lifetime of wielding magic and battling baddies. Or maybe they don’t have time for grooming? A good ten pages of book one was spent on the first years contemplating their future beards. That’s what initially drew me to Dafydd—his magnificently wild I-don’t-care beard. The summer before ninth grade I made the transition from wearing a patka—the kid version of the turban—to the one adults wear: the pag or dastaar. I was excited. My beard was lightly coming in, I could recite a respectable

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 2 12/15/20 8:21 PM number of pauris from the opening sacred composition of our Holy Book, the Guru Granth Sahib. I’d had enough of the childish patka. I was ready to man up and claim the dastaar. Plus Goldy thinks anyone who has a beard and is still wearing the patka deserves all the ridicule they get. He calls it the Sikh toddler look. Before I committed, I spent hours researching turban styles, watching Sikh TikTok stars, Punjabi singers, and vloggers on YouTube. I even uncovered some fun facts. For example: The word dastaar comes from the Farsi dast- e-yār, meaning “the hand of the Divine.” And the word dolband became turban thanks to the terrible pronuncia- tion of the French and English. An eternal optimist, I thought I would glide on in to my first day at Barstow High, the most badass ninth grader wearing dollar store sunglasses, a turquoise dastaar, tied patiala shahi style. I walked in with the swagger of a Pun- jabi singer or Bollywood star ready to defend the honor of his girl/family/village with a dramatic AF preamble before unleashing The Thappar of Pain #ttp. I had high hopes. No more bullying. Reverence. Awe. Girls swooning. It took one terrorist comment from Stefan to unravel it all. I wish I had Papa’s confidence. His pag has always been one style that takes him ten minutes to tie: mildly creased and pointed, super wide and loose. Hair is one of the fun-

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 3 12/15/20 8:21 PM damental outward physical characteristics of being a Sikh, and the one that Papa says is the easiest thing to do: “You don’t even have to do anything. Let nature take its course!” My brother, Goldy? His confidence is on another level. Never a planner. No research, no watching turban-tying tutorials, nothing. Probably woke up every morning and rocked whatever turban style he felt like. For his prom, he wore a ridiculous silk teal peacock dastaar. He got drunk that night and needed me—his little brother—to once again cover for him. Yet he’s the one Mama and Papa talk about like he is the most amazing son that ever existed. My hand instinctively pats the journal inside my bright orange-and-red skull-on-fire crocheted pouch—part of my Dafydd the Feeble cosplay. Biji—my grandmother—and I sell the pouches, among other things, on Loom the Fandom, our Etsy store. Well, technically the store is on Etsy—that’s where you have to go to actually buy things. But my social media business presence is on Instagram, where I answer questions and post pics. The pouches do pretty well. You’d be surprised by how many people design amazing pocket- less costumes and forget to make matching accessories. The mark of a beginning cosplayer: a kickass cosplay ruined by a fucking tote bag from Trader Joe’s. My pouch is a lifesaver. It holds all my manly essentials: breath mints, hand sanitizer, phone, money, cards, a small set of keys, and of course, Goldy’s journal. Which is kinda mine now.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 4 12/15/20 8:21 PM I’m glad nobody else from our Bramble-core heavy metal band, Unkempt, is here, because they would all be taking shifts telling me how anti-canon it is to wear my crocheted pouch without a kilt or armor. Especially Ngozi, my best friend and the lead singer. She thinks she gets a say in everything about my life. Do I get a say in hers? Not bloody likely. She’s British. Says weird shit like that all the time. But when I say it, suddenly it’s “Sunny, you plonker.” Or “Leave it out, Sunny.” Which are not even legit British- isms, they’re from some obscure Brit TV show she and her mom watch. Every year me, Ngozi, and the rest of Unkempt play at the Snollygoster Soiree, an annual shindig dedicated to the world of Jamie Snollygoster. Even though Jamie has millions of fans and is the star of the Snollygoster series, me and Ngozi never liked the entitled fucker. Maybe he just reminds us of Stefan with his “jokes” about people’s weight and the way they speak. Or perhaps it’s that Jamie couldn’t just sit his ass down and memorize some fucking spells instead of looking for illuminated maps by opening doors nobody told him to open. Plenty of other fans feel the same way, which is why the heavy metal Bramble-core subgenre is even a thing. Me and Ngozi immediately loved the two minor characters, Dafydd and Safia Brambleberry, father and daughter sorcerers who lived at the unnamed tavern just outside

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 5 12/15/20 8:21 PM the grounds of Malmesbury Academy. We started writing about them in our fanfiction, which quickly turned into songs. We both felt like Safia should have been the real hero of the books anyway.

Aside from his beard, I liked Dafydd because he was a solid friend to Jamie and loyal, like tragically loyal even to shady- ass people who had a vendetta against him. And he didn’t give a shit when people tried to ridicule him for only owning one style of armored cloak for every single occasion. Soirees, battles, serving mead at the tavern. Unbothered. The way I pretend to be online and wish I were in real life. I look up at my face in the mirror and sigh. It would be nice if Ngozi had just come here to Normal Prom. But she definitely won’t; this is as far from her scene as you can get. There’s no way she would stand for this dress code, which has no restrictions on what the boys wear, but the girls can’t even show their shoulders or ankles, like we’re in Victorian England. Still, I wish she were here. Even if she was scowling silently at the table, mocking the suit I’m wearing and my face. Maybe I should text her? Ngozi just doesn’t understand that this year I want to do something different, that there’s a world of magical possibilities even here at Normal Prom. She probably thinks I’m here because of a girl. But alas,

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 6 12/15/20 8:21 PM there is no girl. Just a lifetime of watching rom-coms in Hindi, Punjabi, and English. I wish there were someone I could make a grand declaration of love to. But it’s just me and my tanhai, aka angst. Terminal. Like Ngozi’s one to talk anyway. She’s just as awkward around girls as I am. Plus, she’s hardly the only one annoyed with me tonight. I’m also supposed to be at home for Goldy’s barsi, marking the anniversary of his death. Like he’ll miss me or something. Everyone is constantly telling me what I’m supposed to be doing. Goldy made it out of Fresno, fucked it all up, and now he’s gone. And even though Mama and Papa have never said anything, there’s no way I can leave now. They probably, definitely expect me to stay in Fresno for the rest of my life under their watchful eye. I don’t even like alcohol. The smell, the taste, the idea of not being in control of your own body and thoughts? No fucking thank you. Even in death, Goldy manages to be a dark, stinking cloud looming over my head. Goldy’s the reason I’m here at Normal Prom in the first place. Kind of. A few months ago, I found this notebook behind a bookshelf in his room. A journal from when he was at rehab It was a real mess, kind of like his approach to life: unorganized, completely unfettered by consequences, reaping all the benefits. I loosen the tassels and flip open the pouch. I remove

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 7 12/15/20 8:21 PM the notebook and look intently at it. When I found it, I re-covered it with a simple crochet sleeve using three different colored wools: teal, green, and yellow. You can still see Goldy’s original, tattered cover underneath: a picture of a peacock with faded teal feathers. I flip through the notebook, hoping something insightful will suddenly come tumbling out. But it’s the same as it was when I first found it. Inside is pure chaos: some journal entries, blank pages, doodles, artwork, random poems, words in large letters. My eyes land on the word rahao, which I learned about at Khalsa School. It means to pause and think about the message of a section of the poetic composition. On a blank page after all his gibberish, I’ve written out a heading for a new list: Sunny G’s Series of Rash Decisions. It comes right after Goldy’s final almost-entry:Goldy’s List of Ways to Be a Better Dude. Dated a few days before he died. But no actual list accompanies it. Just blank pages upon blank pages, a sea of nothingness. The finality of the blank pages kind of freaked me out. That’s why I started the rash decisions list. No more obedient Sunny G who does whatever everyone tells him to do. Time for Sunny to make reckless life choices. The first and so far only entries in my rash decisions notebook:

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 8 12/15/20 8:21 PM 1) Change face 2) Go to prom I close up the notebook and place it back in my pouch. I look at the draft of the Insta post on my phone. Creat- ing hashtags and captions is much easier for my Loom the Fandom account. Those I can come up with in seven seconds flat. They’re usually inspirational quotes, along with a photo of something I crocheted available for purchase. The latest: a cup of masala cha wearing a crocheted tea cozy, sunset in the background. The caption: “Don’t just let life pass you by wondering what if. BE the IF.” I’m fucking profound on social. But I need a better shot for my personal Insta. I pause and lean over the sink, angling my chin upward. That’s when I notice it. An out-of-place nose hair. Things quickly spiral out of control because it goes like this: You notice the nose hair, you destroy said nose hair, and think that’s the end of it. But there’s a plot twist. More nose hairs. You question whether these really are new or they’ve been here this entire time. You realize the futility of destroying them all after the fourth one. By then your eyes are a watery mess, making it look like you’ve been crying five fucking minutes into prom. Blasted. Nose. Hairs. I make another attempt at a selfie, pinching two fingers together to zoom in close. I gasp as I notice my meatloaf- sized sideburns. I don’t remember why I thought it would

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 9 12/15/20 8:21 PM be a good idea to do them myself. They look uneven. Am I overthinking? Perhaps it’s my posture, I rationalize. I cover my face with my thumb and index finger, like there’s a secret carpenter’s level pulsing through my veins. Sure enough, the results are clear. Fresno, we have a problem: One sideburn is slightly lopsided. I notice the nose hairs again. Like arrows being shot from my Nostril Army of Archers. I consider tucking them back inside, but WHAT IF I SNEEZE? Or there’s, like, a gust of wind just as I am saying something super insightful? I’ll tell you what: It will send all the nose hairs tumbling out and I will become a goddamn meme. That’s what. I glance back at this new draft. I look like a dude carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. I type: Time for Prom! #SunnyAtProm #AwesomeTime #PromBathroom- Selfie #NewFaceWhoDis #WeDidIt I zoom in close on my phone camera. My hair is a mess. This angle makes it look like it’s been elf-locked even though it’s definitely tangle-free. I could definitely use one of Safia Brambleberry’s spells right about now, even though Ngozi thinks the whole idea of an anti-frizz hair enchantment is some white supremacy bullshit. Mama would probably just tell me to use baking soda and vinegar on my hair. She thinks those two things alone can fix all the world’s problems: hair straightener, beard re-

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 10 12/15/20 8:21 PM grower, oven cleaner, skin exfoliator, toilet bowl freshener. If Mama were a doctor, instead of working at the video store, I bet ninety percent of her remedies would involve baking soda and vinegar. The other ten percent would be turmeric, which she always cooks with. “It is antiseptic,” she says. “You should always be prepared for calamity.” Baking soda, vinegar, turmeric, knots, and spilling the latest tea in Bollywood. Those are the things me and Mama talk about. We don’t talk about Goldy. Not even in euphemisms. You’d think a year would be enough time to accept that my brother is gone, to learn to start using the past tense. I still feel a lump in my throat when I use the words that feel so final:dead, death, cremation, alcoholic. No more playing video games with my brother, getting yelled at for following him around everywhere. It’s just so definitive. Gone. The bathroom door flings open, and I can feel my left buttock twitch before I even see him. Chiseled White Boy Face Stefan. That’s what Ngozi and I call him because he looks like the Eurocentric vision the author—E. B. Goyle—probably had in mind when she described Jamie Snollygoster’s face in the books: “They had never seen a boy so handsome. His cheeks were chiseled as though the Gods Themselves had come down to do the work, his nose, slender and ending at an angle, lips as red as roses, a beautiful sharp dimpled chin.” Our beloved series has got

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 11 12/15/20 8:21 PM plenty of problems. That’s the reason we started writing fanfiction in the first place. Stephan doesn’t look all that. His dimpled chin looks more like a chin-with-two-butt-cheeks trying real hard to pretend they’re not butt cheeks. But he does have that face that they love to cast on TV shows: the hazy blue eyes, and pale skin, like he hunts vampires in his spare time. Uses the phrase chai tea non-ironically, thinks telling racist jokes about a variety of races makes him an equal opportunity offender and not just . . . racist squared. He brushes past me, handles his business, then sidles up next to me and turns on the faucet. My face is still turned upward from the nostril viewing and I’m frozen there, so as not to look like a doofus. And in so doing, feel like a much bigger doofus. Of the million universal nerdy things he could mock me for, he always goes for the lazy racism, with geographically and culturally inaccurate jabs that have surprisingly not gotten more complex over the years. Five years in, and it’s still terrorist, ISIS, jihad, with plenty of microaggressions thrown in. You’d think I’d have some comebacks by now. You’d be wrong. I’m ready for the blow, but he just checks himself out in the mirror as he lathers up his hands, rinses them off. Then shakes his head in annoyance at something on the wall as my face lowers to a normal elevation. “Hand dryers, man,” he says, catching me off guard.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 12 12/15/20 8:21 PM I suck my teeth at the hand dryer like it’s been talking shit about my family, and inhale deeply in an attempt to avoid stuttering. “S-spreads more g-germs than paper towels.” I watch Stefan’s face to see if he noticed the stutter. “But what you gonna do?” I add, like I’m a gangster from the 1940s. “C-can’t wipe your hands on your pants.” The sound of the hand dryer stops. He laughs. “See ya back at the table.” I nod as he makes his way out of the bathroom. Surreal. I have never had an encounter with Stefan that didn’t involve some kind of humiliation. My very first interaction with Stefan was in seventh grade when we had to introduce ourselves, which is a really stressful activity for any kid, double for a kid who stutters and looks the way I do. And then Stefan happened. I was in the middle of stuttering on the first syllable of my name when Stefan muttered “t-t-terrorist,” and some of the other kids started laughing, which completely threw me off and I started stuttering like a machine that’s short-circuiting. Until the teacher interrupted me, finished my sentence, then told me to sit down. In high school, it evolved into a cruel strategy just for laughs, where Stefan would constantly interrupt me, just to make me stutter and feel like shit. He made school hell. I got a little reprieve when Ngozi entered the picture in the middle of ninth grade, bringing along all kinds of other things: the Jamie Snollygoster

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 13 12/15/20 8:21 PM series, fanfiction, and the Bramble-core heavy metal scene. I take a deep breath and exhale as quietly as I can. I hate that I’m so predictable. But those days are behind me now. And in a few weeks all of this is going to be over. Maybe this plan is working after all. I wash my hands. As the hand dryer loudly spreads germs all over them again, I feel a giddiness. Is this what happy feels like? As I exit the bathroom, I finish up my post. “Sometimes,” I write as the caption, “you gotta stop saying Fres-No, and start saying Fres-Yes!”

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 14 12/15/20 8:21 PM CHAPTER 2

THE PROMTASTROPHE

’m sitting at the table watching Stefan not notice me. I Iquickly realize it’s not just him, it’s everyone here. Just carrying on with their conversations, paying no attention to me at all. So this is what it feels like to blend in. I could get used to this. I don’t know the names of everyone at the table, but recognize some of the faces from middle school or elementary, others from classes or rallies. Maybe some of them feel that way about me, like I look vaguely familiar, but without the beard and turban, they don’t realize I’m me? I’m surprised Jasminder isn’t saying anything about my face. She never actively bullies me, but does occasionally join in the yuk-yuks with Stefan and his minions. Jasmine’s not especially religious, but we have occasionally bonded over the delicious glory of muttar paneer and jalebis at Sikh functions. I glance at her hair. It’s dark red, almost maroon, and falls neatly to the tops of her shoulders. Her prom dress is a deep shade of green, matching her

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 15 12/15/20 8:21 PM eye shadow. An odd choice, but definitely in line with this year’s prom theme: nature. I clear my throat and wait for a tiny lull in the conversation to dive in. “Th-this ambience is interesting,” I say. The stutter is barely noticeable—nice. “Ambience is a good way to put it,” Stefan replies, looking up briefly from his phone. It’s still jarring to hear him speak to me like a human. “It’s like the Green Goblin exploded all over the gym,” Pushpa says. “You w-would think someone would b-be like, this is too much green, man,” I say. I bite my lip to refrain from adding, “YES. I have just started a conversation!” Out of habit, I lift my hand and my fingers clasp my now non-existent beard. The Prom Committee interpreted the theme of nature as making everything green instead of actually going green. And not like an elegant hunter green or whatever. I’m talking plastic-terrible-for-the-environment bleh green tablecloths, plates, cups, cutlery, and trees made out of crumpled-up brown paper stapled to the doors, with green paper serving as foliage. Even the centerpieces are green jars filled with fun- gus-topped pebbles, meant to emulate some kind of otherworldly moss. Green streamers flutter as the exhaust

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 16 12/15/20 8:21 PM fans in the corner of the rooms go full blast. I love the cheesiness of it all. Life doesn’t have to look as extravagant as the Hvede Gala from the books. I look around the room and my heart swells as I look at all the hideous décor, the clamor at all the tables around the room, the dinky dance floor. This is lit. It’s what I imagined prom would look like, from all the years and hours watching all those old teen movies, like Sixteen Candles and Ten Things I Hate About You. The magic is here. Most of these kids don’t realize it because they don’t speak rom-com as well as I can, but this is it. After tonight, nothing will ever be the same. I know why Ngozi is annoyed with me. This decision doesn’t involve her. That’s what she’s mad about. Mean- while, she’s leaving for Berkeley over the summer to study neuroscience or some shit. Don’t remember her consulting me about that. So this night is it. Literally everything changes. After this, it’s just formalities and paperwork: settling accounts before graduation, ordering our caps and gowns, making sure we’re doing superficial meaningful things with our friends, that kind of busywork to distract us from the fact everything is a fleeting moment, high school is a blip, our friends, our family, none of it is as important as we think it is. The kitchen staff bring pitchers of water over for each table. I’m surprised they trust us with glass. I look down

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 17 12/15/20 8:21 PM at my phone. I’m kinda glad everyone has their phones out and that this is how people communicate. Makes it so much less intimidating when you run out of things to talk about. I can’t imagine the days when you had to just stare at a person the entire time and come up with things to say. I think about some universal things to enter into the conversation. Weather. Food. Skin. You’d be surprised how versatile of a talking point that last one is. Who would not want to be complimented on their skin? If someone said something like, “Hey Sunny, nice skin, yo,” I’d be like, “Much appreciated, braah. Let me walk you through my morning and nighttime skincare routine. I have just switched moisturizers and no longer use beard oil on account of not having a beard.” Then I’d pause, giving everyone enough time to chortle, possibly even guffaw. Another reason I’m glad Ngozi isn’t here is because I know what she’d probably say. “You’re off your trolley. What the donkey bollocks sort of chat-up line is that? Why don’t you just tell people you think their skin is soft and you want to wear it like a blanket?” Just because she’s Brit- ish, she has the audacity to claim my Dafydd accent and syntax are not quite cutting the mustard. Like she would know. My accent is fucking flawless. I sit in silence and concentrate on not sucking my teeth, a habit I picked up from Ngozi. Not sure if it’s a Nigerian thing or a Ghanaian thing or just an Ngozi thing. Her dad

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 18 12/15/20 8:21 PM is Nigerian and her mom is Ghanaian, which she claims means she is the ultimate authority on jollof rice, and can define the perfect rice to tomato ratio. Jasmine does have lovely skin. It looks lighter than usual, though nothing competes with Stefan’s vampire aesthetic. Fluorescent lighting? Extra layer of concealer? Skin-light- ening cream from the Desi store? Uhhhh. No. I should probably stay away from anything that could be construed as “your face is looking rather fair and lovely today, much whiter and more beautiful than usual.” I could talk about the shape of people’s skulls. Okay. This is definitely ventur- ing into creepy territory. I see Ngozi’s point. Besides, the conversation at the table has already shifted to their usual adulation of gods and goddesses of star-spangled spandex, aka superheroes in comic books. Way out of my depth. Fortunately, there is internet on my phone. I glance down at the tabs I’ve opened. Which ones are the Avengers again? Are they DC or Marvel? Is Ms. Marvel the blond lady or the desi girl? There’s so much to consider, I might as well give up. I focus on figuring out how to contribute, perhaps a compliment on someone’s ensemble? That’s when I notice Jasmine’s dress again. She has Jasmine-ified it all along the sides and the trim and places that nothing all that exciting happens. I look closer and see that not only are there comic book panels sewn into the fabric (which looks like polyester or cotton,

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 19 12/15/20 8:21 PM maybe?), there are some kind of light-up tracks strategi- cally placed all over the dress. I wonder what she used for the lights. It looks like an updated version of a Tron-dress she wore at NerdFest a few years ago. It can’t be LED strips. Way too much light diffusion. Dress-making is not really my forte, although I do dabble. The girl sitting next to her, Paola, is wearing a flowing white prom dress with a large gold necklace and matching white hijab. I don’t know her that well, but has she Paola-fied her dress too? Stefan catches me looking at the ridiculous purple vest he’s wearing. He rises and waddles exaggeratedly toward me. Oh, no. I don’t know why he’s waddling. Is he mocking me again? Or maybe an injury? He’s not an athlete. Unless chess club has suddenly become a contact sport. Stefan gestures to the vest. “Ordered it from Italy three months ago.” Satisfied, he starts waddling back, then pauses. “I got my umbrella in the car,” he adds, talking to nobody in particular. This seems like an odd thing to say, even for Stefan. I slowly piece things together. They’re all in cosplay! All of them. Superheroes. This is going to be one wild night. Apparently, I have something in common with everyone here, even Stefan. Who knew!

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 20 12/15/20 8:21 PM “Y-you’re that villain plant woman from Batman,” I say to Jasmine. The table roars with laughter. “Poison Ivy, yeah,” Jasmine says as she squints at me, like she’s trying to place me. “Stefan is the Penguin.” This shit is clearly against school policy. I’m the only dumbass wearing straight-up school-sanctioned Prom Attire with zero alterations: an expensive, uninspired black tux I rented from the place listed on the school website like a rule-abiding hobbit. I don’t believe this. For once, I’m the only one not in cosplay. Only I am. I’m dressed as boring-ass-guy-in-tight-suit-at-prom instead of my usual Dafydd the Feeble cosplay: this crocheted pouch, plus my armor and a chain mail helmet with custom-made mustache and beard accommodation because it’s canon. These pants are much tighter than I anticipated. My nostrils flare, and I feel the nose hairs expand, my sideburns flopping, my newly cropped and streaked hair rising up. Stefan is making his Thinking Face, which requires a lot of concentration, a puckering of the mouth, a squinting of the eyes. It’s the face he makes when he’s about to say something terrible, usually about me, for a cheap laugh. Or perhaps it’s the face he makes when he’s constipated and needs to go to the bathroom. “Holy shit!” Stefan says, leaping up from his chair again.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 21 12/15/20 8:21 PM “What happened to that whole ISIS garden on your face?” Stefan says loudly, inches away from me, running a hand slowly over his face, his eyes searing into mine. “ISIS garden or not, I’d recognize that sss-sssss-tutter anywhere,” he says, then looks around the table and laughs. He’s probably been sitting here this whole time coming up with what he thinks is a hilarious joke. Nobody laughs, which is worse than people actually laughing because they’re just sitting there quietly and letting him get away with it. “You look a million times better,” Stefan says, like I did it for him. “Why’d you do it?” Everyone is staring at me. I realize they’re waiting for me to speak, but the words aren’t quite coming out. “W-www-ww.” I’m in the dreaded perpetual mid-stutter zone. I feel the muscles in my face tense as I try to just get out of this sentence, this word. As fleeting as I know this moment is, it sure is taking a long fucking time to end. My fingernails dig into my palms as the stuttering increases rapidly, even though I’m attempting to control my breathing with a hand on my diaphragm—a technique I learned in a YouTube video about stuttering. It’s a lost cause. As much as Goldy struggled with everything else in his life—coming out as gay, admitting to being an alcoholic, thinking he was bigger, smarter than what life had in store for him—he never seemed to question his dastaar, his beard, his faith. Aside from Biji, nobody in our fam-

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 22 12/15/20 8:21 PM ily is super religious, but we go to the gurdwara on most Sundays. Mama and Papa mostly like to socialize, while Biji gets to eat sweet parshad without anyone monitor- ing her sugar intake. Shortly before Goldy died, he had started waking up early to do morning prayers with Biji, volunteered ONE TIME to serve food at the community kitchen and Mama and Papa won’t stop bringing it up, like he didn’t relapse a couple weeks later. Everyone is still staring at me. I want to tell Stefan, “ISIS is geographically and racially inaccurate.” I wish this new face would give me more authority and the power to really put him in his place. Why can’t I stand up, smash a glass on the floor, look right at Stefan and everyone at the table and be like, “Foul-smelling swamp demons! A curse on all your kanjar houses!” Followed by a hush, and a flurry of videos of the showdown being uploaded to social media. #TeamSunny #SunnyDestroysStefan It doesn’t matter. They’ve moved on. Everyone zones out as my voice moves from a stuttering stuck record to a low mumble that trails off. I take a deep breath when I realize it’s over. I’ve never understood why my stutter is so frustratingly illogical. Jasmine looks up from her phone. “Stefan.” Her voice sounds dangerous. Maybe she’s going to let him have it? Finally, after all these years. “ ’Sup,” he says.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 23 12/15/20 8:21 PM “Remember when I told you to be careful not to put the keg in Amy’s garage or her parents would find it and totally freak? And then you were all, ‘Whaddya think I am, some kinda idiot?’ ” “That’s not what I sound like.” There’s a pause. “I had to use so many hookups to get that keg,” Stefan says. “I swear to God, if you talk about the fucking keg . . .” “Torpedo keg,” Stefan clarifies. “ONE MORE GODDAMN TIME.” Jasmine lets out an exasperated sigh. “Because of your keg. Sorry, your torpedo keg.” She looks up to glare at Stefan. He bites his lower lip. “The after-party is canceled. Amy’s parents are staying home. Now what?” There is a moment of complete, mournful silence at the table. “Well,” Stefan says sheepishly. “That sucks. But the plan was to wait for the photo booth to take photos and video for the ‘gram anyway, then bounce. So same plan except instead of going to what’s-her-face’s house, we’ll just go to the Snollygoster Soiree. They prolly got alcohol. Maybe not a torpedo keg.” He shrugs. “We’re dressed for it anyway.” “Oh, what a good idea. Let me just get on that,” Jas- mine says, dramatically punching in numbers on a gigantic imaginary phone, emulating logging on to the site for tick-

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 24 12/15/20 8:21 PM ets. “Looks like it’s sold out. Who could have predicted that, on the night of prom?” Jasmine is steaming mad. “FYI. It’s been sold out for two weeks.” “Don’t worry,” Paola says, her voice diplomatic. “We ain’t staying here for five hours listening to this goofy-ass music and looking at these people all night.” I must admit, this scenario has not occurred in any of the prom-themed movies or novels I’ve watched or read. People sometimes go through a bunch of obstacles to arrive at prom, but no matter whether they’re drunk and happy or drunk and sad or drunk and mad, they still stay at prom. That’s what’s supposed to happen. What is this leaving prom shit? “Don’t Fannypack Gill over here got a hookup?” Stefan says, pointing at me like I’m a menu iteme. Wait, is he talking about Dafydd the Feeble’s custom-designed pouch? Did he just compare this carefully crocheted sporran—a warrior’s pouch—to a mass-produced cheap piece of junk American tourists wear in Europe so they get mugged quicker? This. Mother. Fucker. I curl up my fists, like I’m going to start a prison fight. “Oh yeah, you doing poetry or something at the Snol- lygoster Soiree?” Paola says. “Sorcery metal,” I reply. “The subgenre is Bramble-core, b-b-but our band is Unk-k—”

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 25 12/15/20 8:21 PM “Sounds fucking dangerous,” Stefan interrupts me like a shithead. “Isn’t bramble like a jam or a soap or something.” “Hello. Safia Brambleberry?” Jasmine says, lilting her voice upward but still not happy with Stefan or the situation at hand. Still, she’s the only relatively rational one in this group. The rest of them give me blank looks. “B-brambles are thorned trailing vines that g-grow in the countryside in the Petrichor F—F-Fiefdom. Bramble- berries grow on the bramble, so brambleberries are the general name for things like thimbleberries, gruffleberries, angleberries.” I realize, aside from thimbleberries, none of these juicy berries exist in real life. “Oh,” Paola says. “You’re talking about the book about that one dude who falls through a toilet?” Stefan says, unimpressed. He doesn’t say it in a mean way, just in a totally dismissive clueless way, which is five times as annoying. I am at a loss for words. Such an oversimplification ofThe Ballad of the Boy Who Fell Out of the Tesco Bog, the first book in the Jamie Snollygoster series, where, yes, he does fall through the toilet, which, it is very clearly explained, is a fucking portal, so he ends up thousands of miles beneath the surface of the Earth we know. It’s like if I said, Oh yeah, Spider-Man, that one comic book about the boy who gets bit by a magical spider. Bet that would make everyone at this table mad.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 26 12/15/20 8:21 PM I frown mightily because when I think of the perfect thing to say to him, boy is he gonna be sorry. “Well, they probably hooked you up with extra tickets, right?” Stefan says, looking right at me. Then everyone else turns to look at me too. “Oh. Uh,” I say. Sweat trickles above my eyebrows. It’s an exhilarating yet nauseating position I’m in. So much perceived power. And no actual power. I kind of have an extra ticket. It’s my ticket, which I’m clearly not going to be using. E-ticket, rather. But it’s non-transferrable because I’m a performer. Says so in big, fat, bold letters. Of all the ways to shut this down, I choose to go with “Yuppers,” smacking my lips loudly as I pat my crocheted man-bag. All eyes remain on me. “It i-is. It is going to be a very awesome party,” I say. “Th-the awesome . . . est.” The lights dim. Ah, Mr. DJ. A fast track to get the kids on the dance floor. But no one moves. Except me. “Well,” I say, standing. “I’m going to go urinate.” And with that, I briskly walk away from the table, in the opposite direction of the bathroom, out of sight.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 27 12/15/20 8:21 PM CHAPTER 3

THE GIRL IN THE BRAMBLEBERRY DRESS

’m sitting by the snack table in the dark, shoveling hand- Ifuls of dry tortilla chips into my mouth. I wish I’d added salsa, but it’s too late now. I am way too committed to eating these dry tasteless chips. This is my life now. I stare out into a big blur of people descending onto the dance floor. Dance floor. I use the term very loosely. It’s basically a large rectangular space near the back wall. The basketball hoops are raised toward the ceiling and covered with streamers and balloons to try and make us forget we’re in the gym. Stefan and the rest of the table are probably out there gyrating and selfie-ing it up. Everybody has their cell phones out, a sea of bright flashes as they take photos and videos and snaps and gifs and boomerangs to add to their stories in an attempt to manufacture the joy of prom. I should post a selfie of me in the dark by the snack table alone to really capture what it is like. On the other end of the gym, they’ve started setting up

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 28 12/15/20 8:21 PM the photo booth, which already has a huge line. Maybe that’s where everyone is at. Or they could still just be sitting at the table, waiting for me so they can get the tickets I don’t actually have. Even if I did have one hypothetical ticket, who am I giving it to? Stefan? Over my cremated body. I still don’t get it. Why bother spending all this money and energy coming to prom, renting a limo, getting all decked out, asking someone out with an over-the-top Promposal, if you got plans to bail as soon as possible? Stefan’s Promposal involved getting his cop brother to stop Jasmine as she pulled into her driveway, just so he could bring a pizza to her with the words Pizza Come to Prom With Me spelled out on it in pepperoni. Ngozi thinks that’s a terrifying thing to do to a person of color, and she’s right. There’s nothing charming about it. I take out my phone and play Mama’s voicemail on the speaker, since it’s just me and the tortilla chips anyway. It’s simple and to the point: “Hi, beta. It’s me, your mom. Anything you need from the store? Lucky Mamaji is picking up some Haldi Raam and a crate of Limca for the barsi. Okayyyy. This is your mom.” She always signs off with that, like I’m going to mistake her for a telemarketer calling me son and asking me to do errands. Papa, on the other hand, has sent ten text messages in the past half an hour or so. None of them seem to indicate

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 29 12/15/20 8:21 PM he knows I’m not actually at home, although he doesn’t use text messages the way normal people use them, so who knows. They’re both busy over-preparing for everyone coming to the house. We’ve never actually talked about Goldy being gone, can’t use the word death or alcoholic or cremation. But here we are having a barsi, a commemora- tion of his death. Which I’m expected to attend. Papa only texts me about technical issues. I glance at the last several he sent: “Your chacha emailed a pdf file but I can’t download it on my phone???” “Also how to upload a photo to whatsapp?” “ok figured out how to get pdf still don’t know how to upload photo to whatsapp?” “What’s my apple id?” “Chacha told me how to upload photo. Is password same for apple id and facebook?” “Urgent response requested at convenience.” Texting Papa back is a bad idea. But I do it anyway. “Password is different. Your Facebook password is tan- doorichicken65. What do you need password for Apple ID? Don’t download any more apps.” This is the kind of interaction me and Papa have whether I’m in the house or away, and most of our face-to-face conversations aren’t any better. In a parallel universe, I could have just told Mama and Papa I’m going to prom and not

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 30 12/15/20 8:21 PM coming to the barsi. But we don’t do that in my house. We contort ourselves into all kinds of positions to avoid saying what we’re really thinking or feeling. I couldn’t even cry at Goldy’s cremation because of the usual idiotic reason: Makes me look weak. Papa’s favorite expression: “Stop acting like a pajama.” AKA: man up. Like the rest of my aura projects old-school Punjabi film hero, Maula Jatt and The Rock levels of masculinity. I really wish Biji had a phone to text. I bet she’d love SnapChat. We can sit and crochet for ten minutes or all day, talking or in silence, and I always feel lighter. She doesn’t give a shit if I cry or want to tell her in my not- so-perfect Punjabi that I simultaneously hate Goldy and I love and miss him. With Mama and Papa, there’s always a lot of busywork to keep us distracted from talking about Goldy or anything else real. Reality is overrated anyway. I look at my Insta and Snapchat and TikTok. Nothing. Just a couple random views, no reactions, no emojis, no likes. Like I don’t exist. I put my phone in my man-bag and consider the situation. Plus point: I’m here at prom on my way to making memories! Not plus point: Stefan is going to come asking me for the tickets I said I have. Plus point: Stefan and his table of dweebs plan on leaving. Now the dilemma: How do I dig myself out of this lie? Maybe if I stay hidden long enough, they’ll just leave on their own and I can see who else is here. Pretty in Pink wasn’t all

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 31 12/15/20 8:21 PM roses either, and it’s been like fifteen minutes. I just gotta give it time. I take my phone out again. “Hey Siri,” I say. “Tell me a joke.” I don’t remember when I started talking to Siri like she’s a real person, but it’s comforting having someone there whenever you need them, even if she just googles everything. She booms through the speaker of my iPhone: “Mr. Spock actually had three ears: a left ear, a right ear, and a final front ear.” I laugh loudly. “Oh, th-that was a good one, Siri. I’m going to use that one tonight.” Under normal circumstances, I would be texting Ngozi. But what do I text her after bailing on her and knowing she is leaving for Berkeley? “Hi. Night going well? GREAT. Me? Oh, everything is fucked. Can you hook up tickets for the Snollygoster Soiree? Oh yeah, no, I’m still not coming. It’s for Chiseled White Boy Face, and his terrible friends. Yes, he still thinks All Lives Matter.” “Hey Siri,” I say. “I c-could just lie to Stefan again and t-tell him he can pick up the tickets at Snollygoster Soiree. Or that I’ll have my people text the tickets over, and then just not do it. Right?” She’s in the middle of telling me she doesn’t understand the question when I rudely interrupt. “Hey Siri. Send message to Ngozi.”

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 32 12/15/20 8:21 PM Siri makes her usual ding sound. “What do you want it to say?” she says. Another ding for good measure. “So, a slight pickle. Send,” I say, dictating into the phone. Siri sends the message with a whoosh. I wait. Nothing. I try again: “Do you have extra tickets to the Snollygoster Soiree? Paper or e-ticket is fine. A friend needs them. Two friends.” First I get those ever-irritating ellipses. Then she finally texts back: “You should listen to your heart.” Such a petty move. I’d be impressed if she were doing this to someone else. Instead of ghosting me, Ngozi is replying with gibberish, perfunctory American fortune cookie–style non-sequiturs. To me. To Me! I furiously tell Siri to text back: “Prom is awesome. Real great music. Food is top notch. Connecting with a lot of people I haven’t seen in years. Some people I friend-zoned that are trying to rectify that situation. You know how it is.” I see the three dots appear, disappear, reappear. Her message arrives: “Oh, why didn’t you just say so. No problem. I’ll leave 200 tickets with the butler next to the charcuterie in the foyehhh. What friends?” I can’t say Stefan or Jasmine. Hate may be a mild way to describe her feelings for either of them.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 33 12/15/20 8:21 PM I respond: “You wouldn’t know them.” And then it comes: “Well. I barely know you.” I shake my head and put the phone away. I feel that familiar heavy sensation in my chest. I close my eyes, willing it to be something it’s not: gastrointesti- nal issues, tortilla-chip-induced heartburn, syphilis. Okay, not syphilis. Definitely not syphilis. It sounds so frivolous, especially when there are people all around me. Loneli- ness. I pause for a few seconds, leaning against the table as the debilitating sensation pulses through me. My heart is beating fast. I close my eyes, run a finger over my karra and breathe. I pull the phone out, hoping for the best. My thumb cramps up as I scroll through all my social media feeds again. I look around the room and all I can see is potential for a magical night. Almost all of the movies I’ve grown up watching have a small hiccup in the opening. That’s all this is, right? A hiccup? Before I know it I will meet a girl who wants to break out of the friend zone with me. Or maybe there’s someone here tonight who I want to break out of the friend zone with. My eyes widen as I scan the room. I don’t recognize many people. “Siri,” I beckon as I stretch my thumb and readjust my palm. “How do people get out of the friend zone?” “Here’s what I found on the web,” she says, and lists

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 34 12/15/20 8:21 PM some articles, including one with eight specific strategies from Men’s Journal. I’ve seen so many Bollywood and Hollywood movies about this very premise. I look around the room, at the dance floor again, the weird bright light on the other side of the snack table, and touch my face as I consider my options. I reach into the bowl to scoop out more of the tortilla chips. There’s something in there. Something alive. “Actually,” a voice—definitely not Siri’s—says as the warm and fleshy thing removes itself slowly from the bowl. I’m relieved it’s a hand, a human hand, a human hand attached to a living human body. But the voice continues: “The friend zone doesn’t exist. Kinda like the magical experience you think you’re gonna have at prom.” I snatch my hand from the chip bowl in a panic, sending tortilla chips flying. A few Tostitos hit me in the face as I narrowly save my phone from death, and quickly place it back in my pouch for safety. How long has she been standing here? It occurs to me she’s not standing. She’s sitting. “This is what you do?” I sputter at the girl. “This is what you do?” I repeat. “Spy on people like, some, some kind of . . .” I struggle for the right word. “Badger. Or, like, another quiet woodland creature . . .” I trail off. Badger. I don’t even know where I was going with that analogy. With that, I am out of outrage, although I have plenty of involuntary flaring of my nostrils.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 35 12/15/20 8:21 PM The girl’s head turns and a bright light shines right in my eyes, obscuring her face. She switches the light off. I realize the light isn’t from a doorway or a spotlight. It’s coming from her head. She is wearing a headlamp, the kind you wear when you go camping, only a much lower wattage. In her hands is what looks like a book. A friggin’ book. Her face comes into focus. Now I recognize her. Mindii Vang. I don’t know her know her, but I know her. You know. Like I’ve seen her around at different cosplay events. She hangs out with Ngozi and the crew sometimes. She was probably in a class with me at some point. I know she’s in the anime and manga clubs, solely because she’s always at the booth looking for people to join during club week. “Are you,” I say incredulously, “reading? At prom?” “No,” she says. “I’m trying to read, but some fool keeps distracting me with his addiction to his bright-ass phone and very loud existential crisis.” “Oh boy,” I say. “And I thought I was having a shitty night.” “You are having a shitty night. I am eating chips and trying to read a particularly riveting study called ‘Spirits Are Real: The Relationship Between Hmong and Japanese Spirits in Contemporary Anime and Manga.’ ” “So friggin’ wordy,” I say. “Like what spirits?” “I don’t know. I didn’t get very far because some fool is being real loud. I’m right in the middle of this section on

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 36 12/15/20 8:21 PM the complex nature of Hmong Dab and Japanese Yokai.” “I don’t even know what to say if you think that sounds like a non-shitty time,” I say. I don’t tell her that I used to watch the Yo-Kai anime with Goldy as a kid. Or that the study sounds intriguing. There’s nothing intriguing enough to hide in the dark at prom with a friggin’ flash- light on your head, though. “Why are you even here?” I say. “And talking nonsense about things you just don’t understand? Like the friend zone of all things. You should read a study called ‘The Friend Zone is Real.’ ” “I can see you’ve spent hours of research on this with your phone. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend your girlfriend,” Mindii says. “S-S-Ssiri is not my girlfriend! The friend zone is a fact. Movies center on its existence. Novels rely on it. I’m not gonna debate facts. What’s next, we gonna debate climate change?” “Well, it was kinda cold last winter, which means global warming is definitely a hoax,” she says. There is a moment of quiet as I realize it’s a joke. “I bet the term friend zone was invented by some dude named Chad who poured his heart out to a girl and she rejected him,” she says. “So then he’s all, ‘does not compute. I need a way to not feel bad about being a shitty person and gaslighting my friend into having feelings for me.’ C’est voila. The term friend zone

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 37 12/15/20 8:21 PM was born. Better term to use would be predator zone.” The music has shifted into a slower-paced song, drowning out whatever response I would have had. I do see her point. But not a chance I would admit that. I blame the patriarchy. “Is Chad even a real name?” I say over the music. “Or it’s the name of a very expensive cheese.” “Sounds like a fungal infection.” “Do you have Chad and don’t remember where you contracted it?” Mindii booms loudly. I realize she’s pretending to do an ad. It’s pretty funny. She’s pausing. Oh. She’s expecting me to finish. “Then take this . . . uh . . . medicine, m–motherfucker,” I say, ruining the joke. Only she’s laughing. There are a handful of kids still on the dance floor, but most of them are making their way back to their seats. “What’s the deal with the Snollygoster Soiree? Just go,” Mindii says. “Prom is a big bore. Trust me, I came here last year too. “ “You know nothing,” I say. “And who goes to prom two years in a row? You’re like that guy in Sixteen Candles.” “Is that a boy band? Wait, why am I like someone in a boy band?” “It’s a cult classic. It’s like one of the quintessential prom movies.”

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 38 12/15/20 8:21 PM “Sounds like I really missed out on not watching that obscure movie so I could understand this one reference. If you must know, I came here to chaperone my sisters. Not by choice. I’m always getting roped into doing shit that I don’t want to do. You wouldn’t get it.” I would totally get it. I do get it. Of course, I’m not going to tell her that. “Oh,” Mindii says. “What?” I say. “The deal with the Snollygoster Soiree tickets. And everything else. I got your number. So very interesting,” she says, sinking back into her chair, turning the headlight back on. “N-no. No,” I say eloquently. “I got your number. You don’t got my number. Wait. What do you mean?” She laughs. “You don’t have the tickets. So now you’re a headless chicken.” “You’re so weird,” I say. “A headless chicken? Because I’m dead?” “Do you know anything about chickens? Headless chickens run around panicked trying to fix things and be on their way, even though they are fucked. Because,” she explains very slowly, “they have no heads.” “No,” I say being instinctively argumentative. Even though she does apparently have my number. I’m about to say something to cut her to the core,

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 39 12/15/20 8:21 PM ridicule her for reading in the dark alone with a fucking camping headlight, not having a date, being a dorkus max- imus. If only I could come up with something. The double doors to the gym open, letting in a burst of ugly fluorescent light as Mr. Graham, the economics teacher, steps into the hallway. Just as my brain is about to unleash some witty insults in Mindii’s direction, I hear Stefan’s voice. Jasmine is behind him. “Ayy yo, if it ain’t the urinator,” he says, running a hand through his very blond hair. I attempt to do the same. So awkward. “So,” he says, unwavering. “I need those tickets to Snol- lygoster Soiree. Like now.” There is no logical reason I couldn’t have just said “I don’t have the tickets” five minutes ago. And no reason I can’t say it now. I don’t owe him anything. I don’t owe Jasmine or anyone at that table anything. In fact, in two weeks, I’ll probably never see them again. But instead of all that, I nod my head, and say, “Word. Word. No doubt. No doubt.” Mindii knows there are no tickets. I know there are no tickets. I have a feeling Stefan knows too, but he wants Jasmine to clearly see that I am lying so when he starts humiliating me in front of her, it’ll seem totally justified.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 40 12/15/20 8:21 PM I’m gonna become the number one trending laughing- stock in about two seconds flat. I make a big show of unhooking the pouch from my belt. I see Mindii stand up, the big, fat dissertation she was reading in her hand.”Those tickets are mine, actually,” she says. “What?” Jasmine says. “What?” Stefan says. “Hain?” I say. When I’m surprised, Punjabi comes out first. “I SAID THOSE TICKETS ARE MINE, ACTUALLY,” she screams at both of them, and grabs the pouch from my hands. All four of us are suspended in time. I’m mes- merized by Mindii’s dress, a pale, shimmery blue, but it’s probably weird to say something about it now. She moves in closer and is looking right at me. It’s unnerving, yet I’m not averting my eyes like I do with Stefan or most people. It feels strangely comfortable. It might be the dorky headlamp still attached to her forehead. Her eyes are large and brown, her hair twisted into a knot in the back, two braids in front with blue beads keeping them from unfurling, her face an imperfect circle. Stefan has this dumb expression on his face, like he’s calculating a math problem.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 41 12/15/20 8:21 PM “Peace. Mindii out,” Mindii says, my pouch in hand. With that, she throws a peace sign and casually pushes past the double doors and walks out of the gymnasium. Holy shit, I think. That’s no simple blue dress. “Was that dress brambleberry?” I say out loud. “Like a floaty, brambleberry blue? Like the color of the berries found in the wild inverted forests on the outskirts of the Malmesbury Academy? I thought it was just blue this whole time.” Is she in cosplay? As Safia Brambleberry? Jasmine stares at the door in disbelief. “What the hell just happened?” Her eyes bounce between me and Stefan. Focus, Sunny. “Mindii just stole the extra tickets I was going to give you,” I say. We all stare at each other for a beat. “Well,” I say, my voice rising a little more. “I’m going to go urinate.” “What is with this guy and his bladder? Didn’t you JUST go?” “Interesting thing about urine,” I say, “is that it contains high levels of salt, which is why the Army Field Guide rec- ommends you not drink it if you get stranded in a desert.” Stefan looks at me, flaring a very quizzical nostril in my direction. They both look at me. Stefan looks at Jasmine because he desperately wants to say something.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 42 12/15/20 8:21 PM “Because of the salt,” I reiterate. It’s not the best exit line, but I am ecstatic that for once I’m not humiliated at the hands of Stefan. That he got his ass handed to him. That usually happens in Act Three of most movies. And we’re definitely only in Act One. Now I just have to get my pouch back from Mindii. Why on earth did she save me, though? And where did she go with my . . . I gasp as I remember my life is in that crocheted pouch. My phone, cash, student ID card. I take another gulp of air. My series of rash decisions notebook. She didn’t save me. I just got jacked. A blast of that hot Fresno heat smacks me in the face as I sprint to the parking lot in my tight pants.

Sunny_9780593109977_all_1p_r1.indd 43 12/15/20 8:21 PM 4.20 5.11 5.18

5.18 6.1 6.7

Sunny G’s Series of Rash Decisions

COVER COMING SOON! 6.15 8.10