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DONNA COONER
 CHAPTER ONE
SKYE

The man in front of me has three dead goldfish in a Ziploc

baggie. He’s wearing a camouflage T-shirt that doesn’t
quite cover his stomach and he’s peering at me over the
top of a pair of hot-pink reading glasses, as though I can
solve the problem in the bag.
I can’t. I just work here.
“The sign says ‘Customer Satisfaction Always,’ right?”
he asks. “I bought them on Wednesday morning and they
were like this on Thursday night.”
Well, not quite like that. “Are they frozen?” I ask.
He nods. “I put them in the freezer. I wanted to pre-
serve them until I could come back in the store.”
Let’s just get this over with. I ask, “Do you have a
receipt?”
“No. But they cost $4.68 each. They were on sale.”
“So, $14.04 total,” I say, plugging the number into the
service desk refund register.
“Did you do that in your head?” he asks, blinking
at me.
2

“Yep,” I say.
“Are you some kind of child genius?”
“I’m sixteen. Not exactly a child.” I carefully pick up
the baggie with just my finger and thumb. “And yes, I’m a
genius.”
Because that’s why I’m working here at the Kmart
returns desk.
He doesn’t get my sarcasm. He smiles, embarrassed by
the tears in his eyes over those dead fish. There is no ring
on his stubby finger, so maybe the fish are all the com-
pany he has, and instantly I feel guilty. At least you could
get a cat or something. I think we sell hamsters. Get a ham-
ster. Something with fur.
“Sign here,” I say, pushing the return slip across the
counter. I smile back at him, and that seems to improve
his mood.
“Smile more” is the first thing on my new to-do list.
See, I was elected student council vice president this past
fall, but next year I want to run for student council
­president. And just last week, I read online about how
important “likability” is in a candidate. But likability is
such an intangible quality. What does it even mean? So I
did some research. Okay, I did a lot of research. And “smil-
ing more” seemed to be a key ingredient. If I ever want to
run for real office someday, I need to learn this kind of
stuff now. I’ve always been a hard worker.
“Thanks,” the fish guy says, signing the slip.
 3

I notice that the assistant manager, Mr. King, is watch-

ing us from over by the magazine racks. Mr. King is only
the part-time assistant manager. The rest of the time he
is the faux barista and works at the store’s snack bar. He is
tall and thin, all elbows and Adam’s apple, and he mostly
smells like lettuce with a whiff of coffee when he twirls
around, which he does a lot.
Who knew lettuce had a smell?
Despite his smell, Mr. King is not a bad guy as manag-
ers go. On slow late nights, he used to make extra frozen
lattes and pour them into tiny little plastic cups. He’d put
them out on a plastic clearance Valentine’s Day heart-
shaped tray and say they were samples, but he gave most
of them to his staff. Until a cashier told him that was prac-
tically stealing. Mr. King is super active in the New Life
Baptist Church. So I no longer get free caffeine samples
and Mr. King has to pray a little extra for his generosity.
Thou shalt not give away too many samples of
Frappuccinos. I Venti 3:14
I give Mr. King a confident little nod, to tell him I’m on
top of this whole dead fish thing, but he just walks off
toward Toys. I figure I’m definitely a contender for
employee of the month.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I tell the man across the
counter. He gives a big sniff and pushes the pink reading
glasses up his nose. I hand him his money back and say,
“Have a nice day.”
4

I’m supposed to say that after every transaction. I’m

good at doing what’s expected—it’s my superpower.
Sometimes people are good because they want to be good,
and sometimes it’s just because they are afraid of NOT
being good. I probably fall into the second group.
After the fish guy leaves, I glance down at my phone
under the counter. This is against the rules, but Mr. King
isn’t close by.
I open ChitChat, everyone’s current social media obses-
sion. The thing that makes ChitChat different from other
apps is that you can’t set your profile to private. Whatever
you post is up there for all the world to see—unless you
choose to delete it, of course. But the other catch? You can’t
delete any posts until fifteen minutes have passed. No take-
downs, no edits. My best friend, Asha, says it makes you
commit to what you post. I think she just loves the edgi-
ness of it all. Sort of like truth and dare all rolled into one.
I go to Asha’s profile. All her posts include her signa-
ture hashtag: #IAmAshaMirza. Like people wouldn’t
know?
#IAmAshaMirza running.
#IAmAshaMirza at my locker.
#IAmAshaMirza snowboarding.
The latest is a video, posted right after school today. It’s
captioned #IAmAshaMirza eating a taco. And, if you had
any doubts, she is taking a big bite. Over and over again.
On an endless ChitChat loop.
 5

Seriously?
Of course, I am quick to notice the undeniable differ-
ences between our lives. Because that is what the internet
is for, right?
First of all, Asha’s not standing under fluorescent lights
in an ugly blue smock, next to a stack of too-tight jeans, a
pile of sales flyers, and a Ziploc baggie full of three dead
goldfish. She is wearing sunglasses and there is a lake
sparkling behind her. Not just any lake—it’s the lake she
actually lives on. The wind blows her thick black hair off
her face to one side, like those photos with models in front
of fans. Only this is real. Or at least as real as Asha gets.
Her short-sleeved shirt is pink with flowers and shows off
her sculpted arms to perfection. Considering it’s March in
Colorado, she has to be freezing in that shirt. But it does
look good on her. She smiles at the camera in that “I know
I’m hot, but if you tell me that in a disrespectful manner, I
will beat you to a pulp” kind of way.
I imagine posting a selfie—me in my sad blue smock,
standing behind the service desk.
#IamSkyeMatthews stuck at work.
I smirk. No way. Asha would be furious if I stole her
signature line. Besides, ChitChat is all about showing off.
I close out of ChitChat and check my email. I have one
hope of escaping the Kmart service desk this summer. Her
name is Senator Ann Watson. She is the youngest member
of the United States Congress, and her Colorado office is
6

located right here in town. If she would just read my out-

standing application answer to Why You Should Be Our
Summer Intern, I’m sure I’d get a response.
But there is no email from the congresswoman or her
staff. I sigh. Things could be worse. I could have only dead
fish for friends.
Since I have a phone in my hand and haven’t been caught
yet, I pull up a picture of me, Asha, and our other best
friend, Emma. The Three Musketeers. We’ve been together
since we were ten. We couldn’t be more different—inside
and out. Asha is short and powerful, with brown skin,
­jet-black hair that frames her heart-shaped face, and bright-
green eyes. The leader of our little group, she loves to do
things other people are afraid of. She loves it even more if
she can make someone else do these things with her.
Emma is pale, blonde, tall, and willowy. She can recite
a hundred movie scenes from memory, but can’t remember
her homework. A little spacey maybe, but she’s the heart
of our group. I don’t know who Emma would pick if she
had to choose between me and Asha. I don’t ever want to
find out.
Then there’s me in the middle, where I always seem to
end up. The mediator. The politician. I have long, light-
brown hair and hazel eyes. I’m ordinary. Not striking like
my best friends are.
I decorate our faces on the screen with some silly filters
and balloon emojis. Then I text the photo to Asha.
 7

ME: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

She answers immediately.

ASHA: THANKS. ANY BLUE LIGHT SPECIALS?

ME: HA. VERY FUNNY.

From someone who has never had to work even a part-

time job in her life.

ME: HOW WAS YOUR TACO? ☺

ASHA: DELISH. WORKED IT OFF. JUST RAN 15
MILES AND READY FOR BDAY CAKE NOW!

Asha is training for a marathon. One of these days, I

have no doubt she’s going to lead some elite special opera-
tion to rescue hostages from a dangerous dictator.
Then I remember. Oh, no. The cake.
I text my boyfriend, Luke.

ME: CAKE?
LUKE: ALMOST DONE. MAKING GANACHE
FROSTING. WILL BRING IT WHEN I PICK
YOU UP.

Luke and I are the perfect couple. He likes to cook all

the things. I like to eat all the things. Luke is also adorable,
8

with curly dirty-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a soccer-

star body. He’s my first real boyfriend. The first guy who
ever kissed me in the school hallway—outside the band
classroom on September 9. The first guy I ever went to a
big dance with—the winter prom, January 27. The first
guy everyone linked my name with—Luke and Skye. It
has a nice ring to it.
Everyone says so.
I glance over my shoulder at the clock on the wall
behind me. Two hours and thirty-two more minutes of
price checks and broken blenders before Luke picks me up
and drives me to Asha’s for her birthday sleepover.
I’ve been looking forward to and dreading this Friday.
It will be great to see my best friends, of course. But I’m
worried our conversation will eventually turn to all the
fun summer plans in the works. If Senator Watson doesn’t
respond to my application soon, my summer is definitely
not going to be fun.
I slide my phone into my pocket. Back to work.
I watch as a customer in the toothbrush aisle selects a
purple one from the top row. She pushes her loaded shop-
ping cart with one squeaky, broken wheel toward the
checkout. Harmony Heaven is the only cashier we have on
duty right now. With a name like Harmony Heaven, she
should be nice.
She is not.
 9

Harmony is built like a brick wall, tall and formidable.

She’s white, with wide blue eyes and a mouth always set
in a scowl. This week her hair is fried blonde on the ends
and dark brown at the roots. Last week it was entirely
purple. The top of my head comes up to Harmony’s armpit.
I’m curvy—some people might even call me fat—but
Harmony is solid. No one would ever call her fat. At least
not to her face.
Harmony takes each individual item out of the shop-
ping cart. She glares at the customer, a woman in Lululemon
yoga pants and a CrossFit hoodie, as though she has com-
mitted the greatest sin on the planet by simply wanting to
buy a toothbrush.
“Hey.” I can hear Harmony yelling at me from the num-
ber three counter, but I keep my head down, thinking
maybe Mr. King will walk by and have to answer. He
doesn’t, and Harmony just gets louder.
“Hey, Boss Girl,” she yells. Harmony likes to call me
that even though she knows my name and I’m not the boss.
“I need a price check on this toothbrush. She says they’re
on sale.”
Harmony is a year older than me, but I never really
noticed her much at school before we started working
together. I’m not sure she’s even at school all that often.
I look at the flyer in front of me and shout back, “Five
dollars and nine cents for two of them.”
10

Harmony doesn’t respond, but I know she heard me

because now she’s bagging up the toothbrush. The cus-
tomer gathers up her purchases and practically sprints out
the front door. Nobody sticks around long to chat with
Harmony.
Mr. King is still nowhere in sight, so I pull out my
phone again and text Asha back.

ME: DON’T WORRY. THERE WILL BE CAKE.

ASHA: AND CANDLES?

Seriously? Nothing is ever enough for you. Of course I’d

never say that to her. I start to send her a pile of poop
­emojis to tell her exactly how amusing she is, but then I’m
interrupted.
“You better put that away.”
I almost drop my phone. “Oh, God, Ryan. You scared
me.” I clutch my hand to my chest to stop my heart from
pounding.
Ryan de la Cruz is one year ahead of me at school. He
moved to Colorado from California this fall and has only
been at Kmart for a couple of months. Ryan restocks
shelves and usually works in the back, in Receiving. He
has broad shoulders, high cheekbones, brown skin, and
thick black hair. I know that both Jeanette in Women’s
Clothing and Bridget in Paint and Hardware think he’s a
 11

“dreamboat” (their word). Even though they are both

probably old enough to be his grandmothers.
Now Ryan stands before me, holding the hand of a lit-
tle girl who is grinning widely and wearing several red
clearance stickers on the front of her sweater.
“I need the intercom,” Ryan says, nodding to the girl. I
pick up the phone and key in the number for the loud-
speaker before handing the phone to Ryan.
“Attention, shoppers,” Ryan says, his voice echoing
through the store. “We have a young lady here at our ser-
vice desk, and evidently her father is lost. If you see a
black-haired man named Desmond wearing a Denver
Broncos T-shirt, please bring him to the service desk. His
daughter is waiting for him.”
Ryan looks down at the girl and she nods confidently
up at him.
“That should do it,” she says.
I can’t help but grin at this exchange. A few minutes
later, a man matching Ryan’s description appears at the
service desk and whisks the girl off, thanking Ryan over
his shoulder.
“That was nice of you,” I tell Ryan. I’m still holding my
cell phone and he glances at it.
“What if I were Mr. King?” he asks, shaking his head
with a small smirk. “Skye Matthews’s perfect reputation
would have its first black mark.”
12

I roll my eyes at him.

“I’m not perfect,” I say. But I get a small thrill out of
hearing that I seem that way.
“True,” Ryan says, looking thoughtful. Then he turns
and heads back down the aisle.
I text Asha back: SORRY, AM AT WORK. SEE YOU
SOON. I stuff the phone into the back pocket of my
jeans, where I won’t be as easily tempted to respond to
any more texts.

I never want to be one of those girls who has to have a

boyfriend to be someone. And I’m not that girl. I just like
myself better when I’m filtered through Luke’s eyes. His
popularity is contagious. Everything is easier with him.
Walking into a school cafeteria is easier. Going to class is
easier. Even standing outside Kmart in the cool night air
is easier, because soon Luke will be here to whisk me away.
When he pulls up, cake sitting carefully on the back
seat of his Nissan Altima, I can’t help but feel that familiar
shiver of pride. I slide into the passenger seat and lean over
the console to give him a quick kiss on the lips. Then I
look out of the corner of my eye to see Harmony, Ryan,
and everybody else walking past Luke’s car to employee
parking. I kind of hope they can see us. Let them be
impressed by Skye’s cute boyfriend.
“Everything okay?” Luke asks.
 13

I glance at him, smiling at the white flour handprints

on the front of his blue soccer jersey.
“Definitely better now,” I say, buckling my seat belt.
As Luke drives off, I throw a shopping bag in the
back seat.
“What’s that?”
“I bought you a shirt,” I say. “It was on clearance.”
“What?”
Ha. I knew that would get him. Luke refuses to even
set foot in Kmart. Definitely not his style. “Calm down. I’m
only kidding. It’s a gift card for Asha and candles for the
cake.”
Luke shudders. “I don’t know why you don’t just quit
that place.”
I shrug. “It’s a job. I need the money.”
We’ve had this conversation before. Many. Times.
“My dad could use another receptionist at his office in
the afternoons. Then you wouldn’t have to work weekends
or nights,” Luke says. “I could talk to him?”
I shake my head. Luke’s dad is a dentist. I don’t want to
deal with the sound of dental drills whining and people
calling to complain about their molars. I’d rather stick
with what I know at Kmart.
I have big plans and am willing to work hard to make
them happen.
“Thanks, but I’m going to get this internship,” I say,
hoping saying it will make it so.
14

Luke nods, but he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic.

I feel a twinge of irritation. I don’t say anything, though.
Luke and I have been together since the start of our junior
year, and things between us were great in the beginning.
But ever since the winter prom in January, something
small in our relationship has shifted. I can’t deny that I feel
the slightest distance from him now.
I push the thought away. I pull my phone out and lean
across the console to film a ChitChat video of the two of us.
“Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Asha,” I tell Luke, and we
ham it up at the stoplight, singing loudly. The light turns
green and Luke’s attention goes back to driving.
I caption the video #happybirthdayAsha and post it to
ChitChat. It gets a few likes right away, and I rewatch it.
My hair looks weird and I wish I could reshoot it, but
that’s not how ChitChat works. No takebacks.
 ASHA

Asha holds up her phone and shoots a video of herself

wearing a silly striped paper hat and blowing a party
horn. Then she captions it #IAmAshaMirza celebrating,
and posts it to ChitChat. It instantly starts garnering
likes and complimentary comments.
Asha leans back against the teak deck chair and
sighs, scrolling through her ChitChat feed. A ton of
posts bear the hashtag #happybirthdayAsha. Birthday
texts from friends and acquaintances keep popping up
on her screen, but she ignores them all for now.
After coming home from school and changing, she
went for a good, hard run, which was helpful. Running is
the only thing that shuts down her overactive mind. But
her calm state is quickly disappearing.
The air by the lake has a touch of the Colorado spring
snowstorm that forecasters claim will blow in over the
mountains tonight. For now, though, it isn’t even cold
enough for a thick sweater. She unzips the Nike hoodie
she wore over her black running tank top. The late after-
noon sun feels pleasantly warm, even though the glare
makes her squint. The world narrows into the window of
her phone screen, framed by her thick, spiky lashes.
16

A silly sophomore, Alicia Montoya, just posted a

video giving a shout-out to her new bangs. It definitely
requires a response. Thank goodness ChitChat com-
ments are anonymous. Just one more reason to love it.

DEFINITELY NOT YOUR BEST LOOK! #stylefail

While she’s at it, Asha writes #stylefail under a few

other posts—Beth Hunt’s picture of her new Miu Miu
super-round sunglasses and Jessica Martin’s full-body
shot in a new maxi dress. Then Asha has to make a cou-
ple of positive comments to balance things out.
One under a video of her newest crush, Nate,
hiking . . . 

STOP BEING SO CUTE!

And one under Emma’s montage of birthday clips from

random movies, captioned #HappybirthdayAsha . . . 

YOU’RE THE BEST! GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW.

Asha closes out of ChitChat and checks her texts

from Skye. Asha’s been kind of annoyed with Skye lately.
She’s always so holier-than-thou about her stupid job. It
makes Asha nuts. And maybe a little jealous. It’s not just
the time Skye spends at work, it’s the fact that she’s
 17

always talking about needing to work. Like that some-

how makes her better than everyone who doesn’t. And
then of course the way she’s all geared up for her future
political career. It can be a bit much.
Asha takes a deep breath. She crosses her arms over
her chest and tucks her phone into her hoodie pocket,
staring down at her lime-green Reebok running shoes.
“Honey, can you give me a hand?”
Asha turns around. Through the large sliding glass
doors of the house, Asha sees her mom stringing a
Happy Birthday banner across the wall. The table below
is covered with party hats and streamers even though
there will only be two guests—Emma and Skye. Asha’s
mom doesn’t understand why she doesn’t want a big
birthday party.
Not this year.
“You’re going to have dinner with us upstairs before
your friends arrive, right?” Asha’s mom calls out the door.
Asha frowns. “Yes,” she says, for the third time this
afternoon.
“What time are they coming?”
“Around nine.”
Her mother steps out on the deck with a birthday hat
in her hands. For a moment she stands looking out at
the water; then her eyes drop to the hat in her hands.
Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Is it someone’s
birthday?”
18

“Mine,” Asha answers.

“Sorry,” her mom says. Sadness engulfs her face. “I
forgot.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Asha says. “Everybody forgets
sometimes.”
Her face clears in relief. “You’re going to have dinner
with us upstairs before your friends arrive, right?”
 CHAPTER TWO
SKYE

Luke drops me in front of Asha’s house. Her exclusive

lakeside neighborhood is a beautiful hangout any time of
the year. Summer is the prime time, though. Asha, Emma,
and I have spent many a day paddleboarding and swim-
ming out on that water.
Tonight, no one’s on the lake; there are only geese honk-
ing as they fly in low over my head. Summer seems a long
time away. The forecast must have been right for once
because the air is cold now and there is no sign of the moon
or stars. It even smells like snow.
Shivering, I button my coat. Then I reach back into the
car to grab my overnight tote, the cake box, and the shop-
ping bag from Luke’s back seat.
“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I say
to Luke.
“Have fun,” he says, leaning over to give me a
quick kiss.
I shut the car door, balancing the cake box in one hand,
20

and head around the side of the house to Asha’s private

downstairs entrance.
The lights from the other houses shimmer across the
surface of the lake. The real view is only evident once
you’re inside one of the mansions. From Asha’s giant pic-
ture windows, you can see the Rocky Mountains, and
if you catch the light just right when the sun is going
down, there is a perfectly mirrored reflection of moun-
tains and sky. That’s why the residents of Linden Lake
pay the big bucks.
I don’t come from this part of town, even though Asha
and I have gone to the same public schools ever since kin-
dergarten. I live in a house in the cheap seats, farther
north, with a view of the eastern plains toward Kansas
and a Budweiser plant. If I look in that direction, with my
face toward the early morning sun, there are no moun-
tains. No lakes. Just fields full of sunflowers and pumpkins
in the fall and dirt in the winter.
I got over feeling intimidated by the difference in our
economic statuses, long ago. Asha’s parents are rich. Her
whole family is rich. Her paternal grandparents, who immi­
grated from India, were big-shot scientists who invented a
medical device that became important for saving lives
when people had open-heart surgery. And her maternal
grandparents, who hailed from Ireland, started a law firm.
So Asha’s “bedroom” is really an entire ground-floor
apartment with a view of the mountains reflected in the
 21

lake. We could hang out in my bedroom, but there is

hardly enough room for the bed. We’re never invited to
Emma’s house. I’m not sure why. She lives partway
between me and Asha. But who wants to go anywhere else
when there is this place?
I knock, but it’s only a courtesy, so I walk right in.
Emma is already there, sitting on the bright-red couch
and watching a black-and-white movie on her iPad, her
earbuds in. Her thick blonde bangs are clipped back away
from her face and the rest of her hair is in a low pony. Her
face is clear of makeup. She is wearing faux fur slippers,
red plaid sweatpants, and a gray oversized tee that reads
Dance like no one is watching.
The annoying thing is, Emma can wear whatever she
wants and she still looks beautiful. She has this bohemian,
hippie vibe going on with her long flowing hair, even
though I know her monthly highlights don’t come cheap.
She’s obsessed with movies, and I can totally see her being
a famous actress someday.
Behind her, the lake glimmers in the lights from the
large wraparound deck. A fire is flickering in Asha’s gas
fireplace, and Jura, Asha’s large yellow cat, is curled up in
Emma’s lap. There is no sign of Asha.
Emma glances up, and I give her a big smile.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks. Then
she pulls out her earbuds and repeats the question like I’m
the one who can’t hear.
22

“Like what?” I ask, still smiling.

“Like this.” She copies my fake grin, and her silly smile
relaxes mine into a real one. I need to work on making it
more natural, less fake.
“It’s my to-do thing. I’m trying to smile more,” I explain,
dropping my bags on the floor and setting the cake down
on the table.
“Why?” she asks.
I shrug, taking off my coat. Saying that it’s part of my
“likability” plan sounds a little too intense to admit out
loud. “Smiling is contagious. It makes people feel better.”
“Does it make you feel better?” she asks.
I’m not fazed. “That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is.” She pushes one earbud into her left ear
and leaves one dangling. It’s her way of including me.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, and she nods. I pull
my lips back from my teeth with one finger. “Do you
think my teeth look any whiter?”
“I guess so. Why?”
“Tooth whitener strips. They were on sale at Kmart
last week.”
“How long have you been doing it?” she asks.
“Since last night.”
“Oh. Totally working,” she says, and gives me a thumbs-
up sign.
“Thanks.” I laugh.
 23

I take off my shoes and join her on the couch, feeling

the tension slip out of my shoulders as I puddle down
into the warmth and soft cushions. Jura opens her eyes to
a slit of green to acknowledge my presence, then closes
them again. Emma doesn’t put both earbuds back in, but
she doesn’t need the sound. She has the closed captions on
because she likes to make sure she doesn’t miss any of the
dialogue. I don’t recognize the film, but I’m sure Emma’s
seen it a million times before by the way she is mouthing
the words along with the actors on the screen. She’s on an
Audrey Hepburn kick right now.
I tuck my feet up under the flannel throw. The warmth
of the blanket and the fire make my eyelids droop.
Emma glances at me. “Don’t start that. We have all
night to party and you are not going to be a big old pooper.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’ll catch up. Promise. Where’s the
birthday girl?”
“Upstairs. Finishing family stuff.” Emma crosses her
long legs and chews contemplatively on a red Twizzler,
her eyes never leaving the screen.
The three of us have spent every birthday together
since we were ten. We only missed Emma’s birthday one
year, when she had her tonsils out. She was thirteen. Even
then, Asha and I stayed in the hospital as long as we could
for visiting hours before the nurse kicked us out.
Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe we’re all best
24

friends now. It certainly didn’t start out that way. Emma,

yes. Asha, no. In the fifth grade, Asha was already a born
leader: always the first in class to call out the answer to a
teacher’s question, the first to laugh at someone else’s mis-
fortune, and definitely the first to cross any finish line
ever created. Emma and I were completely intimidated.
But then we were assigned to the same group for a science
project in Mrs. MacLeod’s class.
Asha immediately took charge. She decided we would
experiment with the ideal amount of water needed to make
a bean sprout grow. She assigned me the task of watering
Plant One every day until it was almost dirt soup. Emma
was supposed to lightly mist water on top of Plant Two
every few days. And Asha herself was in charge of Plant
Three. She watered it religiously every two days, no mat-
ter what. We met every Tuesday after school at Asha’s
house—right here—and recorded our data.
Then one day, Emma accidentally left the plants outside
in subfreezing temperatures. The plants all died and the
experiment was a bust. But I was the one who stepped in
to keep Asha from going ballistic. I suggested we change
the title of our project to “How to Fail Your Science Fair
Project.” It was definitely risky, so, of course, Asha loved
it. We got a C, but the three of us have been inseparable
ever since.
I take out my phone and check ChitChat. I must make
some kind of noise because Emma asks, “What’s wrong?”
 25

“It’s this girl from work. She’s always posting her

gym pics and stupid check-ins at random places. Like any-
one cares.”
I hold up my phone to show her Harmony’s post from
yesterday. There’s a photo of a punching bag, and a “check-
in” at a gym.
“I hate that,” Emma says, picking up another Twizzler
and refocusing on the movie. Emma isn’t into working
out and, for some weird reason only known to the god of
genetics, she doesn’t have to. “Who is she?” Emma asks.
“You don’t know her. She’s a senior.”
“So why look at her posts?”
“Just curious.” I shrug. “It’s stupid. I know.”
Harmony likes posting tough-girl pics. It’s just about
scaring people, and she’s doing a good job. I’m not surprised
she’s a fighter. That makes her even more intimidating, but
that’s what makes her happy. I’ll continue to keep my inter-
actions with her to the bare minimum. Smile and nod. Don’t
comment. Especially not online.
“What’s up, peeps?” Asha jumps down the last three
steps into the center of the room. She’s wearing the cute
striped paper birthday hat I recognize from her earlier
post on ChitChat. She’s holding two more hats for me and
Emma, and she hands them to us.
I stifle a yawn as Emma and I dutifully put the hats on
our heads.
“I see Luke came through with the birthday cake,”
26

Asha says, peering into the box on the table. “Get ready
to sing.”
I sigh. Caffeine. I need caffeine. I notice Asha frown
and I quickly plaster a smile on my face. I’ve seen a disap-
pointed Asha, and no one wants that.
“You didn’t want a bigger party this year?” I ask, get-
ting up off the couch to go pull a soda out of the fridge.
Last year, Asha threw a big blowout upstairs, and then we
had our traditional three-person sleepover afterward.
“Yeah,” Emma says. She dislodges an unhappy Jura
from her lap and follows me to the fridge. “What happened
to inviting a zillion people?”
Asha pulls me and Emma into a big hug. “You guys are
all the people I need.”
I’m not a hugger, but this one feels pretty good.
There’s nothing like being with your very best friends in
the whole world. Asha is right. This is exactly what I
needed.
I open the fridge, take out a can of soda, and take a big
sip. Better. “Okay. Let’s get this party started,” I say.
“We need some music,” Asha says, running over to her
laptop. Within a few seconds, a playlist of dance music is
blasting out of the speakers and we are jumping around
the room like maniacs. Emma raises her long, graceful
arms over her head and does a little spin, as only she can
do. She smells like lavender and lemon, and in her bare
feet she is still a head taller than I am. Asha grabs Emma’s
 27

hands and they start a sort of weird square dance that has
us all in giggles.
“Just think.” Asha stretches her arms out wide like
she’s hugging the sky. “Only a few more months until
summer vacation!”
Emma catches my eye. She is slightly out of breath.
“Did you hear anything about the internship yet?” she
asks me softly.
I shake my head, lifting my chin. I hate pity and I hate
feeling like I put all my eggs in one very long shot of a
basket. “But everyone is still probably recovering from the
November elections,” I tell them, hoping it’s true—even
though it’s March.
“I know you’ll hear something soon,” Emma says reas-
suringly. “Senator Watson is going to love your application.
You’ll see.”
I hope so. Even though it was a struggle finding the
time, I spent hours helping build that Habitat for Humanity
house this past summer. And then there’s student council,
plus the math tutoring I did in the fall. With my schedule
at work, there wasn’t any more I could do to make my
application rise to the top.
“No worries,” I say, wanting to change the subject. I
raise my Diet Coke in a toast. “Tonight we celebrate Asha’s
seventeen trips around the sun.”
“Hear, hear,” Asha says, beaming. “Cake time.”
We take Luke’s cake out of the box. I light the candles,
28

like always, and Emma starts the song, like always, and
we sing as loud as we possibly can. Like always. The faces
in the candlelight have changed over the years, but we are
all here.
I have to stop singing to clear the lump in my throat.
Feeling a little silly, I blink rapidly at the emotion that
rushes into my eyes. Then Asha leans over the cake to
blow out the candles and the three of us are clapping and
cheering.
Then we cut the cake and take pictures for ChitChat—
#happybirthdayAsha—before digging into Luke’s amazing
chocolate creation.
“Hey, anybody want to go snowboarding tomorrow?”
Asha asks, her mouth full of cake. “I’m going up to
Steamboat.” Her voice gets all soft and pleading. “Come on.
Fresh powder.”
“I’m working,” I say, when I can talk through the
chocolate.
She gives me a pouty face. “You’re always working.”
“I know,” I say. “But then I’m going to Luke’s house
after. So that will be fun. Anyway, aren’t you seeing Nate
tomorrow?”
Nate is a snowboarder from Steamboat who Asha met
over winter break. I’ve yet to meet him in real life. From
what I’ve seen of him on ChitChat, he’s a six-foot-tall,
lanky white guy with blond dreadlocks who is always on
academic probation. He likes to shoot gun fingers and
 29

wink at people when he talks. And he’s always talking. He

and Asha send each other a million videos a day. In typical
Asha fashion, though, they only see each other face-to-face
on occasional weekends. Long-distance, every-once-in-a-
while loves are Asha’s trademark.
“Yeah.” Asha shrugs, studying a piece of cake on the
end of her fork. “But it’s better with my besties there, too.”
She glances hopefully at Emma.
“Nope. Can’t.” Emma wipes chocolate frosting off her
lips with a napkin. “The Lyric Cinema is holding a screen-
writing contest and I’m going there in the afternoon to
hear about the deets.”
“Just be that way, then. Abandon me. I’ll get over it,”
Asha says dramatically. “And in the meantime I shall cheer
myself up with presents!”
“What did you get today?” I ask.
Asha smiles widely. “My parents gave me a GNU B-Pro
snowboard.”
“Very cool,” I say, knowing that was tops on her list.
“And anything from Nate?” Emma asks.
“No.” Asha frowns, then looks at us expectantly.
That’s our cue. We leave the chocolate cake behind to
pull out our gifts. I reach into my Kmart shopping bag and
hand Asha a gift card for iTunes so she can download her
latest running playlist. She smirks when she pulls it out of
the envelope.
“Thank you,” she says in a singsong voice, then gives
30

me a hug. It would have been more thoughtful if she

hadn’t told me exactly what to buy her, but as usual, I
didn’t disappoint.
“I have some presents for you, too,” Emma says, and I
can’t help but cringe a little. Emma gives the perfect
gifts—thoughtful, unique, and beautifully wrapped. It’s
her thing, and I’m sure this birthday is no exception. She
holds out a box tied with a silver ribbon. Asha picks at the
tape carefully, trying not to tear the hand-stamped, per-
sonalized wrapping paper, but Emma finally exclaims,
“Go ahead. I know you want to tear it.”
Asha gives a happy sigh and rips the paper to shreds
with great satisfaction. Inside the box is a knitted hat in a
dark plummy purple—Asha’s favorite color. She pulls it
out, and she and I ooh and ahh over it.
“I made it,” Emma says proudly. She taught herself to
knit last month. “See that ribbon woven in across the
center?”
Asha and I both nod.
“It’s from the yellow ribbon we got for participating in
the science fair in eighth grade. Remember?”
Of course we remember. Asha pulls the hat on over her
dark hair and grins. “I’ll wear it tomorrow on the slopes,”
she promises.
And I’m sure we’ll see a selfie. #IAmAshaMirza wear-
ing a hat.
 31

“And here’s something for fun.” Emma grins, then

hands Asha a small pink shopping bag. Emma always likes
to add in a silly gift, too. That somehow makes her even
more perfect.
Asha raises her eyebrows, reaches inside the bag, and
digs around in the tissue paper like a squirrel searching
for a nut.
I can’t stand the suspense. “What is it?”
Asha pulls something out of the bag. It is a red baby-
doll nightie with tiny little spaghetti straps and lots of lace.
“OMG.” Asha bursts out laughing. She’s the kind of girl
who wears a huge T-shirt and sweats to bed. There is noth-
ing more opposite to Asha’s style than this nightie. And
that’s why it’s so funny. Honestly, it’s not something any
of us would wear. It seems like a cliché from a movie.
Emma giggles. “Remember when we saw this at the
mall? I thought you’d maybe want to take a picture and
show it to Nate.”
“Like, as a joke?” Asha rolls her eyes. “I’m not putting
it on.” She turns to Emma. “You do it.”
“I’m not doing it,” Emma says between giggles.
“It’s my birthday, so I get what I want,” Asha says, push-
ing the lace toward Emma. “And I want you to put it on.”
I’m still laughing, but then I see Asha’s face and I know
she’s serious. Emma sees it, too, and suddenly, nothing
about this is funny.
32

Emma folds her arms over her chest, chin stuck out
defiantly. She gets to her feet, towering over Asha. “You
can’t make me.”
Asha’s eyes narrow and she gets to her feet, too. “Looks
like the space cadet woke up all of a sudden and got a
backbone.”
My stomach squeezes. Suddenly, we’re back in middle
school. Emma on one side and Asha on the other. Now
Asha’s birthday will dissolve into a fight.
Don’t say anything. Let them settle this.
But I can’t. My role as peacemaker has been years in the
making. I step in between the two of them—arms stretched
wide to keep them apart—and do the stupidest thing
possible.
“I’ll put it on,” I say frantically. I take the scrap of red
material from Asha’s fist and hold it against my body so
they can see the ridiculousness of the idea.
Suddenly, they are both laughing. Evidently, the only
thing more comical than Asha wearing this outfit is the
idea of me trying it on.
“Yes, try it!” Emma says. “Better Skye than me.”
If I looked like you, Emma, I wouldn’t care about wearing
this stupid thing.
“I was kidding,” I say. “Look. There’s no way this will
fit me.” I shake my head vehemently, but instantly see
the disappointment in their eyes. I will let them down
and ruin the whole mood. But I have the power to fix it. I
 33

just have to make a fool out of myself for their entertain-

ment.
Anything to keep the peace.
As usual.
“Come on, Skye,” Asha wheedles.
And I give in. Like I always do. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” I
take the tiny scrap of lace and head toward the bathroom.
“Wait a second.”
“I’ll put on the right music,” Emma calls out as I slip
into the bathroom and close the door behind me.
What have I agreed to now?
I change quickly out of my jeans and T-shirt. Then I’m
struck with the realization of just how small this thing
really is. I tug the scratchy lace down over my chest. Fatty
rolls of skin bulge up over the V-necked front and under
my arms. It’s so tight around my stomach I can hardly
breathe. The short lace hem only reaches to the tops of my
fleshy thighs. I tug at the hem, uncomfortable even with-
out an audience, but the material refuses to budge.
Everything about this is a huge mistake. But I remind
myself it’s just Emma and Asha outside that door. Now
that I’ve gone this far, I might as well go all the way. I
remove my ponytail, lean over, and toss my hair into a
wavy mess with my hands. When I flip back up, the reflec-
tion in the mirror is a bit scary—lots of bare skin and big
hair—but I figure it will definitely do the trick and get
major laughs from both of them.
34

I throw open the door and step out to the opening

chords of Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.” The music is
­blaring and I stride across the room in an exaggerated cat-
walk strut. The straps slip down off my bare shoulders,
but I don’t care. My goal has been realized. I have saved
the day. Asha and Emma are laughing so hard they can
barely talk.
“Work it, girl,” Emma calls out.
And I do. I glance over one shoulder, tossing my hair
back from my face in fake slow motion. Bending forward,
I kiss the air in my best supermodel imitation.
Asha whistles and Emma is making loud whooping
noises.
It is just us and I have to admit, I love making them
laugh. I ramp it up even more, prancing and twirling
across the room.
“Skye. Skye,” Asha calls out. “Look this way.”
I twist around to blow another kiss in her direction,
but then catch my reflection in the sliding glass door.
Everything stops. I freeze midspin, yanking up the straps
on the nightgown. I don’t know who that girl is with all
the red lace, curves, and skin—but it isn’t me.
“Oh. My. God,” Asha squeals. “Don’t quit now! That’s
perfect.”
I look from my reflection to Asha. Her phone is out in
her hand. She’s filming me.
No. No. No.
 35

I panic, holding out my hands to block the camera.

There were only supposed to be two people watching me
prance around in practically nothing, but Asha just let the
world in.
“Stop, Asha. Erase it,” I beg her, grabbing for the phone.
She holds the phone out of my reach. “It was live on
ChitChat. I can’t erase it yet, but relax. I’ll delete it in fif-
teen minutes. Promise.”
I feel horror clutch at me. “Asha! Hundreds . . . thou-
sands . . . of people can see it by then!” I sputter.
Asha rolls her eyes at my reaction. “Only if they’re on
ChitChat, like, now.”
Fifteen minutes feels like a lifetime.
“Don’t freak out,” Asha says. There is a sudden tone in
her voice, and a sharp flash in her eyes—almost too quick
to catch, but I see it. She thinks I’m overreacting and silly.
If we were ten years old again, she’d call me a baby and
make me cry.
Emma is studying the video on her phone, via ChitChat.
“You look great. Want to watch it?”
I shake my head frantically, determined not to cry. “No,
I want it to go away.”
“And it will,” Emma says soothingly. “Just give it a few
minutes, then, poof . . . your time as a supermodel is
history.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m . . .” My voice dwindles off
into silence.
36

“Crazy?” Asha asks. That edge is still in her voice.

“I was going to say super sensitive,” Emma says, pat-
ting me on the shoulder.
Asha rolls her eyes. “I don’t know why you have to be
so self-conscious, Skye.”
Live in my skin for sixteen years. Maybe you’ll get it.
I take a deep breath. “Let me see it.”
“Are you sure?” Emma asks.
I nod, but I’m not sure at all.
Emma holds out her phone and I look down at the
screen. The video starts with a pan of the room, then
focuses in on the closed bathroom door. Suddenly, the door
opens, and a girl stalks out in a red nightie. Oh. My. God.
The back of my neck is on fire, the flames rushing up into
my face.
That girl in the video is me.
I can’t stop watching. My skin is white and flabby, roll-
ing over the tight strips of red in all the wrong places. But
my face is so proud. So stupidly happy. Like I don’t even
know how horrible I look.
Make it stop. In a panic, I push frantically at the screen.
“See. You look fine.” I hear Asha’s voice like it’s far
away. “I told you. It isn’t that bad.”
People—everyone—will watch this video and think
I want to be seen this way. I look up from the screen,
eyes wide.
 37

“Emma, take it down,” I beg.

She shrugs sympathetically. “You know I can’t.”
“Oh, good grief,” Asha says, grabbing Emma’s phone
from me. “Just change back into your clothes, Skye. If it’ll
make you feel better, I’ll try on that stupid thing now. But
no ChitChats!”

A few minutes later, with Emma and me sitting on the

couch in our pajamas, Asha walks out for her big reveal. It
doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse.
A lot worse. Asha looks perfect in anything, even in the
ridiculous red nightie. Slim waist. Strong legs. With her
long black hair and fierce attitude, she could be a Victoria’s
Secret model. And, even though she looks fantastic, no one
dares take a video or a photo without her permission.
I’m the only stupid cow in the room.
Emma looks out the window and lets out an
excited yelp.
“It’s snowing!” she cries.
She points toward the sliding glass doors. I glance
out at the beauty of the thick flakes suddenly swirling
around.
“Let’s go outside!” Asha declares. Even though she’s
still in the red nightie, she throws on her coat, yanks on
her new hat from Emma, and steps into boots. Emma
38

follows suit, putting her jacket and scarf on over her pj’s.
In a second, they are both out the sliding glass doors, leav-
ing me sitting alone on the couch.
The cold air pours in through the open doors, cooling
my flushed cheeks and bringing goose bumps to my arms.
I blink hard, willing the tears not to fall.
“Come on, Skye!” Emma yells back inside, gesturing
wildly for me to join them.
Asha calls out, “Just put on a coat.” She is leaning over
the edge of the deck, filming the snowflakes landing on
Emma’s hair. But all I can think about is that other video
still floating around out there in the world for—I look at
my watch—seven more minutes.
I take a deep breath, then pick up my coat and put it
on, buttoning it all the way up to my neck, covering every
inch of skin. I slip my bare feet into my boots and stumble
across to the doorway. Emma grabs my hand, pulling me
out onto the deck.
The lights from the houses on the lake throw out an
eerie white glow onto the water as the snow slowly starts
to cover the icy perimeter. Asha catches snowflakes on her
tongue. Emma scoops up a handful of snow from the bal-
cony railing and opens her fingers up to let the soft
whispers of white blow off into the wind. It’s one of those
moments you know you should remember.
Asha grabs Emma and they twirl around in the cold
 39

holding hands, faces up to the clouds. “Isn’t this the best?”

Emma calls out to me.
“It’s beautiful,” I mumble, but I can’t help checking the
time again. Three more minutes and then Asha can delete
the video forever.
 To Katy,
a brilliant writer and even better friend

Copyright © 2018 by Donna Cooner

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
ISBN 978-0-545-90399-8
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Printed in the U.S.A.  23
First edition, June 2018
Book design by Yaffa Jaskoll