Chapter One
“Katherine, are you really going to wear that?” Willow—one of my best friends—stares at my long, bare legs and short black miniskirt in shock. She’s not used to me wearing so little clothes, but I decided to let it all out for our first big night on the town. “People will see your underwear.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I laugh as Willow’s eyes widen at my joke. “Don’t worry, Mother Teresa; they won’t see anything untoward because I have on mini shorts underneath the skirt. And in case that didn’t answer your question, yes, I’m wearing it.” I giggle as I spin around the cheap hotel room we’re sharing in Times Square with our other best friend, Brielle. “We’re in New York City, darling. I’m going to have fun.” I put on my best British accent, hold my head high, and strut myself across the room, practically tripping over our suitcases that are resting next to the king-size bed we’re all going to share tonight.
The room is dreadfully small, but for the price of ninety-nine dollars a night, we’re not complaining.
“But we’re here to visit the museums and?—”
“Really, Willow?” I stare at her in amusement. “This is our last winter semester of high school. I’m not wasting my time going to museums.”
I can see the surprise on her face, as she knows that I love art and dream of being a creative one day for a career. But the museums will always be there. My youth and first nights out partying with my best friends don’t want to wait.
“But I wanted to see The Met.” Brielle chooses that moment to walk out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her light-brown hair still soaking wet. “And the MoMA.”
“Fine, we can see some museums, but we still have to party. I spent thirty dollars getting us those fake IDs.”
I don’t tell them that I onlyhopethe IDs will get us into some clubs and bars. They don’t really look like us, as the photos look twenty years older than our seventeen years of age. It also doesn’t help that the names are from Eastern Europe and we can’t pronounce them, but I figure it’s still worth a try.
“I hope we don’t get caught by the police.” Willow continues looking nervous, and I try not to roll my eyes.
Willow Montgomery is a bit of a Goody Two-shoes, but I still love her. She’s had a hard life, with her parents dying when she was young and living with her horrible aunt and cousin. Thankfully, she hasn’t lost her light, and she is still fun and enjoys life. I am the fun, outgoing friend in the group, and she always thanks me for taking her on adventures, so hopefully, she’ll thank me for this one as well.
“We won’t,” I say with conviction, even though I have no clue if we will get busted, but I’ve found that it pays to say things confidently, even if you have no idea what you’re actually talking about.
“Fake it until you make it,” is what my mom and dad always say, and they’ve raised me and my sisters to have a happy life.
“What are you two wearing? I looked inTimemagazine, and the place to be tonight is in Midtown, a small bar called Tropez Dali.”
In Whispering Haven, I am a nobody. I might as well be invisible for all the notice anyone gives me. If it wasn’t for Willow and Brielle, I’d likely be a loner, locked up in my room, listening to love songs that had no meaning and reading books that made my heart ache for true love to find me.
I’ve always wanted to feel seen—though not in thecliché TV moviesort of way. I didn’t want to blossom from a caterpillar to a butterfly and suddenly catch the attention of the high-school quarterback. Our high-school quarterback, Johnson Levitt, is not the sort of boy I’d like to be with in any manner. I’m pretty sure his penis has been in more cheerleaders’ holes than I can count in French. And I can count quite high, having studied the language for three years already.
No, I don’t want a boy like Johnson. I want a man who oozes sophistication and sex. I want to have that independent French film moment, where I’m sitting in a coffee shop, casually reading about Faust—because I’m slightly pretentious—and I look up and see that he is watching me. Thehebeing a quiet, serious, handsome man who drips sex appeal and intelligence, and he wants me—and just me. Yes, I have an overactive imagination, which my grandma tells me all the time. But who are we if we can’t dream?
“Katherine, this place looks expensive,” Willow says, sounding and looking nervous as we approach the exterior of Tropez Dali—a new and exclusive bar I read about in a magazine and an Instagram post.
And, yes, it was gauche to get a recommendation from social media, but it did appear that all the trendy people were partying here, and I wanted to be one of the trendy people, even if it was for just one night.
“Play it cool,” I hiss at her, looking around to make sure no one can hear. “We belong here.”
I don’t know that I actually believe that, as everyone looks rich and fabulous and we are anything but that, but I do believe infake it till you make it. And I do believe we’re just as good as anyone else in here. I am grateful to my parents for bringing me and my two younger sisters up with the idea that no one is better than us just because they have more money or social standing. They also reiterated that we were also no better than anyone else either when I got a slightly too big head. But that’s why I love them. They might be hippies with no real jobs, but they are full of love and hope. Which they’ve bled into me.
“Katherine, we can’t even afford to be …” Brielle’s voice trails off as I give her the glare of death.
She and Willow exchangeKatherine is crazy and going to get us arrested or thrown outglances, but neither one of them says anything else. Most probably because, while they’re nervous we won’t make it in, they’re also excited about the possibility that we will. Like me, they’re ready for a life full of fun and passion. I know they are grateful to have me as the de facto leader of our little group—or at least, that’s what I like to tell myself.
“We’re not in Whispering Haven, girls. We are in Manhattan. Let’s enjoy it. Just follow my lead.”
I pull out the plastic black sunglasses and feather boas I ordered online and hand them to my friends. “Put these on.” I slap on my own dark sunglasses, with the plastic clips that sayFriend of the Bride, and wrap the bushy pink feather boa around my neck. I try not to giggle as it tickles my skin.
“What on earth?” Brielle looks confused as she puts her boa on. “Katherine, what exactly is going on here?”
“We are here to celebrate our best friend getting married,” I say, and before I forget, I add, “Our best friend, Mona.”
“Who the hell is Mona?” Willow looks confused as she puts her sunglasses on and wraps her hot-pink boa around her shoulders. It matches perfectly with her light-blonde hair.
I grin as I stare at my friends. They look absolutely perfect. We all look older than our seventeen years, and that has a lot to do with the makeup skills I perfected from watching countless YouTube tutorials. We all look fire.
