“Mom will never consent to this,” I grumble to my best friend, who’s lacquering her nails the same bright hue as her cell phone case.
Hot pink is Rae’s favorite color. Even her bedspread, on which we’re both lounging, is dotted with pink swirls. When we were kids and had to draw self-portraits for school, she’d always paint herself with pink eyes instead of brown. She even sported pink contacts when we were twelve, but they made her look like a bloodthirsty vampire.
She holds up her fingers and blows on her nails. “Maybe Mona will launch another one next year. Once you’re eighteen—”
“Rae!” I say, horrified.
She jerks her face toward me, the movement creating a ripple in her very straight, very long, and very blonde hair. “What?”
“I can’t wait that long. Besides, what if this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing?”
Rae studies me a moment, then studies the shot of Mona midperformance that graces her laptop screen. “How ’bout you write a song first? Then once it’s written, you play it for your momma, and since it’ll obviously be fan-freakin’-tastic, Jade will have to sign on the dotted line.”
I flip onto my back. “You really think she’d change her mind? She hates Mona.” I pull my bottom lip into my mouth. “We had another fight about her after dinner, which, weirdly enough, led to talking about Dad. The way she speaks about him, you’d think he was a monster.” I turn my head to look at my friend, who’s started applying polish to her toes. “Has she ever told your mom anything about him?”
“Not that I know of, but I can ask.”
I sigh. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Ready to make our senior-year bucket list?” Before I can say yes, Rae leaps off her bed and grabs a pad of paper from her desk. It’s pink and scented and has her name embossed at the top.
She tosses me a pen and a sheet of paper, then plops back on the bed and begins jotting down bullet point after bullet point of things that range from getting accepted into her dream college (Stanford, for their premed program; Rae’s wanted to be a heart surgeon since we dissected a frog in middle school) and never dating another jock (her ex was one, and it didn’t end well) to graduating valedictorian and getting elected prom queen.
Someone who doesn’t know Rae might deem her delusional, but I have no doubt she’ll be ticking each one of those boxes. She’s the most gorgeous and popular nerd who’s ever walked the hallways of Reedwood High.
As her pen loops and flows over her paper, I finally write down my ambitions for this school year. Or rather, mysingleambition.
“Um, why’s there only one item on your paper?” she says, cocking a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Because that’s all I want.”
“Come on, hon. What about getting a boyfriend? Or—”
I grunt.
“What?”
“I need to focus. Boys are a distraction.”
“What you need is to live a little.”
“And I will, but first”—I tap one unpolished nail against my sheet of paper—“I want to win this contest.”
“It’s nationwide.”
“So?”
“So it’s a little like winning the lottery.”
“No it’s not. The lottery is all luck; Mona’s contest requires talent.”
“Which you have, but which a lot of people have too.” Rae leans toward me and wraps one hand around mine. “I admire you, hon. I’ve always admired you. But what if it doesn’t work out? You’re sensitive, and—”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I grumble, snatching my hand out of hers. I scoot off the bed and stride toward the door, eyes prickling with heat.
Before I reach it, Rae says, “This is what I’m talkin’ about. You’re about to cry.”
I rest my hand on the doorknob but don’t turn it. “I’m not.”
