“On your part or his?”
She smirked. “Did he look like he was suffering?”
Come to think of it, no. He did not.
“Who is he?” I pressed. “Because I’m fairly certain he’s not on the approved list of wealthy suitors.”
“Like good ol’ Prince?” She poked me with a grin. “No. You’re right. Gavin is not on the list. I met him at a movie premiere. He’s an actor. You probably recognize him from that movie last year—the one about the alien born in a flower field who gets adopted by a horticulturist, then ages super-fast and falls in love with her?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Marigold Martian?” she tried again.
I shook my head, though of course I’d heard of it. I just didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. “Sounds awful.”
“It is. He’s a terrible actor,” she said. “But he’s pretty.”
“And Mother’s okay with him?”
She arched a brow. “Mother knows nothing about him. That’s why we’re sticking to the hallway.”
“She has eyes in the back of her head. And loyal spies. I assure you—she knows he’s here.”
“Even better.”
Her response drew a pout from me. “Why do you get to carry on with your flowerbed alien, and I get stuck on a date with Prince? He’s your age. You should be the one sacrificed, not me.”
“Do I look like the kind of girl who’d date a dweeb like that?”
I hated to admit it, but no. Melanie was porcelain perfect, the sort of beauty men turned for. But still… “It’s not fair. I’m not that girl either.”
“Then say no. That’s what I did. And now Mother has written me off—because she knows she can’t control me.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Melanie might not play by the rules, but she was still playing the game. She stepped over the line, sure, but never all the way out. Never enough to lose the credit card. Money like ours had a way of keeping people tethered, no matter how high they tried to fly.
“I tried,” I said. “I even stole her car.”
“I heard.” She looked entertained.
“Got five miles before the universe turned me back around.”
“And that’s why,” Melanie said, blotting the lipstick smudges around her lips, “you’ll be a Lavelle in no time.”
“Never. That’s where I draw the line.”
“But Michelle,” she mocked lightly, “you’re the good one. The dutiful daughter. Traditional. Respectable. Juilliard pianist. That’s catnip at cocktail parties. Oh, how Mother brags! And you off being your perfect little self leaves me room to be bad.”
There was no envy in her voice, only relief. I’d unknowingly picked up the family crown when she dropped it. Melanie had once been the heir to the throne. The oldest. The prettiest. Theface of the Carver family. But then came the shoplifting incident at sixteen. And even though the charges were dropped and the scandal quietly buried, Melanie didn’t claw her way back to high society. Instead, she leaned into rebellion. That left me, the family’s uncomfortable, but reliable last chance at a respectable legacy.
Melanie’s eyes found mine in the mirror, and her tone softened just a fraction. “You want my advice, little sis?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Run.”
Once Melanie left,I locked myself in a stall. I couldn’t face going back out there. Back to Mother’s laser-beam stare and Prince’s sheep debauchery. My sister’s parting words echoed in my head.Run. She’d done it and lived to tell the tale. Why couldn’t I? Why did my mother’s disapproval still freeze the blood in my veins?
And then there was Scott and his charming normalness. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t a resume to be presented at cocktail parties. He wanted to blow my mind, and for once, I wanted to let someone try.
From my purse, I pulled out the crumpled Rabid Jackal flyer. Performing at nine. My watch read seven forty-five. It would be tight, but if I timed it right, Mother would assume our driver, Mr. Blatch, had driven me home from the charity event. She’d never guess I’d doubled back to steal her car for the second time today.
It was reckless. Stupid. Exactly the kind of story Melanie would brag about for months. But the more I let the idea spin, the better it sounded. Because tomorrow everything changed. Tomorrow I would tell my mother the truth about Juilliard—that I wasn’t going back for my sophomore year. That I couldn’t. The letter from the conservatory would arrive soon enough, andshe’d know anyway. Her fury would be volcanic, her disappointment endless, and she’d try to steer me back to a place I didn’t belong.
