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Someone To Love
Литагент HarperCollins


A powerful issue-driven YA novel tackling eating disorders and the pressures social media puts on contemporary teens from the bestselling author of the Blue Bloods and Disney Descendant’s series.I hate mirrors. Glass is dangerous. Anything that reflects me back at myself is a threat.Liv Blakely knows how important it is to look good. Her father is launching a political career and Liv will be making public appearances. She has an image to uphold–to her maybe-boyfriend, to her new friends, and to the public who love to find fault on social media.No matter who she has to give up to get there.No matter what she has to lose to do it.But as the high price of perfection takes a toll. Can Liv find something else to live for before she goes too far?







EVERYONE IS LOOKING

Olivia “Liv” Blakely knows how important it is to look good. Her father is running for governor, and Liv will be making public appearances with her family. Liv has an image to uphold—to her maybe boyfriend, to the new friends who suddenly welcome her into their circle and to the public, who love to find fault on social media.

Liv’s sunny, charming facade hides a dark inner voice that will settle for nothing less than perfection. No matter who she has to give up to get there. No matter what she has to lose to do it. Liv is working for the day when what she sees in the mirror is worthy…worthy of confidence. Worthy of success. Worthy of love. But as the high price of perfection takes a toll, placing her body and soul at risk, Liv herself has to realize what she has to live for.


MELISSA DE LA CRUZ’s powerful new novel depicts one teen’s battle with self-doubt and an eating disorder, and shows that the struggle to find someone to love starts with oneself.


Also available from

Melissa de la Cruz and HQ YA

Something in Between








Copyright (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)






An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Melissa de la Cruz 2018

Melissa de la Cruz asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9781474060646

Version: 2018-01-05


Contents

Cover (#uf46ca8cc-7a71-5a2c-8197-38ecc2a3705f)

Back Cover Text (#u920ec194-fbbc-5fd1-ac7f-ed0a61bc2a90)

About the Author (#u51971f06-078b-50c7-a392-4bc48e10a868)

Booklist (#u415a57f9-2190-5b56-b373-d0c24a3140df)

Title Page (#u8ab2461b-becd-5d15-89fd-3b04c54eb951)

Copyright (#ub5d2ca3e-0ab3-55d7-9743-22cfa848ce0b)

part one (#u1ee614ca-a594-5234-bb48-5e484c7a8f97)

one (#ub50b80b6-1d62-5fce-b89a-374e38e0bc94)

two (#u15aca6bb-8953-527e-bfdf-a9982e969851)

three (#u3ada7f82-3b02-5f5e-86c8-e7311285fc1f)

four (#udb4a7809-80fd-55b2-9ea8-c423298541d9)

five (#ud922aa6e-8fa5-5c00-8ba0-74c658dd1c0a)

six (#ua2a2995c-aae3-5a09-a0ce-4695de597bde)

seven (#u53efc906-9291-5702-9495-bc980571b283)

eight (#u8ce322f8-ee22-5b99-9712-e79547966871)

nine (#u3f08de09-b183-5d9e-a87f-8f195e6ae814)

ten (#litres_trial_promo)

eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

part two (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)

twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

part three (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)

thirty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)

forty (#litres_trial_promo)

forty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

forty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

forty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

forty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

forty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

forty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


p a r t o n e (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

I never paint dreams or nightmares.

I paint my own reality.

—Frida Kahlo


o n e (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“It’s not that I’m rebelling. It’s that I’m just

trying to find another way.”

—Edie Sedgwick

The stall door won’t shut all the way.

What the hell kind of bathroom doors does our school have?

The kind with crooked doors that don’t always latch. The kind you don’t want to get caught in. Not with your head above the toilet. Not when you’re kneeling on the floor, puking your guts out. Not with a fifth of vodka—which I desperately need right now.

Shouldn’t the stalls all lock?

Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m done.

I wipe my mouth and take a stick of gum from my purse and unwrap the shiny paper. It makes me think of Andy Warhol’s famous art factory, all wrapped in silvery aluminum foil and pulsing with artists and conversation. I can see Edie Sedgwick’s haunting face. Her platinum pixie. Smoky circles around her eyes. Dangling earrings. That megawatt smile. She may have been one of Andy Warhol’s superstars—those grimy, glamorous muses—but Edie was his angel too. An angel wearing a leotard and fur coat, hiding in the backs of limousines and dingy clubs. Skinny as hell.

I’d rather be in New York. Studying art. Living in my own art factory. Get out of this sunshiny, swimming pool state. I crumple the paper into a ball, toss it into the wastebasket near the door and head for the sinks. I turn on the faucet. Pump soap onto my hands. Scrub. Scrub. Stare at the water slipping down the drain. Don’t look up.

I hate mirrors. Glass is dangerous. Water is dangerous. Windows are dangerous. Anything that reflects myself back at me is a threat. A punishment.

Welcome to my Monday morning. It’s Eastlake Prep’s yearbook photo day. Yeah. That Eastlake Prep—the one with the five-figure tuition and super-fancy alumni. Famous people have gone here, and famous people send their kids here.

It’s the end of September—we’re already a month into school—but I can’t seem to get into the swing of school. And I also can’t show up at photo day with frizzy hair and a pimple on my chin. As much as I hate taking them, I know the power of a class photo. Thirty years from now, when everyone has moved away and no one is following each other on social media anymore, people are going to pull out their yearbook and look at you. That’s what you’ll be to them forever.

Do you want to be the girl with the greasy forehead? Or the bad bangs?

No. I didn’t think so.

The spotless surface reflects my double. I smooth my hands over my long dirty-blond hair and examine my skin, slightly jaundiced under the bathroom’s unflattering fluorescent light. The problem with mirrors is that they show me only what’s already there. It’s I who has to see the potential, who has to see how much more there is to lose. How much smaller I can be. How much closer to perfection.

Speaking of perfection: Zach Park.

He’s gorgeous. Thick dark hair tousled like he’s been lounging on the beach all day. Wide green eyes with teardrop curves that seriously make me want to stop everything and get lost in them for an eternity. I’ve had a low-key crush on him since the end of freshman year when he transferred here from a Korean private school.

I had only one class with him—the last semester of first-year English—but I doubt he remembers me. I mostly drew pictures of other people in the class on my notes to avoid looking at him too much, even though I was always listening to him. He was so well-spoken and mature. So different from the other teenage boys who seemed to be interested only in playing video games or whatever party they were planning for the weekend.

Zach actually liked talking about ideas. Whenever the teacher called on him, he would say something insightful that I’d never thought about before, and I loved when he volunteered to act out scenes from the books the class was discussing, because Zach would bring them to life. It was like whatever character he was playing had stepped off the page into the classroom and was standing in front of you.

Not that I ever really talked to him.

Today’s the day. Maybe.

I just have to pull it together for the camera, in front of all the other junior and senior girls with their immaculate hair and carefully coordinated outfits, in front of Zach and his perfect jawline and forearms. Even thinking about all of them staring at me, wondering who the loser is who wandered into their perfect midst, is enough to make me want to skip school and never come back.

I screwed things up enough my freshman year. I was dating this guy—Ollie Barrios—who was a really popular junior basketball player. I’d just lost a lot of weight and he was my first boyfriend. It felt amazing to be noticed. To be wanted—no, desired—by someone. I should have seen the red flags though. Ollie was always telling me what I should wear or who should be my friends. He’d even choose my food at restaurants.

I ended up gaining some of the weight back during the first few months of school, and Ollie dumped me. We were leaving from my house to go to the homecoming dance. Ollie stopped me before I could get in the car. “We’re not going,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, thinking maybe Ollie made other plans.

“That dress makes you look like a stuffed sausage.”

“I—I can go change,” I stammered.

God. I was so stupid. That would have just been putting lipstick on a pig.

“How much weight have you gained? Ten? Fifteen pounds?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

My skin was crawling. I wanted to escape my body.

“Don’t you keep track? Most girls weigh themselves every day.”

“I’ll start eating better. Exercising,” I pleaded with him.

“Whatever, Liv. You obviously don’t care about yourself.”

He left me crying on the doorstep.

Ollie spread his version of the story around the entire school. He said our relationship wasn’t working out because he was an athlete and I wasn’t “disciplined” enough, which was obviously code for eating too much and not exercising enough. Everyone looked at me like I was the biggest loser. But Ollie was right. I was a fat cow. I immediately went on a revenge diet. I started fasting for days at a time, but then I would get so hungry that I’d binge and eat way more than any normal person should—pasta, burritos, ice cream, whatever was available—and feel so guilty about bingeing that I’d puke everything up.

I’ll never let myself gain weight again.

I’m a yo-yo girl. What goes down must come back up.

I’ve been keeping myself from bingeing pretty well the past couple of months, but I still have to purge. I hate the feeling of being full. It makes me nauseous.

I smash the gum between my teeth, partly to cover the acrid smell, but mostly to give my mouth something to do. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. I try to push away the thoughts. I’m stronger than my hunger. I take a cleansing breath to clear my head.

One.

Food is disgusting. It never made you happy.

I exhale slowly. My breath is my mantra. My focus.

You are not a slave to your hunger.

Two.

I’m finally ready to take on this torturous rite of passage.

I leave the bathroom and am walking around the corner of Decker Hall when a guy staring down at his phone runs into me, nearly knocking me over.

“What the hell?!” I say, then I realize I know him, a smile forming on my lips.

It’s Sam. We’ve been best friends since elementary school.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was looking for you... You left class early.”

“Obviously.” I roll my eyes and make a sarcastic face at him. “I had to prep. Don’t wanna turn out wretched in my yearbook photo.” I look down at my simple, sleeveless black dress. The color suddenly seems so wrong. “What was I thinking? I look like a vampire. And not even the cool kind.”

“Oh please,” Sam says, laughing as he puts his arm around my shoulder. “You look great.”

“Greatly appalling,” I say. “Do we have to do this?”

I twist around to look into his deep blue eyes, trying to plead with him to cut class with me, but Sam doesn’t cut class. He actually likes school. He’s really smart—I’m sure he’s going to be a genius-level scientist someday—and handsome in that geeky, still-needs-to-fill-out kind of way, but there’s no way I’m ever going to tell him that.

“Why even bother asking?” Sam says.

“Fine,” I say, moving his arm off my shoulder. “You can at least walk me over to the shark tank. And button your shirt.” I don’t even wait for him. I start doing it myself.

Just like when we were kids. They don’t go anymore, but Sam’s parents used to take me sailing with him and his older brother, James, on the weekends. I remember standing on the deck, the boat going full speed, the wind whipping my hair back and forth across my face, feeling weightless and completely free from the prison of my own body. Sam may not be the best at dressing up for yearbook photos, but he seemed so confident on those sailing trips. The way he handled the ropes so deftly, how he steered the boat with ease. I envied him, because Sam was the master of his own destiny on the water.

I miss those days.

“They’re yearbook photos. Who cares? We’re all just going to stuff them in our closets anyway,” Sam says.

“Wrong,” I say. “Yearbook photos are like diamonds. They’re forever.”

“Actually you’re wrong,” he says. “The whole concept of a yearbook is obsolete. Everyone blasts their lives on social media now, so what’s the motivation to rummage through some old book?”

He takes over buttoning his shirt when I get up to his neck.

“Have you not seen the awful yearbook photos of celebrities on the internet? Just because they’re not on social media to start with doesn’t mean they won’t end up there.”

A tie hangs limply from his pocket. “Do you know how to tie that?” I ask.

“I watched a tutorial,” Sam says. “It can’t be that hard.”

I laugh.

We must look like a couple, but everyone knows we aren’t together. I love Sam. We always sit next to each other in classes because our names are so close. Sam Bailey. Olivia Blakely. He’s super smart and will probably do something exceptional someday, like work on a giant particle accelerator. He’s also the most loyal guy I know.

He’s had a crush on a few girls over the years, but neither of us has been that lucky in love.

“We better get going,” I say, continuing on my way. “I want to be early.”

I start thinking about Zach. Again.

If only he knew that I exist. And that I’m totally in love with him.

He’s always off and on with Cristina Rossi. God. That girl. Model gorgeous. And, since this is Los Angeles, she actually is a model. She even appeared half-naked for a Calvin Klein underwear campaign on a billboard next to the Chateau Marmont this summer. They both look like works of art. Ms. Day, my studio art teacher, might call them “aesthetically pleasing.” Well-proportioned. Shapely. Statuesque.

Sam pulls the tie out of his pocket. He tries to tie it as he walks. It’s as defiant as his unruly hair. He can’t manage a Windsor knot to save his life.

“How ’bout just ditch the tie?” I say.

“Help me out, Liv. You’ve known how to tie these since the fourth grade.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see a guy with brown, slicked-back hair and a gray suit striding across the quad like he owns the school. Jackson Conti. He’s a mass of muscle and has the confidence to match. We sat near each other in biology sophomore year, but I haven’t hung out with him outside of school or talked to him much since then. I hear he’s planning an event with Zach, who happens to be his best friend, in Marina del Rey on a 148-foot yacht that belongs to Sean Clark, an up-and-coming action movie star.

Did I mention that Zach is also an actor?

He played a minor part in one of Sean’s recent movies. Sean’s letting him borrow the yacht to throw a killer party for his friends and cast members while Sean’s out of town. It’s not the actors I’m interested in though—except Zach, of course. I overheard Cristina’s best friend, Felicity, whose father is a big art dealer, telling someone that Geoff LeFeber, a major contemporary artist, is supposed to be visiting from New York and might be going to the party. I guess one of the executive producers of the TV show Zach stars on knows him. It seems like a long shot that he’ll attend, but anything’s possible in Los Angeles. It’s a smaller place than people think.

I have to be there. LeFeber’s my favorite living artist. He puts together these insane installations that completely alter your perception of reality. I’ve never been to one in person, but I watched a YouTube video the Museum of Modern Art put out that took you through this massive open room filled with tunnels of tape attached to the beams of the roof and pillars. It looked like you were caught in a giant spider’s web from the perspective of the fly. Besides looking otherworldly, the installation was supposed to illustrate the dangerous intoxication of curiosity and wonder. I love how LeFeber can make simple shapes and materials seem dreamlike and surreal. I may be a painter instead of an installation artist, but I’d die to talk to someone like LeFeber.

My parents are well connected, but they’re not that interested in art. They’ve taken me—or have let me take myself—to a lot of museums, but never to gallery openings or lectures where the artist is actually present. There are so many questions I would ask him. How do you come up with your ideas? Did anyone believe in your work when you were young? When did you really know you were an artist?

I’m determined to get an invitation to the party.

A girl can hope.

I glance behind me. Sam has finally managed to finish tying his tie on his own. I’m glad I ran into him before photos. Being around him usually makes me less nervous.

Now that I know Sam looks put together, I have to drum up the courage to see what I can find out about that boat party.

“I’ll be right back. There’s someone I gotta talk to,” I say, leaving him so I can catch up to Jackson.

It’s not like people don’t know me. Dad’s position as the Speaker of the House is high profile, but his job also means that I’ve spent a lot of time on both coasts and helping out my parents with their projects—mostly Mom’s literacy campaign and whatever hot topic Dad happens to be dealing with at the moment—which means less time for making friends in LA.

After the Ollie incident, I’ve mostly been a loner the past couple of years. It’s not like I don’t have any friends, but I don’t put myself out there that much.

“Hey...Jackson,” I stutter.

My stomach instantly hurts.

“Olivia.” He smiles. Jackson’s all teeth and eyebrows. He talks to people like a salesman. Like they’ll all be potential clients someday. I’m not interested in him, but he’s the one hosting the party so I pretend to flirt. I have to be there.

“Is...that a new suit?” I ask. “You look great.”

God. I’m an idiot. What a suck-up.

“You do too,” he says. “That color is hot on you.”

Did he really just say that? I try to stifle a laugh, but this ugly, garbled half chuckle, half groan comes out of my mouth. Who takes sexy yearbook photos?

I can feel Sam following behind, so I grab Jackson by the elbow to get away. I haven’t told Sam about my plan yet. He would think I’m being stupid. Or shallow.

“Going inside?” I ask, propelling him forward. “I hate school photos but really love our photographer, don’t you?”

I don’t even know what I’m saying. I do this thing when I get nervous and start talking about anything to avoid an awkward silence.

“She’s all right,” he says without much enthusiasm. “Made my teeth look big.”

“No!” I say to Jackson. “I mean, not too big. Plus, big teeth are in these days. Don’t you watch Silver Lake?” The entire reality cast has giant teeth, like they’re a bunch of big-toothed piranhas about to attack the cameras and each other in every scene.

“No...” he says. “Should I?”

“They all have them,” I say. “That big teeth thing.”

He stops, runs his tongue across his top teeth. “They do?”

I turn around. The hall is filling up. Here comes Sam. And Zach. And Felicity Pace. She’s basically a teenage socialite, with her bouncy blond hair, which she swings back and forth as she walks down the hallway, linking arms with Cristina Rossi.

A massive crowd of students begins to descend on us like a horde of gorgeous, perfectly groomed, well-dressed zombies. No. No. No. I need to talk to Jackson alone. It’s the only way I’m going to get invited to that party. Maybe I’ll never have a chance with Zach, but I might still have one with LeFeber. I have to talk to him.

I grab his arm again. We head into the photo studio and join the queue.

“So that boat party,” I squeak. “The one in Marina del Rey?”

“What about it?” Jackson asks.

“Dad mentioned...”

I don’t want to tell him I overheard Felicity. Embarrassing.

“Yeah?” he says. “Aren’t he and Sean pals?”

I nod. Ever since Sean Clark campaigned for my dad for the House, they’re tight. Dad totally went Hollywood.

My family is nearly perfect—at least to the public. There’s Mr. and Mrs. Blakely, the charming political power couple, Mason, who turned his life around after rehab and now works in venture capital in Silicon Valley, and Royce, who has already had an article published in the New York Times while in college.

Then there’s Olivia Blakely.

I’m just trying to survive my junior year of high school.

“That’s cool,” he says. He seems like he’s about to say something else, but he looks over my shoulder. I whip around to see Zach and his entourage walking toward us.

Cristina. Felicity, her best friend. Thin. Tan. Fashionable.

“Do you need us to bring anything Friday?” Felicity asks. “My parents bought a case of St. Germain. It’s delicious with champagne.”

“You lovely ladies just bring yourselves,” Jackson says. “Zach and I will take care of the rest. And don’t worry, we’ll make sure the girly drinks are there.”

My feet feel heavy. My purse feels like it’s hiding an entire system of gravity and slings toward the floor. I barely catch it. The girls are laughing at something Zach says.

It’s like they’re all talking in slow motion.

So charming. So at ease with themselves.

I can’t outwardly hate them. They haven’t actually done anything mean to me other than to be.

But they don’t have to weigh every single piece of food they put in their tiny bodies like I do. They don’t have to count ounces and measure milliliters. Their brains don’t constantly tell them that they’re ugly and fat and should give up on their diets because they’re never going to meet their goals anyway. They probably drink to have fun with their friends. Not to numb the hunger long enough to fall asleep.

Jackson turns away from me to talk to Zach.

I don’t even register on his radar.

There goes my stomach again. It feels full. Gorged. I wish I hadn’t eaten at all this morning. I’ll be bloated for the pictures.

Then I really start to feel it. The invisibility. The cloak. Like an atmosphere, it surrounds the real me. The fullness is totally noticeable now. My stomach is bursting. My brain burns with shame. I’m fat. Everybody can see how huge I am right now. From my cheeks to my fingers. My waist. My hips. My thighs.

I just want to be perfect. I want to be worth noticing.

Is that too much to ask?

I ate half a grapefruit for breakfast.

I drank two cups of green tea.

Took two pulls of the vodka hidden in my closet.

Just to take off the edge.

I feel every pound I weigh, and every ounce, like my life, is too much. Even though I already threw up at the end of class, I feel like I have to get it all out again. I excuse myself and run back to the bathroom and start heaving in the empty stall.

Something has to come out.

Something. Anything.


t w o (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“Creativity takes courage.”

—Henri Matisse

“Can anyone figure out the origin of this painting?” Ms. Day asks, fluffing her afro with one hand. Her gold hoop earrings glint under the light of the projector.

My mind wanders from the class, thinking about how the photo I took the last period turned out. The photographer took the picture before I was ready, and I’m almost certain I had a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look, but they only take one shot before they shuffle you off and move on to the next person in line.

“Look at the subject,” Ms. Day adds, patiently waiting for the class to respond.

The painting on the screen behind her shows a young woman wearing a pale pink dress being pushed on a swing above an admiring young man. The two figures aren’t touching each other, but the artist painted their movements so dynamically that they seem like they’re about to leap across the painting to embrace each other. A lush garden surrounds the lovers. Every leaf and flower has been painted with an incredible amount of detail and attention to light and shadow.

A girl at the front—Emma—raises her hand.

“The fashion definitely looks English or French,” she says.

Ms. Day nods. She’s not giving any hints.

I have her for two classes. AP art history and studio art. She’s the only teacher I feel like I can actually talk to honestly about my future goals. Not because I like her subject the most—though that’s true—but because she never mentions my parents. Or my brothers. Not that they would have ever dreamed of taking an art class.

“I’d say French,” Emma’s friend sitting next to her adds. “Even though she’s wearing stockings, the way her legs are exposed is too scandalous to be English.”

“Forget her legs.” Nate, a boy who sits in the back, snickers. “He’s looking up her dress. Bet he’s totally going to get him some.”

“Our very own connoisseur of the romantic arts speaks,” Ms. Day says. “Tell us more, Casanova!” The other boys snicker, but Nate’s too embarrassed to say anything else. I love how salty she can be with her students. She’s my favorite teacher.

Ms. Day turns away from the painting and gives him some serious side-eye. She puts her hands on her hips and sighs. “It is French. French Rococo, to be exact. The painting’s official name is The Swing. It was painted right before the Revolution by an artist named Jean-Honore Fragonard. The painting was commissioned by the notorious French libertine Baron de St. Julien as a portrait of his mistress. That’s all I’ll say for now. What do you think this painting is about? What’s the context?”

The class is silent again. “History is important to understanding art,” Ms. Day continues, asking us for our analysis of the piece before she gives us her interpretation. “But becoming a truly great artist means keeping your soul trained on the future. What will someone hundreds of years from now think or feel when they view your painting? What speaks across time and culture? Think about what truly moves you as a viewer.”

Emma raises her hand again. “It’s kinda playful.”

“That’s right.” Ms. Day paces across the front of the room. “Many of the painting’s critics called it frivolous. Why do you think they might have used that word?”

“Well,” I say, leaning forward in my seat to see the painting better. “It’s not like the subject is an important religious or historical person or event or anything. And the painting’s focal point is clearly her pink dress.”

“You think there’s more to the painting than that...” Ms. Day walks up the aisle and pauses by my desk, gesturing toward the painting. “Don’t you, Olivia?”

“She always has something to say,” Nate groans.

I ignore him. This is pretty much the only class in which I feel in my element.

“That playfulness that Emma mentioned? I think she’s right. I also think the painting is about seduction. Except the moment doesn’t seem so planned out. It’s like their desire is spontaneous.” I wonder whether someone will ever feel that way about me. Why do so many things have to come together perfectly for people to fall in love?

“The French would call that joie de vivre,” Ms. Day adds. “That translates to a cheerful enjoyment of life. An exultation of the spirit. Of the soul. Everything one does becomes filled with joy. Conversation. Work. Play. Eating.”

I wish I could feel joy when I eat. The only thing I feel is dread.

“Why do you think the painting is about seduction?” Ms. Day asks.

“Besides the fact that the man on the ground is pretty much looking up her dress?” I pause for a moment. The boys in the back laugh. “They know they’re being provocative. She’s letting her shoe fly off her foot like she’s Cinderella. He’s her Prince Charming. They’re gazing directly into each other’s eyes. Maybe they’re in love.”

“Or lust,” Ms. Day says. The class murmurs like they’re scandalized.

I trail off, thinking about Zach’s eyes and what I might feel if he ever looked back at mine that way. I’d probably melt into a puddle on the floor.

While I’ve been thinking about Zach, Ms. Day has moved on to analyzing other parts of the painting. “What details do you notice? Look at the background.”

The class goes silent. We’re stumped.

“See this statue of a cherub on the left?” Ms. Day walks up to the screen and touches the left side of the painting. “Can you see what he’s doing?”

“Oh my god,” Emma squeals. “I totally see it.”

Everybody squints and leans forward. We’re still all confused.

“The little cherub? He’s holding his index finger in front of his lips. He’s trying to keep everything a secret.”

Ms. Day smiles and draws circles around the other statutes in the garden with her finger. “What about the other sets of cherubs? The ones below the humans looking up?”

A few students respond to her question.

“They look concerned.”

“More like afraid for her.”

“I think they’re scowling.”

“Yes. This is obviously an illicit love affair,” Ms. Day says. “Yet the painter casts off the moral concerns of the day to illustrate a moment of lighthearted pleasure. It is frivolous. Free. In fact, the painting’s alternate title is The Happy Accidents of the Swing.”

“They’re definitely, like, living life to its fullest or whatever,” Emma says.

“YOLO,” Nate adds.

“Exactly.” Ms. Day laughs. “Homework for tonight is to research...”

I lose myself in my thoughts while she gives us tonight’s assignment.

I can barely remember the last time I felt truly happy like the woman on the swing. When I was younger, tapping into that feeling of freedom seemed so much easier. I could ride my scooter fast down the street. I could get on a swing and pump my legs until I was soaring high over the playground. What happened to that girl? Did I lose her?

Am I living my best life? Am I even trying to?

The bell rings for lunch and all the students start piling out the door. I slowly put my notes and my textbook in my backpack while Ms. Day turns off the projector.

“Olivia,” she says. “I wanted to tell you something in studio art this morning, but you were out the door too fast. Do you have time to stick around for a few minutes?”

Of course I have time. It’s not like I actually eat lunch anyway.

I have only one rule about eating at school. I don’t do it.

“Yeah,” I say. “What’s up?”

“There’s an opportunity that would be great for you.” She walks to her desk and grabs a neon-yellow flyer. “One of my old friends from grad school is part of the staff at an art gallery that wants to feature young artists from the area.”

My pulse quickens. This could be huge. “Which gallery?” I ask.

“It’s called the Wynn. It’s fairly small, but they have a great schedule of contemporary artists lined up for this year. It would be a huge deal when you’re applying to art schools to say you’ve shown your work there already.”

“Sounds...great,” I say, unsure.

I’ve heard of the Wynn before. It’s an up-and-coming gallery that mostly features artists early in their careers, but I’m not sure I’m good enough. I sketch and paint constantly, but I don’t like showing my work to people. I come up with these concepts in my mind, but I can never seem to execute them exactly the right way. Sometimes I feel as if my skill will never match up with my vision.

“It’s a ways off—the show won’t be until near the end of the school year—but you have to submit a portfolio to be considered. They’re going to take only two or three artists total.”

How can I pull off a full show in eight months?

I’m a perfectionist. I take forever to put together a painting.

“That sounds pretty intense,” I say. “I don’t know what I would paint.”

Ms. Day puts down the flyer and looks at me. “Olivia. You need to start believing in your work. Really. It’s time for you to push yourself. Find your voice. You’ve been experimenting with figure drawing lately. Why don’t you try painting live models?”

I want to ask Ms. Day what she means by finding my voice, and exactly how I should go about doing that, when the fire alarm goes off.

“Really?” Ms. Day shakes her head. “We’ve had three of these damn things this week already. Wish I could catch whatever little delinquent is responsible for this.”

Lights flash on and off as the alarm buzzes. The school installed these alarms with strobe lights that practically blind you. It’s most likely a false alarm, but they’re so annoying they make you want to leave the room.

She heads for the door. “You don’t have to decide now,” she says, holding the flyer out to me. “You’re the only student I am recommending for this, so please promise to think about it.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking the flyer, my stomach tightening with nerves. “I promise.”


t h r e e (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“You live but once; you might as well be amusing.”

—Coco Chanel

I’m sitting with Mom and Dad at a table at Musso & Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard, dining under the chandeliers in the ambience of mahogany decor and literary ghosts. Faulkner. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Steinbeck. Parker. You name the writer—they ate here. The restaurant is old Hollywood classy. Waiters wear red jackets and black ties. Mom and Dad love this kind of stuff. A sense of history appeals to them.

I had to go home after school to change just so I could go out to dinner with my parents, even though I have absolutely no interest in eating.

It’s Thursday. Today was supposed to be a fast day.

I’m trying to break a plateau. My goal is to get down to 100 pounds, and I’m not going to get there by eating ham steak or a rack of lamb or whatever.

When the waiter delivers my salad, Dad starts doing this thing he always does at these dinners, as if his life suddenly revolves around my eating habits.

“A house salad?” Dad asks. “That’s it?”

I get irritated with them at dinners because they’re always commenting on what and how much I put on my plate, making me feel guilty for whatever I do or don’t eat.

Believe me. I already judge myself enough for my own eating habits. Like those two Rice Krispies treats Mom made that I binged on yesterday? They made me feel terrible.

Words slip out before I have a chance to process. “Why do you care?”

Sometimes I want to stand on the table and inform the congressman: Sir, my life isn’t about shoving millions of calories of dead cow into my body.

They were the ones who encouraged me to lose weight in the first place. When I came home crying about how fat I was after Ollie dumped me freshman year, Mom was the first to help me go on a diet. She bought me weight loss guidebooks, exercise tapes and a food scale. I would give her a special list of what to pick up at the grocery store.

I counted every calorie. Weighed every ounce. Recorded every mile. It was healthy at first. I started to lose weight. Fast. I really did need to ditch some of the weight, but I couldn’t stop even after I lost all the weight I had gained.

And everyone, I mean everyone, was nicer to me. Even my parents. But I don’t want their attention anymore. They’re more controlling with me than they were with either Mason or Royce. Dad claims I’m more prone to extremes. Mom says I’m too hard on myself. I fail to see either. I’m pretty average.

Devastatingly average.

“Give me the benefit of the doubt,” he says. “I’m just saying that you don’t have to order the salad. Eat whatever you want. You used to like the Manhattan steak.”

I refuse to react. I take a small bite of lettuce, the smallest leaf I can find.

I chew thirty times, counting each one like a bead on a rosary.

30...29...28...27...

It’s way harder to come up with excuses for not eating at a restaurant, and I can’t go to the bathroom after dinner either. Too obvious. So I order light and chew my food for so long that when they’re ready to go, I end up leaving half my food on the plate.

I may be a fairly average teenage girl, but I’m strong-willed. Probably more so than any of those girls who hang around with Zach. I can put up a good fight.

I smile at Mom as if to say, Please keep the congressman behind the imaginary fence. She looks at me and shrugs. I guess I’ll have to fight this battle on my own.

So I feign deafness, take a sip of water and stare at the wood paneled walls, thinking about my conversation with Ms. Day right before lunch. Having my work shown at a real gallery would be an amazing experience. It would mean that I actually have the talent to be a professional artist someday. Just being good at art in your high school classes isn’t enough. I have to test myself outside of school too.

I want to put together a portfolio, but I don’t know where to begin. My mind goes blank every time I try to think of a concept or theme for the show. I need to find my inspiration. If only I could talk to LeFeber...

“You might consider returning to Earth once in a while, Ms. Space Cadet,” Dad says. His mouth is moving, but his words are white noise. “Ground control to Olivia.”

I’m a disappointment to him. Not only am I not interested in his job, I don’t get as high grades as Royce and I’ll never be as popular as Mason was in high school.

He taps his fork on my plate, clanging the tines against the glass to get my attention. I stare at him, hoping my smoldering irises are enough to laser some more gray streaks into his hair. “I hope the rabbits across America aren’t starving...”

I scrunch up my forehead. What the hell is he talking about?

“You eat so much lettuce you must have tanked their food economy,” he says.

“Congressman Blakely,” I say, stabbing my fork into a leaf covered in sesame seeds, “I like salads, the rabbits will be just fine and, besides, I’m just not super hungry, okay?”

I started calling him Congressman Blakely about a year ago. I don’t know why, other than I thought it was funny. Maybe I was being a little mean. It’s a way for me to passively fight back in my own house. My own private revolution, for no reason other than that I’m a teenager. It’s practically my duty to get under my parents’ skin.

“Can you not be like this? I’d love to have a peaceful dinner.” Mom wipes a touch of water from her lips, then folds up her napkin into a perfect rectangle. She’s perfect. Intelligent. Tactful. Nothing—not one stray hair or wrinkled shirt—ever out of place.

I reach for my own napkin and realize it has fallen on the floor. Compared to my mother, I’m a hot mess. I’m not diplomatic in social situations, and I can barely manage to find a clean pair of jeans in the mornings. I don’t know how I ended up so different from my parents. I would be the worst politician ever.

Dad has just opened his mouth to argue again when Martin Barrios—Ollie’s father—approaches the table. Just seeing him makes me want to slink down in my chair and hide under the table. He’s wearing a black toupee slicked tight against his head and a blue suit that’s slightly wrinkled and damp from sweat. He’s fresh from the bar, face red, and too happy—way too happy for me anyway. He winks at Dad as if he knows some big secret. Not only is Mr. Barrios Ollie’s father, which is mortifying enough, he’s also worked with Dad on a big downtown renovation project, so there’s no getting away.

“Colin Blakely?” He squints at Dad and spills a few drops of his martini on the carpet. “Whoa! Don’t want to lose that,” he adds. “This is a Musso martini!”

Dad laughs. “I hope you brought that for me.”

“Why? Is this a celebration? I mean, I hope it is.” He looks at Mom. “You look lovely as always, Debra.”

“How’s Oliver doing at...” Dad pauses. “Where does he go to school again? Princeton? Or Dartmouth?”

“He’s a Princeton man. Double major in economics and Near Eastern studies.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mom says politely.

How can she keep smiling at him? I never told her exactly what Ollie’s comment was when he broke up with me, but she knows he said something horrible to me.

Then Mr. Barrios turns toward me, training his bloodshot eyes on my face.

“Olivia?” he says in faux surprise.

It’s so fake I want to laugh.

“I’m her doppelgänger,” I deadpan. “The real Olivia has been claimed by the robotics industry and is now being mass manufactured.”

I imagine a hundred little replicas of myself and shudder. I can barely stand seeing myself doubled in a mirror, let alone a never-ending assembly line of Olivia Blakely dolls.

Mom shoots me a death stare. She doesn’t like when I’m sarcastic around adults. It’s a liability. I say they could stand to loosen up. Why take everything so seriously?

“Is she?” He laughs like a factory-produced automaton. “You’re all grown up,” he says. “You’ll be a marvelous woman. You have two great brothers. And mother...”

Gag. That’s when I stop listening. I shut him off completely. I’ve heard this speech before from a hundred different politicians. He’s lost interest within seconds anyway, because I’m not important to these kinds of people other than that I’m merely something to turn into a compliment for my parents.

I check my phone. There’s a text from Sam. I answer as surreptitiously as I can. Mom and Dad don’t like when I text at the dinner table, but I can’t help myself.

SAM: Feeling better?

LIV: Yep :-)

SAM: Thinking about doing a bonfire at the beach. You down?

LIV: I wish. Dinner with my parents ;-)

SAM: Bummer. Hang out tomorrow?

LIV: Totally. I’m down.

SAM: I have a surprise for you.

LIV: OoOoO. What is it?

SAM: It’s a surprise...

“Liv? Could you put your phone down, please?” Mom asks. She places her napkin on the table like she’s about to make a serious announcement.

“Yeah. One sec,” I say, rapidly texting Sam back.

LIV: Gotta go. Txt later :-)

I was supposed to hang out with him after taking yearbook photos yesterday, but I just felt like locking myself in my bedroom after the disaster with Jackson, so I gave him an excuse about not feeling well. I’m a terrible friend. I need to make it up to him.

Mr. Barrios has waded his way back to the bar. I really wish I could join him. Maybe he could buy me one of those famous Musso martinis. I could use one.

Or three.

The buzz would help deaden the anxiety whirling in my stomach. I think about my conversation with Jackson—rehashing every tiny word and action over and over in my mind—until I convince myself that Jackson and all his friends, especially Zach, think I’m a freak who just wants to party with the popular people.

I’m feeling more nauseous by the second.

I’m just getting up to go to the bathroom when I realize Dad’s been trying to get my attention.

“Honeybee,” he says. He’s been calling me that since I stepped on a bee at my friend’s birthday at Griffith Park nearly ten years ago. “Don’t go just yet. I have something to tell the both of you.”

“Ugh,” I say and sit back down. “I have to pee. What is it?”

Mom puts a hand on his arm. The news is something she’s been anticipating. I’ve always been able to read her. And Dad? He’s an open book. He’ll tell anyone whatever he’s thinking at any given moment. No secrets there. I guess that’s something people admire about him, but I don’t understand. Everyone needs a secret to call their own.

“There’s a reason we went out on a school night,” he says.

“What is it?” I ask absentmindedly, thinking about how much homework I have to get done tonight. I have at least two hours’ worth. It’s going to be a late night.

Dad jolts me back into reality.

“I’m running for governor of California,” he says.

My stomach drops.

“We’ve been waiting to tell you,” Mom says, her face full of joy. I’m pretty sure the expression on my face is communicating the otherworldliness of this announcement.

“Really?” I ask. “Are you serious?”

“Couldn’t be more serious,” he says.

I should be happy for him, happy for his achievements, but this is terrible news. This means even more attention on the family and more stress during my junior year, which everyone knows is the hardest school year ever, especially since I have to start studying for the SAT, working on my portfolio and thinking about art school—or at least how I’m going to convince my parents to let me go there instead of a regular university.

All eyes are going to be on us. That means I have to be more perfect than ever. Stronger. Nothing should be able to take me down. Not food. Not school. Not this election.

I push the lettuce around on my plate and crush the croutons with my fork while Mom and Dad talk like old high school lovers, excited about this new opportunity.

“This is exactly what we need. Imagine not having to fly to Washington all the time.” I can tell that, in her mind, Mom is already decorating and ordering furniture for a new house. “We’ll live in the governor’s mansion. Sacramento is so lovely, and I miss having seasons.”

The timing couldn’t be worse.

My entire junior year is going to be taken up by this campaign. Probably part of my senior year too. Everything will be about him. Like always. Not to mention I may have to live in Sacramento for half of my senior year.

Sacramento? I mean, seriously, what’s in Sacramento? A river?

Let me say it again: There’s. No. Way.

Might as well join the Mars Colony. They’re taking hip young up-and-coming artists ostracized from their power-hungry families, aren’t they? Sign me up.

A campaign for governor changes everything. Forget making any friends, let alone hooking up with Zach Park. Dad winning the governorship would ruin all that. And Dad’s scarily good at winning elections.

Fine. I’m just going to say it. Not out loud, but I’m going to say it in my head because it’s all I can think. I hope he loses. I hope his campaign completely tanks. There. Said it. I just need to get on the ball and focus on getting invited to Zach’s boat party.

That’s my only chance to get on his radar and to ask for LeFeber’s advice. I have to start living my best life. Stop constantly overthinking things and doubting myself.

No more being a wallflower.

No more being known only as the congressman’s daughter.

Or Mason and Royce’s little sister.

I have to make a name for myself. For my art.

Everyone needs to know who Liv Blakely really is.


f o u r (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else.”

—Margaret Mead

It’s Friday afternoon and I still haven’t been invited to the party.

Do I have loser stamped on my forehead?

I’ve tried talking to Jackson three times. Three times!

This is what I’m thinking about as I walk to the front of campus by myself.

I cut across the parking lot from Ms. Day’s room, where I was working late to put together an inspiration board for my portfolio. I’m starting with Frida Kahlo’s work. She’s always been inspiring to me. I even have a print of one of her paintings hanging above my bed called What the Water Gave Me. It’s this strange picture of her feet peeking out of a tub of bathwater, except floating in the water are all these surreal images from her consciousness: a sailboat, a wrinkled dress, a conch shell, native plants from her homeland, a skyscraper rising from a volcano, a miniature figure of herself drowning in the middle of the scene.

I head to the front of the school, waiting for Mom to pick me up like the total nerd I am. Great Friday, right?

At least I have plans to go to the movies with Sam. We haven’t had much time to get together since school started, and his text asking me to hang out tonight made me smile and helped take my mind off my complete failure to get invited to the boat party. Sam doesn’t notice—or maybe he doesn’t care—what a loser I am. He doesn’t even mind picking me up again.

This is what happens when you’re already sixteen and you can’t drive. It’s a movie called Mommy and Daddy Are Always Too Busy to Teach Me How to Drive. Starring me. I play the depressed Goth-girl artist. I don’t even really wear that much black—I just consider sarcasm a never-leave-home-without kind of accessory. In the movie version of my life, I’m on the brink of insanity and draw images of sad carless girls on every wall I can get away with scribbling on. At the end of the film, I finally get to drive around the block. Big deal.

Mason and Royce could do pretty much anything they wanted in high school, which was partly because they each had a car to go along with their driver’s licenses. Dad keeps promising me a car. Not that I even have my license yet. Before the end of the school year, that’s what he told me. So I’m sitting on a low brick wall, waiting for Mom to show up, kissing away any hope of meeting LeFeber, when guess who walks up to the strikeout queen?

“Liv, Liv... Look at you sitting out here.”

“Jackson! Hey!”

He looks at me funny.

I guess I sound a little overenthusiastic. I mean, it is the day of the boat party and all. I don’t know what to say to Jackson and I start to panic a little. This is my last chance to get on the same boat as LeFeber and Zach. I consider just asking him for an invite, but then realize that would either be too tacky or would seem completely desperate.

“You’re by yourself,” I say stupidly.

“Yeah. Weird, huh?” Jackson laughs. “I had to see Mr. Richie about a test. Dude’s holding back points again.”

He knows, I think. He really knows it’s weird that girls aren’t trailing him like a comet’s tail. I wish I could be that confident, but I never seem to be able to shake the names that are always underneath my other thoughts.

Fatso. Blimp. Heifer.

It sounds kind of crazy, but I call it my other voice. It used to sound like Ollie was stuck in my head—every bad thing I thought about myself was in his voice—but eventually it changed, and now the other voice’s words are all mine.

“What are your plans this weekend?” Jackson asks, inching closer to me. He’s so close that I can smell his cologne. He smells like a cool breeze, like a pool of sparkling water. He puts his hand up to my hair and twists a strand around his finger.

Hold on. What’s going on right now? The situation just got unpredictable. Is he flirting with me? This isn’t supposed to happen. It may turn out to be a total fantasy, but if it’s not, I’m interested in Zach. Not Jackson.

But I can’t brush him off. This is my last chance to land an invitation.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Nothing much. Just like...”

“Seriously,” he says. “I want to know what’s going on. You can’t be doing nothing. A girl like you doesn’t do nothing...”

What girl like me? Are there girls like me? I want to know them. I also want to know why Jackson’s flirting with me.

Before I can say anything, I sense disaster in the form of a car pulling up. Another ruined encounter. Mom has the worst timing.

Wait a minute. That’s not Mom’s car. It’s a yellow Land Rover pulling up in front of us with a certain Dominican girl at the wheel, pumping salsa music out her windows.

I immediately squeal, “Antonia!”

I try not to scare Jackson off, but I totally was not expecting her to show up at school on a Friday afternoon. She’s been visiting family in the Dominican Republic all summer and is arriving late for the school year. I didn’t think I was going to see her until the beginning of October. She’s almost a month early. And she didn’t tell me she was back.

She rolls down the window. Her long, curly hair is swept into a high, messy ponytail, showing off her milk-chocolate eyes accented by thick black liner. “Baby, look at you,” is all she says through pouty lips before letting out a wolf whistle.

I’m smiling ear to ear. She’s the most no-nonsense, fun-loving human being I’ve ever known. I might be a perfectionist about a lot of things, but Antonia and I complement each other perfectly. She’s all breezy and carefree while I can’t go to sleep at night without obsessing over every little thing I’ve said or done the day before.

“I wanted to surprise you,” she says. “I figured you would be here so I called your mom to tell her I was going to pick you up. Come to my house, we have tons to catch up on.”

I grab my bag and look at Jackson, trying to decide what to do. I want to go to the boat party so badly, but I also want to hang out with Antonia. I’ve missed her like crazy.

“I should go,” he says.

I don’t know what to say. I’ve probably already ruined my chances. Why can’t I just ask for what I want? Why can’t I spit it out? “Yeah, I guess so,” I say.

“Hold on,” Antonia says, probably picking up on my disappointment. “What’s going on, Jackson? What are you doing here after school on a Friday talking to my main girl? You’re not being a bad influence on Livvy, are you?”

I sigh. Antonia knows how people work. She’s so easy around them. She tries to coach me to not psych myself out, but I can’t help it. It’s just how I am.

Antonia starts sweet-talking him, grinning the way she does when she knows she’s being seen. “You’re the man of the moment, I hear. What’s happening this weekend? I’m just back to town, all grown up as you can tell, and I want to see everyone.”

“He’s got a boat party out in the marina tonight,” I say. “Well, I mean Zach does...”

“That’s right,” Jackson says, leaning in Antonia’s window like some famous sculptor carved him right there on the spot. It’s almost funny how full of himself he is.

Antonia smirks at him. “And?”

“And what?” Jackson asks.

Now he’s flirting with her too.

“Are we invited?”

Jackson shrugs. “I just assumed you’d be there.”

“Whatever!” Antonia slaps his muscular shoulder. It’s obvious Jackson is obsessed with working out. He’s pretty ripped. “You weren’t even going to tell me. And neither were you, Liv.”

I look at her. I can’t believe she’s taken about thirty seconds to get us invited, and I’ve been trying for three days. Even for her that must be some kind of personal record.

“You didn’t tell her?” Jackson asks me. “Were you gonna ditch us?”

“Ditch?” I hesitate. “I didn’t realize I was invited.”

“Uh...of course you were.”

“I was?” I ask, then attempt the clumsiest backtrack of all time, wishing I could appear at least slightly more confident. “I mean, yeah, I knew that.”


f i v e (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends.

I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.”

—Jane Austen

Antonia pulls up to her house and parks the Land Rover in her driveway. In the car, she told me that both of her parents are back at work after their long summer vacation so we don’t have to worry about being loud as we enter the house.

Going to Antonia’s house feels like traveling to another country. The colors of their drapery and furniture are vibrant and deep and the hallways are filled with Antonia’s mother’s framed vinyl album covers—she’s a famous singer from the Dominican Republic—and pictures of her with other famous singers and musicians. There’s one photograph of her mother hanging in the entryway that’s always been my favorite. She’s very young—just barely twenty, maybe—and wearing a tight, sparkly sequin dress that fits her like she was poured into it. Antonia looks almost exactly like her mother, but with a darker complexion.

It’s wild how much they look alike. Even though my mom is part Latina, no one ever guesses that I’m Mexican. It’s the last name, I suppose. Blakely. Not to mention my skin is ghostly white. I spent most of the summer running around conference rooms and fund-raisers, helping Mom with her campaign to increase childhood literacy. I’m basically her intern and help with everything from setting up events to data entry. Sometimes I get to read to little kids at her events, which is my favorite part, but mostly I have to hang out with adults who think I have everything together but don’t really know who I am.

Summers are hard for me. Without school to focus on, I’m always obsessing about my weight and how hungry I am. I binge more. This year, with Antonia visiting the Dominican Republic and Sam away working as a counselor at a surf camp, I got really lonely. I started eating a lot and feeling crappy about myself. I got to a point where I started vomiting after every meal. It was so bad that I couldn’t stop myself from purging after a fund-raising luncheon, even though I knew Mom was in the stall next to me.

I told her I was sick.

I’m hoping Antonia being back will make things better.

“I’m grabbing a snack and then we gotta get ready,” Antonia says, walking through the entryway toward the kitchen. “You want anything?”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m not hungry. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Leaving her in the kitchen, I walk up the stairs to her bedroom and plop down on Antonia’s bed, trying to figure out a plan to talk to Zach tonight without seeming awkward and obvious. Her bedroom is super bohemian. The shelves are filled with knickknacks from her mother’s tours around the world. The room is also cluttered with different musical instruments—guitars, conga drums, a balalaika—that she plays. Multicolored batik rugs cover the ground, which is nearly impossible to see because Antonia’s clothes are everywhere.

I daydream about the possibility of meeting LeFeber. It’s not only his art that I admire. It’s his life. His mother was an alcoholic who abandoned the family when he was a baby, and when he was sixteen, his father disowned him for being openly gay. The article said that when he lived in New York during the ’80s, LeFeber was practically homeless, trying to scrounge up enough money for materials and find places that would host his installations. I want to ask him how he found so much courage to pursue his dream. I want to ask him how he found so much courage to believe in himself for so long.

When she returns, Antonia shoves a plate of reheated black beans and red rice at me. Even though she’s trying to be nice, I give her some side-eye.

Right away, I feel like a total jerk—why can’t I just be normal about food for once? Why can I barely stand to eat in front of my best friend?

“Seriously not trying to be a nag,” she says, “but you should eat something. Especially since we’re gonna be drinking.”

She’s right. I can handle a few bites.

“Fine,” I say, taking the plate and a fork from her.

I pick at the rice and beans, eating a few bites to make her happy, while Antonia digs through her closet, looking for something for us to wear to the boat party.

I’m glad she’s going with me. I would have been nervous going alone. I don’t even know how I would have gotten there.

My phone buzzes.

“Oh crap,” I say, not even realizing I’m thinking aloud. I totally forgot that I’d made plans with Sam to go see a movie tonight. We’re supposed to be there in an hour.

“What’s up, BB?” Antonia asks, throwing a random pink shirt over her shoulder onto a pile of clothes and shoes behind her.

“Sam’s going to kill me.”

My phone buzzes again and I pick it up.

Yep. Just like I thought. He’s already texted two or three times.

“I promised him I’d hang out tonight,” I say. “He’s supposed to be picking me up from my house soon.”

“Okay, so? Invite him over,” she says. “It’s not like they’ll mind one more person at the boat party. Everyone’ll probably be so trashed that they won’t remember anyway.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that kind of party...”

I really do love Sam as a friend, but hanging out with all three of us means that there’s a totally different dynamic. I can be open with him about my feelings for the most part, but I don’t want him to think I’m shallow for wanting to hang with Zach’s crowd.

Antonia finally settles on a yellow dress, which she begins to pull on over her lean, muscular shoulders. “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I thought it might be classy. Since it’s on a yacht?”

“Why are you being weird? Do you not want him to go or something?” Antonia asks.

Before I can answer, she slaps herself on the forehead. “Oh. I get it. Duh. You want to hook up with someone, and you don’t want Sam around being all big-brotherly.”

“Shut up,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush. “I just want to hang out with you!”

Antonia smirks to show me she knows I’m bluffing.

She’s right. Sort of. Sam and I have been close enough at times during our friendship to be mistaken for siblings, but that feeling has been shifting this last year. It’s like we’re almost becoming more mysterious to each other as each of us gets older. I don’t know what I feel about Sam.

She throws a tiny piece of black fabric at me. “Try that on.” The dress looks way too small, but I’m not about to argue with her. Handing the mostly full plate of beans and rice to Antonia, I get up and walk toward her bathroom. I can’t change in front of other people. Not even her.

“You’re so modest!” Antonia complains. “It’s just me!”

“What should I tell Sam?” I ask.

“You could be honest,” Antonia says, shoveling the food into her mouth with my fork. “Or you could just tell him that you want to hang out with me. Tell him you didn’t know I’d be back. That’s not lying.”

I pull on the strapless dress. It barely covers the necessary parts. I keep fidgeting with the top, pulling it up to make sure my chest won’t pop out from just breathing. The dress squeezes my ribs like a corset, punishing me for not being small enough.

“I don’t know...” I say, not knowing whether I’m talking about the dress or how I’m going to back out of my plans with Sam. Even though Jackson didn’t invite him to the party, I could invite Sam anyway. Except I definitely don’t want Sam anywhere near when I’m trying to talk to Zach. I can’t entertain him when I’m looking for LeFeber either. I need to step out on my own. And I really do want some girls-only time with Antonia too.

“Come on out,” Antonia says, pushing the bathroom door open. She lets out a deep whistle. “When did my lil homie become a grown ass woman? Jackson is gonna be so into this.”

I blush. It’s hard for me to see why Antonia thinks I’m so beautiful, especially compared to her, but I’m flattered anyway. She does have pretty good taste, after all.

“I’m not going for him,” I try to explain. “Not exactly.”

Antonia squeezes by and starts rummaging through her bathroom drawers for makeup. “No? Then who...? It’s Zach, isn’t it?”

Am I really that obvious?

“It’s more than that,” I say, only partially bluffing.

“Right,” she says, raising an eyebrow while twisting open her mascara. “Like I don’t know you’ve been in love with him for the past two years?”

“Actually, I’ll have you know that an artist I really admire is supposed to be there.”

“Going for the older men now?” Antonia asks.

I laugh. “Yeah, right. I guess one of the producers of Zach’s show invited him. He’s supposed to be in town doing a gallery show. I really want to meet him.”

My phone buzzes again. And again.

“You better answer him,” Antonia says. “He’ll start thinking something’s wrong.”

“Do you think Sam knows?” I ask. “About Zach?”

My skin flushes with warmth thinking about the possibility of his fingers intertwined with mine. I lean on the counter, waiting for her to tell me what I don’t want to hear. One thing about Antonia is that you can always count on her to give it to you straight.

“Honestly...” Antonia stares at herself close-up in the mirror as she applies mascara to her eyelashes. “I don’t think he wants to see it. But I think he also knows more than he lets on too.”

“Meaning...?” I ask, pulling up the texts on my phone.

“How long have you and Sam known each other?” Antonia asks.

I try to count the years in my head. They all blend together.

“During elementary school. I don’t remember which grade.”

“And you don’t think that this whole time, he hasn’t had at least one thought about you guys getting together?”

I look at his texts, remembering how we used to be inseparable. How we used to walk around at the marina and pretend that someday we’d sail away on our own boat and travel the world.

It’s different now. We’re older. We’re still friends, of course, but not best friends. Not friends who can tell each other everything.

It would be so weird to talk to him about liking another guy.

Hoping Sam will understand, I start to type out an apology.

SAM: Pick u up?

LIV: Antonia’s back. She says hi :-)

“What did he say?” Antonia asks.

“He hasn’t answered yet. He’s probably trying to make me sweat.”

“Just put the blame on me. He knows I don’t take no for an answer. He can handle us having a little girl time without him anyway. He’s a big boy. He’s got his own life.”

SAM: Does she wanna come?

LIV: Don’t hate me...

SAM: But?

LIV: She wants me to go to a party. Girls only. You know how she is :-)

I can’t bring myself to tell him the specifics—or that he’s technically not invited and that I don’t want him to crash the party either. When Sam doesn’t answer, my stomach sinks. How do I always somehow feel like I’m disappointing him?

“Life’s so different in the Dominican Republic,” Antonia says, talking about where she spent all summer. “Besides, like, having family around all the time, there’s practically a party every single night. Everyone’s invited. Grandparents, little kids, the weird guy who lives down the street. People are so helpful too. I was driving in Santo Domingo and I ran out of gas in the middle of the highway. Some guy just went and got gas for me, then another guy stopped to siphon the gas from the jug with his mouth. I’m pretty sure he inhaled some toxic fumes just to help me.”

“That’s crazy,” I say. “If that happened here, someone would probably just try to run you off the road.”

Finishing her eyeliner, Antonia continues her story without skipping a beat. “And I met this old guy who started teaching me the accordion so I can play merengue. I know that’s an instrument only nerds play, but I’m obsessed. Mama made a deal with me that she’ll buy me one if I start writing my own music.”

“Your mom’s so cool,” I say. “My parents insist painting is a hobby I’ll grow out of.” I might not share their love for politics, but I still respect their passions. I wish they could understand that painting isn’t some kind of craft for me. It’s my lifeline.

“Then you’ll have to prove them wrong!” Antonia snaps her makeup case shut.

“Well, actually, I talked to Ms. Day earlier this week and she recommended I submit a portfolio for this gallery showing. It’s supposed to be pretty prestigious...”

My phone vibrates again.

SAM: K. Surfing early tmrw morning. Night.

LIV: Sry. Wanna get together later this weekend?

There’s no answer. I think about asking him, but I don’t want to find out yet.

He’s probably pissed at me. Maybe he doesn’t actually care. Who knows? Boys are so hard to interpret over text. Why am I so worried about what he thinks about what I do with my life? We’re not together. Tonight’s about having fun. Letting loose.

That’s who I am now. Right?

Liv Blakely.

Fun girl. Life of the party. Girl of the century.


s i x (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“Have no fear of perfection—you’ll never reach it.”

—Salvador Dali

“This is insane,” says Antonia. “It’s so...”

“Expensive,” I say, finishing her sentence.

Antonia and I are scoping out the main open area of the upper deck of the Royal Elizabeth. It’s decorated with gorgeous displays of white flowers everywhere, and lighting glows around the edges of the boat, making the atmosphere seem heavenly. In the center of the floor, where people are gathering and chatting, there’s an open bar stacked high with pyramids of champagne flutes. A DJ plays low-key electronic music while guests lounge on chic white sofas or wander outside to lean against the railing, looking out at the water.

“This is why I love LA. You never know where you might get invited. I’ve been to a few parties, but I mean, this is ridiculous. Can you imagine if my parents let me throw a party like this? Or, like, if we had the money to throw a party like this?”

Antonia has become a complete chatterbox. She gets like this in social situations—all giddy and energetic. Her hair is down. Tight golden-brown curls fall over the spaghetti straps of her yellow dress.

I wish I were as gorgeous as her. It barely takes her any effort—or makeup—to look like a total superstar.

I’m her opposite, wearing the black dress she loaned me. It’s my color lately. The dress still feels too tight though. The fabric constricts around my rib cage like a python. My stomach cramps as anxious thoughts bubble up behind my eyes. I’m too pale, practically a phantom, especially compared to all of the confident women strutting and giggling around the room. Half of them are probably actresses Zach knows from work.

Both Zach and Jackson are nowhere to be seen—not that I would have the courage right now to walk up and start a conversation with them anyway.

That’s probably going to take some liquid courage.

“Look at those,” Antonia says, watching a caterer walk by with a platter full of delicious-looking crostini. “Thank God, I’m starving.”

Even though she ate at her house, Antonia makes a beeline for the hors d’oeuvres. I swear that girl can eat anything and not gain an ounce. I know I shouldn’t eat and that I’ll feel guilty later, but the appetizers look delicious. I’m thinking about whether I should approach the table when Antonia turns around with a plate in her hand. “You need to eat, Liv. Get something in your stomach before we start drinking.”

“I don’t know...” I hesitate. “This dress...”

“Stop. You look great. Don’t you want to drink?”

I sigh. “Yeah. I guess.”

Antonia puts a hand on my shoulder. “Girl. You have nothing to worry about,” she says, nodding at a young woman walking across the deck with a scowl on her face. “Look at her. She obviously hasn’t eaten all day. She looks completely miserable.”

“All right,” I say. It’s impossible to not give in to her eventually. “I’ll eat. But then you have to promise to go get us some drinks.”

“Deal,” Antonia says, turning back to the appetizers.

We load our tiny plates with spinach and goat cheese tartlets, scallops and clams, and toasted bread topped with thyme-roasted tomatoes, then head over to a secluded cocktail table at one side of the deck. Both of us pig out on the appetizers like neither of us has never eaten before. The food tastes heavenly. I try not to think about the calories.

“I’ll get us some bubbly,” Antonia says, polishing off her last tartlet and setting down her plate on a table. “I’ll bring you something strong.”

I think about joining Antonia, but I figure this is a good time to gather my thoughts and to check whether LeFeber has shown up yet. And to figure out what I want to say to Zach when I finally see him.

As Antonia disappears to the other end of the room, I note the yacht’s classy decor. The room is lined with white-cloth tables strung with lights. Along the outer tables are double rows of windows strung with sparkling lights too. The view of the harbor is magnificent. The ships are soaked in a lavender blanket of descending night. A few yachts are cutting slowly through the water like graceful swans. It’s perfect.

Looking at the harbor reminds me of Sam, which makes me feel a little pang of guilt for ditching him tonight. As a kid, I always used to come here with him and his older brother, James, to go sailing. When James passed away last year, Sam asked to meet by our special bench just across the marina, where we still go to talk alone.

I held him while he cried. We kissed. Only once.

It scared me. I didn’t want to have feelings for my best friend. And Sam never talked about it afterward. So I kind of just assumed that he wasn’t really interested after all. It was just part of his grief from losing his brother at such a young age.

I look around and slowly start to recognize some faces even though I don’t really know them personally. The yacht is swarming with teenage and twentysomething Hollywood actors and several small groups of adults. Crew members. Producers. Agents. Many of them are from the show Sisters & Mothers, about two women who fall in love and move in together. Each of the mothers on the show has a teenage daughter. Hilarity ensues when they all move in with each other. Zach plays one of the daughters’ love interests, which is why I lock myself in my bedroom and watch every Thursday night. It’s pretty good. He’s not in every episode, but I watch the show weekly anyway. A couple of times, Zach has played guitar. He can sing really well too, which I love.

There’s something so intriguing about creative men.

I expected more students from school to be here, but there’s only a small group of Zach and Jackson’s close circle of friends who have never given me the time of day. They probably don’t even recognize me. It’s pretty dark. Some people are dancing, and just about everyone is drinking. Antonia hasn’t come back, and I think about going to find some champagne, but I want to feel empty. In control. This is where I wanted to be all week.

This is my last night to let loose before the cameras start rolling.

Though Dad’s upcoming campaign announcement keeps nagging at me with all the attention that’s going to be on our family soon, I’m not going to let that ruin my night. I mean, yeah, he’s still the Speaker of the House for a little bit longer, but that’s old news. No one’s going to be paying attention to me until after the announcement. Right?

I wait for ten minutes, pretending to check my phone, before I accept that Antonia has ghosted me. I should have known. She’s always been that way. It’s not that she’s trying to ditch me. She’ll just get caught up in a conversation, meet some new people and disappear for an hour.

If she’s gone, I figure I might as well look around for LeFeber. Except there’s one problem. LeFeber is notoriously protective of his image. There are only a couple of pictures of him online. They’re pretty old, from his time in New York during the ’80s. All I know, then, is that LeFeber must be at least middle-aged and his hair’s sort of red. If he hasn’t dyed it. It’s not a lot to go on, but I figure I’ll try anyway.

I nonchalantly wander around the deck, looking for someone who might be LeFeber, and for Felicity, who might have seen him recently. I don’t see her or anyone who fits LeFeber’s description. He might not even be here for all I know. It seems kind of silly for a world-class artist to attend a teen actor’s boat party, even if it’s an action star’s boat.

As I’m about to head down to the lower deck, one of Zach’s friends waves me over to a group with bottles in their hands. It’s Morgan Dunn, one of the stars from Sisters & Mothers. She plays the dark-haired sister, Abby, whom I connect with because she’s the one always pointing out the unfairness in every situation.

When I walk over, Morgan grabs my hand. “Who are you?” she asks, smiling. “I just love your dress, everything about you.”

“I’m Liv,” I say, trying not to sound too shy. Even though she’s being nice, I feel uncomfortable. I really wish I hadn’t eaten those appetizers. “I know Zach.”

“From his school?”

“God, I hated school,” says the guy next to her. “Never got the point.”

I recognize Frederico Fontes right away. He’s on Style Wars. And since it’s a reality show that makes a ton of money for the networks, he’s always traveling with the cast around the world to major fashion events. I can’t imagine him going to school, or wanting to. I want to talk to him about my love of art and how I want to go to one of the big art schools, but he’s already walking away from the conversation.

“Ignore him,” Morgan says. “He’s always a jerk when he’s in town.” She leans in to me so close that she drunkenly brushes my shoulder. “I think he hates traveling all the time, and I mean, I don’t blame him—it does get old.”

“Oh,” I say, “I’m sure.” But I have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ve gone from here to DC many times, but that doesn’t really count. It’s not for my job.

“Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. But you never get to stay in one place long enough to get to know someone, ya know? Never long enough to fall in love.”

How could anyone not fall for Morgan? She’s funny, talented and beautiful. Even famous. I’m about to say so when a woman across the room wearing a cherry-red dress and strappy heels gets her attention by waving a napkin in our direction.

“Excuse me,” Morgan says. “That’s my agent and my signal. There’s a director I wanna talk to. Steven Weir. You know him, right? Wish me luck!”

Just like that, Morgan is caught in another whirlwind of people. I float away from the small crowd, wishing I could find Antonia, and end up running into a guy I recognize as Zach’s sidekick on the show. Michael Louis-Kroll. He’s always doing something goofy in contrast with Zach’s character.

“I like your character on Sisters & Mothers,” I say.

He lets out a sort of snort, like someone poked him in the stomach. “You mean, you like how I’m constantly getting steamrolled and taking it like a champ?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Seriously.”

“Of course you did.” He’s giving me a smug squint.

He must be totally drunk.

“Aren’t you playing the character that way on purpose?” I ask.

He thinks. Swirls his drink. “What’s your name?”

“Liv,” I say, realizing I don’t even need to ask for his and he knows it. Even though my father is third in line for the presidency, a lot of people don’t know his name. My family is important. They have prestige. But we’re not exactly famous.

“Okay, Liv. You’re the director. It’s your show. How would you have me portrayed? Would you be sort of shallow, catering to the whims of mass television by giving the show a requisite punching bag? Or would you do something different?”

The guy standing next to him thinks his buddy is getting out of line. “Michael,” his friend says. “Take it easy. She was just trying to compliment your work.”

This time I interrupt. If he wants to test me, I’ll rise to the challenge. There’s nothing more that I hate than when a guy talks to a girl like she’s ridiculous for having an opinion. I hold up a hand to Michael’s friend. I don’t need his chivalry. “No, no. I got this,” I say, feeling a burst of confidence as I examine Michael. He’s grinning like he’s testing me, like he wants to see what I’m made of. “I think if I were the director, I’d want an actor to challenge my thinking. I’d be open-minded to new ideas, fresh takes on characters.”

He rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“No, really,” I say, wanting to drive my point home and to show Zach’s friends that I can hold my own. “I’d want actors who can explore character. Shake up the show. Shake the audience. Pull in the viewers by showing a range of emotions. A character might start out like yours, just a throwaway punch line, but I’d imagine a greater arc over the course of the show, with the character becoming more serious and complex in the end.”

Michael’s buddy starts cracking up. “She got you, fam.”

I don’t know where the surge of confidence came from—maybe I’m not as socially awkward as I thought. Maybe I can think on my feet.

Before Michael can say anything and turn the conversation into awkward silence, I follow Morgan’s lead and excuse myself. “Sorry, boys, but I have to run. It was nice meeting you.”

“That girl can hang,” Michael says as I walk away. “Who is she?”

I’m laughing to myself, weaving through the people, when I feel the familiar buzz of a text through my clutch. I look at my phone. At first I think the text is going to be Sam telling me off, but then I see my brother’s name flash across the screen. It’s Royce. The phone buzzes again. Two texts? Royce never texts me this late at night.

I’m afraid to look. Something bad might have happened.

ROYCE: Don’t ever fall in love.

ROYCE: It’s not worth it.

LIV: Are you and Jas fighting?

He doesn’t answer. Or doesn’t want to answer the question.

I can barely remember what life was like before her. I do remember that being the only girl in the family was definitely no fun. I love Jasmine. He’d be stupid to do anything to lose her. I’ve always looked up to her, ever since Royce started dating her during their senior year of high school. She’s practically my older sister, with the benefit of not having the same parents.

She’s always encouraging me to pursue art even when my parents tell me they would rather I become a lawyer. “If your parents don’t love your career choice now,” she says, “that doesn’t mean they won’t later. Believe me. My parents haven’t always agreed with my decisions, but they support me. Keep being yourself. Keep dreaming.”

I don’t even know why he’s texting me about this. What do I know about love? It’s not like I’ve been in a long-term relationship—a years-long relationship—like him and Jasmine. I don’t really talk to either of them about their relationship. My heart sinks. I’m finally realizing that maybe that was because they never needed to until now.

Royce still hasn’t answered.

I text Jas, trying to say something that won’t make her think Royce is talking to me about their relationship problems. That would be pretty weird.

LIV: What’s up? We haven’t talked in forever!

JAS: Just studying. Gotta get into med school ;-)

LIV: Always so responsible :-)

JAS: What’s going on? You need something?

LIV: Just your presence! When are we going to hang out?

JAS: Idk. Maybe Christmas?

LIV: That’s so far away!

JAS: It’s my only big break. Can you come up here?

LIV: I’ll ask <3 xoxox

I can’t tell what’s going on. She doesn’t seem any different from normal. If they’re fighting, that’s none of my business anyway. Though the fact that they might be fighting is totally scandalous. They are the perfect couple. Not kidding.

I glance at my phone again for a text from Royce.

Nothing.

Now I’m really starting to worry. What if he’s rallying the troops? Is he going to turn this into a family emergency?

Then I have a worse thought. Maybe Royce came home to talk to our parents—and they’re trying to get him to figure out where I am.

They would kill me if they found out that I was at a high-profile party without permission. I’m trying hard enough to please them with good grades and this whole responsibility act to get them off my back so I have at least a teensy chance of getting them to let me apply to art school instead of a regular university.

I think about texting Antonia to ask her to take me home. I can’t breathe. I mean, seriously, everything is just not right. My hair is pulled back too tight. My dress is uncomfortable.

I’m starting to feel bloated. Fat. Ugly.

Then I see Zach.

He’s wearing a shiny navy suit with a crisp white shirt and thin black tie and talking to a middle-aged gentleman with hip Coke-bottle glasses drinking a highball. Cristina is standing right next to him as she chats with Felicity. Is that Guy LeFeber?

Goose pimples spread up my arms from excitement. If that’s really him, I can’t believe my luck. I have to find a way to talk to him without seeming weird—and without drawing the attention of Cristina and Felicity. But then I have to figure out how to not be awkward around Zach either. How will I figure out whether that’s him or not? Should I walk right up to them? What should I say? Even though I kind of am one, I don’t want to come off like an obsessive fangirl right away.

I don’t even realize I’m staring until Zach looks over and smiles.

Not just in my general direction. At me.

Part of me wants to scream from excitement. The other part of me wants to climb into a deep, dark hole to never be seen again. Keep it together, Liv. You got this.

Trying not to blush, I return his gaze before he looks away to talk to the man again. Wishing Antonia would come back so I can look busy, I watch Zach and try to figure out whether they’re talking to LeFeber or not. Each time I glance at Zach, Cristina, with her dark hair and doe-like eyes, is hanging on to him. More people are starting to dance around them, and I can’t hear what they’re saying. I’m feeling suffocated, staring at my phone then glancing up, trying not to let Cristina notice. Zach’s still glancing back at me, eyes lingering a little too long for it to be chance.

I pretend to be a little embarrassed even though I really feel like I’m going to explode. I want to go up and talk to them, especially to find out whether that’s LeFeber, but I can’t bring myself to approach Zach when he’s standing next to Cristina. She’s started staring me down whenever Zach glances away to talk to someone else.

Cristina says something to the man with the glasses, then he looks at me and laughs. I’m mortified. What are they saying? Is LeFeber laughing at me?

Cristina’s not dumb. She knows Zach’s turned his head my way too many times to be a coincidence. I’m excited—more than I have been in years about any boy—but I’m also nervous. God, where’s Antonia? Or that drink she was supposed to bring?

I could use a rescue right about now.

I shouldn’t have eaten that food with her. I need a release. A burning sensation is creeping up my throat. My insides are trapped, swirling in a storm that I can’t control.

Not now. Not now. Not now.

My plea to my insides isn’t working.

I hold my purse to my stomach to make it feel like there’s a wall between stomach, skin and dress, and I start searching for a staircase, hoping to find an empty bathroom. My stomach cramps become nearly unbearable. I can’t ride out the pain. I need to find a bathroom on this boat. Now.

I finally find the staircase and walk into what feels like a living room. There’s a fireplace, big orange chairs, a couch, doors leading to hallways.

There are people all over down here and they stare at me, thinking I’m drunk, but I don’t care. I just say, “Bathroom?” to the nearest girl.

She points to the left. “That way, honey. You gonna make it?”

The whole ship is caught in a whirlpool, spiraling downward into a tiny hole. Whatever is in me has become a spinning mass that desperately needs out.

I enter one of the stalls, lock the door and dry heave over the toilet. I stick my finger in my throat and gag to make myself throw up. The food comes up easily. A wave of relief washes over me.

When I’m done, I realize someone else has come into the bathroom. I think about waiting her out, but I’ve already flushed and that would just be awkward.

As I open the stall door, I’m mortified to see Cristina. She slips something into her purse and looks into the mirror, wiping her nose. Her gaze flits over to me.

I can’t keep staring like some kind of creep.

I definitely can’t hide back in the stall.

As I exit the stall, Cristina gives me one of those fake smiles, the kind that means I know what you’re doing and you know what I’m doing. Then she pushes past me and leaves the bathroom before I can wash my hands or completely catch my breath.

I might not be able to catch my breath.

This might be one of those moments where I completely lose control over my stomach. It’s not about to heave again, but the swirling down there hasn’t stopped. It’s as if my anxiety has turned into a ball that’s slowly growing and spinning. I’m hoping Cristina thought I was puking from drinking, but I suspect otherwise—that look on her face said everything. Though she’s probably skipped a meal or two herself.

I need to get off this boat.

I decide to explore the deck, looking for the man that might be LeFeber, but I can’t seem to find him again. How many places could he be? I start down a hallway, then enter another room with music blaring and people dancing. I’m making my way through the crowd when I literally bump into Zach, almost knocking over the drink he’s holding. How does he manage to be everywhere at once?

“Liv,” he says as if I’d been missing for a year.

“Zach!” My voice involuntarily squeaks. So embarrassing. “Have you seen Antonia?” I stammer. My nerves are on fire. I wish I could touch him again.

“Yeah, she’s right over there.” He points.

I’m an idiot. She’s in the middle of the dance floor owning it. Should’ve known. I want to run to her but stop myself because of who’s next to me, and also who’s not here.

No Cristina in sight. I think about mentioning what I saw her doing, but really it’s none of my business and I’d die if she told him I was just puking in the bathroom.

Zach turns to me from watching the dance floor. “Want to dance?” he asks.

“I’d rather talk,” I say. “I need fresh air.”

He smiles. “I wanted to talk to you earlier but it was kind of awkward with Cristina following me.”

“Oh. Yeah,” I say, hiding the welling knot in my gut, suddenly acting like I have everything together because the last thing I want to do is screw things up with him.

I smile into his eyes. They’re green and soft even in the dark. He’s so handsome. No wonder he was cast on Sisters & Mothers as a love interest. He could be on posters around America. Wanted man. Love interest at large.

“Must be nice to be around so many people from your show,” I say, thinking it’s a stupid thing to say even as the words leave my mouth. Though I’ve said worse. “They seem really nice.”

“Eh,” he says. “The only real friend I have here is Jackson. The rest are just coworkers. It’s different. You always feel like you’re competing with each other.”

“Really?” I say. “I didn’t realize...”

“Honestly I’m getting pretty bored with that show. I know Michael is too.”

“I kind of talked to him about that,” I admit.

“It’s hard when you get on one of these shows. There are all these expectations and once you act a certain way, people not only think that’s really you, but they expect you to behave just like your character in real life.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s crazy to think people are that oblivious, but it’s true.”

“That must be kind of...” I begin, but he speaks over me.

“I don’t even know why my father wanted me to throw this party in the first place. It’s a stupid way to get the attention of a director.”

“I can imagine this part of your life is pretty lonely,” I say, trying again. “Being in the spotlight and all. But at least you’ve made a name for yourself.”

“You’ve always seemed pretty cool.” He nudges my arm with the hand holding his drink. “Artsy.”

“How’d you know that I like art?” I ask.

I didn’t think Zach knew anything about me except my name.

“I saw your painting hanging in a show at the library last year. The self-portrait you did? The one where you’re staring at yourself in a shattered mirror.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, trying to downplay myself. “That was my majorly emo stage.”

“No way. It was amazing how you could see all these tiny reflections of your face in the glass. Felt like I got to know you just by looking at the painting.”

Zach has this look on his face like he’s probably said too much and should just shut up. “I’m craving sugar,” he says. “I can’t eat any while we’re filming, but the season just ended and Cristina’s nonna made some amazing Italian desserts for the party. Want some?”

I shake my head and ask for a drink instead.

“I can do that,” he says. “Anything else?”

“Actually...” I pause. “That guy with the glasses you were talking to earlier? With Felicity? Did that happen to be Geoff LeFeber?”

“Who’s that?” Zach seems confused.

“He’s an artist whose work I admire. I overheard Felicity saying he might be here...”

“Oh,” Zach says, gently pushing my arm. “LeFeber. Yeah. She was talking him up earlier this week saying that one of our producers invited him, but I don’t think he’s coming. She would have already been trying to become best friends with him.”

Part of me feels relief, knowing that the man laughing at me wasn’t LeFeber, but the other part feels pretty disappointed. I really wanted to talk to him about his art.

“I’ll go get those drinks then.”

He’s about to enter the crowd when I grab his arm to stop him. There’s something I have to know. “Zach?” I hesitate. He turns around and lingers next to me. He’s so close that I can smell his cologne. “This is kind of an awkward question, but I have to ask.”

You’re strong. You can do this. This is easy.

He looks down at me through his long eyelashes as I stare up at his prominent Adam’s apple. I wish I could reach up and touch his neck, pulling him closer to me.

“Are you and Cristina dating?” I finally ask.

Suddenly, I don’t want to know the answer. I’ve waited so long for this moment. To be this physically close to him. To practically feel his breath on my hair.

“It’s...” He looks away at the boats gliding across the harbor for a moment. “Cristina and I have history together, but... We’re not together. It looks that way sometimes. I know. We were really close. I still try to be a good friend. The breakup was hard on her.”

“I didn’t mean to bring up bad feelings,” I say, feeling stupid for asking the question in the first place. I just don’t want to be played.

“It’s cool. I like being up-front with you,” Zach says. “I’ll get a couple drinks. Then can we keep talking?”

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. Being up-front with me? I can barely believe that, of all the people on this boat, he wants to spend his time talking to me.

I’m watching him walk across the room when I see Cristina come out of nowhere and latch on to him like a crab. Guess I better kiss that drink away. After he’s done ordering at the bar, Cristina takes the second drink—my drink—from his hand, and I’m forgotten like an ugly stray. Don’t even kick a bowl of milk my way.

I head upstairs and grab a drink from the bar on my own.

I just want to drink. I’ve lost Antonia. I can’t seem to find LeFeber—if that’s even him. Cristina not only totally caught me purging, she’s practically claimed Zach for the night. And I can’t manage to work up the social skills to mingle with anyone either.

Two champagnes and a vodka tonic later, I find myself in a corner of the aft deck with Jackson. He starts twirling my hair like he did this afternoon at the front of the school. “I didn’t know you showed up,” he said. “I saw your friend, but every time I went to ask her about you, she was dancing with someone else. Who dances that much?”

“She does,” I say. “She’s on the dance team. She’s got endless dance in her.”

“Do you have endless dance in you? Judging by those legs and that ass, I’d say you probably do your fair share of dancing,” Jackson says.

I don’t like the way he says that. I’m not his sleaze toy.

“Didn’t you come here with someone?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“Naw, I was hoping to hook up,” he says.

“Hook up,” I echo.

“You know, meet someone. Meet you. See if you want to hang out.”

“Hang out?”

I’m feeling light-headed from the champagne. It’s not helping my stomach, so it’s not the kind of buzz I was hoping for. And now that Jackson is half drooling on my dress, I just want to leave. I could like him. But not like this. Not when I have this tiny chance with Zach. Not when Jackson’s being a creeper. I just can’t. Why are boys so complicated? Why do they all expect so much from you?

“Do you want a ride to my house?” Jackson laughs. “I mean, home?” He slips an arm to the wall behind me, as if I need his hulky body over mine. He really thinks he’s funny. Jackson might have the muscles of a superhero, but he obviously has none of Zach’s gentlemanly charm. “I have to be honest,” he continues. “You look way different from freshman year. You got super hot, Liv. I never would have guessed.”

“Have you thought about mouthwash?” I say and duck under his arm.

“My breath doesn’t stink,” he says.

“Something does,” I say just as Antonia returns.

“What did I miss?” she asks, eyeballing the situation.

We instantly communicate telepathically, and I don’t know whether that’s a good idea or not, because she walks up to Jackson.

“Hey...” Jackson says, trying to remember her name.

“Jackson Conti,” she says. “You don’t remember my name.”

“I do,” he says, thinking.

“I’m taking her home,” she says and grabs my arm. We leave Jackson deep in drunken thought.

“I didn’t even have to say anything to make an ass out of him,” she says. “He just stood there like an idiot.”

As she leads me off the boat, I catch Cristina’s eye. She’s standing close to Zach like a fierce cheetah protecting her young. We each share a secret now.

I just hope she forgets by tomorrow.


s e v e n (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“How hollow to have no secrets left;

you shake yourself and nothing rattles.”

—Andrew Sean Greer

“If people behaved like the particles inside an atom,” Sam says, drawing a picture of an atom on his notebook, “then most of the time you wouldn’t know where they were.” He brushes his wavy blond surfer hair out of his face. It’s still bleached from him spending so much time outside this summer working as a counselor at a surf camp.

Those are the two things Sam talks about all the time. Science, and the water. Sam spends most of his time outside of school either surfing or sailing, though I don’t really go with him anymore. He’s needed more time to himself since James died and I’m so busy between schoolwork and helping my parents that I never seem to have the time. Sam’s a good student too, which frustrates me sometimes because he barely has to study.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Antonia asks. She closes her chemistry book, tosses it in the middle of my kitchen table. We’re at my house studying for our first test of the year. “It didn’t say that anywhere in the chapter. God. Staying in San Domingo for a month put me so far behind.”

I see what he’s doing right away. He’s talking about when I ditched him to hang out with Antonia last week. He wants me to stop being an unpredictable particle, to be a better friend. It’s been a few days since I ditched him to go with Antonia to Zach’s party.

I get the hint, but I don’t want to let him make me feel guilty. I don’t have to tell Sam about everything. He may be one of my best friends, but can’t I have a life outside of my friendship with him? Antonia has other friends besides us. Why not me?

“He’s talking about quantum mechanics.” I give Sam that I-know-what-you’re-talking-about look. He obviously didn’t like my ditching him for the boat party. Sam can be a little overprotective at times. It’s something I like about him—that loyalty and willingness to care. It’s also something that frustrates me. He isn’t my big brother.

“But we’re not learning that stuff,” Antonia says, still confused, getting frustrated. Her telepathy isn’t picking up this hidden conversation between us. “Does that have to do with atomic laws?”

“I’ve been reading this book about quantum entanglement by a Swiss physicist,” he says. “Yeah. Whatever. Call me a nerd, but it’s actually super interesting.”

Antonia thinks that’s hilarious. “Interesting? Sounds pretty worthless.”

“It’s not worthless at all,” Sam says. “It means teleportation could be possible one day. Wouldn’t you want to go to London for lunch just for the hell of it?”

“I would love to go to London,” Antonia says. “Doesn’t mean I want to teleport.”

“There’s already been successful teleportation of entangled atoms.”

“You’re just showing off now.”

I laugh. I love listening to Antonia and Sam debate each other. Sam’s a really philosophical person. He reads a ton and is easy to have deep conversations with, while Antonia’s funny and quick on her feet. It’s great when they get so salty with each other.

“Do you know the creepiest part?” Sam asks. “If you teleport, you die.”

Antonia appears disgusted at the thought. “That’s the dumbest way of traveling I’ve ever heard. How’s that even possible?”

“Because you’re reborn,” Sam says. “Not cloned per se. Just transferred.”

“I don’t want to die, and I definitely don’t want to be a baby if I’m going to London for lunch,” she says. “You going to be there to push me around in a stroller when I’m reborn?”

“The idea has already been tested with photons over dozens of miles,” he says. “The theory is that one day you will step into some kind of particle tube that will scan your trillions of atomic particles and send all the data to another particle chamber in London. It’ll create a new you, as you are now, no different. Same you. Same thoughts. Same everything. Only the old you will disappear into a blur of particles. Poof.”

Antonia leans away from Sam in disbelief. “So you mean that in the movies whenever someone is beamed somewhere they die every single time?”

Sam laughs. “I guess so. Something like that anyway.”

“Whatever,” Antonia says. “I’ll just have lunch here.”

“You can teleport me to New York,” I say.

“Didn’t you hear what he said about teleporting?” Antonia pretends to be serious. “You have to die to do it. Not cool.”

“But it’s the same you,” Sam argues. “Nothing would be different.”

“Hell no,” Antonia says. “Isn’t that immoral? Killing people to teleport them? Nope. I won’t support any technology that makes you die to use it.”

“I don’t think it’s immoral at all if you’re just as you were,” he says. “It’s not like you’d see anything gross. Your old particles would just be gone. Replaced with new ones.”

“Immoral,” Antonia says. She’s obviously joking, but I can tell she’s pushing his buttons. He’s looking down at the kitchen tile. Something’s definitely bugging him. I try to think of the situation from his perspective and start to feel guilty.

He probably wouldn’t have liked going to the party anyway—Sam’s not a big party kind of person—but now I feel like a jerk for at least not inviting him.

“Want to watch something?” I ask. “I need a break from all this studying.”

“It’s hard to rationalize immoral,” Sam says, “when you two were hitting some swanky boat party last weekend. I’m sure there were lots of important people.”

“You told him?” I snap at Antonia.

“You were probably drinking too much to remember,” Sam whispers so Mom doesn’t hear from the living room, “but you told me you were going to a party. It wasn’t that hard to figure out which one. The whole school had been talking about it.”

“Who said anyone was drinking?” Antonia says, feigning shock. “That’s your assumption. I’ll have you know I was queen of the dance floor.” She points at me. “I can’t speak for lovergirl though.”

“Me?” I say defensively. “I didn’t do anything. You rescued me anyway.”

“From who?” Sam asks, alarmed. “You okay?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “You don’t need to protect me.”

He looks down at his lap. I automatically feel bad for snapping at him, but I don’t want him to know about Jackson. It would make the whole situation worse. Sam has never liked Jackson. He’s too flashy, too full of himself. I think Sam is jealous.

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Antonia says to him. “She handled herself... Once I walked up, anyway.”

“It wasn’t anything like that,” I say. “I was ready to go.”

“Uh-huh,” Antonia says.

“I hope you weren’t too drunk,” Sam snaps.

I start to feel even guiltier. Not because of the drinking, but because Sam must really be hurt that I didn’t invite him. He never talks like that. But I’m not backing down.

“I can handle myself,” I say back. “You don’t have to fight my battles for me.”

“You two need to find your chill.” Antonia stands up, looking for something around the room. “Speaking of drinking. You don’t have anything in your bedroom we can...do you?”

“Are you serious?” Sam asks, leaning back in his chair and looking down the hallway to the living room to see if Mom is near. “Right now?”

Antonia’s eyes are wide, matter-of-fact. “Of course I’m serious. Never been more serious. Maybe you should lighten up.”

“I’m chill,” he says.

“I might have something.” I give them both a mischievous grin, thankful that Antonia derailed the conversation. I really don’t want to fight with Sam. “Let’s go look.”

Sam holds up his textbook. “What about the chemistry test?”

Antonia is the first to get up. “Like you’re even talking chemistry, quantum leap boy.”

I nod my head. “I think I’ve had all the chemistry I can handle for tonight.”

“I guess you’re right,” Sam says.

He follows us up the stairs to my room. I push open the door, wait for them to come in, then shut and lock it. “You never know,” I say.

“Better safe than sorry,” Antonia agrees. “Wow, your room hasn’t changed one bit,” she adds. “It’s still so dark.”

She’s always teased me about how little sunlight I let inside my room. The walls are painted navy, but I’m not a total vampire. There are twinkle lights under a white canopy over my bed that gives the room this dreamy atmosphere. It helps me sleep.

Besides the framed Frida print, there’s a giant chalkboard leaning on the wall next to my bed where I doodle and write my favorite quotes. The bookshelves are stuffed with diaries, art books and old records. A pale green chair sits next to my easel. Art supplies are scattered on the floor around it. Drawing tools mostly. Some paints. And a big stack of art pads of all sizes.

“Same place?” Sam asks.

I nod. The familiarity of our friendship makes me feel better. Our fights have never lasted long. It feels good to be reunited with both of them. All three of us haven’t hung out together since the beginning of summer. Antonia was traveling. Sam was working. I was helping Mom with her literacy campaign. Though Sam and I have known each other since elementary school, we formed our trifecta with Antonia at the beginning of high school in world history when the three of us were assigned a research project on the Middle Ages. I never thought any of us would have been friends with each other, but I guess we can thank Vlad the Impaler for bringing us together.

As Sam walks into my closet and reaches behind one of my shoeboxes, I notice how tan and muscular he’s gotten over the summer. Maybe he doesn’t need to fill out as much as I thought. He brings out the vodka, twists off the cap and offers the bottle to me.

It’s almost empty.

“Damn, Liv,” Sam says. “How much have you been drinking this summer?”

“Shut up. Just give me the bottle.”

I take the first pull. The alcohol burns its way down.

“I have a confession to make.” Antonia grabs the bottle. “Better give me a drink first.”

“Confession?” I ask. “What’s this about?”

Sam takes a double shot. After all his talk about immorality and swanky boat parties. “Maybe she’s willing to teleport after all,” he says.

I look at Antonia. She looks like she’s about to burst with secrets. Is there something she hasn’t told me about what happened during summer vacation?

“Nothing like that,” she says. “It’s this girl.”

“Girl?” Sam and I say at the same time.

“Yes, a girl. I’ve been talking to this girl from the track team.” Antonia fidgets with her front pocket. “I’m pretty sure we want to hook up with each other.”

“Are you serious?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

We’ve talked about guys before, but Antonia always turned the subject back to me. Though she has a flirtatious personality, I guess I just thought she wasn’t interested in dating people in general. She seemed to always be able to have fun on her own.

“I wanted to make sure I really knew before I told you,” Antonia says.

I hug Antonia tight. “I’m so glad you said something.”

“You guys are the first people I’ve told,” Antonia says, smiling as I let go of the hug. “Except for her, of course. I’ll eventually tell my family, but they’re open-minded. I’m not worried.”

“Dude. From the track team?” Sam says. “You’ve got some serious game.”

“There’s a problem,” Antonia says. “Better give me another drink.”

She takes the bottle from me and sends another shot down her throat.

“What is it?” I ask as she wipes her mouth.

“I think she’s scared,” Antonia says. “She doesn’t want to be labeled. You know? Her parents are pretty old-fashioned. She said her father won’t even watch a TV show with a gay character. At least that’s what she tells me about him. Real loser.”

“Screw that guy,” Sam says, taking the bottle from her. “Do what makes you happy. You should definitely go for it.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m so here for this. For you.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Antonia squeezes his bicep and winks at me. “So now that I’ve made my confession...you guys can’t leave me hanging. We’ve barely seen each other in like three months. There must be some new deep dark secret you’re dying to tell us.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, looking down at my carpet.

“You must have hooked up with some hot surfer chicks over the summer.” I take another swig from the bottle. It’s finally starting to make me feel like the warmth is radiating from my bones. “Come on. You know you want to tell.”

As soon as I say those words, I regret asking about other girls. If there are any or have been any over the summer, I don’t want to know. Thinking of him with other girls creates knots in my stomach. Even though I don’t want Sam to be overprotective, I suddenly feel protective over him. Everything about our relationship feels like a paradox.

“Yeah. Right,” Sam mumbles. He looks up at Antonia. “Let’s talk about something else, please?”

“Come on.” I swing my arm around Sam, leaning my head onto his shoulder. “You can tell us. We always talk about everything.”

“Yeah.” Antonia shakes her index finger. “No secrets.”

“It’s really stupid, but I keep having these dreams about my brother,” Sam says. He absentmindedly tucks his hair behind his ear. “We’ll be surfing, joking around, racing each other to catch a wave, but then he disappears under the water. I can never save him.”

“Sam,” I say, hugging him, remembering how he cried into my chest the day he found out his older brother, James, had died. It broke my heart. It still does. “You okay?”

James died last year from a drug overdose at their house. It was completely unexpected. He was a super nice guy who would stop anything he was doing to help someone else. James had been visiting home from the University of Chicago, where he was on the crew team. We didn’t know until later, but a doctor had prescribed heavy painkillers for a back injury that happened during a rowing competition, which I guess led to James getting involved in doing harder drugs.

I was shocked when I found out. He’d only been back three days for Christmas break when he overdosed. Sam found his body. We’ve only talked about what happened once or twice, but Sam doesn’t say much. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I can help him with. I can’t take away his pain or erase what happened. Whenever I think about what Sam must have had to go through, I get a lump in my throat. I feel helpless.

My problems seem so trivial compared to Sam’s loss. What right do I have to fall apart when there are other people who’ve been dealt a hand much worse than mine?

“Yeah.” Sam pulls away. “It’s just a really weird feeling. I wake up and the only person I want to talk to about James’s death is...James.” We all go silent for a moment until Sam takes the bottle from me. “Anyway. I took my turn. Fair’s fair. Liv?”

“Oh man,” I say nervously. It’s my turn to do some talking about my personal issues. I think about how depressed I was this summer and how much I wanted to tell them that I felt like a ghost haunting the real world, but I couldn’t, because they were living their best lives and I didn’t want to be selfish and ruin their happiness.

Because Sam and Antonia were both gone, I started spending a lot of time online. I started looking up tips about purging and I stumbled onto a pro-bulimia forum. Then I found myself making an account so I could talk to other users of the site. My thoughts about food started getting more obsessive the more I read the posts. One night, I saw a thread where the original poster asked for photos of other people’s binge foods.

I scrolled through and examined the dozens of food photographs. The one that got to me was all of this half-eaten food spread across a table with all the wrappers—leftovers of a takeout chicken shawarma, a slab of meat lasagna, cookie batter, a chocolate milkshake. I couldn’t stop thinking about how good a nice big binge would feel. Just looking at the food made me feel excited to eat, so I went downstairs and raided the pantry. I took everything that was either leftover or premade: bacon and cheddar potato skins, three microwave burritos, a can of sweet corn, three hot dogs, a container of cake frosting, a quarter of an apple pie, carrots and hummus, a small bag of pita bread and half a jar of peanut better.

Looking at the pictures while eating made me feel so much less alone. It’s not like I can talk to Antonia or Sam about my bulimia. What would I say? That I’ve started wearing ponytails because my hair has thinned out so much? That puking actually feels like a relief? I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. It’s uncomfortable and disgusting. But knowing other girls are bingeing too is so cathartic. It’s the easiest thing to eat.

So simple. So animalistic.

The sensory experience of chewing and tasting was euphoric. Finishing off one thing made me immediately want to start on the next. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I had to give in to it until I was so full I literally couldn’t stuff anything down my disgusting throat. Then I vomited and vomited until there was nothing left.

I’m almost certain Antonia suspects something’s going on with my eating habits after I kept hesitating every time she asked whether I wanted to eat with her. She knows me too well. I need to throw her off that trail, because she can be relentless.

“Dad says he’s running for governor,” I finally say. “He hasn’t announced yet though. He’s keeping it on the down low until he hires a campaign manager.”

“And that’s a problem?” Sam asks.

“Duh,” I say. “Get ready for your little Liv’s face to appear on the front page of the Los Angeles Times when the announcement happens. It won’t be as easy as his other elections. He’s not going to be the incumbent this time, which means a lot more media coverage. TV appearances. Articles. That kind of thing.”

“That actually sounds pretty exciting,” Antonia says.

“Mason’s coming home next weekend too,” I add. “I’m not looking forward to that either. We’ve had our share of problems.”

“That’s not a big problem,” Antonia says. “That’s just family.”

“I guess you’re right,” I say, but I don’t really agree in my heart. Not when family is my biggest problem next to a certain boy named Zach. Just thinking about him motivates me to keep restricting and purging until I reach my goal weight.

I have to talk to him again.

And I have to look good when I do.


e i g h t (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“Most bad behavior comes from insecurity.”

—Debra Winger

“So, Sam told me something interesting,” Antonia says, pulling her messenger bag up over her shoulder.

Even though I want to know the gossip about Sam, I’m having a hard time listening right now. I can’t concentrate. I’m so hungry. I was starving when I woke up this morning, but I stuck to my morning grapefruit and tea. It’s working at least.

“Wait. What?” I ask.

“He joined debate club. Forensics or whatever. Why do they call it that? I thought that was supposed to be related to some kind of CSI crap.”

“He did?” I wonder why he didn’t tell me. I suddenly feel a little hurt—like maybe Sam is getting back at us for going to the party without him. “When did he say that?”

Students are spilling out into the hallway. Eastlake Prep, home of the “most talented student body” in the Los Angeles area. The pressure to be successful, to set yourself apart from everyone else, is ridiculously high. How else are you going to feel, when most of your classmates are actors on cable television and world-class athletes?

I glance around the hall. I’m desperate to see Zach again. I start to feel butterflies just thinking about him—his dark hair, his defined jawline—but then I get queasy.

Antonia slams her locker shut. “When we were walking out to our cars after we studied...I mean, after we drank in your bedroom.”

“That was like...” I start counting in my head “...a week ago.”

“I didn’t think you were going to think it was that big of a deal.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t get so jealous. He just said he forgot to tell us.”

“Him? Likely not,” I say. “He’s been acting weird lately. Did you see how jealous he got when you started talking about what happened at the boat party with Jackson?”

“He’s definitely not the same guy.” Antonia curls up her arm like she’s lifting a weight. “Did you see those biceps? Those surf camp babes must have been all over him.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, dragging her toward class, though I have noticed that Sam has begun to fill out the last few months. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Wait a second,” Antonia says. “Zach Park might have a thing for you, but secretly you actually have a thing for Sam, don’t you? Since when? All along?”

“Don’t be stupid,” I say. Antonia has teased me about having a crush on Sam ever since I told her about the one time we kissed on the bench last year. “I mean Sam’s a great guy, but I know him too well. There’s no mystery there.”

I think there was maybe a chance for us once, but after I cried on his shoulder after Ollie dumped me, I felt too awkward to let myself think about Sam that way. My feelings about our friendship were confusing. It felt natural to share the details about my relationships with him, but Sam would get hurt and never say anything. I couldn’t figure out where I stood with him. In some ways, I guess I’m still trying to solve that problem.

As Antonia and I enter the building, Jackson passes by with one of his friends. He doesn’t stop to talk, but as he walks by us he says, “Looking good, Liv.”

I roll my eyes at Antonia, hoping that I don’t look completely awkward. After the way he acted at the boat party, I feel like I’d better steer clear of him for a while. I definitely don’t want Zach’s best friend to think I’m into him. So I pretend not to hear Jackson, but Antonia notices him slapping his friend’s arm and laughing after they pass.

“What was that about?” Antonia asks.

I shrug. “Guys being guys, I guess.”

“Terrible excuse,” Antonia says. “What a creeper.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Sam has never liked him. Maybe he has something there.”

“I have a theory,” she says. “About Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t think of any reason he’d ever join speech and debate unless it’s for a...”

“...girl,” we say at the same time.

“Sam doesn’t do extracurricular stuff,” Antonia says. “He’s too busy studying or surfing.”

The greasy feeling in my stomach is getting worse. I want to ditch class, curl up under my blankets at home and fall asleep with my Frida painting watching over me.

“I’m guessing you want me to ask you more about your theory,” I say.

I can’t not ask. If I try to change the subject again, Antonia will really think something’s up with me and Sam, and Antonia is the worst about prying things out of me.

“Well,” Antonia says, “just by chance I saw him talking to Nina Jaggia outside the cafeteria on Tuesday.” She leads us past the school’s chapel and toward the off-white arches at the entrance of the classroom building. We’re on our way to US history.

“So?” I ask.

“So, Nina’s on the speech and debate team.”

“And?”

“Well you weren’t there. You didn’t see their body language.”

My pulse starts to speed up. It’s not entirely because of Sam, even though I am kind of hurt he hasn’t said anything to me. We’re about to cross paths with the school’s trio of most popular girls, including Cristina. Felicity and a girl named Amy Hernandez, a former Disney Channel dancer, are walking on either side of Cristina. This is about to be trouble.

I haven’t talked to Cristina beyond seeing her in the bathroom at the yacht party, but you can’t go to Eastlake and not know who she is. Her parents work for an Italian car company bringing in imports, and let me tell you they have millions, and even sponsor two Formula One cars and a portion of the privatized space industry—some kind of experimental engine called the X-Change.

And Cristina is really smart. Her robotics team won some major student competition last year, and all this was before she started dating Zach and snagged that major modeling campaign. She may have been following him around on the yacht, but I’m sure that was a one-night thing, because any guy would be following her around.

With her signature long red hair, Felicity completes the trio with her contacts in the art world. Her father works as a major collector for an international luxury goods conglomerate. They know everyone. If anyone is always going where I want to be, it’s Felicity. Only she doesn’t want to be an artist herself. She just wants the limelight.

Antonia hates them.

“Don’t look now, but here comes the Hydra,” Antonia says under her breath as we stop walking. They’re literally blocking our way through the archway into the building.

“Hi, ladies,” Felicity says.

“Be careful what you call them,” Amy says. The way Amy talks makes you wonder if she’s trying to be sarcastic or if she actually hates you.

“Hi,” I say, trying not to take offense.

“I heard you and Zach had quite the conversation on the yacht,” Cristina says. “He told me you were like a little puppy dog, following him around when I wasn’t in the room. That must have been annoying.”

I’m trying to like Cristina, but she’s not giving me much of a reason to—especially the way she was actually hanging all over him at the party even though, according to Zach, they had already broken up by then.

“I was talking to him about the show,” I say, trying to add to her jealousy since she obviously thinks she still has some kind of ownership over Zach. “I’ve seen every episode of Sisters & Mothers. It’s so addicting...”

Cristina suddenly cringes, looking at me strangely when I use that word, which I actually didn’t plan to say. Now I know she’s just as afraid of my revealing her secret about snorting up in the bathroom as I am of her revealing mine.

“You watch that show?” Amy laughs. “It’s terrible. Zach is way better than that role. Everyone knows that he’s going to be a big star someday.”

“I watch all kinds of shows,” I say, sensing Antonia’s blood boiling. I’m hoping she doesn’t go for Amy’s throat.

I pinch her discreetly so that she won’t say anything.

She lets out a little squeak.

“What’s that?” Amy says to Antonia. “I didn’t hear you.”

I pinch Antonia again. Harder.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, squirming. “But we have to go study the Lake of Lerna.” That’s the lake where the Hydra lives. It’s also the entrance to the underworld.

“Lake of Lerna,” Amy repeats stupidly. “Sounds fascinating.”

“Should I ask what’s in that lake? Maybe we should test you,” says Felicity.

Antonia pops her gum. “Water serpents,” she enunciates slowly.

“So?” Felicity says.

Antonia goes for the subtle punch line even though I’m pinching her. “So, their heads grow back when they’re chopped off.”

“That’s gross.” Felicity doesn’t get the mocking humor. She turns to me. “I heard you’re into art.” How does she know this about me? Did Zach talk to her about our conversation on the boat? Why would she bring that up in front of Cristina?

“I’m thinking about going to art school after graduation.”

“That’s cool,” Felicity says, but she’s not really listening. “You must have heard about the opening of LeFeber’s new show in Laguna Beach?”

I squint at her in disbelief. She obviously wants to show off.

“Wasn’t he supposed to be at that party in Marina del Rey last week?” I ask, not wanting to get my hopes up again even though I still can’t get the thought of meeting LeFeber out of my head. It’s too bad that my only shot is probably going to be through Felicity, especially since she’s Cristina’s best friend.

“How am I supposed to know? Something came up, I guess,” she says like it’s no big deal. “His show is exclusive and it’s totally impossible to get on the list.”

“I saw the preview of one of his new pieces in ArtNews,” I say. “He’s one of my favorite living artists.”

I try to talk about how LeFeber tries to make his installations participatory—he doesn’t want people to just look at his art; he wants his audience to explore and interact with the installations—but Felicity interrupts me.

“Does he?” Felicity says. “Maybe we can bring you back an autograph. I’ll try to remember when my parents and I are having dinner with him before the show.”

Is she trying to make me jealous? Does she want me to beg for an invitation? Not going to happen. I really want to go, but I don’t want to owe her or Cristina anything.

“Exciting,” Cristina says, turning to me. “How’s your stomach?”

My muscles begin to tighten as anger rushes through my body. I want to say How’s your nose? But I hold my tongue. I get her point. She wants me to stay away from her man, and also to not do anything to threaten her.

So I just say, “Fine. It’s fine,” as Cristina and her friends walk away from us.

Antonia snickers in my ear. “The Hydra doesn’t even know I was making fun of their multiple snake heads.”

“Yeah.” That’s about all I can manage. I want to go to this LeFeber show. I have to find a way to get in, and Antonia probably isn’t going to be able to help this time. These girls have no idea how much his work means to me. LeFeber’s a brand name to them. When I look at his art, I get this feeling that he knows some deep secret about me though we’ve never met. It kills me to be so close and that I have to basically go through my crush’s ex—who obviously hates me—to meet him.

Antonia is disturbed by my response. “Why didn’t you stand up for yourself? Do you want to be friends with those snake heads? Don’t tell me it’s because of LeFeber.”

“I don’t know. It’s nothing,” I say, opening the door to the building. It’s getting close to the end of the passing period and the hallway is almost empty. My stomach churns. I shouldn’t have eaten so much this morning. The fat is making me feel sick. My energy is crashing from all the sugar in the iced coffee. The uncomfortable fullness nags at my mind. I feel like purging everything from my body to feel normal, but I fight it off.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” she says.

“Just drop it,” I say. “It’s not worth fighting over.”

“I need you to do something for me,” Antonia says, changing the subject. “It’s a date. You’d just have to come with me.”

“Um, no,” I say, not wanting to be a third wheel.

“Don’t say no yet—you haven’t even heard me out. It’s not a big deal.”

My stomach is in knots from the conversation with Felicity and seeing Jackson, but Antonia is my friend. She helped me get invited to the yacht party. I owe her a big one.

“Okay, what?” I ask.

“Don’t act so hurt. Geez...”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “My mind is just on other things.”

She smiles. “There’s one catch though.”

“See? I knew something was up.”

“I’m going out with a girl,” Antonia says. “Heather. Obviously.”

A boy from our class hurries down the hallway to the room, nodding at us as he passes. Antonia pulls me toward the wall and begins to whisper. “Look, I want to go out with Heather. Remember I told you about her? The girl from the track team?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Antonia. I’m totally cool with you going out with a girl. But I still don’t want to be your third wheel. It’ll be so awkward.”

“I want to make her feel more comfortable.”

“If she doesn’t want to go on a solo date, why can’t we just have a kick back or something? We could hang out at my house. Or yours.”

“It’s not the same. We need to go out together. I want her to feel accepted. She hasn’t told anyone she’s gay. I just think she’s going to feel more comfortable going out as like a group of friends. It’ll lessen the pressure.”

“I still don’t see how my going makes sense,” I say. “I don’t want to get in the way of your romance.”

“Well...” Antonia hesitates. “There’s something else. My cousin Mika is coming into town that weekend and my parents said I had to take her out to do something, but that happens to be the night I agreed to go with Heather. I can’t get around it.”

“So...” I cross my arms, waiting to hear the rest of Antonia’s story. I knew there was going to be more to her story. She always withholds information.

“She’s a little weird. Chatty. And I don’t want her to totally take over the date. I need someone to entertain her,” she says, looking up at me with pleading eyes.

The bell rings. I don’t want to be late for class.

“When’s the date?” I ask.

“End of next week,” Antonia says. “Plenty of time to think about it...”

“All right,” I say.

“All right?” She seems shocked I’ve already made up my mind.

“If it’s all about making your date feel accepted, then I guess that’s a good thing.”

“Exactly.” Antonia grabs my shoulder. “What could be wrong with that? I know of an all-ages place we can chill. Lots of people. Bands. Just hang out.”

I guess it’s also a good way to avoid Mason and the rest of my family for at least part of the weekend. Mika can’t be that bad. I’ll just have to make small talk.

“Yeah,” I say. “Sounds like a blast.”


n i n e (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)

“A dysfunctional family is any family with more than one person in it.”

—Mary Karr

I woke up this morning feeling like crap.

I purged again last night.

Mom made lasagna last night, and I couldn’t help myself. I stuffed down two huge pieces. I can’t gain any more weight, and I’m sick of purging. It feels terrible. My throat’s sore. My back hurts from hurling. My face is puffy. I’ve started developing a sore on one of my knuckles from my teeth scraping against my hand when I stuff my fingers down my throat to make myself vomit.




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