The afternoon has been a blur of anticipation, joy, shared glances, and hysterical laughter. Euphoric energy is ricocheting through my bloodstream! I feel like I can do anything. I can be anything. I want to tackle the world.

Dawn’s all dimples and teeth, smiling like we won the lottery, drumming her hands on the steering wheel. “You fucking did it, Siri! You nailed it! And you’ve never done this before! Ahh! We need to celebrate with some damn good pizza and ice cream. And that is not to say your homemade pizza wasn’t delicious because I loved it, but we don’t have time for that shit.”

Dawn turns on the car and puts us in drive as I cackle in the seat next to her. Cackle. I can feel the amount of laughter I’ve done today in my abs. I’ve never experienced that before in my life.

“I haven’t shared this with you yet, because it’s weird, but I have to now for background. I’m a pizza-grammer,” she says.

“You’re a what?” I ask, amused as all heck.

“I have a pizza Instagram where I post pizza pictures weekly along with a review out of five stars, and I do a monthly ice cream ’gram. So I make a point to hit every pizza place I can in the general Los Angeles area. I’m currently on a quest to find chicken adobo pizza, and taste all the pretentious ice cream flavors of the land. I’ve gotten to know a lot of great places—there’s a magical combination of ice cream and pizza in Santa Monica, and that is where we’re going.”

I think my insides are exploding. “I’m obsessed with your Instagram already. What’s your handle? I’m so excited to follow you!”

Dawn beams at the windshield. “It’s pizzapizzadawn. I have a thousand followers.” She tosses her amazing hair, putting on a silly French accent. “Someday I’ll be a famous pizza-grammer with access to all ze hottest, most exclusive pizza joints.”

“My Instagram is actually food-based too.”

“What?”

I nod. “It used to be a lot of dance stuff, but now it’s all the dishes I’ve tried to cook over the past three months. Amateur photography at its finest.”

“Siri— Oh my god, I want to full name you but I don’t know your full name.”

“It’s Siri Martine Maza.”

“Siri Martine Maza!” Dawn bites her lip and it makes me feel things.

I swallow hard, glancing out the window so she doesn’t see my face going red.

“I’m gonna need to see that Instagram, stat,” she says seriously.

“My handle’s not as good for branding,” I tell her as we turn out of the residential area and onto a major street.

“Spill it.”

“AskSiriAboutBallet11.”