For that, I need something more. Like a photography internship under my belt. I need to show him that other people think I’m talented enough to take me under their wing. And at the end of the summer, Coast Life takes on a Bright Young Thing to help them do fashion shoots for Regatta Week. Rich people partying on boats. To be honest, it sounds like a total nightmare—absolutely the opposite of my artistic interests. But it probably looks fantastic on a résumé, and the person shooting it is a semi-big-name fashion photographer. Someone my father respects.

“What’s the final word?” I blurt out to Mr. Phillips, unable to keep up the small talk any longer as my chest tightens.

He hesitates. “I’m sorry, Josie.”

My stomach sinks.

And sinks …

“It has nothing to do with your photo submission,” he assures me, “which they loved. The internship just normally goes to someone in college, and they just think you’re too young.”

“But I’m almost eighteen,” I argue. “And they know who my father is, right?”

I hate to throw around his name, but this is an emergency situation.

“Of course your father’s name doesn’t hurt. But …”

But.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he says in a low voice, “but if you want to know the truth, they were going to give it to you. However, the big boss who owns the magazine came into the board meeting. Mr. Summers is a stickler for rules, see, and you’re underage.”

“Mr. Summers?”

“Levi Summers. Big boss,” he explains.

Oh. Right. Summers. His name is on every building in town. Descendant of the founder of Beauty. Talk about privilege. I had no idea he owned the magazine. Rookie mistake.

Mr. Phillips holds out his hands. “That’s why Levi Summers yanked your application, so I’m afraid you won’t be getting the internship this summer. I’m sorry.”

Yanked. Just like that. Poof ! One more thing that’s gone wrong in Beauty over the last few months.

Mr. Phillips is telling me some other things I barely hear, about how the internship itself is four days in August, before school starts back, and the work is rigorous, from early morning until midnight, so there would be problems anyway because of age restrictions and labor laws.

“Besides, maybe it’s for the best, because you’d miss the Victory Day flotilla.”

“Huh?”

“At the end of Regatta Week—the big Victory Day celebration. Surely you went to the nighttime flotilla when you were a kid?”