Jasmine did a photo shoot of me immediately afterward, but I keep stopping short of posting any of the pictures. I don’t want anyone’s opinions yet. I like that it’s something that’s strictly Larissa of the Outer Banks—Tinkerbell, if you will. Something separate from Stratford. Shannon would completely kill me if she knew, but Shannon’s in Paris, posting selfies from beneath the Arc de Triomphe and at little cafés dotting the city. She’s having her version of a fabulous summer, and somewhere along the way, I realized that I am too. I may not be scarfing pain au chocolate on the Champs-Elysées or whatever, but I don’t envy it. I’m about to eat my weight in shrimp, crab, clams, lobster, and corn, and I feel great about that.

“I’m not making fun of the hair under normal circumstances,” Jasmine clarifies, smoothing one of her perfect pigtail braids. “It’s just kind of … everywhere right now. I’m sure it’ll look lovely for the party.”

“I’m sure your face will look lovely for the party,” I shoot back, feeling childish as I kick sand in front of me, being careful not to land any of it on the white plastic folding chairs.

“Was that supposed to be a burn?” Jasmine finishes placing shells on her corners of the table, then does a cartwheel in the sand, her mint-green-polished toes pointing elegantly at the sun. “Pathetic, Tinkerbell.”

“You’re pathetic.” I drop the rest of my shells in a messy cluster and start my own run—roundoff, back handspring, back tuck. Being a former cheerleader has its merits.

“Holy shit.” Jasmine’s jaw drops. “What did you just do?”

“Oh, did I not mention that I used to be on the cheerleading squad?” I blow on my nails.

“You’re joking. Show me again.”

I do, even though it makes me dizzy. It’s worth it for the way she wolf whistles when I’m done and yells, “That’s so hot!” In truth, my form is completely off, and Gia would have so many words for how out of practice I am, but I love that Jasmine thinks I’m amazing exactly as I am.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know you could do that,” she says, wiping away the sweat that lightly beads her forehead.

I shrug like it’s no big deal. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true.” A little smile plays on her lips as she bends to draw her name in the sand. “Let’s see … I know your favorite color is turquoise. I know your favorite author is Clementine Walker. And I know you take your iced coffee with caramel syrup and way too much sugar.”

“Anyone who follows me on Snapchat knows those things.”