That was when I knew the summer might not suck.

THEN

I don’t know what to wear to Jasmine’s friend’s party, not because I don’t know how to dress, but because my summer nights were gonna consist of being a slug on the couch and binge-watching Netflix with my mom. I’d packed tons of bathing suits, shorts, and tanks, but for nighttime, all I have are a couple pairs of jeans and some cozy sleep pants in case I wanted to sit out near the water during chillier hours. Party clothes hadn’t entered the equation.

Boring jeans and a polka dot tank top will have to do. Shannon would cringe if she saw me wearing flip-flops to a party, but Shannon is in Paris wearing heels and little scarves around her neck, so.

With nothing else to do, I’m ready embarrassingly on time, and, afraid to look overeager, I trap myself in my room, texting with Kiki and watching stupid YouTube videos. Finally, I hear movement outside, followed by “Tinkerbell, where are you?” hollered like a banshee.

I grab my bag and jolt off my bed to meet Jasmine, who looks a hundred times more stylish in a white tank top and pink capris, a row of bangles jangling on her arm. White is a color I avoid until we’re at least two weeks into summer, but it pops enviably against Jasmine’s naturally tan skin and dark, glossy hair.

I wait for a once-over, part of the pre-party ritual with Shannon, Gia, and Kiki, but all Jasmine says is, “Ready?”

I nod. It isn’t until we’re getting into her car that I ask, “Tinkerbell?”

“Tiny, blond, and could probably fit in my pocket. Plus, I still haven’t perfected your mom’s ‘Larotchka.’”

I burst out laughing at her attempt at the wide-open A and the Russian roll of the R. For the most part, my mom’s accent is only lightly traceable; she’s been in the US since college. But when she says my nickname, it comes out in full force, and it’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. It’s weird to have someone so comfortably pick it up in a single day. Clearly, Jasmine has some powers of observation.

She grins and we hop in her Jeep, roll the windows all the way down, and turn the music all the way up. It’s a band I’ve never heard before, all angry vocals and girlish whispers curling into screams, and it feels like writing my name in the sky with a stub of red lipstick. The salt air and the stilted houses are so wholly un–New York, not at all what I’d expected to experience this summer, and though none of it was my choice and all of it made me angry, tonight it’s a kind of freedom.