The rest of the first week back goes the same—fun times with my girls, flirting with Chase, and complete and total avoidance of Jasmine while simultaneously obsessing. But it’s Friday night, which means Chase’s football game, followed by Jasmine’s party, which means all this stuff hanging over my head is gonna have to go some kinda way.

Getting dressed for the night poses a problem. All my nicest new clothes are gorgeous, expensive things Jasmine tossed into my arms with a “Keep this; it’ll look better on you.” I’m sure as hell not wearing her castoffs to her party, which means avoiding several absolutely perfect outfits in favor of stuff I’ve worn a billion times. But at least I can play up the things that seem to be working for me, starting with this glorious tan that will be gone way too soon.

I do have a couple of new, cute tops just right for wearing to a game-party combo, so I dig through my drawers until I find the right one. It’s white and cut high in front—my cleavage isn’t exactly anything to write home about anyway—but dips all the way down in back. Jeans feel way too boring to wear to Jasmine’s, especially with what’s basically a T-shirt, so … aha! I knew I had these somewhere. When Shannon convinced me to buy leather shorts last year, I didn’t think I’d ever have the guts to wear them. But last-year me only needed to wait a little longer for them to be perfect.

I officially look hot. No way Jasmine—er, Chase—isn’t gonna notice.

My phone beeps as I’m finishing throwing a few things in my bag, and I know without looking that it’s a Where r u, bitch text from Shannon. I always end up with one of those whether I’m late or not, but I throw on sandals and run out the door, yelling goodbye to my mom.

“I told you those shorts were a great purchase,” Shannon says the instant I open the car door, and I let the relief of validation wash over me like a waterfall. “Now get your ass in here because my new mascara is a godsend and you are about to love me.”

The mascara is indeed miraculous, and with a little brown eyeliner, a dab of highlighter, and a hint of lip gloss, I look understated and natural. To be honest, I would probably bang me. Shannon is a master at makeup application, and more importantly, she’s generous with both her skills and her Sephora-size collection. I’m too busy preening for her “Looking good, Rissy” to irritate me.

“Chase is gonna die,” Kiki confirms. Impending death is her greatest compliment, and I smile even wider.