They’re going over tomorrow morning’s schedule when a whirlwind sweeps into the kitchen in a blur of long black curls and longer tanned legs. It whooshes right past me to the fridge, nearly whacks me with the door as it pulls out a coconut water, and lets out a moan loud enough to shake the walls as it—she—takes a long sip.

I’d think she hadn’t noticed anyone in the room at all, but then she complains, “It is so fucking hot outside. I need to jump in the pool.” And then she looks right at me with the closest thing to golden eyes I’ve ever seen. “Who are you?”

“Manners, Jasmine,” says Mr. Killary. “You remember my assistant, Anya?” He gestures to my mom, who looks completely unfazed. “This is her daughter, Larissa. They’re staying with us this summer. Didn’t your mother tell you?”

She shrugs. “I might’ve been tuning her out at the time.” At least she’s honest. “You have a bathing suit?” she asks me.

I do, though I have a feeling it cost about five hundred dollars less than whatever Jasmine’s about to put on. “Yeah.”

“Great. Let’s go.” She walks out of the kitchen, coconut water in hand, leaving me no choice but to follow.

I kind of hate her on sight. You can tell she’s the kind of girl who always gets what she wants. And she makes me hate myself a little too, because I’ll be as susceptible as everyone else who wants to make her happy. You don’t spend three years as Shannon Salter’s right-hand girl without learning how to spot these personalities faster than you’d spot the perfect jeans at Nordstrom Rack, and it never gets less annoying to make their acquaintance.

I love Shannon, but I get enough of being second place during the school year. I really don’t need to spend my summer that way too.

But a pool is a pool and if I’m going to be stuck here all summer, I’m sure as hell gonna get an epic tan.

It takes me longer than it should to choose between my favorite gingham bikini and a hotter but more boring pink one—do I want to show off my fashion sense, or my genetically blessed waist?—and I end up going with the former. Of course, Jasmine wears a tiny patterned metallic thing that’s infinitely cooler than mine and shows off a body with both curves and muscle tone, because that’s what her kind does. I just sigh and dive in.

To her credit, she doesn’t try and chat with me too much. There’s no session of picking the interloper’s brain and assessing their threat level. So maybe she isn’t exactly Shannon. She even whips out an actual novel, which Shannon would never, ever do.