It’s been three days of fruitful tanning and fruitless job hunting when someone finally blocks out my sun. I look up to see Jasmine standing over me, an impressive camera bag slung over her shoulder. “Listen,” she says without preamble, because she doesn’t believe in preamble. “My dad feels really bad about screwing you out of a job, and I could use an assistant this summer, so how do you feel about helping me out a few days a week, all expenses paid by Papa Dec?”

I shift slowly into a sitting position, trying to take this in. Jasmine and I have barely spoken since the night of the party. In fact, I’ve barely even seen her. It’s only by the grace of Keisha, Brea, and Derek that I’ve had anyone to hang out with at all.

Also, an assistant? For what? If she does anything other than read, tan, and make out with Carter, it’s news to me. If she thinks I’m going to be carrying her bag around like she’s some celebutante—

“I’m a photographer,” she says, a little smile playing on her lips that makes it clear my confusion was obvious. “Well, I’m a web designer, but I’m building a stock photo portfolio as part of that. I’ve already gotten all the beach and bikini shots I can handle for the week, so I was thinking of heading down to the Elizabethan Gardens to get some flower shots. You in or not? I gotta go in the next half hour to get the right light.”

There is suddenly a lot happening, but I’m bored as hell and I could use the money and company. Plus, the Elizabethan Gardens sound pretty, and I haven’t done a single touristy thing since I got here other than check out a billion cheesy shops selling magnets shaped like flip-flops and wind chimes with surfboard charms. I take a quick shower and throw on cutoffs and a tank top, and we hit the road to Manteo.

Jasmine is not a woman of many words, and I’m trying not to be annoying though I have a zillion questions about her business, so all I learn on the twenty-minute drive is her favorite music—or at least whatever she listens to in the car—is all by bands I’ve never heard of: Chronic Apathy, the Pepperpots, Glory Alabama, the Brightsiders, and some group whose name I don’t catch but who are definitely singing about wishing they were the scar on Padma Lakshmi’s arm.