I ignore her. Saying I adore my car is putting it mildly. My dad bought it on eBay a couple of years ago, and I helped him restore it to its former glory—hammering out the dents in the body panels, replacing the rusty grille with a bright new chrome one, reupholstering the front and back seats with soft leather, and installing a new engine that purrs like a contented puma. I don’t care that it doesn’t have modern amenities like an iPod adapter or parallel-parking assist—this car is unique, classy, and ahead of its time—just like I am.

We sweep past Starbucks, the strip mall of art galleries all the retirees love, and the clay courts where I took my first tennis lesson when I was four. The moon is the exact same amber as the eyes of the coyote that nosed under our backyard fence last year. We’re on our way to a frat party at U of A, which promises to be a rager. Just because I’m with Garrett doesn’t mean I can’t ogle the hot college-boy merchandise now and then.

Madeline stops on a station playing Katy Perry’s “California Gurls.” Gabby squeals and starts to sing along. “Uch, I’m so sick of this song,” I moan, reaching over and twisting the volume knob down again. I usually don’t mind singing, but something irks me tonight. Or, more accurately, two someones.

Lili pouts. “But last week you said Katy was awesome, Sutton!”

I shrug. “Katy’s so five minutes ago.”

“She writes the best songs!” Gabby whines, twirling her honey-blonde highlights and pursing her extra-plump lips into a pout.

I take my eyes off the road for a moment and glare at them. “It’s not as if Katy writes the songs herself, guys. Some fat, middle-aged producer guy does.”

Lili looks horrified. “Really?”

If only I could pull over and let them out. I’m so sick of Twitter Dee and Twitter Dum’s faux-ditziness. I shared a trig class with them last year, and they’re not as stupid as they look. Guys find the dumb act cute, but I’m not buying it.

The light changes to green, and Floyd makes a satisfying roar as he guns off the line, kicking up dust and flying past the desert broom. “Well, I think it’s a good song,” Mads breaks the silence, slowly turning up the volume again.

I shoot her a look. “What would your dad say if he knew slutty Katy was your role model, Mads?”

“He wouldn’t care,” Madeline says, trying to sound tough. She picks at the Swan Lake Mafia ballerina sticker on the back of her cell phone. I don’t know what the sticker means—none of us do. I think Mads likes it that way.