Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline from the fight, or the ice cream sugar high reaching its apex, or just wanting to feel like this forever, but suddenly I’m brave. “Then why don’t you take me to homecoming?”

“Seriously?” His good eye goes wide.

“That’s what people do, right? Ask girls they like to go to homecoming?”

“Technically, you’re asking me.”

“Is that a yes?”

I wish I could bottle and get drunk off Ben’s lopsided smile, even this half-grimace version of it. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

“Let’s. We can plan the details when I see you tomorrow,” I say, hopping off my barstool and making for the back stairs. If I linger any longer, the spell might fade, and I want this night, this clusterfuck of a weird day, to end on a good note.

CHAPTER EIGHT

After my butterfly-inducing if surreal movie date with Ben—to watch a nineties cheese thriller, surrounded by my grandmother’s fans, in costumes and novelty tees, screaming out lines at the screen—all I can think about is wanting more. More of this punch-drunk feel when I’m with Ben, more of being someone’s girlfriend. More of being a perfectly normal student at a perfectly normal school and less of being a girl with a recently deceased mom.

One person won’t let me forget, though. Monday morning over breakfast, Maura informs me she’s scheduled an appointment for me Friday after school with Dr. Shelby. No negotiation. This is grandmother-mandated therapy. Natalie is thrilled; at least, she trills that her mom is the best and I’ll love seeing her. It’s weird that she cares, but maybe it’s an act to distract from the news that Ben is taking me to homecoming, which she barely seems to register.

Perhaps to subconsciously make amends, I throw myself headlong into Spirit Week. Into being Natalie’s new pet, much to the growing consternation of Morgan. The first few days blur by, with costumes, makeup, and more school spirit than Los Angeles could ever muster. Natalie ensures I’m dressed to the nines each day. I thought it was normal new-girl welcoming, but when we show up on Thursday as Audrey Hepburn clones—her doing Breakfast at Tiffany’s, me Funny Face—the costumes begin to seem like a deliberate diss once Morgan arrives at lunch, her hair dyed brown, doing her best Sabrina. She sends me a look that could curdle milk when I ask her if it’s permanent. I wonder if I’ve been a pawn in a game of chess I didn’t know I was playing.