While Carla fusses with Clementine’s hair, giving her a hard time about never coming in and split ends, I sit in a lawn chair next to the window AC unit and scroll through photos on my phone. After my performance, I clustered together with Alex and Kyle and everyone else for various selfies. It might be the flash or it might be the fact that my foundation is three shades too light, but all I can see are lips, eyes, and my wig. I don’t care though, because I can practically hear the joyous laughter just looking at these pictures.

Tucker: You were great last night.

My whole body tenses into a knot as the message lights up my screen. My thumb hovers over the alert as I contemplate swiping it away.

Thank you, I finally type back. Still mad at you.

Tucker: I still want to kiss you.

My jaw drops, and I can feel myself getting flustered.

“Are you okay?” Clementine asks over the blow-dryer. “You look like someone poured bleach on all your favorite clothes that you never wear.”

“I’m fine,” I shout back, and shove my phone into my messenger bag.

Clem discreetly points up to her head and makes an eek face.

“Hey, Carla,” I call. “Maybe we could scale back on the volume. I think Clementine might like something a little more . . . sleek.”

“Sneak? She wants to look sneaky?” Carla shouts.

Clem shakes her head, telling me to give up before I make it worse.

I’ll fix it later, I mouth to her.

She flashes me a thumbs-up.

Clem and I go get our nails done, and I guess Grammy must have called ahead, because her nail tech, a young Black girl who is constantly talking to someone on her Bluetooth headset but is also somehow incredibly meticulous, is ready and waiting for us. Clem gets her nails done in lavender, which is boring, but it matches her dress and she’ll probably chew off all the polish by tomorrow morning anyway.

I show Rita a picture on my phone of a black manicure that fades into gold at the tips. She wordlessly nods and begins to work her magic, which makes my nails so pretty, I swear I could work my own magic with these fingers.

Back at home, I take a quick shower and put a little bit of oil in my curls before letting them air-dry while Clem gets dressed.

The doorbell rings, and I race to answer it. I swing open the door, and—“It’s only Hannah!” I call.

“Wow. Thanks,” she says.

“Sorry. I thought you were my tux delivery. But oh my God! Your hair!”

Her brows pop up expectantly. “You like?”