“Well, maybe they’re jealous,” Ava says. She pulls a box of nail polish out from under Danielle’s bed and begins rummaging through it. “Maybe it’s someone who loves Chase and she’s mad you got there first. Now that you’ve slept with him, nobody else is going to measure up.”

It’s just the kind of compliment Danielle needs, and I wonder if Ava is just trying to be a good friend or if it’s something she truly believes.

“That doesn’t narrow it down,” Danielle says. “Everyone loves Chase.”

I can tell she’s a little proud when she says it.

“Maybe Chase wrote it,” Ava says, and it’s like her compliment has been revoked. Sometimes I think it must be hard for Ava to have a best friend who will always be slightly meaner, braver, and better at getting in the last word. I understand the temptation to poke the bear, but I never would. Maybe my survival instincts are stronger. Or maybe I’m just scared.

“The winky face is the worst part,” I say, trying to deflect. “It’s kinda . . . sinister.”

Ava cracks open a bottle of nail polish and Danielle wrinkles her nose. “Are you seriously painting your nails right now? We’re eating.”

“I’m done.” Ava shrugs, beginning to paint her thumb green, the same color as her faded Saint Patrick’s Day hair.

“Your hands are covered in chicken, and that nail polish smell makes me want to gag.” Danielle closes the box of broccoli and sets it aside a little too forcefully, letting her anger out on the takeout instead of Ava. But we all know Ava’s getting off easy—Danielle can bite much harder than this.

Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out. There’s a text from an unknown number.

Hey work buddy

I feel my face flush, hope flooding through my chest. I never gave Dean my number, but maybe he got it from my paperwork.

Who is this?

I type back slowly, then set my phone down on the rug in front of me so I can see the screen, my heart thudding so loud I’m surprised the other girls can’t hear it. I put aside the carton of orange chicken I’ve been picking through, my hunger gone. An answer comes back almost immediately.

Who do you want it to be?

My cheeks redden and I feel my breath quicken. I pick up the phone and wait, unsure what to say. He writes again.

So how does Keely spend her Saturday nights?

There’s a pause and I stare at the “. . .” on the screen that means he’s still typing, trying to calm my racing heart. I save his number into my contacts as James Dean, grinning stupidly. He texts again.

I bet you’re on a date