Natalie went upstairs to get ready. It was right here in her mother’s bedroom that she had dressed up for her first school dance. Eighth grade. She’d been yearning for Jordie Bates to ask her, but Jordie was way out of her league. So when Louis Melville asked her instead, she said yes and nearly threw up with nerves on the big day. “I look horrible,” she’d said to her mother. “I have a zit. My hair’s not right. I dance like a dork.”

Her mother had waited patiently through the rant, as she usually did. “Are you finished?”

“Probably not, but I’ll take a break.”

“Remember Forever by Judy Blume? Everything you’re thinking right now is the same thing every other girl thinks before a date.”

“How do you know?” Natalie had been resentful. She wanted her pain and anxiety to be uniquely hers.

“You’ll have to trust that I know. When I was your age, there was a Jordie Bates in my class, too. There’s always a Jordie Bates. Mine was named Anders Gundrum. All the girls were in love with him but none of us was beautiful enough or funny or charming enough to be chosen by him. And that yearning—oh my God. I can still feel it to this day. It was all such a grand adventure.”

Natalie had stared at her image in the old-fashioned oval mirror, which Mom called a cheval glass, which of course she’d learned about from one of those historical romance novels she read late at night. Staring back at her was a skinny, anxious girl with curly hair that went in the wrong direction and a prominent zit on her forehead. She was wearing a Betsey Johnson dress that all the girls at school craved. She prayed no one would know it came from a thrift store. Even though May Lin had expertly altered it to fit her perfectly, Natalie was paranoid that someone would figure out it was from a secondhand shop.

“I think I’d rather stay home and read,” she said.

“Over here.” Mom sat her down on the vanity stool. She placed a finger under Natalie’s chin and went to work with a concealer sponge, then highlighter and a light dusting of powder, and finally strawberry lip gloss. She used a curling iron on Natalie’s hair to smooth her frizz into soft waves.

“Now,” Mom said as she worked, “I’m going to say all the things, and you won’t believe me even though I’m right, but I’m going to say them anyway. Ready?”

“Ready,” Natalie said glumly.

“Listen. You are everything you think you’re not—smart, funny, pretty, polite, clever, and a joy to be with. And I’m not saying that because I’m your mother. I’m saying it because it’s true and I wish you would believe it.”