“Ooh, great idea—they’re so bright. He really does like stuff that stands out,” muses Sabrina, and maybe she only means flowers and not girls, but I still can’t help feeling like a dowdy little chamomile blossom next to her in all her glorious, sophisticated calla lily beauty.

I arrange the tiger lilies and the sunflowers with some bay branches for victory and fennel fronds for strength and worthiness. When I’m finished, I wrap the arrangement up in a bright paper cone and tie a big golden bow around the whole thing. It does look impressive, an enormous armful of bright orange and yellow, and for a moment I feel better. I’ve done good work.

Sabrina purses her lips and tilts her head as she scrutinizes the results. “It looks a little off. Could you like . . . move this one over there? And that one . . . make it higher up?” She reaches over and points and prods as she explains exactly how she wants me to do my job.

Holding back a sigh, I rearrange the flowers and hold them up for Sabrina to see, and she nods her approval. “So much better.”

The worst part? It is better.

I ring her up as Owen chats with her about some essay they have to do for English. After she pays, she fusses with the bow one more time, then holds out her arms to receive the bouquet.

“Thanks for being so patient. It’s just that I’m kind of a perfectionist. It’s a thing.” She smiles at me: Sorry, not sorry, and tosses a “Thanks, byeee!” and one last smile over her shoulder as she sashays out the door. I clench my teeth on my frustration and—let’s be honest—my envy and my insecurities. Smile as I wave back and swallow everything down.

“Good luck with those,” I call. Then when the door closes: “Ughhhh.” I can feel the ugliness churning inside me.

“Whoa. Not a Sabrina fan, I guess?” says Owen.

“No. I mean. I don’t hate her or anything. It’s just that she—” I look at Owen, who’s watching me intently, and I hesitate. This is dumb. He doesn’t need to know. I need to chill.

“She rearranged the bouquet,” he says.

It’s like he’s popped open a shaken-up soda can: sklick! Everything comes bubbling out. “Yes! Who does that? Who walks around with that kind of attitude?” I flip my hair and sashay around the store. “I’m Sabrina Dang! I’m better at everything than everyone! Byeee!” Owen’s still giving me that intense listening face, and I become uncomfortably aware of how ridiculous I’m being. I sigh. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if she had, like, a black belt in floral design or something.”

“Is that how they rate floral designers? I didn’t know.” Owen grins at me from behind the counter.