The rules, right. Jayla and I made a list of them on our way to the con. I’ve been mostly focusing on the first three, with varying degrees of success. Rule One: I can’t practice cello, nor can I do any homework this entire weekend. (Half credit; I’ve been practicing this whole time, but only in my head.) Rule Two: When not helping my parents in their booths, I can’t sit in my room obsessing over the audition. (Okay, she’s got me there; I’m totally failing at this one.) Rule Three: I have to try a new food at each restaurant we eat at. (Switching from Sprite to Cherry Coke counts. Fight me.)

“You’re going to flip when you see yourself,” Jayla squeals, pressing another feather to my eyelid.

“In a good way, or . . . ?” I fake cringe, and she smacks my arm.

“Yes, in a good way. Now sit still.”

Not that I really doubted it. Jayla is to makeup and fashion what I am to music—top tier, the best of the best, no apologies—except nobody would ever say her work lacks passion. She’s been planning on going to FIT her entire life, and her new obsession with cosplay has given her an extra excuse to flex her fashion muscles.

“Annnnnd done,” Jayla says, and I open my eyes.

I blink twice. I look . . . amazing. My dark brown hair is piled high on my head in an elaborate updo with long feathers streaming out in different directions. She’s blended shimmery teal and green eye shadows together around my eyes and added little dots of eyeliner to accentuate the corners, and then there are the feathers. The feathers! Tiny little teal things, curled to perfection, adorn each eyelid, transforming me into something more akin to a magical forest creature than a cellist. I’ve disappeared completely into Mora, the badass peacock-inspired leader from my stepmom’s famous Fighting Flock comic series.

Jayla turns back to putting the finishing touches on her own makeup in the mirror, gently dabbing bright white spots onto her dark brown skin. “Go get your dress on. I’m almost done.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, hopping off the counter. I grab my emerald-green dress off the hook and disappear into the bedroom to get changed. I bought this dress for a school dance a few months ago—Jayla said the color “really popped” against my fair skin—but she’s modified it pretty heavily since then, changing the cut, adorning it with feathers, and just generally turning it into a gown fit for peacock royalty.

I glance at the time and groan. “Prom started fifteen minutes ago.”

“We’re supposed to be fashionably late,” Jayla calls back through the bathroom door.