THAT AFTERNOON, I took my lunch tray directly to the AV room, glad not to be yanked in this time.

The other four were already there, stationed around the table. A blank whiteboard rested on an easel in front of the shelves and shelves of DVDs and VHS tapes. Why did the school still have those? Didn’t they know they could just stream everything now?

Jordan looked up at me from her phone, a lovestruck smile on her face. “Who’s the guy?” I asked, recognizing the dopey look from Aiden and

Casey.

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down, sending her curly hair tumbling over her shoulders. “My boyfriend.”

“Does he go here?” Ginger asked.

She shook her head. “Brentwood U.”

“A college guy?” Zara asked, an impressed expression on her face. “Nice.”

“Well, he’s no Ryde Alexander, but…” She shrugged. “That’s fine by me.”

I groaned. “Please, no Alexander names spoken in this room.” I didn’t need any more reminders that Merritt’s older brother was a movie star, and she was destined to follow in his footsteps once she graduated. That was her father’s rule. Education first, then stardom. It had to be easy when your family had more connections than LAX.

Jordan shrugged and turned her phone face down. “So, strategy. Callie, did you get anything out of Carson?”

She smiled proudly. “It took some prodding. And some bribery with beef jerky from Heywood Market, but…” She pulled a binder from her backpack and flipped it open. “I have notes. Okay, first, Beckett goes to parties. A lot. I guess his dad travels all the time for work, and he kind of does what he wants.”

Ginger went to the whiteboard and wrote “Parties.”

Just the word made me cringe. I wasn’t the partying type. I was the sit- in-my-room-and-watch-movies kind of girI, which explained why I had no friends. I got along with people, sure, but as far as a best friend I could tell everything to? Casey was the closest I had.

I covered my face at it all. What did it say about me that I needed an entire team to help a guy be interested in me? Then again, the guy was Beckett Langley.

“Carson said Beck’s being scouted to some major college programs but stays pretty low-key about it,” Callie continued. “Maybe means he’s modest?”

Zara shrugged. “Or he doesn’t want to go.”

The idea of Beckett not playing professional football was as foreign as Michael Jordan not playing basketball. “I’d be surprised.”

Ginger nodded.

“Okay, next,” Zara said to Callie.

“This one was kind of confusing,” Callie said. “He doesn’t make any plans on Tuesday nights. Like ever. But no one knows where he goes.”

Zara’s eyes lit up. “Bingo.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. It wasn’t like he needed to be available every single night.

“You don’t think it’s weird that a guy like him wouldn’t have something going on? He could be ‘Netflix and Chilling’ with any girl at Emerson, and he chooses nothing? He has a secret he’s not sharing with anyone. It could be something special between the two of you.”

“So what?” I asked. “We follow him?”

I was kidding, but there was no humor in Zara’s eyes as she nodded. “Callie, Ging, and Jordan will tail him after school and then tell you and me where he goes.”

Jordan frowned. “I can’t. I have to work.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. While I got to teach paint nights for fun, Jordan was probably one of three students at Emerson who actually had

to work a job, not just for the experience.

Zara didn’t bat an eye. “That’s fine. You two got it covered?” she asked Callie and Ginger.

They nodded.

“And what are we doing while they follow him?” I asked.

Her eyes glinted. “I think it’s time for a little update to your look.” “What look?” I asked sans humor. I had no style—not that a school

uniform allowed for much personalization, but I didn’t even wear makeup. “Exactly.”

That was how I found myself walking over the marble floors of Emerson Shoppes with Zara Bhatta and her father’s limitless credit card.

My parents were well-off—that’s how they afforded our tuition at Emerson, along with the discount Mom got for being a teacher—but Zara’s family was filthy stinking rich. The kind of rich where she didn’t even look at price tags before buying things or ordering at restaurants.

She walked me into a makeup store with glass counters, and the salespeople flocked to her like she’d personally invented nude lipstick.

“Zara, how are you?” a girl with heavily painted eyebrows and contoured features asked.

“Good, but not as good as my friend is about to be,” Zara answered with a grin. “Kim, this is Rory. She needs completely done up.”

Kim examined me like I might a blank canvas. I supposed in a way I was. But fear gripped my oversized stomach at the idea of having eyebrows that pronounced and attempting lipliner. I’d look like a clown. Or a drag queen.

I managed a queasy smile. “I’d be happy if you just covered my acne.”

Kim grinned. “That’s where we’ll start.” She led me to a chair that was made for girls with way smaller asses than mine. I sighed and perched atop it, glad the thing looked like it was made of stainless steel. I could only imagine the looks I’d get breaking a chair and crashing into one of the displays.

While Kim went in search of product, Zara moved the mirror away and said, “Listen, Ror, I know your type.”

“My type?” I sputtered.

She arched one of her perfectly plucked brows. “The kind of girl who doesn’t wear makeup and throws her hair up in a ponytail thinking she can fly under the radar.” She squared her shoulders. “You’re going to argue

about how much makeup you want to wear and say it’s too much work, but I want you to think about something. You’ve never done yourself any favors by trying to blend in. You’ve only helped everyone else.”

“Huh?” was all I could manage with so many emotions toying with my thoughts.

“You shrinking away just gives all the Merritts of the world even more chances to shine.”

How had Zara managed to make me feel guilty now for not knowing the difference between plum and cranberry shades of lipstick? Because I did, and now I regretted all the times I’d passed a makeup counter or shied away from yearbook photos because I was worried about someone seeing me. And how I saw myself.

“Just trust me,” Zara said. “And if it doesn’t work, you can give it up after homecoming. But I want us to give this a real, honest shot. I think we can really do this.”

Her confidence tugged at my lack thereof. “You mean it?” She nodded. “I wouldn’t be here right now if I didn’t.”

I took a deep breath and steadied myself. “Okay. Go ahead.” I waved my hand at Kim, who was hovering near us now. “Do your damage.”

An hour of tugging and painting later, I gripped the mirror in both of my hands, not believing it. For the first time in my life, I looked…did I dare say the word? Beautiful. And not in the all-people-are-beautiful way. In the traditional beauty way that people who aren’t your parents can recognize. And it felt…incredible to see myself and not need to justify anything.

Zara looked at me like I was her pride and joy. “Look at you. Beckett

has to look at you now.”

In addition to twisting a curling iron through my hair to produce smooth waves, they’d made my lips a soft berry pink and accented the apples of my cheeks with a soft blush. And then my eyes—I’d never seen them look this round. With the neutral eyeshadow and brown eyeliner, I didn’t look made up; I looked like me.

If any version of me was going to grab Beckett’s attention, it was this one.

Zara’s phone rang with Callie’s name flashing on the screen. She picked it up and held it to her ear. “He’s where?” She nodded. “Got it. Sending our girl that way.”

I looked at her quizzically. “What did they say?”

“They found him. Time to go.”