Bethany grabs her bag. “Screw you, Cameron.” She walks off in a huff, not realizing the huge favor I’ve done her.

Nobody ever does. When they’re not calling me bitch, people have told me I’m overly honest. I know. I know I am. When you grow up with a dad like mine, whose unwaveringly direct commentary came with every one of the rare visits and phone calls we’ve had throughout my childhood, it’s just an instinct. He’s never wrong, either, even when his words hurt. Which they do—I know he’s a jerk. But he’s a successful jerk, with Fortune 500 profiles and penthouses on two continents. With every critique he’s given me, I could wither under his words and feel inferior or I could rise to them and become a better version of myself. I’ve always appreciated his honesty for that.

Bethany clearly sees things differently.

“What the hell?” Jeff asks, irritated. “Bethany was one hundred percent going to put out. You owe me.”

“Please. You owe me the ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”

He eyes me, his expression changing. His raised eyebrow makes me gag. “I could give you ten minutes,” he says in a voice he must imagine is seductive.

“I’d rather die.”

“Damn, Cameron,” he says. “You need to loosen up. Do the world a favor and get yourself laid. If you keep up this ice-queen routine, eventually there won’t be a guy left who’d do the job.”

“As long as you’re first on that list.” I’m ready for this conversation to be over.

“You don’t mean that. Come on, you’re coming to Skaˉra tonight, right? I’ll be there. We could—”

But I don’t hear whatever it is Jeff Mitchel wishes we could do tonight, because his offer, while thoroughly disgusting, reminds me of the missing item on my list. I return to my notebook and start writing.

         Find out if soccer team is going to Skāra

I may be a renowned “ice queen” on campus, but I won’t be for much longer. Not if a certain member of the soccer team comes to the North Hollywood nightclub where one of the cheerleaders is having a huge party tonight.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jeff whines, demanding my attention.

“Of course not.” I look up in time to see my two best friends approaching. Elle Li levels Jeff a look of such pure disgust she doesn’t even have to utter a word. Jeff picks up his backpack and finally gets out of my sight. I swear, she has a gift.

“Permission to rant?” I hear characteristic exasperation in Elle’s voice. She drops down across from me, Jeff entirely forgotten. I close my notebook as she and Morgan place their lunches on the table.

Morgan has her brilliantly blonde hair in an elaborate braid. She’s wearing a Dolce & Gabbana dress, but Morgan LeClaire could wear sweatpants and she’d look like a movie star. Because she pretty much is one. Her mom’s a record executive, and Morgan’s hung out with the Donald Glovers and Demi Lovatos of the world her whole life. She decided she wanted to act when she was ten, and a year ago her agent began booking her roles in local indies. On the bench next to Elle, she looks bored, and I get the feeling she heard the first half of Elle’s rant on the walk over from the dining hall.

Elle flits a perfectly manicured hand through her short, shiny black hair. She’s five foot two, and yet everyone—teachers included—agree she’s the most imposing person on campus.

Which is why I’m not about to interrupt her. “Permission granted,” I say, waving a hand grandly.

“MissMelanie got the Sephora sponsorship,” Elle fumes, her British accent coming out. She grew up in Hong Kong until she was ten and learned English at expensive private schools. “I made multiple videos featuring their lip liner. I even did a haul video where I spent seven hundred dollars of my own money on makeup I don’t need. I wrote kiss-ass-y emails to their head of digital promotions—for nothing. For them to go with an idiot like MissMelanie, who mixes up ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ in her comments.”

Ellen Li, or Elli to her 15 million YouTube subscribers, is one of the highest-viewed makeup artists for her online weekly tutorials. Every week she creates and models looks for everything from New Year’s Eve parties to funerals. She’s been on Forbes’s Highest-Paid YouTube Stars list twice.

Despite my complete and utter lack of interest in makeup or internet stardom, Elle and I are remarkably alike. She’s the only other person I know who understands how desperate and careless 99 percent of this school is. Elle’s unflinchingly honest, and she’ll do anything to achieve her goals. It’s why we’re inseparable.

And it’s why I know she can handle a little attitude in return. I cut her a dry look. “You know you’re acting incredibly entitled, right?”

Elle hardly even glances in my direction. “Obviously,” she says, hiding a smile. “I’m entitled to the Sephora sponsorship because of my hard work, just like I’m entitled to have you listen to me unload without complaining because I’ve come to every one of your interminable cross-country races.”

To be fair, this is true. Elle and Morgan have come to pretty much every race I can remember. They’re often the only people in the bleachers for me. They first came when I was a freshman, when I’d invited my dad because he happened to be in town for the week to woo investors for an upcoming stock offering. I’d gotten my hopes up he’d come and see me win. When I crossed the finish line, he wasn’t there—but Elle and Morgan were. They surprised me by coming, and it was the only thing that kept me from being crushed.