Martin said I was supposed to learn a lesson from my superpower. Is the Archibald-and-Maggie vision the lesson? Maybe what I’m supposed to learn is how big and strong love can be, and how long it can last. Their vision is the only one I’ve ever seen that doesn’t end in heartbreak. Not every couple is Mom and Dad.

I fall asleep thinking about the fact that even though I’ve been trying to deny it, I’m in love with Xavier Darius Woods, and I have been for a while now.

CHAPTER 46

Danceball

DANCEBALL SATURDAY FINALLY arrives. X and I were up talking on the phone, so I only get two hours of sleep before my alarm wakes me up at six-thirty. If Fifi figures out I haven’t gotten a full night’s rest, she’ll kill me with her stilettos.

By the time I’m showered and dressed, I feel more awake. Unfortunately, I don’t look as awake as I feel. I poke at the dark circles under my eyes for a few seconds before deciding I need professional help.

I knock on Danica’s door three times, but she’s either still asleep or ignoring me.

I ease open her door. “Dani,” I whisper-shout.

She groans and buries her head under her pillow. “Go away.”

“I’m sorry. I need makeup help.”

She unburies herself and squints over at me. Her face is puffy and she’s wearing her silk sleep cap, but somehow she still looks great. “I was having a really good dream,” she says.

“Danceball is today and I didn’t get any sleep and I look terrible.”

She sits halfway up and plucks her phone from her nightstand. “It’s seven twenty-three a.m., Evie. On a Saturday.”

“I need you, Doctor Dani,” I say.

She sits all the way up now. “Wow,” she says, “you haven’t called me that in forever.”

It’s true. It’s been so long I can’t actually remember the last time.

When Danica first discovered the wondrous world of makeup, I was the one she did all her experimenting on. I’d pretend to be a patient whose face needed (cosmetic) saving and she’d be the genius young surgeon, the only one with enough guts and talent to help me. She’s made me into a ’60s hippie love child, a ’70s disco diva, an ’80s bubblegum-pop star. I’ve been glam, metal, hip-hop, punk rock, goth and more.

I don’t remember when we stopped playing or why.

“Can you save me, Doc?” I make my voice low and gravelly and clutch at my face, pretending to be sick.

She laughs and bounces out of bed to inspect my face. “It’ll be close,” she says, touching the dark circles under my eyes. “You’re pretty far gone.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” I protest.

“I’m sorry, but are you the doctor?”

“No,” I grumble.

“All right, I think I can save you,” she says.

She leads me to her vanity and goes to work on me.

Forty-five minutes later, she spins me around to face the mirror. “What do you think?” She dabs at my cheek with one of her sponges.

I lean close to the mirror and gawk at myself. “Dani, it’s incredible.”

Her eyes fly to mine, and I can see she’s relieved that I like it.

I lean closer. Somehow Dani made me look bold but not garish. Also, I look like I’ve slept for as long as Sleeping Beauty.

When and why did I stop thinking it was cool that she’s good at this? I stand up and throw my arms around her, glad my lack of sleep forced me to ask her for help.

“Oh my God, don’t mess up your face,” she squeals, surprised by my attack. She hesitates for a few seconds, but then she hugs me back.

“Thanks, Doc,” I say. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she says.

* * *

——

Danceball is in the grand ballroom of the Seasons hotel. The theme is “Hollywood Glamour,” which apparently means gold. Because there is gold everywhere. Gold streamers, towers of gold balloons, gold confetti on the ground. All the signage is written in gold cursive, including a huge banner that reads Welcome to the 17th Annual Los Angeles Danceball Championships.

My stomach does a nervous two-step and I squeeze Mom’s hand. We make our way to the registration desk.

“A lot of you amateurs dancing today,” says the lady checking me in.

“How many?”

“Twenty-three.” She hands me my envelope and wishes me luck.

Twenty-three couples means there’ll be two quarterfinal heats to determine who gets into the semis. I open my packet and check to make sure all our details are right. Age group: Under 21. Partnership Type: Am-Am. Category: Bronze Newcomer. Style: Nightclub.

As (bad) luck would have it, our couple number is also twenty-three. Since we have the highest number, X and I will be always the last ones called when the judges announce which dancers are moving on. If we get called.

X and I agreed to meet downstairs at the designated practice floor.

I spot him right away, leaning against the wall next to the practice room. He looks the opposite of how I feel. Relaxed. Confident.

I wave at him. He pushes off the wall and walks over to us.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Thomas,” he says to Mom.

“Well, don’t you look wonderful,” she says. “You boys should have to wear this sort of thing all the time.”

He hooks his thumbs into his suspenders. “Not sure these are the next big thing for eighteen-year-olds, Ms. T,” he says, grinning.

While they chitchat, I let my eyes travel all over him. He looks the same as he did in rehearsal yesterday, but somehow better. His black patent-leather shoes are shined to glistening. His shirt is perfectly pressed. But it’s the top two buttons that snag my attention. They’re unbuttoned, and for a second I see my fingers unbuttoning a third and a fourth, until—

“Evie, you ready for this?” he asks just as I’m getting to the fifth button.

Yes.

So, so ready.

“Yes,” I say at a completely unnecessary volume.

Mom rubs my shoulder and leans in close. “I don’t remember him being this cute,” she whispers.

I shush her and sneak a glance at X’s face, hoping he didn’t hear her.

Mom gives me a hug and a kiss and wishes us luck before taking off to meet Archibald and Maggie and Fifi upstairs.