“Callie, you’ve got lots of time.”

“I mean, I guess so,” I say. “What if I die tomorrow? My tombstone will just read, ‘She was kicked off the dance team, but at least they went to Nationals.’ I just feel like there’s all this pressure to suddenly know what I’m going to do now that I’m not a Shamrock. And honestly, I just don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to go to college. Or maybe I do, but I want to go to school in, like, Spain. Or hell, maybe I want to be a truck driver or—”

Millie laughs. “Don’t you get it?”

“What?”

“It doesn’t have to be pressure to find something new or be someone else all of a sudden. Maybe you do decide to go back to dance. You don’t need a team to dance. Or maybe you want to be an engineer or work at a makeup counter. It doesn’t matter. I know getting kicked off the Shamrocks stunk, but it doesn’t have to be this dark cloud forever. It can be a chance to find out who you really want to be.”

I’m quiet for a moment as all that sinks in. The only sound between us is a chorus of crickets and Amanda’s light snores. “That makes sense. It does. But I just want to know who I’m going to be so I can start being that person.”

“Even the wrong direction sometimes feels better than no direction at all.”

“Yes!” I say. “That. Exactly that.”

Millie half smiles. “But that doesn’t make it right. Sometimes the best things are worth waiting for. Don’t be scared to take your time.”

Something about what she’s said rings true, but it still puts my stomach in knots. Part of me doesn’t care who I am or what I’m doing as long as I’m at the top, but maybe that’s not how it has to be.

“It kind of reminds me of fat camp out here, and how quiet it was at night,” says Millie, interrupting my thoughts.

“Well, I guess that means you’ll have to come camping here again, since fat camp is a thing of the past.” For the first time, saying the word fat doesn’t make me feel anything. It’s just a word. It doesn’t make me feel like I’m holding it over someone as a way to make fun of them or like I’m being rude.

Millie smiles. “Yeah.” It comes out like a sigh. “I’d like that.”

“Hey, did you ever send in your application for journalism camp?” I ask.

“Just putting the finishing touches on my application. I made my audition video, too.”

“Shut up! I want to see.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret it a little bit. I’ve never been great at hiding my feelings and I might be a jerk, but I don’t want to hurt Millie.

She checks behind us to make sure everyone is asleep, Amanda included. “Okay, but you can’t laugh. The only other person who’s seen it is Malik, because he’s the one who helped me cut the whole thing together.”

We both sit up, and she pulls her cell phone out of the pocket of her lavender hoodie and scrolls through an album until she lands on a video.

I take the phone from her and hit play. I watch Millie, in a sharp blue suit, sitting behind a news desk. Her curls are a little too tight, and at first, she’s giving me deer-in-headlight vibes. But I think that’s just because I know everyday Millie. She delivers stories about our school and there are even fancy graphics. And she actually has some great jokes—better than our local weatherman, who dons a yellow raincoat and cranks up a wind machine anytime storms are in his forecast. I would even go so far as to say she’s charming. Her puns are cute and perfectly timed. And her lipstick! I know that lipstick.

The video cuts to a few shots where Millie is reporting “live,” and then it’s over, with short credits naming her and Malik.

I hand the phone back to her, and she waits in silence for my response.

“You. Were. Born. For. This,” I finally say, and to my horror, I hear my voice crack. God. When did I turn into such a feelsy loser?

“Oh my gosh,” says Millie, touching my leg. “Are you okay?”

I nod and laugh, tilting my head back like that might somehow keep the tears inside. “I’m great. I don’t know. Or maybe I’m not.” Dabbing my eyes, I look to her. “You were amazing, though. Like, if they don’t accept you, they have shit for brains. I mean, how are you so good at that? I feel like I’d be a total mess on camera.”

“Well,” she says. “I don’t know that I’m all that great, but I want to be better, which is why I need to get into this journalism camp. Because I want to be unstoppable. I want there to be no reason for people to say no to me. I want to be so perfect that if they’re going to say no to me because of this”—she motions down to her body—“then they’ll have to say so out loud to my face.”

“Wow.” I gasp. When did the tables turn? My life is in shambles, and Millie Michalchuk has her shit together. Like, really together. Or maybe I was always a wreck. “And your lipstick!”

“Revlon Certainly Red 740. Thanks to your mom.”

“I swear that lipstick is magic.”

“Something about it just made me feel . . . powerful. I didn’t know something as silly as red lips could make me feel like that.”

“That’s what it was,” I say. “You looked like you were in charge. Like you were calling the shots.”

“You wanna know what being friends with all those girls has taught me?” She motions with her chin back to the tents.

“What?” I ask.

“Sometimes you have to fake it till you make it. If I want to call the shots, I have to start acting like it. And when that camera turns on, it’s like someone flips a switch inside me and gives me permission to be the version of myself I only dream of.”

We both lie back again.

“So,” I say, “according to you, if I want people to treat me like a lobster, I have to act like a lobster?”

“No.” She laughs. “But yeah, in a way. Yeah.”

I think about that for a while. Acting like a queen bee definitely bumped me up the social ladder, but now it’s more obvious than ever to me that I was a total sham.

So maybe after all this time faking it, I should think carefully about the person I want to be. Maybe between that and my 0.10 percent wish, there’s hope for the future of Callie Reyes yet.

Millie

Twenty-Seven

After school on Tuesday, Callie and I make a brief stop at the post office before heading to Sonic and work.

I slide the gear into park just outside the front door and fish my large manila envelope from my backpack. I’ve addressed the envelope with my teal glitter marker and decided to use the limited-edition Harry Potter stamps I was saving for a special occasion.

“Nice stamps,” says Callie.

“You don’t have to make fun of me.”

She laughs. “No, really, I mean it. I especially like the Luna Lovegood one. In fact, if Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood had a baby, it’d be you.”

I squint. “I’m not sure you mean that as a compliment, but I’m going to take that as one, because Luna and Neville forever.”

“Totally a compliment,” she assures me.

“Maybe if I just pretend this letter is going to Hogwarts, I’ll be able to muster up the courage to walk inside and mail the dang thing.” Something about mailing this in real life feels irreversible.

Callie grips my leg. “Hey,” she says, her voice no louder than a whisper. “You’ve already done the hard part. You wrote the essay. You did the video. Shit, Millie, you’ve even submitted it online. All you have to do is walk in there and mail the damn thing.” She quickly adds, “And then break it to your mom.”

I glance over to her. “Well, suddenly this isn’t the hardest thing I have to do today.”

“Didn’t you need her signature for the application?” she asks.

“You could say I have a habit of forging my mother’s signature. It’s more of a vice, really.”

“Millicent Michalchuk!” she howls. “That is the most badass thing to come out of your mouth ever.”