“Put that on,” she orders.

“Uh-uh,” I shake my head. “No offense, but those onesie things remind me of something a toddler would wear. Also, how do you pee once it’s on?”

“You just pull it down,” Patricia laughs.

“Like, all the way?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m totally naked?”

“Basically.”

“How am I going to do that down on the beach?”

“You just . . . sometimes you have to suffer to look sexy,” Patricia informs me.

“That doesn’t sound like a great trade-off.”

“Not even for Nero?” she says, giving me a mischievous look.

Man, she is really not going to let that die.

“Especially not for him,” I say.

“Bullshit!” Patricia says. “I know there’s something going on with you two. You’re coming to parties all of a sudden. He’s saving you from cops . . .”

I press my lips together, like that’s going to suddenly help me become a better liar.

“Out with it!” Patricia says.

This is not a friendly glass of wine. She’s a goddamn CIA interrogator.

“Fine!” I shout, cracking like I’m being waterboarded. “We did kiss.”

“I knew it!” she whispers, eyes alight with glee.

“But that’s it!” I hastily add. “And it’s probably never happening again.”

“Probably . . .” Patricia says.

“Most likely. Almost definitely.”

“Right.” She grins. “And?”

“And what?”

“Does he taste like cherry pie?”

“No,” I laugh. “He smells amazing though . . .”

“God, I know . . .” Patricia groans. “I tried his jacket on once in high school. I wanted to live inside it forever . . .”

“His sweat is like catnip. It makes my head spin.”

It feels good to admit this to someone.

Patricia is loving it—discovering that I do have feelings after all. Every once in a while.

“That’s it,” she says. “We’re going all the way tonight. You’re going to look fucking gorgeous.”

I let her pull me into the bathroom. She spends almost an hour on my hair and face.

The hair is the trickiest bit.

“Do you use a pre-shampoo treatment?” Patricia asks me.

“Like . . . brushing it?” I say.

“Sweet baby Jesus, please tell me you don’t brush your hair.”

“I mean . . . I kinda have to.”

“Oh my god. A wide-tooth comb, woman, never a brush. What about your deep conditioner? And do you use a satin-wrap at night?”

“I use Suave shampoo . . .”

Patricia gasps like I’ve shot her.

“You’re KILLING me,” she hisses.

With a lot of leave-in conditioner, and an infinite amount of patience, Patricia manages to tame my mane and turn it into something that actually looks intentional—or at least, less electrocuted.

She spends a long time on my face, too, moisturizing my skin and shaping my brows before she even starts applying makeup.

As she rubs the moisturizer under my eyes and across my cheeks with smooth, steady strokes of her thumb, I could almost cry. I’ve never been taken care of like this. It’s so gentle, and so loving.

“What’s wrong?” Patricia says.

“Sorry,” I sniff. “I just . . . uh . . . my mom never showed me how to do my hair and all this stuff.”

Patricia puts down the bottle of moisturizer and hugs me.

“Sorry,” I say again. “I know this is stupid. I’m an adult, I could have learned it myself . . .”

“It’s seriously no problem,” Patricia says. “Just please, show me how to change the oil in my car, because I haven’t done it since I bought it.”

“Deal,” I say, hugging her back a little too hard.

“Alright,” Patricia says finally, when she’s finished working on my face. “Take a look.”

She turns me around to face the mirror.

It’s funny, because I don’t look so different—it’s still me. Just a version of me that glows like a fucking angel. A hint of shine on the lips and cheeks, a little swipe of eyeliner, and a mane of soft, spiraling curls, dark at the roots, fading down to a sun-kissed caramel at the ends.

Even the romper looks pretty damn cute. It hangs off my shoulders, leaving them bare, with patterned bands of green, blue, and cream that look pretty and summery, without being too bright.

Patricia lends me sandals and little beaded hoop earrings, until suddenly I’ve got an actual outfit.

Then Patricia gets herself ready, which takes a quarter of the time with no less stunning results. She puts on a loose white summery top with shorts that make her legs look about a mile long, and pulls her hair up in her signature high ponytail.

“Okay, damn,” I say. “Why are you so good at making people look hot?”

“I know!” Patricia grins. “I missed my calling as a celebrity stylist.”

We drive Patricia’s car over to Osterman Beach. It only takes a few minutes, since it’s right on the opposite side of Lincoln Park. It’s almost midnight by now, and I’m confused because usually the public beaches are closed by this time. Not to mention the fact that bonfires and alcohol are banned at all times.

“Aren’t we going to get kicked out?” I say to Patricia.

“Nope,” she shakes her head. “Miles Kelly is throwing the party. His dad is the Super of the Parks Department. As long as we don’t murder anybody, we’ll be fine. And even then . . . depends who does the murdering.”

Sure enough, even though the long stretch of cool sand is deserted, nobody stops us walking down to the water. I can see the bonfire already blazing out of its cubby of sand—at first, a distant torch, and then as we draw closer, a beacon that shows the silhouetted figures clustered around.

I look back toward Lincoln Park. From the water, you see three distinct vistas layered on top of each other—the beach, then the leafy green park behind, and beyond that, the jutting fingers of the skyscrapers in the downtown core. It looks odd, like the three different views don’t belong together.

It’s equally strange to see the beach so empty. I can hear the waves crashing gently on the sand. I can see faint stars in the black half-dome of the sky.

It’s difficult to recognize anybody around the fire. Everybody looks orange and glowing, only parts of their faces illuminated. Levi and Sione stand out, because Levi’s blond hair is impossible to miss, and so is Sione’s bulk. I’m guessing the figure next to them is that idiot Pauly. When I spot Ali Brown, I wave to her.

She ambles over to Patricia and me.

“Drink?” she says, offering us each a Heineken.

“Thanks,” Patricia says, popping the caps off with her keys.

“You look different,” Ali says, gazing at me with her dreamy eyes.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “Patricia dressed me up . . .”

“No, not the clothes,” Ali says. “It’s your face. You look excited.”

I had just been scanning the rest of the partygoers, searching for Nero. I blush, embarrassed that I was being that obvious.