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  to me.

  Now, IMHO I have better things to do than figure out what or who is behind this conspiracy, let alone what the sinister motives are, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go to college and get stuck in a cycle of test taking (life is too short for that stress), so this is the first year I’ve said “hard pass” to the PSATs.

  Ashley Adler leans over my shoulder, her voice all fake and spun-sugar sweet. “Hey, Harper, your hair is looking a little . . . choppy. Having a bad hair day?” Um, one question: why is this bitch always sitting behind me?

  “More like a bad hair life.” Gigi O’Neil, her wing girl with eyelash extensions and too much lip liner, snickers.

  “Thanks for your heartfelt concern,” I say without turning around to face her, “but I’m fine.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Ashley continues. “You didn’t look fine in People mag leaving Moonshadows with Dalton James. I mean, did you think those ribbons covered up the massive chunk of hair missing from the back of your head? So weird, you’d think an Internet celeb such as yourself could afford a professional to effectively cover that thing up. I guess you’re not all that important after all.”

  I don’t respond, easily seeing through to her scalding jealousy. She’s never been in a tabloid, she’s never dated a celebrity. Hell, she’s never really dated anyone, probably because she is genuinely NOT A NICE PERSON. Could she be responsible for @ThatBitchHarper? She definitely has the tone down to a tee.

  “So what’s your score?” Gigi continues to prod.

  “I don’t have one,” I say without turning around to face her.

  “What? Everyone has one.” Ashley is beaming; I can practically hear it from behind me. “You can tell us, Harper, no need to be ashamed of a low score.”

  “I don’t have a score,” I say again, turning around this time, “because I didn’t take the test.”

  “Wait, are you serious? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why? The PSATs just aren’t in my lane. I’m following my success and my dreams, all right? The SATs are supposed to reflect college preparedness. When I take them next year they’ll reflect exactly how much high school has prepared me for college. Training myself until I’m able to get higher and higher scores doesn’t make sense to me. I am what I am.”

  “Well, as self-loving and inspirational as that sounds, it’s pretty naive. If you get a low score, you won’t get accepted into any good schools.”

  “Yeah,” adds Gigi, “you’ll have to go to, like, a state school.” She shudders, sticking her tongue out in disgust.

  “First of all, what’s wrong with a state school? I mean, so what?”

  The girls share a glance that seems to say Aww, poor Harper.

  “Harper,” Ashley begins to explain with a tone of exaggerated patience, “anyone can get into a state school. When you graduate college, no one will hire you because they’ll think you’re just a loser like everyone else. If you go to a state school, you won’t be special.”

  “There aren’t enough hours in a day for me to even begin explaining how twisted and classist that logic is.”

  “Oooh, twisted and classist. Miss Harper of the people. You’re so fake, Harper. We all know you’re just going to use Dalton’s fame to get into some Ivy League you aren’t smart enough to go to.” Ashley turns away, apparently finished with the conversation, and she and Gigi begin conferring about which top schools they’re already both thinking of applying to.

  I could use my own fame to get into an Ivy League, I think to myself, but am not proud of it.

  “Do you not have anything better to do than pick on me?” I try to block her out.

  “Too bad the whole world knows about your drug problem now. Probably couldn’t get into college at this point even if you wanted to. No one’s going to accept a crackhead, now are they?”

  “What are you talking about?” I spin around in my seat. Now she has my full attention.

  “I’m talking about @ThatBitchHarper. Haven’t you read her latest tweet?”

  “Her latest—”

  “YouTube ‘star’ Harper Ambrose isn’t so perfect after all.” Ashley’s reading off her phone loudly to anyone who is listening. People start leaning in to hear better. “She’s failing high school and inside sources say it’s all because her addiction to crack cocaine. Then there’s a frowny face emoji.” She gives me a very triumphant, practically evil stare. Murmurs run through the room.

  “Crack?” I can’t believe it. “Why on earth would I ever in a million years do crack? Where would I even get crack?”

  “I dunno.” She shrugs, “You tell me.”

  “I’m not addicted to crack. I’ve never tried crack or come close to trying it. No, you know what, this is fine, nobody’s going to believe her.”

  “I believe her,” says Ashley.

  “Me too,” says Gigi.

  “Sorry, let me rephrase that. Nobody who matters is going to believe her.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. A bunch of people are responding and it doesn’t look good.”

  I grab my phone and open Twitter. I have to see this for myself.

  Sure enough, my so-called fans are tweeting back at @ThatBitchHarper.

  @Harpernator12: @ThatBitchHarper, can’t believe I used to look up to a crack head! RIP role model!

  @Nmbr1HarperFan: @ThatBitchHarper Feel so betrayed. SMH.

  @HarperGoals: @ThatBitchHarper So gross. Doesn’t she know she’s going to lose her teeth? Didn’t realize she was dumb #disappointed.

  Um, what the HELL is happening right now? How could people who call themselves my fans possibly believe this made-up piece of gossip? Clearly I overestimated the loyalty of my followers. This is awful. What if this rumor spreads and everyone believes it and I start actually losing followers? What if it actually means I can’t go to college? Sure, I don’t know if I want to, but I’m not ready to give it up as an option! @ThatBitchHarper has officially gone from a nuisance to an actual threat. Now she’s crossed the line.

  * * *

  After class I’m determined to get the hell out of there, devising a plan to never see Ashley or any of her deranged groupies ever again, but Mrs. Bulow stops me at the door.

  “Harper, could you stay a moment?”

  “Erm . . . I kinda have to get to second period.”

  “I’ll write you a pass.”

  “Oh, uh . . . okay.” What could this possibly be about? Teachers never want to talk to me: I get good grades and I stay out of trouble. I’m an expert at staying under the radar.

  “I heard what Ashley and Gigi were saying to you,” she says sympathetically. Mrs. Bulow is a prim and proper lady. She wears her graying blond hair in a tight bun and a bronze brooch on her lapel.

  “Oh, yeah, that,” I say. “You don’t have to worry about that, I can handle those girls. It’s no big deal.”

  She smiles. “I’m sure you can, but here’s the thing. I know they’re mean girls and trying to hurt your feelings, but the fact of the matter is, they’re right. When it comes to college and the SATs, that is. You’re a smart girl, and believe me when I say you deserve an education of value and substance. At a state school or a . . . community college”—she speaks these words as if it’s painful to have them in her mouth—“you won’t be intellectually stimulated. Those students don’t take learning seriously, and it will be way too easy for you to fall into a hole of parties and boys.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Before you say you know what you want, let me just give you something. One moment.” She turns to her desk, takes out a stack of ultra-collegiate-looking folders, and hands them to me. Smith, Wellesley, and Sarah Lawrence.

  “I know, I know, all-girls schools probably aren’t the most appealing of options, especially for someone like you—”

  “Wait, why for someone like me?”

  “Well, you’re very focused on your appearance, hair, and makeup and clothes are the center of your life. Aren’t they? That�
�s what that channel thing you film is all about . . . the BooTube? WhoTube?”

  “YouTube,” I correct her through gritted teeth, barely keeping my temper in check.

  Mrs. Bulow nods encouragingly, as if she didn’t just basically call me shallow and say something wildly insulting. “Exactly. And who can blame you? You’re sixteen and you’ve already made a career off these things, the art of being attractive to the opposite sex. I hear the students chattering, I know your success has led to some fame. So why would you want to go to college? Especially an all-girls college, where there are no boys to appreciate all the effort you put into your appearance? But what I’m trying to say is, I think it would be really good for you to be in an environment where appearances don’t matter and you can really focus on your studies and on bettering yourself as a human being from the inside. Does any of what I’m saying make sense to you?”

  Mrs. Bulow’s words feel like a slap in the face. I know she didn’t intend to be hurtful, but she was. ICYMI (in case you missed it), Mrs. Bulow just implied that I am boy crazy and vain, and that if I continue on this path of boy craziness and vanity without going to college (God forbid), things won’t turn out so well for me. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, understands me at this stupid school.

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Bulow,” I say, looking up from the university information folders, “you’ve got me all wrong.”

  “Oh?” She sounds as though she doesn’t actually care to hear what I have to say—it doesn’t matter to her, she thinks she already has me all figured out—but I keep going anyway.

  “Yes, I like boys. I do. But my hair and clothes and makeup—none of this is for them, it’s for me. It’s my method of self-­expression; it’s how I create a safe place for myself. And my videos aren’t designed to help girls get the guy, they’re designed to help girls to feel beautiful in their own skin regardless of what boys or even the other girls at school think. And sure, maybe I’d like a college education—I do love learning, I really do—­but I don’t like it when other people, people who don’t know me, think it’s what I need. How is telling girls they need a college education any better than telling girls they need a husband? If you ask me, it’s just another way to tell us who to be and what to do, instead of letting us discover who we are for ourselves. Thank you for these, I’ll look them over, but for now I have to get to class.”

  I turn on my heel without another word and head down the hallway of the language building, feeling high off a major adrenaline rush. Whoa. Where did those words even come from? From my soul, that’s where. I’m feeling empowered, I’m feeling strong. What I said was true. I don’t need college any more than I need a man, and I can’t let society—I won’t let society—tell me who to be or how to live my life. And what’s more, I won’t let anyone make me feel bad about who I am or the choices I make.

  * * *

  The school day ends with me feeling refreshed and renewed. It feels amazing to realize that I actually like myself and the person I’m growing into, even if that person doesn’t end up going to college or pleasing the high school administration. Surely I’m on this planet for reasons other than to do what other people want me to do, and as I walk out to my car I’m thrilled by this new realization. Aaanndd that’s when things take a bit of a turn.

  My car won’t start. As it turns out, I left all my lights on while I was in school for six hours, and now the battery is dead. Why, universe, why? What are you trying to tell me?! I close my eyes and grip the steering wheel as if praying for an answer, but none comes. Maybe because I’m not so much praying as I am repeating, “Ughhhhhhh, so annoyyinggg,” over and over in my head.

  I can’t call my mom or dad. They’re both at work and have explicitly said to stop interrupting their workdays with this type of thing (I’d be lying if I said it’s never happened before).

  “Use your Triple A card next time, sweetie,” Mom had said. “That’s what it’s for.”

  But I don’t want to call stupid Triple A, I want to call Ellie. With a heavy dose of nostalgia, I remember the time her car died at my house the morning after a Mumford & Sons show at the Palladium. My parents weren’t home and we took it upon ourselves to try to jump-start her car using the cables I had in my trunk. We didn’t know anything about cables or engines and the whole thing was an epic fail, but we laughed our way through it. Then it had started raining and we had no choice but to laugh even harder. I wish more than anything in that moment that I could call Ellie and she’d forgive me and we could try to work this one out together, like old times. I pick up my phone and start to dial her number but then think better of it. This isn’t the time, I thought. I would hate for her to think I was reaching out only because I wanted help. I need my apology to be pure so that she knows how sorry I really am.

  Reluctantly, I call AAA, but they won’t be able to get to me for an hour. Of course, just my luck. Just then a black Jeep pulls up next to mine, and who might it be? None other than Jack Walsh. He motions for me to roll down my window, which I can’t do, because my car is dead, so I open my door instead.

  “Hey, you all right?” he asks, reading my face, which is no doubt disgruntled by this point. Why does he have a habit of turning up when I’m a hot mess?

  “My car won’t start.”

  “Sometimes you have the worst luck.” He smiles kindly, sympathetically.

  “Yeah,” I say, “sometimes.”

  “I’d offer you a ride, but you probably just wanna call AAA.”

  “I just called them, actually. They’ll be here in an hour.”

  “An hour? That seems like a long time for them.”

  “That’s what they said.” I shrug.

  “Well, I think I already know your general attitude on the subject, but I’m gonna ask anyway: are you in the mood for Ben & Jerry’s? Just something to do until Triple A gets here?”

  “You know what?” I think about it for a moment, and then ­decide. “I’d love some ice cream right about now.”

  * * *

  Ben & Jerry’s is and always has been one of my very favorite places. The cool air-conditioning, the paintings of cows grazing on grass, the quirky little drawings on the tables all about the company’s ­illustrious history, and best of all, the smell of rainbow sprinkles and baked waffle cones that permeates literally everything in the parlor. Parlor, is that the right word? What qualifies a place as a parlor? Is serving ice cream enough, or does it need to be all fancy and old-fashioned? Maybe I have it all wrong, maybe a parlor is something else entirely. Hmmm . . .

  This is the road my mind is wandering down when Jack interrupts my thoughts. “Mint chocolate cookie with rainbow sprinkles in a rainbow-sprinkled cone?” he asks me point-blank.

  “What?” I look at him, baffled, as if he’s speaking some foreign language.

  He laughs. “Mint chocolate cookie with rainbow sprinkles in a rainbow-sprinkled cone,” he repeats. “Is that still your Ben & Jerry’s order of choice?”

  “Yes! How could you possibly remember that?” I can’t help it, I’m equal parts stunned and delighted.

  “How could I possibly not remember that? You always got the exact same thing whenever you, Gwen, and I went out for ice cream together. It was always one of my favorite things about you.”

  “But you . . .” I search for the right words, but suddenly my brain feels scrambled and fuzzy. “You didn’t even notice me.”

  “I did, though. I thought you knew that.” His eyes are inscrutable as his gaze meets mine, and I don’t entirely dislike the way this makes me feel. Which in and of itself is disarming.

  “Next?” The woman up at the counter asks for our order.

  “One mint chocolate cookie with rainbow sprinkles in a ­rainbow-sprinkled cone.” Jack takes the initiative, ordering for me. “And one fudge sundae in a cup, please.” He looks back and smiles at me. “And you know what? Go ahead and throw some rainbow sprinkles on there too.”

  Oh no. Feelings. Happening. Warm. Fluttery. Must. S
top. Feelings. Must. Stop. Warm. Fluttery. Feelings. From. Happening. For almost two whole years I’ve kept my crush on Jack at bay, but now, standing here in one of the sweetest, most sugary rooms on earth, it’s all flooding back. Well, it’s too late, Jack, I say to him, except silently and only in my head, you had your chance and you blew it. I’m with Dalton now, and he treats me right, so there. This train has sailed. What? No, this ship has sailed. This train has left the station? You have to get out of here, I tell myself, get out while you still can.

  “Oh, hey, you know what?” I look down at my phone. “Triple A is almost at my car. I’m gonna head back.”

  “Wait, I’ll take you.”

  “No, no, it’s okay, really. I’m just going to . . . run.”

  “You’re going to run all the way back to campus?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, have my ice cream for me, and I promise I’ll pay you back at school tomorrow. Promise.” I sprint out the door and run a few blocks, then stop to catch my breath. My heart is pounding. Why did I have to literally run? The sun beats down on me and one thing becomes crystal clear: I am a hot mess.

  Before I can even try to begin to understand what just happened in there with Jack, my phone vibrates. It’s a Twitter notification. Not just any Twitter notification, it’s from @ThatBitchHarper. Goddammit, this is the last thing I need right now.

  @ThatBitchHarper: Spotted: Harper riding in cars with boys, PLURAL. Turns out this wannabe celeb wants to have her rainbow-sprinkled ice cream cone and eat it too. Maybe @DaltonJamesOfficial isn’t the only player in this “relationship.”