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  “It’s Dalton James. I’ve had a crush on him for as long as I can remember.”

  “That pale ghost boy from Sacred?”

  “He’s not so pale in real life. Look.” I direct her attention ­toward Dalton across the patio, where he is now sipping from a Coke can handed to him by anonymous buddy number one.

  “Wow,” she admits, “that is one smoldering ghost.”

  “He’s not a ghost! He just plays one on TV. Well, in the movies.”

  “Yes, Harper, I do understand that he’s not an actual ghost.” She rolls her eyes at me and we giggle in a way that I haven’t done in years. “You gotta go talk to him!”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Go say hi! You’ll beat yourself up over it later if you don’t.”

  “I’ll beat myself up even more if I go over there and make a fool out of myself!”

  “Oh, you won’t. You’ll be super charming, it will be great.”

  I roll my eyes at Ellie. “Um, hello, have you met me? I will most certainly make a fool out of myself. I’ll freeze up and regret the whole thing for the rest of my life.”

  “Okay, fine, so you’ll freeze up or you’ll trip or you’ll say something horribly embarrassing, but I promise you that will be better than if you never seize the moment and have to live in a constant state of wondering what could have been. I know it sounds cliché, but I’m your friend and you’ve been saying you want to start living life to the fullest and get over this shyness spell, so I’m gonna make you!” She spoke triumphantly, snatching my uncased rose-gold iPhone 6s out of my hand.

  “What are you doing?! Give me my phone, weirdo.”

  “Nope. Not until you go talk to Dalton.”

  “Oh my god, you’re insane.” I try to grab for my phone, but Ellie dances away from me.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. I’m going to murder you.”

  “I’m doing you a huge favor. Please just try to trust me on this one?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  She smirks, still palming my phone. “Not really, no.”

  “Ugh, Ellie, I hate you.” I give her my meanest scowl and turn to go.

  “Love ya too, girl!” she calls after me as I walk toward him, all sensation leaving my body.

  The space I have to navigate through to get to him is small but crowded. I timidly mutter “Excuse me” and “Pardon me” as I inch my way toward where he’s standing, where he’s leaning against one of many strategically placed houndstooth armchairs. Do not use the term “biggest fan,” I repeat to myself. Whatever you do, do not use the term “biggest fan.”

  “Hey, man, loved you in Sacred.” A guy in a white T-shirt and red beanie passes by, pointing his fingers in the shape of a gun at Dalton.

  “Thanks, man,” Dalton responds coolly, and next thing I know I’m standing right there, face-to-face with him. Dalton James. The Dalton James.

  “You must get that all the time,” I say, gripping the glass of Coke tightly with two hands.

  “Oh, about Sacred? Yeah.” He almost blushes. “But it’s nice. It’s a great project to be a part of. I’m Dalton.” He puts out his hand and I shake it hesitantly. That British accent is almost too much to handle.

  “I’m Harper.”

  “Harper,” he repeats, smiling, “like someone who plays the harp.”

  “That’s a harpist, actually.”

  “Right! I knew that.”

  “Well, nice to meet you.” I smile timidly and search for Ellie in the crowd. Yes! I did it! I got through a conversation with Dalton James without looking like a total idiot. If anything, maybe I even came off as kind of cool.

  “No, hey, don’t go yet, I don’t know anything about you!” Wait, did he just really say that? Am I having a stroke? I consider pinching myself but don’t want to risk ruining the cool-girl vibe I’ve got going on.

  “Me? What do you wanna know?”

  “Well, like, what do you do?”

  “Oh, I’m a . . . I make YouTube videos.” Ugh, I hate how trivial it can sound sometimes. Like, who doesn’t make YouTube videos? Any moron with a camera phone can do it. Not any moron with a camera phone can get over one million channel subscribers, but I would sound so obnoxious if I said that, so I keep that sentiment to myself. It’s sort of true, though; I’ve worked so hard to get where I am, and it frustrates me sometimes that people think it’s easy as one, two, three to put yourself out there like that, for all of the public to see and judge. And that doesn’t even cover the editing, designing, and planning that goes into making the videos look good!

  “What kind of YouTube videos?” He crosses his arms, looking as if he might actually be interested in what I have to say. Could this really be happening?

  “Mostly makeup and do-it-yourself tutorials. It doesn’t sound that exciting, I know, but I’m Harper Ambrose, you can look me up and check out my channel. I mean, if you feel like it.”

  He pulls out his phone right then and there, types my name into the Google search bar.

  “Oh, you don’t have to watch those now,” I say hurriedly. He’s clicking on a Christmas ornament tutorial and my face is burning up—I’m sure I’m turning bright red.

  “These are adorable! Well, you’re adorable, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  My voice goes breathy and quiet. “I don’t mind.”

  “Hey, listen, I have to go mingle with some people I don’t care for all that much, but there’s a party at the Magic Castle this coming Friday. Would you . . . would you possibly want to come?”

  “Really?” I try not to squeal like a little girl. “I mean, yes, of course. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “You’ve never been? Oh, you’ll love it, it’s spectacular. What’s your phone number?”

  Head spinning, the blood rushing loud in my ears, I recite my number and he types it quickly into his phone, then types in my name and adds a harp emoji. I have an inside joke with Dalton James?! What is this night turning into? WHAT IS MY LIFE?

  I could stand there all night just staring at him dreamily, but then I remember a tip from an old how-to-flirt video I watched once: always leave them wanting more. I assume my best bored face and examine my nails. “All right, I’m gonna go find my friend. She’s probably wondering what’s taking me so long.”

  “Wait a minute, did you leave your friend to come talk to me?” he teases.

  “Maybe.”

  “And here I was thinking you barely knew who I was. My feelings were almost hurt, you know.”

  “Of course I know who you are,” I sputter, “I’m your . . . I mean, I’m a—”

  “You’re . . .”

  “I’m not your biggest fan,” I blurt. “I told myself I wasn’t going to say that, so I’m not.” Oh god, Harper. Oh my freaking god. For a second I think I might cry, but then he smiles at me.

  “You’re definitely not my biggest fan, you’re too tiny. My biggest fan is probably at least three times your size.”

  “Ha, well, I don’t know about—”

  Dalton’s buddy starts pulling him away toward another section of the party. He turns to catch my eye as he’s yanked into the crowd. “I’m looking forward to it, Harper. I’ll call you, okay?”

  And then he’s gone.

  * * *

  “Jesus Christ, Ellie, I can’t believe I did that. I cannot believe you made me do that.” I’m breathing as heavily as if I had just made it through a SoulCycle class when I get back to Ellie, still in disbelief over what just happened.

  “Good or bad, Harper? Good or bad?”

  “Good! But also so bad! I totally embarrassed myself, just like I knew I would. I even told him I was his biggest fan, which I promised myself I wouldn’t do, but—”

  “But what? But what?”

  “He asked me out!”

  “Like, on a date?”

  “Like on a date! I think.”

  “Oh my god. You’re such a rock star. Well, you certainly deserve this back.” She r
eaches into her Kitson clutch and hands me back my phone.

  “Thank you! Oh, you were so right, Elle—” I freeze when I see my phone screen light up with a text from a 323 area code number that reads:

  Pleasure to meet you, Harper. Get excited for the Magic Castle!

  “What is it?” Ellie asks.

  “He already texted me. Dalton James texted me.”

  “You have Dalton James’s number in your phone.”

  “Eeee!”

  “You’re going on a date with Dalton James.”

  “Eeee!”

  “Imagine if you hadn’t talked to him! Damn, I’m a good friend.” Ellie looks quite pleased with herself, and I don’t know if I’ve ever loved my bestie more than in this moment.

  “You are, oh you really are. Ellie, can we get out of here? I think this has been enough excitement for one night. Plus, I don’t think I’ll be able to stand on these heels much longer without breaking an ankle.”

  “You got it, babe,” she says. “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

  I kick off my heels to drive us home in my purple MINI Cooper convertible. Ellie puts her feet up on the passenger dashboard and crosses her ankles. We blast Katy Perry as we cruise down Sunset, then swerve into In-N-Out for impromptu end-of-night chocolate milk shakes. No matter how incredible a night I’ve had, no matter what has gone down, it’s never complete until I’ve had a milk shake with my BFF.

  This, I think, is the life.

  * * *

  TUTORIAL #2

  How to Be a Morning Person

  1. Tip number one is, Don’t hit that snooze button! It’s the first thing I want to do when that alarm goes off, but that extra ten minutes of snooze time actually disturbs your sleep cycle and makes you feel more tired.

  2. Tip number two is to write down your genius ideas! Or at least the ones you had while you were asleep, just so that you remember them. It helps your brain start to think and wake up.

  3. Tip number three is to not worry about yesterday. Today is a new day and you don’t have to worry about those M&M’s you spent all last night eating. It’s okay, guys, you can move on.

  4. Tip number four is to think of something to look forward to. For example, I just remembered that The Bachelor is on tonight and I got really excited.

  5. Something that really wakes me up in the morning is to chug a really cold bottle of water. It’s really refreshing and really wakes you up.

  6. Open up the blinds straightaway. Letting light into your room helps get your eyes adjusted and ready for the day!

  7. My last tip is to get your blood flowing! And you can do this either by working out or having a dance party . . . while making your bed!

  8. So once you’re all refreshed and awake, it’s obviously time to do makeup and hair and get dressed for school, so that is what I’m doing: same thing I always do, just a simple everyday kind of makeup thing going on. And then I’m putting my hair in a topknot because lazy. Team lazy. Hashtag lazy.

  9. Next is the age-old struggle: finding an outfit. I normally just pick up something from the floor from the day before that doesn’t smell too bad, and you know, just throw it on. If only it was that easy: just throwing it on, like literally onto yourself.

  So, yeah, that’s pretty much all you need to know to become a morning person. I hope you liked it, loved it, and learned from it!

  You’re my everything goals.

  Lots of love, Harper

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  ••••••••••

  High School Is the First Ring of Hell

  Three days later my alarm goes off at six-thirty and I wake up in my baby-blue canopy bed, hating how early it is. As I’ve done every morning since I met Dalton, I reach for my phone and see his text, then issue a deep sigh of relief: Dalton James. The Dalton James. My wildest dreams are coming true. Well, not my wildest dreams. My wildest dreams would be that now winter break would never end and high school would be a thing of the past. But alas, the new year has come, and with it the first day back at school.

  I like to think of my bedroom as more of a lair, which creates a coolness factor that makes up for the fact that it’s in the basement of my parents’ house. Being sixteen and Internet famous is hard: I’ve seen all that’s out there waiting for me in this gigantic world, but I’m too young to go out and tackle it on my own. Even so, I’m grateful for all the space my parents give me; letting me convert the basement was undeniably pretty cool of them.

  Down in my lair slash hideaway slash sanctuary, I have ­everything I could ever need: memory foam mattress with blue satin bedding and canopy, white-painted desk for my computers, floor-to-ceiling bookcase, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, blond hardwood floors, 62-inch flat-screen TV, Audrey Hepburn poster (framed), antique-style wardrobe and vanity (complete with vanity mirror), mini fridge filled with pressed juice and cold-brew coffee, and peach damask curtains for the rectangle of window where the walls meet the ceiling. I like to create my own lighting. Especially when I’m filming a video.

  Today’s video is “How to Be a Morning Person.” This video is just as much for me as it is for my followers, as waking up is a major challenge and constant struggle for me. Hashtag the struggle is real! Hashtag can’t stop, won’t stop snoozing.

  I film about forty minutes of footage that I will have to edit down to about five before posting (editing is half the fun!), then trudge my way upstairs for a yummy breakfast with my parents.

  When I get to the top of the basement stairs I come alive with the smell of chocolate chip pancakes.

  “Oh my god, Dad, are you serious?” I clap my hands together in delight when I see my dad by the stove, wearing an apron that says Kiss the Cook and wielding a spatula.

  “Fresh off the skillet, chocolate chip pancakes with a side of sliced bananas.” Blue-striped pajamas visible under his apron, he slides a batch of pancakes onto a plate.

  “Thank you from the bottom of my heart, father mine. This is exactly what I needed.” I bound over to the fridge, grab the OJ and a glass from the cabinet, and scoot over to the kitchen table.

  “You’re very welcome.” He kisses me on the forehead as he sets a steaming stack of pancakes in front of me.

  “How was the party last night, honey?” This from my mom, who’s walking into the kitchen from the stairs that lead to their bedroom. Her hair is in curlers, and even though it’s only seven in the morning and she’s still in her favorite terry-cloth robe, she’s already wearing her pinkish-brown signature lipstick.

  “It was . . . nice. You know”—I take a bite of my pancake—“nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Oh, really? Then why are you blushing?” She eyes me suspiciously as she pours herself a cup of coffee.

  “I’m not!”

  “Did you meet a boyyyy?” she teases in a singsong voice.

  “So, Dad, great pancakes.” I change the subject. “Did you use extra chocolate chips? Tastes amazing.”

  “Same chocolate chips as always,” he says proudly. “But I added a slug of vanilla extract.”

  “Fascinating.” I chew. “And no more out of you, missy!” I say jokingly, cutting my mom off as she’s gearing up for more interrogating.

  “Fine.” She gives up. “Honestly I’m just glad you’re up early enough for school. And you finished up your homework before you went out last night, right?”

  “That’s because you guys won’t let me let parties and boys get in the way of my education,” I point out, using my fork for emphasis. “And yes. I finished my homework.”

  “You know the rule, get your high school diploma and the rest is up to you,” Dad chimes in. “Whatever you want. Shave your head, join the circus, see if we care.”

  “Ew, no. I have big plans for my YouTube career, and I would never get more than a trim, let alone shave my head—you know that.” I run my hands over my most prized possession: my long, wavy brown hair that reaches down below my rib cage. When I was a little girl I dre
amed of having Rapunzel-length hair, and TBQH (to be QUITE honest), I’ve gotten pretty darn close, thanks to my iron will and John Frieda.

  My mom looks pointedly at the clock on the wall. “Speaking of school, Harper . . .”

  I groan and shovel the last of the pancakes into my mouth. “What? I have time.”

  “Barely, honey. Maybe if you spent less time on those videos, you’d have time to eat a full breakfast. I know, I know, such a mom thing to say, but I had to say it.”

  “My videos are important! I need them to live.” Every now and then I have to throw them a little typical teenage melodrama for the sake of giving them the real, full parenting experience.

  “Funny,” Dad quips, “I heard you needed breakfast to live, but what do I know?”

  “Ha-ha. Good one, Dad. Fine. Bye, guys. See you later, gators.”

  I hug my parents goodbye, throw my books into my backpack and my backpack over my shoulder, and am out the door.

  * * *

  Oh, high school, how I hate you with the passion and heat of a million suns! Last semester we read Dante’s Inferno and all I could think was High school is the first ring of hell. What do I hate about high school? Oh, pretty much just about everything. Where do I begin? The girls are mean and the boys are just dumb, the teachers are mostly bitter, and the administration is over-the-top uptight. Walking through the front gates of the school, I feel as though it was a lifetime ago, not a measly three days, that I was rubbing elbows with celebs and talking to Dalton James. Ellie has the unique luxury of being homeschooled, so she doesn’t have to endure this type of torture. Lucky brat.

  I’m sitting in Mr. Gomez’s third-period algebra class feeling restless and distracted by the sun shining oh so brightly just outside the window. Mr. Gomez has long hair that he ties back into a ponytail, and his eyes are always suspiciously bloodshot. One time he made the mistake of showing us how he can do a push-up on only three fingers, and now barely ten minutes go by without some kid asking to see it again. He’s actually a pretty cool guy and maybe one of my favorite teachers, even though I don’t care for math. He makes everything a lot easier to understand. Plus, he grades homework by writing down a number from one to four based on how much you’ve accomplished, and it’s really easy to change a one into a four. Not that I’m encouraging cheating in school. I’m just saying we all have our different strengths and weaknesses, and life is about figuring out what works for you and then celebrating it.