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  Just kidding, I make my own bed. Sometimes.

  I get dressed in whatever, because let’s be honest, I’m not going to beat myself up over my outfit on a perfect day like today. I choose a lacy gray sundress, throw on some makeup (for fun!), and am out the door to conquer my day. Carpe the hell out of that diem, as they say.

  So . . . who doesn’t love shopping and Jamba Juice, am I right? Somehow on the days when I have nothing to do, I always end up at a mall. I don’t want it to happen, but it does, so . . . I’m just not gonna fight it, you know? So I’m at this mall and it’s literally a dead zone, like nobody is here and it feels like the apocalypse has happened and I’m the last one in the world. Hashtag not complaining.

  Next it’s aimless driving time. I like to pump up the jams while I cruise around town, top down, with no destination in mind. Since it is a nice day out, I stop at Urth Caffé to do a little outside late lunch/early dinner, because let’s face it, food is life. Literally, we would die without it. Anndddd like I promised, I do get a salad. It’s like not the healthiest salad ever, but you know what, this is MY day, and yumminess matters most.

  Back at home I have no videos to edit, so I take a bath with my LUSH bath bombs because, gotta be honest, it’s an addiction. I think I have like fifty. Currently. So I just take my makeup off while the bath fills up, then I drop in the bath bombs and watch them explode into colorful wonderlands of heaven.

  To finish off the day, I get a nice glass of ice water with crushed ice, NOT cubed, then crawl into bed with my Surface to watch some Netflix and check out some other YouTube vlogs. Every day, even a perfect day, has to end sometime, so I finish it up with some light stretches and some heavy gratitude for the amazingness of the day, and then it’s lights out! *Falls asleep dreaming of doughnuts and bath bombs*

  Thanks for caring about my perfect day. You seriously rock.

  You are my everything goals.

  Lots of love, Harper

  * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  ••••••••••

  Just His Jamba Juice Flavor of the Week

  It takes me all of Saturday and the first half of Sunday to film “A Perfect Day in My Life” because I keep messing up and having to start over. I’ll be in the middle of filming and have a flash of memory from my night with Dalton at Moonshadows—our first kiss, the crispness of the starry sky, the way he begged me not to go—­and I’ll start to get giggly and next thing you know I’m in full-on blush mode and have to call “Cut!” On myself. I’m the actor and director of my videos. Yeah, it’s like that.

  Toward the end of a long and languid Saturday, I get an email from my agent, Buddy Silvern. It says:

  Is it true you’re dating Dalton James?

  I roll my eyes and write back:

  We went on one date. And how do you even know about that?

  His response:

  This is great publicity for you. Keep it up.

  Well, not gonna argue with that.

  A little while after noon on Sunday, I finally finish up and start looking through the footage before I start editing. Boy, do I look like one lovesick maniac. And hey, anyone would be after a night like that—am I right? I’m only human, people. So then there’s just one question rolling around in my single-track mind: WHY THE HELL HASN’T HE TEXTED ME YET?

  The phone dings and my heart skips a beat, then drops a bit when I check the screen. Ah, it’s only Ellie.

  ELLIE:

  Smoothies? I have to hear all about night out with lover boy.

  ME:

  Get over here ASAP. I’ve been trying not to kiss and tell like a basic bitch amateur, but I’m caving. Must. Tell. Everything. Let’s do Jamba Juice.

  Ellie shows up not quite fifteen minutes later dressed in polished Kate Spade from head to toe, and I’d love to try to keep up with Vogue, Ellie’s bible, but I just don’t have it in me, so I keep my pajamas on and put my hair up into a high ponytail before we hit the nearest Jamba Juice, which just so happens to be on Larchmont, which just so happens to be the cutest street of all time.

  “What are you gonna get?” Ellie looks up at the brightly colored menu board with one finger to her lips as if deep in the throes of some major decision-making.

  “Strawberry Dreamin’,” I say without so much as glancing at the menu. When it comes to smoothies, I know what I want. “You?”

  “What? That’s not a thing.”

  “Of course it’s a thing.”

  “It’s not on the menu.”

  “Duh. It’s on the secret menu.”

  “Yeah, right.” She squints at me, not sure if I’m telling the truth or trying to pull one over on her. Poor Ellie can be gullible from time to time, so she’s right to at least try to be on guard. However, in this case, I happen to be telling the truth: there is, in fact, a Jamba Juice secret menu. You can get access to the Jamba Juice secret menu only if you’re a very important person—no, an extremely important person (#EIP)—a member of the smoothie elite, if you will. Just kidding. In real life all you gotta do is work some summer shifts at your local Jamba Juice, which I did last year before my videos took off, thank you very much.

  “I’m serious, Ellie. There’s a menu only the employees get to see.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m imagining like a secret society of card-carrying smoothie experts or something. The first rule of the Smoothie Club is don’t talk about the Smoothie Club.” She rolls her eyes and we both laugh.

  “Fine,” I say, “Suit yourself. Be basic.”

  “Hey. No basic shaming.”

  “Okay, okay, just order your damn smoothie.”

  She orders an Acai Berry Charger, and I order my Strawberry Dreamin’. The cashier—a middle-aged man with one ear pierced—nods knowingly at my order and asks us if we want to add a boost, which we do not.

  “Told ya,” I say smugly. “It’s a thing.”

  “Wow,” Ellie says, fake-mystified. “You learn something new every day!”

  We sit outside in the gloriously warm sunlight and Ellie wants to know everything (I mean literally everything) about my date with Dalton.

  “Okay, so I met him at the Magic Castle,” I begin. “And we saw a really awesome show where—”

  “No, no, back up. What were you wearing? What was he wearing? Did he hug you hello? Kiss? How did he introduce you to his friends?”

  “Oh god.”

  “Yeah, I want that level of detail.”

  So it goes like that, me telling a small chunk of the story and Ellie insisting I rewind and deliver all the details. She lets me gloss over nothing. I am not exaggerating when I say that by the time I’m finished telling the story, the sun has set and I’ve started wishing I had thought to bring a jacket.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t sleep with him,” Ellie exclaims when I reach the end of the story.

  “Of course I didn’t,” I protest, scandalized by her assumption that I would. “I’m sixteen, for Christ’s sake.”

  “So what?”

  “So I’m not going to just lose my virginity to some random guy just because we have a nice night together.”

  “Harper, how many times am I going to have to tell you this? Dalton James is not just some guy. How many people get to say they lost their virginity to an A-list celebrity? It’s practically unheard of!”

  “That might be true, but it doesn’t mean it’s what I want.”

  “Is it not what you want? Are you telling me you don’t want to tap that ass?”

  “Oh my god, Ellie, you’re too much. Yes, duh, of course I want to . . . do more with him. But no way José was I going to do that on the first date. That’s not my style.”

  “Not your style.” She laughs. “How do you know it’s not your style if you’ve never tried it?”

  “As if you know anything about sex.”

  “I don’t! That’s why you were supposed to sleep with him and tell me all about it!”

  “We were just having such a great night,
I didn’t want to do anything to mess it up. And he obviously didn’t want to either. He didn’t pressure me or anything. I mean, he did invite me back to his house, but just to stay up and talk.”

  “Girl, I know you’re not that naive.”

  “You’re right,” I admit. “I’m not.” We burst out laughing.

  “Okay, but seriously, sex jokes aside, aren’t you so happy I made you talk to him that night? I mean, look at you! You pushed yourself out of your comfort zone, got out of your head for like one second, and ended up having a great night. None of that would have been possible if you hadn’t taken a chance. I’m seriously so proud of you.”

  “Aw! Thanks, Ellie. Couldn’t have done it without you.” We bump our empty Styrofoam smoothie cups together and the sound is not half as charming as it would have been if they were champagne glasses. Just then, my phone whir-whooshes with a notification from Twitter. Uh-oh, it’s from @ThatBitchHarper. I know this can’t be good.

  @ThatBitchHarper: Harper thinks she’s so special just because she went on one date with @DaltonJamesOfficial. Doesn’t she know she’s just his Jamba Juice flavor of the week? #WontLast.

  My face falls. Jamba Juice flavor of the week? That can’t be a coincidence.

  “What’s wrong, Harp?” Ellie asks.

  “Twitter. It’s, uh . . . it’s that troll account again.”

  “Oh God, what did she say this time? Or he. Could be a he.”

  “Well, here,” I say, turning my phone around for her to read the screen. I watch her face as she reads, looking for a hint that it could have been Ellie who wrote it, even though I don’t actually think my friend would betray me that way. I think. Still, the more I consider it, it’s hard not to be a little suspicious when the account has tweeted things only Ellie would know both times, and has been active only when I’m with Ellie. Which doesn’t even make sense, because you’d think—if it was Ellie—that she’d tweet after we parted ways for the night. But if she did write it, she should win an Oscar, because her face betrays nothing.

  “That’s insane!” she exclaims when she’s finished reading. “How could she or he know you’re at Jamba Juice?! Nobody else is even here.” We both look around at the empty store.

  “Could it be a coincidence?”

  “That seems remarkably unlikely. Why say Jamba Juice? It would have been easy to just say flavor of the week. That is the saying.”

  “Well, what about . . .” She looks around, lets her eyes settle briefly on the cashier, and lowers her voice dramatically. “Could it be him?”

  “Are you serious?” I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice any longer. “What does some random Jamba Juice employee care about my life for? It’s not a stranger, Ellie, it’s someone I know. And someone who knows I’m at Jamba Juice right now.”

  “Wait, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, only one person knows I’m here right now, and that’s you. Only one person knew I had plans with Dalton, and that’s you. Please help me to understand how @ThatBitchHarper could be anyone but you?” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth, but once I’ve put my suspicions out into the open, there’s no taking them back.

  “Oh my god.” Ellie looks like I’ve slapped her across the face. “I can’t believe you think I could actually do something like this. Or would do something like this. Why on earth would I want to hurt you?”

  “I don’t know! I really can’t even begin to figure it out. You tell me! Why are you doing this? What did I do to upset you?”

  “Harper. This is ridiculous. What would my motive be? I have no motive!”

  “Maybe you’re jealous of me.”

  Ellie widens her eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, I’m an established YouTuber and you’re just starting out. Maybe you resent me for being so much farther along than you are. Maybe you’re jealous that I have sponsors and campaign deals and get invited to cool parties and you can barely hit ten thousand subscribers.”

  “What the hell, Harper, are you serious?” she sputters. “What’s wrong with you? I—”

  “Or is this about Dalton? The tweets started right after I met him. Is that it, do you want to date Dalton?”

  “I’m the one who insisted you go talk to him! You know what, I don’t need this. I don’t know what your deal is, Harper, but you need to take a good hard look in the mirror and ask yourself what kind of friend you want to be, because whatever is going on right now is toxic and I don’t want to be a part of it.” She stands up and storms down the block, angrier than I’ve ever seen her.

  Tears sting my eyes as my BFF exits my life. For a moment I’m tempted to go after her, but then I realize—she never once actually denied being behind the account, she just got super defensive and bounced. Nothing says guilty like not even bothering to proclaim your own innocence.

  I know it might seem like I was jumping to conclusions by deciding Ellie was behind @ThatBitchHarper, but there’s really no one else who could possibly have the info needed to write those tweets. It makes me incredibly sad, but I’d be a fool not to face the facts: nobody else knew I had a date with Dalton, and nobody else knew I was at Jamba Juice. Ergo, the girl I thought was my best friend secretly had it in for me. We have to learn how to protect ourselves in this world, and when someone hurts you, it’s wisest not to give her the opportunity to do it again. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, well, it ain’t gonna happen.

  But then there’s the issue of the content of this last tweet. This is the second time it’s been suggested that Dalton is a major player. Sure, the first suggestion was made by Wikipedia and the second by Ellie writing as @ThatBitchHarper, but I can’t help but feel uneasy. After all, it’s been almost two whole days since I’ve seen him, and still no text. Am I just a flavor of the week? If so, I better be a flavor off the secret menu, because the last thing I need right now is to feel unremarkable. I take out my phone and write to Dalton:

  ME:

  Hey, can we talk?

  DALTON:

  Uh-oh, trouble in paradise already?

  ME:

  We’ll see.

  CHAPTER 6

  ••••••••••

  Posh and Becks Do It All the Time

  I drum my hands on the wheel as I drive to meet up with Dalton, feeling awful about what just happened with Ellie and awful about what might be about to happen with Dalton, that we could be over before we really even got started. Just major sucky feels all around. Being a teenage girl can be difficult for many reasons, but mostly because of the land mine that is called boys. The land mine of boys feels impossible to navigate without getting an arm or a leg blown off somewhere along the way. I’d love to make a video for my followers outlining some tips on and techniques for interacting with boys—how to play it cool, how to keep them wanting more—except I cannot make such a video because I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING WHEN IT COMES TO BOYS.

  First there was Jack, whom I could not get to ask me out when I actually wanted him to, and now there’s Dalton, who obviously likes me but might just be too famous for his own good. Or for my own good. I don’t know the rules when it comes to boys, let alone famous boys. Am I supposed to be aloof? Am I supposed to make him think I’m out of his league? Make him work for it? I once read somewhere that men live for the chase. Does that mean I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life running away? Agh. Too. Many. Questions.

  One thing I do know is this: when in doubt, trust yourself. Trust your instincts. It’s an insult to yourself when you or anyone else tries to insist you should be any other way than how you actually are. You are you, and I can’t tell what point there really is in trying to be any type of person you’re not. Unless you’re a psycho killer, in which case you should probably change who you are. Anyway, the point I’m trying to get to is this:

  After a quick change of outfit (blue sundress with black and gold Steve Madden flats), I’m cruising up to the parking lot on Sunset Boulevard of the famou
sly exclusive restaurant and bar Soho House, where we agreed to meet, and am suddenly filled with the sense that when it comes to Dalton, I have to be my truest, honest self. That way I’ll be able to tell what kind of person he truly is. If he likes me for being me, then I know he’s right for me. And if he doesn’t, then he isn’t, simple as that.

  I’m feeling almost confident when I tell the concierge my name and that I’m here to see Dalton. She checks my name off a list and directs me to the elevator, which makes soothing beeping noises as it rises. This place is awesome—why don’t I have a membership at Soho House? Then I could just walk right in, wouldn’t have to deal with any of this “I’m meeting Dalton James” nonsense anymore.

  Once on the penthouse level, I walk down the dark hallway of a million black-and-white photo-booth photos to the bar where Dalton is sitting in a huge booth that dwarfs him. He’s drinking espresso with a gigantic stick of crystallized rock sugar sticking out of it.

  “Harper! I’m so happy you’re here.” He stands up to kiss my cheek. “It’s great to see you again.” There’s a sparkle in his eyes and I almost forget what I’m here to talk to him about. When I sit down opposite from him in the booth, it all comes flooding back.

  “What did you want to talk about, love?”

  “Okay, well, it’s kind of complicated. And a little bit surreal. Well, no, you’re a celebrity, you’re probably used to this sort of thing.”

  “Okay, sounds intriguing. You have my attention.”

  “The night after I first met you, this happened.” I take out my phone and show him the first tweet from @ThatBitchHarper.