Celine very slowly sinks to the floor and sticks her head under my duvet.
I try not to laugh too loud. I get the sense she is mortified enough.
“Right, then,” Dad says. “I’ll just leave these downstairs.”
I remember what Dad said before about me and Celine—how it wasn’t a good idea, how it was too much pressure. If he still thinks that, well, it changes absolutely nothing, because I’ve decided no one’s reservations—including my own—will ever stop me from going after what I want. Writing is for me, and I’m the one who makes that choice. Celine is for me, and we’re making the choice to be together. If it goes wrong—any of it—I can deal with that.
I trust myself to deal with any outcome. I believe in me.
Still, my heart does a happy dance when Dad catches my eye, gives me an apologetic smile…and a thumbs-up, his hands still clutching the tray. “Help yourself when you come down, Celine.” He leaves and closes the door.
“You can come out now,” I tell her.
“No,” she groans, her voice muffled. “No, I really can’t.”
“Then how am I gonna tell you that I love you too?”
At that, she pops up like a meerkat. A meerkat with an enormous smile. “Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh—”
I appear to have broken Celine. “Come here.” I grab the front of her T-shirt and drag her closer.
“Wait! Are your ribs—”
“Don’t care,” I say, and then I’m kissing her. It’s like birthday cake, back when sugar felt like being high. It’s like laughing as you stumble through the dark under the stars. It’s like Celine loving me.
She pulls back slightly, her lips—her smile—ghosting against mine. “Does this mean I’m allowed on the bed again?”
“You’re allowed anywhere you want,” I tell her, “as long as you’re right next to me.”
FRIDAY, 8:19 P.M.
FRAPPES 4 ALL
Minnie: Still good for tomorrow?
Jordan:
Sonam: Y
Celine: yes
Brad: ???
Peter H: what
Brad: no one tells us anything
FRIDAY, 8:27 P.M.
BREAKSPEARE BADDIES
Celine: hey guys
Celine: some friends from school are meeting us at maccies after the ball, if you want to come?
Raj: always up for a maccies
Sophie: yeah def x
Aurora: cute yes pls
Brad: oh THAT’S what’s happening
Brad: i remember now
Celine:
Brad: don’t judge me
Brad: i am concussed
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CELINE
When we arrive at the Sherwood on Saturday night （just a teeny, tiny bit late）， Giselle has to help me out of the backseat because my dress is so poofy. It’s a good thing I’m wearing Doc Martens instead of the heels I considered, because clambering out of the car is a mission even in flats.
Mum stands a few feet away, admiring her flawless makeup in a blue compact that matches her sheath dress. She snaps it shut, looks us over, and says, “Giselle, are you sweating? What have I told you about bodily functions? Only in private.” We roll our eyes while she snickers at her own joke. Then she slides an unreadable look at the side entrance to the Sherwood before glancing at me. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I say, and I swear it’s true. I am stepping into my destiny and nothing’s going to stop me, including （but not limited to）： errant fathers, Katharine Breakspeare worship, and I love you giddiness.
“Good,” Mum says. “I’m proud of you. All right, then. Let’s go.” We all hook arms and storm the Sherwood like a Bangura-shaped wall. The hotel is still a maze of fancy furniture and gleaming glass pillars, reflecting us a thousand times over—Mum’s skin glowing against her ocean-blue outfit, Giselle looking abominably gorgeous in her slim black suit, and me in the dress Minnie and I scoured the charity shops for. I almost gave up on finding something cute in my size, but Michaela claims thrifting is fashion magic and the perfect thing will turn up when you need it to reward you for your commitment to sustainable fashion. I might have to examine her theory on my TikTok because based on this dress, she’s right.
It’s an iridescent almost black but looks blue-purple in certain lights. The bodice is strapless and wrapped in layers of delicate fabric; the skirt is not full length but floofy, like in fifties films, and when I spin, it flashes the black underskirt. I have a furry shrug around my shoulders that Giselle gave me because “It’ll be perfect, Celine, put it on,” and—my favorite part—little black lace gloves with a single button at each wrist. The only downside to this outfit is the lack of pockets, but I’ve shoved my phone and some cash down my cleavage. Hopefully I won’t forget it’s there and worry that I’m having a heart attack when it vibrates like I did last time.
The Explorers’ Ball is held in a modestly sized room with swooping ceilings and white-linen-covered tables. Perfectly round pearlescent balloons with champagne-colored confetti inside them float above us. Below, things are a lot less serene: I look out at the sea of unfamiliar faces and feel my palms prickle beneath my gloves. Parents are easy to spot—they look proud and are taking enthusiastic advantage of the free punch. Professionals are easy to see too—they look serious and intimidating, like the future itself.
I don’t see Brad.
“Maria and the boys are here already,” Mum says, patting the little blue clutch where her phone lives. “Shall we look around? Or do you want to go and find your friends on your own, Celine?”
I know what she’s really asking: Do you want to separate, when we don’t know if your father’s here? I take a little breath and make my choice. “You guys find Maria. I’m going to explore and, you know, network.” If I can work up the nerve to approach an actual adult and sell my professional skills. Maybe that will come later in the night while we eat dinner. I know we’ve all been seated according to our professional interests…
My stomach leaps with nerves and I decide to focus on one thing at a time. First things first: find Brad.
We separate and I wind through the crowd, spotting Raj in a dove-gray suit talking with an older lady wearing thick black-framed glasses. There’s that Vanessa girl, holding court with what seems like half the professionals in the building. Impressive. There’s Holly and Zion, huddled together by the punch—Zion gives me a wave; Holly offers a smoky-eyed smize—and Aurora and Sophie are waving at me from across the room. I’m practically running toward them when Katharine Breakspeare appears in front of me like the angel Gabriel—you know, mystical and too fabulous to look at. I blink like a fish to clear my eyes.
“Ah, Celine,” she says cheerfully, “just the person I’d hoped to see. May I have a moment of your time?”
I agree so fast I almost choke on it. “My— Yes! Yes, of course! Hello, Katharine—er, Ms. Breakspeare—”
Her mouth twitches. “Katharine is fine.”
My cheeks heat up, but I keep my spine straight. “Right, thank you.”
Katharine’s famous blowout is bouncing around the structured shoulders of her floor-length red gown. The gauzy fabric covers her from wrist to ankle but it’s tight and constructed out of bold, slashing lines. She looks like a general. A gorgeous general with a personal stylist. I file this look away for my immensely successful future while she steers us toward the edge of the room, where a floor-to-ceiling window looks out on the streetlamp-lit square below. The thick, gathered curtains that frame the glass are a deep plum color, so vivid they almost seem alive.