Woke Up Like This by Amy Lea
A NOTE FROM MINDY KALING
I’ve never been able to resist a coming-of-age story. That’s how I fell in love with Woke Up Like This, a charming romantic comedy about Charlotte Wu, an overachieving, goal-obsessed high school senior who finds herself in a very strange predicament.
Charlotte is a straight A student, she’s landed a solid college acceptance, and she’s even almost gotten her crush to notice her. But when she falls off a ladder while putting up prom decorations, Charlotte wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, thirty years old, and realizes she’s engaged to her archnemesis. The two opposites are forced to work together to find their way back to seventeen and discover there’s more to life than achievement for achievement’s sake.
Like Never Have I Ever and the classic movie 13 Going on 30, Amy Lea’s novel reminded me that the exciting and complicated feelings we have as teenagers never truly fade away.
Charlotte Wu’s High School Bucket List
（Written by Charlotte Wu, age 13—to be completed by Charlotte Wu upon graduation, age 17）
-Join student council, student senate, and yearbook committee
-Honor roll all 4 years—top of list, ideally
-Get driver’s license （not achieved. don’t ask.）
-Get invited to Tony Freeman’s end-of-year party
-Become student council president （ruthlessly sabotaged）
-Score at least 1300 on SATs
-Do Senior Week with Kassie （in progress）
-Get promposed to （proverbial tumbleweeds . . .）
-Magical senior prom （in progress）
ONE
One month until prom
Prom is the single most important night of a teenager’s life, and you can’t convince me otherwise. I know what you’re thinking—it’s overhyped, the same as any other dance. And sure, there are infinite ways it can go horribly wrong:
Your date could ditch you for their more attractive ex, leaving you to brood in a dark corner while everyone else slow dances to the song you requested.
The cleavage-enhancing silicone inserts you stuffed into your bra could fall out when you get a little too low on the dance floor. （Ask me how I know.）
A drunk band nerd could projectile vomit cherry punch all over your dress.
You could spend the entire night chasing down the disease-ridden lab rat someone set loose while everyone watches in horror.
Things can really go from zero to tragic in a millisecond. Trust, I’ve seen the original Carrie movie. But bloodied, telekinetic, murderous prom queen aside, name a better occasion to mark the end of four tireless years of social and academic Olympics. It’s the rite of passage we deserve. A fabulous night to trade in those tearstained SAT prep books for outrageously priced formal wear you’ll never wear again. One night to forget being unjustly denied from your dream college. Your final night to be a teen, before adulthood drop-kicks you in the privates.
As the student council vice president, executing a magical night to cherish fondly when I’m wrinkled, frail, and demanding a senior discount on my rum raisin ice cream is not something I take lightly.
That’s why I’ve spent all weekend obsessing over my PowerPoint presentation: Around the World in One Magical Night. It comes complete with an itemized budget, food vendors, and lists of highly rated DJs and decor items, including translucent globe balloons etched with gold foil that shimmer when the light hits just right.
I’m at the kitchen table agonizing over the font color when Mom shuffles in, disheveled sandy-blonde hair in a french braid from two days ago. She’s still in her pajamas, even though she has to be at work at the pharmacy in less than half an hour.
“How long have you been awake?” she asks, popping onto her toes to fetch her red FUTURE BESTSELLING AUTHOR coffee mug from the cabinet. She hasn’t published a book yet, but I often find her hunched over her laptop late into the night, guzzling Red Bulls, typing feverishly until her eyes give out.
“I was in bed early. Got up around the same time you went to sleep,” I counter, stuffing my face with a spoonful of oatmeal when I catch the time on my computer.
“These bags under my eyes were worth it. Guess what?” I catch the excitement in her expression, and it’s not about the fact that I premade her coffee. “I finally untangled that plot bunny in the second act.”
“Wanna tell me in the car? We have to leave soon,” I remind her as she leisurely pours her coffee. Being late is inevitable with Mom, which is why I usually opt to ride my bike to school. Unfortunately, my bike is still being repaired by the Bike Doctor （a.k.a. the thirteen-year-old computer hacker down the street who also fixes bikes on the cheap）。