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Zora and Mark beat me to the living room, where the paparazzi have fully assembled: both Rosemann-Long parents, both Zimmermans,

Zora’s dad, my mom, Audrey, you name it. Wouldn’t be a problem, under any normal circumstance, since I’m basically the Pied

Piper of parents, empress of aunts, et cetera. Not this time, though. Raised eyebrows all around, but it’s Mom who actually

gasps when she sees me. “Oh, honey. What happened?”

“Is this a cry for help?” Audrey asks, snapping a picture.

I glare at her. “Excuse me?”

She plucks the white-edged square of film from the front of her camera, setting it gingerly on the coffee table. What’s fun

is that it’s my own fault. Guess which genius decided a Polaroid was a good Chanukah gift for an eight-year-old. Guess who’s

regretted it ever since the very first low-angle picture of my nostrils.

The image sharpens into an off-center, mid-blink, blurry-edged masterpiece—classic Audrey. But even in three square inches

of frame, there’s no missing the hair. I managed to pull back most of the messy parts with bobby pins, but the rest stops

about an inch above my shoulders. Wouldn’t even be considered short, by any normal standards. But Mom’s standards have never

been normal.

“When did this happen ?” She’s standing directly in front of me now, lips pressed flatly together. So I guess that’s some kind of milestone. We’ve officially graduated from figurative to literal hovering.

“Why are you treating my hair like it’s a crime scene?”

She pokes at one of my bobby pins. “It’s not not a crime scene.”

“Well, I like it.”

I mean, I think I like it. I definitely like how light it feels—like taking off your backpack at the end of the school day.

Mom repositions a few pins, stepping back to frown at me.

I raise my eyebrows. “Are we good?”

A door creaks open behind us, and Claire’s voice drifts through the kitchen. “Quick, there’s perfect photo lighting!” She

does this urgent little gasp when she says it, like the sun itself is a rare and startling phenomenon that she personally

discovered. Case in point: she’s already uploaded a full carousel of prom selfies. Photo after photo of her pale pixie face,

her dark curls threaded with flowers. Found my light —that’s her caption. Like the sun exists just for her.

Mom herds us outside, and Natalie’s eyes go wide when she sees me. So, I shoot her a wink, crossing the lawn to settle in

beside her.

“Your hair.” When she reaches her hand out to touch it, her corsage tickles my neck. “I leave you alone for one hour . ”

“Oh, I like that!” Mom says. “Let’s center you in front of the hedges. Zora, you come in by Amelia... good. And then Mark.

Claire, you’re perfect. Okay, freeze!”

Audrey snaps another Polaroid. Looking mighty smug for someone covering half the lens with her finger, I might add.

Natalie leans in again. “Was this a panic haircut?”

I laugh. “A what?”

“A Walter-induced panic haircut!”

“I’m not panicking—”

“Eyes on the prize, ladies!” Mom says, and we both flash quick smiles at the camera.

“He’ll respond,” Nat adds quietly.

I snort. “He will not.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Beautiful!” Mom declares. “Now say, ‘senior prom’!”

“Senior prom!” says Audrey, and only Audrey.

I turn back to Nat. “I deleted it.”

“Good,” she says, leaning even closer. But then Claire’s arm tightens around her waist, and she immediately straightens.

“Let’s do a funny one,” Mom says. “Give me some tongue!”

“MOM . ”

She sticks out her tongue and makes some kind of horrifying rock-and-roll hand signal.

“Kill me,” I murmur.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Nat says, leaning closer, “I think the hair’s really cute.”