He shakes his head at me then speaks in an irritated tone. “You know I don’t like stuff like this, Keats. I’m here. What more do you want?”

And there it is.

The push that I needed.

“I want more, B. A lot more. I know we aren’t going out, but I’m done. Done with this. Done with us. I’m sorry.”

He nods his head at me in agreement.

I work my way out to the center of the dance floor. I know that’s where Vanessa will be. She says you should always dance in the center, so everyone can see you.

“You done talking to all the boring people?” she yells at me.

“Yeah!”

She reaches into her date’s pocket and pulls out a flask. I haven't had anything to drink yet, so I take two big swigs and feel the whiskey both burn and warm the back of my throat.

I dance with Vanessa and RiAnne and soak up the intensity of the crowd, the lights, the heat.

The beat.

A pair of familiar hands grabs my waist, and Cush grinds up against me.

I remember the nights we went dancing and how much fun we had. I remember the hot dream I had about him.

I'm not sure if it's the alcohol, the excitement, or just because his hands feel like they belong on me, but I turn around to face him, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him.

No, I make out with him.

Right here in the middle of the dance floor for the world to see.

His hands are still firmly planted on my lower hips, and I feel him squeeze them.

When the song ends, Vanessa pokes my back, because Cush and I are still swaying and kissing.

She gives me an approving smile.

“We’ll be back!” I yell to her as another song blares.

I grab Cush’s hand and pull him through the crowd, to the opposite side of the dance floor from where Brooklyn is holding court.

He pushes me into a dark corner and kisses me again.

“I just broke up with him. I think I love you,” I blurt out.

It's dark in the corner, but I can see the excitement in his eyes and a flash of bright white teeth.

He cups my face in his hand and gives me a soft, slow kiss.

“Really? I’ve been praying all summer that I’d get to hear you say that.”

I start talking fast. “I thought I was going to stay with him. I'm supposed to be in love with him, but then you walked in my house, and you gave me those boots, and they just sum up everything. Vanessa only likes me when I’m dressed and made-up perfectly, like when I’m an expensive designer boot. Brooklyn only likes me when I’m in a bikini with no makeup on, like I’m an old, worn-out boot. The boots you gave me are both. I can’t be myself when I’m with either one of them. I don’t want to just live in their worlds. I want to live in my world.”

He puts a finger up to my lips. “Shhh.” He pulls me into a tight hug and whispers into my ear. “Relax, Keatyn.”

I take a deep breath and nuzzle my face into his shoulder. His strong, muscular shoulder.

“It’s not just your world, Keatyn. It’s our world.”

“I’m going to be different this year. I just want you to know. We’ll sit with Vanessa, but I’m not letting her control me. I’m going to run for Student Council, try out for dance team, join the drama club, and help plan prom.”

“Prom, huh? You know, it’ll be my senior prom, and just so you know, you’re going to be my date.” He laughs and pulls me closer. “And, girl, we’re gonna do it up big. I’m talking party bus, big dinner, lots of pictures, lots of dancing, but then . . .”

“Then, what?”

“Then, it’s all about you and me. Private limo to our suite on the beach. Champagne. Walking hand in hand on the beach in the moonlight. Then back to our room. And you know I can do up a hotel room.”

“It sounds perfect, Cush. Just like a dream.”

“Our dream.” He leans back a little and looks into my eyes. “I don't care if you said it to a million different guys all summer long. When you told me you loved me just now, did you mean it?”

I nod my head on his shoulder.

All bullshit aside, I did.

I wrap my arms around his neck and lace my fingers through his thick hair that has grown out over the summer.

He touches my forehead with his and says, “Come on, birthday girl. As much as I’d like to stay here and kiss, this is your night. You need to be out on the dance floor soaking up the spotlight.”

I gently kiss his cheek as my insides melt away to a pile of goo.

Finally, a boy who understands my love of the spotlight and encourages it.

He pulls my hand, and I follow him out to the center of the dance floor.

Vanessa, RiAnne, Sander, and pretty much our entire lunch table, past and present, are dancing around us.

Cush is getting sweaty and, well, I've yet to see those new muscles. I grab Vanessa’s flask, do another shot, then unbutton Cush’s shirt.

He laughs at me, but is totally into it. I push his shirt off his shoulders, and then wave it above my head.

The girls around us scream, and the other guys quickly follow suit.

I don’t pay attention to the other guys though. I'm too busy staring at Cush’s chest. What was once thin and lean is now bulky and thick. His shoulders look broader. His pecs have new definition. There are thick rows of ab muscles. His arms are jacked, and every bit of him is perfectly tanned.

“You think I'm hot, don't ya?” he teases.

I nod my head yes and plant little kisses across his chest.

I take a break from dancing to run use the restroom.

The whole time I'm peeing, I'm thinking Vanessa was right.

My relationship with Sander was a sham.

Is that what I'm doing again? Am I getting wrapped up in a thing with Cush because it feels right? Because I think he gets me? Or is it because he's really hot and makes me feel sexy?

And what about Brooklyn?

The guy who’s supposed to love the real me. The guy who wishes I would avoid the spotlight, but doesn't seem to want to avoid it himself. When I came back home, I thought I had it all figured out.

I think about the boots Cush gave me.

It's not a sham with him. No way. I know it's not.

It wasn’t a sham with Brooklyn either, though. What I feel—well, felt—for him was real. I love everything about Brooklyn. I always have. But he doesn't seem to love all of me like I thought he did.

And that’s not fair to me.

Whatever I do this year, I'm going to be me.

I finally get what Grandpa was saying, and I'm embracing it this year.

Inspired by his words, I say out loud from the bathroom stall, “Watch out world, I'm fixing to be me!”

I go back out and dance with Cush. The music stops with a screech, and I hear a voice I recognize say, “Keats, get your ass up on this stage.”

The crowd forms an aisle and somehow the spotlight finds me and follows me through the crowd.

I bound onto the stage and throw my arms around Damian. "I can't believe you're here!"

He kisses my cheek. “I wouldn't miss this for anything. Happy Birthday, Keats.”

He speaks into the microphone. “I’d like you all to join me in singing Happy Birthday. Then if Keats’ll let us, Twisted Dreams might play a few songs.”

“I think she’ll let you.”

The stage lights up behind me, and I can see that the rest of the band is already set up.

Everyone in the crowd screams and cheers.

“Happy Birthday to you,” he starts singing.

I look out into the crowd and see Cush. He’s standing by a bunch of friends from school and singing loudly. Vanessa and RiAnne have their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. They’re singing and taking turns sipping from the flask. I see Mom and Tommy right in front of the stage, singing and holding hands.

Then I look toward the back and see that Brooklyn is still sitting down and still talking to his friends. None of them are singing.

I smile and wave at the crowd. What can I say, Brooklyn? I do like the spotlight.

After everyone sings, Tommy and Mom come up on stage.

“Everyone having a good time?” Tommy yells.

Everyone yells back. “Hell, yeah!”

“Good deal. Well, before we let Damian and the boys do their thing, we have a little surprise for the birthday girl. If you’ll all back up, we’ll bring her in.”

I hear the sound of a motor revving, and then a bright silver Mercedes SLS AMG Roadster rolls out onto the dance floor. It might just be more gorgeous than the earrings.

I give Mom and Tommy huge hugs, and then they herd me down to sit inside the convertible.

I’m in total shock.

I never asked for a car, but I did see a car like this in a magazine that Tommy had, and I remember telling him it was the most beautiful car I had ever seen.

Brooklyn will hate this car. It screams conspicuous consumption, but I don’t care. Tommy and Mom got it for me because they wanted to give me a gift they knew I would love.

And I love it.

The car gets moved out, the cake is served, and Twisted Dreams plays a long set.

I pull Cush close and dance with him.

And I can’t seem to stop kissing him. I almost wish I weren’t having an after-party, so I could do nothing but kiss him for the rest of the night.

Shit. The after-party.

Brooklyn there.

Cush there.

Surfers.

My friends from school.

What was I thinking?

I give Cush a long kiss then say, “Hey, I need to go talk to someone. I’ll be right back.”

I wander back over to Brooklyn’s spot and am surprised to find he’s the only one sitting there.

“Where is everyone?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Some girls asked them to dance. They’re out there somewhere.”

Which really makes me smile. They are getting along.

“Why didn’t you join them?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“Oh.”

“So this is some party, huh? The car, the food, the bands. Do you have any idea how many starving kids you could have fed with the money spent tonight?”

“No, I don’t,” I say angrily. “And Mom and Tommy give a lot of money to charity. And when I have my own money, I will too. But there’s nothing wrong with enjoying some of it yourself. I haven’t seen you sending the money you spend on weed or all your expensive surfboards off anywhere.”

He shakes his head at me. “Look, about everything. I know . . . ”

All of a sudden someone rushes past us.

Then a couple more people.

Then someone bumps into me and almost knocks me down.

Black-suited, sunglass-wearing security guards rush by in droves.

Brooklyn gets off the couch, and we both look in the same direction to try and figure out what’s going on.

“Someone probably just crashed the party or got drunk or something. There’s plenty of security here. They’ll get it all sorted out,” I tell him.

But then I think about Mom’s stalker. About how worried James has been about the party. How he promised to keep her safe.

I panic.

Oh my God, I’ve got to find Mom.

“Brook—” I start to say, but I’m interrupted when one of the security guys practically picks me up off the ground and carries me away from Brooklyn.

The security guy yells at me. “We’re getting you out of here now!”

“Why?” I pull back. I look for Brooklyn, but he’s lost in the crowd behind me.

The security guy drags me to the other side of the dance floor, opposite the commotion, near where I made out with Cush.

I’m scared, but I don’t want to leave. Where is Tommy? Where is Mom? And why do they have to get me out of my own party? What’s happened to Mom?

Everyone is heading toward the commotion. The area he’s dragging me to is almost completely empty.

“Stop it!” I yell. “I need to go check on my mom! Is she okay? Tell me what’s going on!”

The security guy stops moving and wraps a strong arm tightly around my waist.

“The whore is fine. I told her I was moving on. Bet she never guessed it was with you.” He lets out an evil chuckle.

Oh my god!

He’s not security.

James was right! It’s the guy!

The stalker!

“Let go of me!” I struggle to get away from him, but he’s still dragging me like a rag doll toward the exit.

“I’ve got a van out back. We’re going to do great things together.”

How do I know that voice? Why does it sound familiar?

Wait. He’s taking me to a van out back?

What. The. Fuck.

I scream bloody murder. “AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

But no one can hear me.

Except the stalker.

“Stop screaming. No one can hear you over the music,” he says coldly.

I realize he’s right. I don’t stand a chance. No one can hear me.

Something I see out of the corner of my eye catches my attention.

It’s the stalker’s arm.

I see the end of a scrolly tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve.

I know that tattoo. How do I know that tattoo?

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

It’s the Y on Vincent’s Abby tattoo.

It’s Vincent.

Vincent’s tattoo.

Vincent’s voice.

Vincent, who thinks I look just like my mom did when he fell in love with her. Vincent, who wants to make a movie with me. Mom’s movie.

Vincent is the stalker?

Could that be right?

I wriggle myself around so that I’m facing him.