The Year I Became Isabella Anders (Sunnyvale, #1)(15)

And that was that. The last seven days have been filled with packing, driving to the airport with a bus full of older people, taking the twelve-hour flight to Paris, and getting to the hotel. We’ve been here for over a day, but have spent a lot of time catching up on sleep. But after sleeping for most of the day, I feel super awake right now, even though night just fell.

“I was thinking tonight might be the best night to put our plan in motion.” Indigo balances an ashtray on her stomach then kicks her feet up on the railing and takes a drag of her cigarette. “I know we just got here and everything, but I don’t think we should waste any time. You’re already stressing out way too much as it is.”

“I’m not stressed . . . I’ve just been thinking.” I try to focus on her and the conversation. “And which plan are we talking about? The excitement one? Or getting Grandma drunk?” I fan my hand in front of my face to cool off.

In Sunnyvale, June temperatures usually hover in the seventies, maybe the eighties on a super intense day, and the nights bottom to forty. Right now, it’s eight o’clock and feels like it’s ninety degrees outside.

“We aren’t going to get her drunk. We’re going to wait until she gets drunk. And we might not have to wait that long.” She taps her cigarette against the ashtray. “Dude, did you see all the mini bottles she drank on the plane?”

I giggle. “Yeah, I know. I can’t believe she was playing a drinking game with her friends.”

“I think it’s so cool. I hope I’m that cool when I’m old.” She lowers her feet to the ground, leans forward in the chair, and rests her arms on the balcony railing, staring over the edge at the sidewalk below. “I was talking about your self-discovering journey.” She pauses, musing over something while puffing on her cigarette. “I think we should start tonight, but not go too crazy.” She seems to be talking more to herself than to me. “We have to ease you into this.”

“I know I’m not the most exciting person ever,” I say, “but I’ve done some exciting things. You don’t have to go easy on me.”

She gives me a sidelong glance. “Careful, Isa. Giving me free reign like that can end up being dangerous.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s just partying. What’s the big deal?”

“I’m not just talking about partying; I’m talking about completely letting go. Of everything.” She stares me down, like she’s trying to get me to take back what I said. I don’t crack. Won’t. I’ve spent way too much of my life doing that, something I’ve painfully become aware of over the last week. A slow smile curls her lips. “All right, let’s do this then.” She jumps to her feet, wanders back into the room, and begins rummaging around in her suitcase.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I walk into the room.

“Making you club-worthy,” she says as she sorts through her dresses, shirts, and shorts.

I grow nervous as she holds up a tight red dress that looks like it will barely cover my ass. “No fucking way.” I shake my head. “I can’t wear that.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“Well, for starters . . .” I rack my brain for a reason other than I’ll feel like an idiot. “I haven’t shaved my legs.”

She flicks her wrist, motioning me to get a move on. “Well, hurry up and do it then.”

I nervously pick at my fingernails. “I, um, didn’t bring a razor.”

She looks at me with confusion then suddenly relaxes. “Oh, I get it. You’ve never done any of this before, have you?”

I cross my arms, feeling absurdly self-conscious. “Done what exactly?”

“Shave. Put on makeup.” She shoves the red dress at me. “Dress up.”

“I’ve never really cared about my looks, and I’ve never really been into girly stuff.” I pause, feeling idiotic. “And it’s kind of hard, you know, to ask my mom—Lynn—to show me how to put on makeup and all that fun stuff, when I know she’ll probably just laugh at me and tell me how ridiculous I am to think that’ll help my looks.”

Like she did the one and only time I asked her to buy me a dress. I was twelve, and it was for the seventh grade dance. I thought I’d dress up, since I heard most of the girls were.

Lynn laughed at me when I asked. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d look hideous in a dress,” she said.

I fought back the tears. “I think I should try to dress up. I mean, everyone else in my grade is.”

She turned to me with a dead serious expression on her face. “Isabella, I’m going to tell you something that you’re not going to like hearing.” She hesitated, almost as if she was backing out. “You’re too gangling and homely to be dressing up. You should just stick to the baggy jeans and hoodies. It suits your body type better.”

As I recollect the memory, I wonder if that was the starting point to my baggy jeans and hoodie obsession. Sure, I wore them before, but not because I felt like I had to. I just didn’t know how to put together an outfit. Plus, they were comfortable to wear while I was playing basketball.

After Lynn told me that, I felt as if I had to dress in baggy clothes, like I wasn’t good enough to dress nice.

What if that’s the real reason I do a lot of things? What if my general weirdo-ness was created around things my mom—Lynn—said to me. Like when she told me no one wanted to be friends with me because I was too strange. What if I stopped trying to make friends, because I believed no one would want to get to know weirdo, freak I was led to believe I was?