IN SIXTH GRADE, I came to school dressed as Abraham Lincoln for a book report. I thought my classmates would see my passion and like it - like me - but they ended up liking it so much I became the butt of every joke. I didn't regret it, though, because I would've never met Jo if I'd worn anything else that day. She stepped in to save me then, and she had ever since. She had this ability to sense whenever something was wrong and fix it. I could never get anything past her, even if I wanted to. It was only a matter of time before she realized I was off today.

I played into Jo's excitement to distract her. It was easy to change the conversation whenever the subject of Stanford came up, asking things like, "What time is the party again? What are you going to wear? What song are you working on now?" I felt horrible every time, but the guilt lessened a little whenever I saw how excited she got when she answered my questions.

However, my advanced placement English teacher took pride in two of his students applying to Stanford, and he knew admission letters were out. I may have been able to hide my failure behind surface-level questions with Jo, but I couldn't explain the way I didn't meet Mr. Todd's expectant stare when we came into class, or when I handed in my test. Especially when I barely filled any of it out. None of it mattered now anyway.

"Claire, stay a minute," Mr. Todd called after the bell rang. Busted. When I hung by his desk, giving Jo a nod to go on without me, I braced myself for the impassioned rants he dolled out on other students. But instead, his tone was quiet. Concerned. "What's going on?"

I offered a noncommittal shrug. "I have a migraine."

Mr. Todd, like my mother, didn't look convinced. He ran his fingers over his bald head with a sigh. "Dustin got his acceptance letter a couple of days ago. I haven't heard anything from you."

Nausea curled in my stomach. Dustin got a what?! Dustin. The same conceited jerk in Jo's old band, who Jo said had been too dumb for her, got an acceptance letter? I had a better grade-point-average, stellar SAT and ACT scores, and Stanford chose him over me?

I couldn't say anything. It was an answer enough. "Claire, it's okay," Mr. Todd went on. "This is what backup colleges are for. You can always reapply after freshman year."

He didn't know about the rejection letters from them, either. "It's fine," I said. It wasn't fine, though.

"That's not true, and you know it. If anyone deserves to be there, it's you."

"It's clear what I'm doing isn't working," I said. "I just need to figure something else out."

"Claire –"

I backed away. "I have to catch the bus."

"Makeup test tomorrow," he said. "Skipping isn't an option."

A rush of nerves swirled in my chest as I boarded the bus. Now Jo would realize something was wrong. She waved me over to her seat, her knees braced on the cracked vinyl seat in front of her, scooping her hair into a messy bun. She popped one of her earbuds in and handed me the other. Despite me liking Taylor Swift and her being a fan of... whatever bands she listened to, we made it work. We had since the Honest Claire incident. 

"I swear you've been living in that book all day," Jo said, her dark eyes searching mine, making my stomach flip. She figured it out. "Don't you get tired of reading the same thing? I mean, how many times can you read Heathbar and the knight guy kissing?"

That didn't... sound like anything accusatory. Or prying. She didn't figure it out. A relieved laugh bubbled out of me. "It's Lady Heathwood. She's not a chocolate bar," I corrected. Jo took my book and flicked through the pages, handling it as gently as she did her guitar despite her flippant attitude toward it. "It's more than a romance story. It's been my trusted companion since Germany."

"I'll try not to take offense to that." Of course Jo didn't totally understand. While she knew a lot of about my home life, she didn't know everything. She didn't know my dad could lean toward destroying our apartment in a fit of drunken rage, or how my mom's words could drip acid when she wasn't totally silent.

Jo suddenly stopped flipping through the pages, and her brows shot up. "These people do mushrooms?"

I laughed, the lingering anxiety from Stanford and school not quite forgotten, but pushed aside by my best friend. "Not those kinds of mushrooms. The actual fungi. Lady Heathwood is a botanist. After going to the neighboring kingdom, she learned how to use those specific ones for healing tonics. She lives in a cruel area of the Velein and makes money by selling them to wounded knights. That's how she meets Sir Ashwell."

Jo cut me a look. "Let me guess, it was some love at first sight bullshit."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, but it's illegal for them to be together because of their social classes. Sir Ashwell would walk through fire for Lady Heathwood. He tried to stay away to protect her, but he couldn't. Neither of them could."

The bus came to a screeching halt. I followed her and three other kids that lived on the same street as Jo. "Yo, Jo! You comin' to Callahan's tonight?" the tallest boy asked. None of them looked at me.

Jo sighed. "Unfortunately."

"You better rip some chords for us," the second boy said. He had his arm around a brunette girl I guessed was his girlfriend.

"We'll see," Jo replied as we headed to her house. It was a small townhome with faded, cracking paint, matching the rest of the drab neighborhood. At least it was a house. Jo opened the door for me. "So what happens in your story next?"

"They keep their affair a secret until Sir Ashwell must make a choice. His kingdom or Lady Heathwood," I went on, throwing my backpack on the couch in her living room and opening the curtains, allowing light into the room. "They're the reason I believe in soulmates."

Jo scoffed. She didn't believe in romance. After her parents split, she watched her mother become a serial dater, so Jo became determined to only rely on herself. "Claire, you do know soulmates don't exist, right? Guys like Archibald –"

"Ashwell," I corrected.

"Sir Whatever-The-Whatevers don't live in the real world," she said. "You and every other hopeless romantic can try and search for perfection, but you'll never find it."

I pursed my lips, playing off the sting of her words as I followed her upstairs. "I believe they do," I admitted. "Not all guys are like Dustin or our dads."

Before opening her bedroom door, her eyes narrowed. "Well, that's one thing we can agree on. No one can be bigger douchebags than them."

I smirked. "Wait 'till you hear about the bad guy in the book."

Jo's bedroom was exactly what I believed the inside of her mind looked like. Notebooks full of songs cluttered her bookshelf, which matched a dresser vandalized by band stickers. Her walls were covered with posters and concert ticket stubs. The only remnant of her father sat in the corner untouched by dirty clothes: an electric guitar.

I took a hesitant step toward her closet and all the dark colors spilling out. Jo lived in black, gray, and a splash of red. It was a far cry from the cream and pastels I was drawn to, but that was the point. I wasn't lying to Mr. Todd when I said I needed to figure something else out.

"You should wear the black dress I found at Goodwill," Jo offered.

"I'm not that adventurous," I said. One wrong move and everyone would see the polk-a-dot underwear I suddenly regretted wearing. Instead, I settled on an oversized band T-shirt, a short leather skirt, and over-the-knee stockings. 

I changed in the bathroom so I could take advantage of Jo's full-length mirror hanging off her door. The outfit was fine, but I was too plain to wear it. My bare face, freckled cheeks, and mascara wouldn't cut it. It wasn't enough of a difference. Tonight, I didn't want to recognize myself. I used some of Jo's makeup, smudging eyeliner along my top waterline, and I added a bold burgundy lip. There. That would do it.

Ms. Anderson was leaning against Jo's dresser when I came back. I hadn't even heard her car pull into the driveway.  They both gawked at me with wide, identical eyes. Jo's mom broke into a cheeky smile. "You look hot –"

"Mom! Gross!" Jo snapped. Heat flared up in my cheeks when she turned on me. "What the hell is going on with you? You hate my clothes and now you're wearing all of them and... is that my makeup? You don't even own eyeliner!"

"What does it matter?" Ms. Anderson asked, wrapping her arm around my shoulders before she leaned in conspiratorially. "Don't listen to her, Claire. It's fun to pretend to be someone else for the night."

"You'd know," Jo muttered.

Ms. Anderson's smile shrunk. I frowned at Jo.  Sometimes she took her mother for granted. Ms. Anderson cared about her and worked tirelessly to make their lives comfortable. What more could she want? Ms. Anderson cleared her throat and handed Jo the keys to her car. "I hope you have fun tonight. Curfew is midnight."

Jo's face twisted. Her mother must've had another date tonight. Curfew in Jo's home meant any time after the specified time. "Fine," Jo said, placing her palm in the air. "Give me compensation for it."

I couldn't imagine saying anything like that to my mom, much less expect her to respond the same way as Ms. Anderson. Jo's mom huffed, but pulled out a couple of twenties. "You know, you can be as insufferable as your father."

Jo froze. I tensed. It was an unspoken rule to never talk about her father. It took years, and a lot of drinks, for Jo to even tell me he left for a gig in Charlotte and never came back. Even if my father lived in a drunken state now, I still had the memories of the person he used to be. Jo didn't. She didn't have anything except the guitar he accidentally left behind.

Tension between the Andersons made the air thick. Suffocating. I reached for Ms. Anderson, asking, "May I have some of your sweet tea before we go?"

At the very least, I could separate them, give Jo time to regroup, and the night could go on as planned.