I wake up at the sound of Reagan pounding on my door.

“Isa, wake up, you’ll miss graduation if you don’t start getting ready.”

Oh, bollocks! I didn’t break this news to her last night because she was freaking out about Hale and Colin Firth. I crawl out of bed and open my door.

“Morning, Reg.”

“Come on sleepy head, I’ll do your hair. Your big speech!” She claps her hands.

Okay, here goes nothing. “Reg, I’m not giving a speech. Actually, I—umm—I’m not going.”

She gawks at me like I’m speaking pig Latin. “What the fuck?”

I don’t expect her to understand, or anyone else for that matter. But there’s no way I’m wasting four hours of my numbered days to hear about what a great beginning this is. ICE’s formal countdown starts today, even if mine started a week ago. I’d much rather spend the next four hours getting ready for my painting, practicing the name Aiden, shaving my legs and doing other wonderful things. Not to mention that walking at graduation without my parents there makes my stomach twist worse than any hangover. I give Reagan an edited version of this. It takes a good fifteen minutes to convince her. Finally, she relents.

“Fine. I guess I get it. Frankly, I’d be upset too. So, do you want me accept on your behalf?”

“I don’t think they’ll let you. It’s not the Oscars, Reg.”

She gives me a puppy-eyes look and skips to her room to get ready while I eat some cereal in the kitchen.

The moment I’m alone, my nerves start making an unwelcome but assertive appearance. I’m about to face Aiden Hale with nothing but knickers and an undone shirt. Bloody hell, what if he picks a thong? What if the room is cold and I get all…nippy? Javier will be there too. He will see all that as well. Why on earth did I agree to this with so little information? Oh, right, because my brain was mush at the time and because I never thought it would actually happen. Now that it’s only five hours away, my hands start shaking and I have to set my cereal bowl down on the table. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003. Lithium, 6.94…

Reagan walks into the kitchen, delaying the breakdown that is sure to come. She looks stunning in a simple moss-green dress. Before she can see the madness inside, I distract her.

“Reg, you look great. Here, let me take some pics.” It works immediately. She giggles and poses, blowing kisses at my camera as I snap away.

“Speaking of looking great, what are you wearing today?” she asks, striking a serious-psychology-student pose.

I know exactly what I’m wearing. Or not wearing. “Whatever I can find in your closet.” I shrug with a smile.

“My push-up bras are in the second drawer.” She giggles.

This was not the thought I needed in my head.

“Here, happy graduation!” I say, handing her a small box, wrapped in red, white and blue. My hand shakes a little.

“Isa! You’re not supposed to buy me—”

“I didn’t. It’s something I’ve had for a while.”

She must hear the thickness in my voice because she squints at me. But Reagan cannot resist a present for more than three seconds. Three, two, one.

She tears the patriotic paper and lifts the lid. Then she gasps and jumps back two steps.

“Oh my God!” she whispers and looks up at me, green eyes wide. “Is this your mom’s emerald brooch?”

I smile. “Yes. And my grandma Cecilia’s. It has always belonged to the women in my family. And now it belongs to you.”

Reagan’s eyes fill up with tears. “Isa, I can’t—”

I take her hand in both of mine. “Yes, you can. I want you to. Besides, it matches your eyes—”

A red-haired fireball almost knocks me to the kitchen floor. She doesn’t speak. Nor do I. We just hold each other, refusing to say what we are both thinking. Goodbye.

“Go on, then,” I say. “Or President Campbell will get all shirty.”

She sniffles and smiles. “That means mad, right?”

“Right.”

She pins Clare’s brooch on her dress and pats it. “Okay, I’m staying at Hotel Lucia with Mom and Dad tonight. Come over if Hale is being a wanker. Or better yet, shag him silly.”

“Reagan!”

“Cheerio!” she calls over her shoulder and slams the door behind her.

In the ringing silence, my nerves hit full force. I distract myself by tackling the dilemma of what to wear. Yes, it’s ridiculous because it will come off the moment I go to his house, but still, in my escapist fantasy this is almost a date. A very one-sided date. I try at least twenty outfits before I decide on a navy sheath dress and red flats. Patriotic. For good luck. Then, I march into the restroom to shower. I shave my legs, saying a silent thanks to my ancestors for the genetic quirk that has caused me to have so very little pubic hair. A Brazilian wax would be just as effective but more expensive. If Hale has opted for some lacy, see-through affair, pubic hair would definitely kill me if the nerves don’t do the job before he gets here.

When I’m finally ready and dressed, the nerves get so bad that I start sweating. I plug in the floor fan and stand in front of it with my arms up in the air, trying to reason with myself.

Javier will be there. He knows you. If Hale asks for anything too crazy, like legs behind the ears, Javier will put his foot down for aesthetic reasons. He’s nothing if not persnickety about his art. If you’re asked to wear a G-string, you just say “no” in a polite fashion and insist on wearing your knickers. And no matter what, don’t drop them at the sight of him.

My thighs flex at the thought, and I triple-check my knickers to make sure they’re the right ones. The only lace ones I have, just in case I need to resort to them. My pep talk is not working so I go to my favorite chocolate, Baci, stashed in the back of the spice drawer in the kitchen. I usually have one of these for emergencies. I take two today, and tuck them in my purse. Then I go back to the fan and start the periodic table backward in Italian.

On fosforo, the door rattles under four sharp, loud knocks. According to my dad’s watch, I still have one hour before Hale gets here. I peek through the hole and freeze. Bloody hell, it’s the Dragon, with a capital D this time. What did I do today? Oh, maybe he is canceling the painting. I put a half-baked plan together and open the door.

“Mr. Hale, what a nice surprise,” I start with a big smile, my voice high enough for the bats to hear it.

He steps inside. I think he’s trying to calm himself but it’s hard to tell with the smoke coming out of his ears. He runs a hand over his hair. What the devil is wrong with him? My knickers are a little terrified, clinging to my hips for dear life. He takes one deep breath and explodes.

“Are you so above the rest, Miss Snow, that you will not deign to attend even your graduation from the institution that has granted you its highest academic honor? Or is this how little your own life means to you?” He speaks through gritted teeth.

Oh, bollocks! How did he find out, and why does he care? Be strong, Isa. “I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business.” I ignore his second question. Something about it makes me recoil.

He looks at me like I just insulted his mother. Honestly, I think I see fire from his nostrils. “None of my fucking business? Is that your answer?” Still gritted teeth, which I suppose is better than fangs.

“Yes, that’s my answer.” I stay calm, hoping some of it will rub off on him. No such luck.

“Over three thousand people watched President Campbell announce Miss Elisa Cecilia Snow, valedictorian in absentia, and a full minute of silence fell over the crowd, and you say it’s none of my fucking business?” He is spitting fire.

Damn it! Why would President Campbell announce it? I emailed the traitor. Well, one thing at a time. The Dragon first. “No, I didn’t say fucking business. I said simply business.”