“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?

Pity briefly flashes in Indigo’s eyes, but the look swiftly vanishes as determination fills her expression. She strides across the room, opens the mini fridge, and grabs a bottle of wine. Using an opener, she removes the cork then takes a swig straight out of the bottle.

God, if Lynn were here, she’d have a fit with the lack of class Indigo is showing right now.

When I hesitate, Indigo says, “No one’s around. We don’t need to be classy.”

“That’s not why I’m hesitating.” Sighing, I grab the bottle, take a drink, and then give the wine back to her.

She sets the bottle aside then grabs my arm and pulls me toward the bathroom door.

“What are we doing?” I ask as I hurry after her.

“I’m giving you a little lesson. But take notes, because I’m only going to do this once. You can’t find out who you are if I’m trying to do it for you.”

Two hours later, I’m walking down an overly packed sidewalk with smooth legs and tweezed eyebrows, wearing a red dress I can barely breathe in.

“Come on, Isa,” Indigo says, motioning me to move quicker as she walks a ways in front of me. “If you keep walking this slow, the clubs are gonna be closed by the time we get there.”

“I’m trying.” I shuffle after her, trying not to roll my ankles. “These heels suck, though.”

She slows to a stop at a street corner and sighs as she leans down to untie her boot. “Come on, take them off and I’ll trade shoes with you.”

I stop beside her and grab the street post to get my balance. “I thought you said heels weren’t your thing.” Which really confused me, since she packed six pairs.

“I said most of the time they weren’t my thing.” She slips her foot out of the boot and unties the other one. “It doesn’t mean I never wear them.”

We exchange shoes and I feel ten times better in the clunky boots. “I think I’m a boots kind of girl for sure.”

“I agree.” After Indigo slips the heels on, she does a little spin in her dress. “How do I look?”

“Amazing,” I say as I finish tying the boots. “I like how the flowers on the shoes match your hair.”

“Me too.” She studies me with her head cocked to the side. “God, you look so great. It’s amazing what a little eyeliner and lip-gloss can do. Well, that, and my ever-so-awesome talent.”

I stand up, self-consciously tugging at the hem of the dress. “I honestly feel kind of silly. Like I’m trying to play dress up or something.” My gaze sweeps over the crowd of people walking around us. “I feel like everyone thinks I’m an impostor.”

She shakes her head with a smile on her face. “Trust me, Isa. No one thinks you’re an imposter.” She grabs my hand and pulls me with her as she moves with the crowd again.

We walk for what feels like hours, taking in all the closed stores, the bars, the Arc de Triomphe, and the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower.

“Let’s go up there,” she says as we gawk up at the tower that stretches to the night sky.

“I thought we were going to a club?” I ask as I rush to keep up with her.

“We can go to a club anytime!” she shouts over the music playing from a street band. “Going up there,” she tips her head up toward the sky, “now that’s an once-in-a-lifetime excitement.”

When we reach the ridiculously long line, I head toward the end. But Indigo has other ideas and starts searching the line for cute guys who will let us cut in front of them. It takes her three tries to find a couple of guys who even speak English. They let us get in line in front of them then Indigo spends the next half-hour flirting with one of them, while I stand there awkwardly.

“You look nervous,” one of the guys whispers in my ear, causing me to jump. “Are you afraid of heights?”

“Um, yeah, sure.” I pretend that’s the reason I have goosebumps sprouting across my skin, when really it’s the guys, the social interaction, the dress—everything, really.

He slings an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” He flashes me a dimpled grin. “I’m Jay, by the way, but you can call me your protector.”

I resist an eye roll. Seriously, dude, those lines can’t possibly work. Then I pause, realizing, Holy shit, this guy is hitting on me. While I’m flattered, I have absolutely no interest in Protector Jay By The Way, who kind of smells like cheese. I can’t help but think of Kyler and how he smells so good all the time, never like rancid cheese. I wish he was the one with his arm around me, but no, he’s probably back home, making out with my sister.

My mood nosedives and smacks against the ground like a squashed bug. Yuck. Why the hell did I have to think that?

Between the mental image my mind just conjured up and Jay By the Way’s cheesy smell, I feel like I’m going to hurl. I want to slide out from under Jay’s arm and get some fresh air, but I can’t think of an excuse that won’t make me look completely deranged, so he ends up keeping his arm there until we go through security. While Jay’s emptying out his pockets, I bolt away from him for the stairs.