Well, we’ll show him.

“Good girl,” I say to Sassy, very softly in Angelic. Her ears whip around to listen to my voice. “Let’s run,” I whisper.

I’m surprised by how quickly she obeys. In seconds we’re in a full gallop, whipping across the far side of the pasture. For a moment the world slows down. The mountains in the background glow a peachy gold, lit by the setting sun. I savor the cool spring air caressing my skin, the strong, dusty feel of the horse under me, her legs stretching out like she’s pulling the earth underneath us as she runs, the in-and-out huff of her hay-scented breath. It’s wonderful.

Then a gust of wind blows my hair across my face and for one panicky moment I can’t see, and everything is going much too fast. I picture myself being thrown off and landing face-first in a pile of manure, Tucker falling all over himself laughing. I toss my head wildly, and my hair is suddenly out of my eyes. My breath catches. The fence is rushing toward us, and Sassy shows no sign of slowing down.

“Can you jump it?” I ask, still whispering. She is, after all, a pretty old horse.

I feel her gather under me. I say a little prayer and lean over her neck. Then we’re in the air, barely clearing the fence. We come down so hard my teeth clatter together. I turn the horse toward the barn, pulling back on the reins a bit to slow her. We trot up to Tucker, Wendy, and Mr. Avery, who are all staring at me with their mouths hanging open.

So much for being on my best behavior.

“Whoa,” I say, and pull up the reins until Sassy stops.

“Holy smokes!” Wendy gasps. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” I force a laugh. “I think it was mostly the horse’s idea.”

“That was amazing!”

“I guess she still has a bit of sass in her after all.” I glance triumphantly at Tucker. For once he’s speechless.

“That was sure something,” says Mr. Avery. “I didn’t know the old girl had it in her.”

“How long have you been riding?” asks Tucker.

“This is her first time, isn’t that amazing?” says Wendy. “She’s a natural.”

“Right,” Tucker said, meeting my gaze steadily. “A natural.”

“So, have you asked Jason Lovett to prom yet?” I ask Wendy as we’re brushing down Sassy in the barn a few minutes later.

She’s immediately the color of a beet. “It’s prom,” she says with forced lightness. “He’s supposed to ask me, right?”

“Everyone knows he’s the shy type. He’s probably intimidated by your stunning beauty. So you should ask him.”

“But maybe he has a girlfriend back in California.”

“Long-distance relationship. Doomed. Anyway, you don’t know that for sure. Ask him. Then you’ll find out.”

“I don’t know—”

“Wen, come on. He likes you. He stares at you all through English. And I know you’ve got the hots for him, too. What is it with you and Californians, anyway?”

It’s quiet for a minute, the only sound the steady breathing of the horse.

“So what’s going on with you and my brother?” asks Wendy. Completely out of the blue.

“Your brother? What do you mean, ‘going on’?”

“It seems like there’s something going on there.”

“You’re joking, right? We just like to mess with each other, you know that.”

“But you like him, don’t you?”

My mouth falls open. “No, I—” I stop myself.

“You like Christian Prescott,” she finishes for me, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah, I could tell. But he’s like a god. You worship the gods but you don’t go out with them. You only like guys like that from a distance.”

I don’t know what to say. “Wendy—”

“Look, I’m not pushing you on my brother. It kind of gives me the creeps, truthfully, my best friend dating my brother. But I wanted to tell you, in case you were interested, that it’d be okay. I could get over it. If you wanted to go out with him—”

“But Tucker doesn’t even like me,” I sputter.

“He likes you.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“In grade school, didn’t you ever have a boy punch you on the arm?”

“Tucker’s a junior in high school.”

“He’s still in grade school, trust me,” she says.

I stare at her. “So you’re saying Tucker’s such a jackass because he likes me?”

“Pretty much.”

“No way.” I shake my head in disbelief.

“The thought never crossed your mind?”

“No!”

“Huh,” she says. “I won’t stand in the way or anything. It’s okay.”

My heart’s beating fast. I swallow. “Wendy, I don’t like your brother. Not that way. Not in any way, really. No offense.”

“None taken,” she says with a casual shrug. “I just wanted you to know I’m okay with it, the you-and-Tucker thing, if there’s ever a you-and-Tucker thing.”

“There’s no me-and-Tucker thing, okay? So can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” she says, but I can tell by the pensive look on her face that she has more she wants to say.

Chapter 9

Long Live the Queen

“Can I get into this thing by myself?” I ask.

“Put on as much as you can,” Angela calls back, “and I’ll help you with the rest.”

I contemplate the gown and all of its many parts, which are hanging from a hook in the backstage dressing room at the Pink Garter. It looks complicated. Maybe we should have gone with the Angels of Mons idea.

“How long am I going to have to wear this tomorrow?” I call, pulling on the silk stockings and tying them with ribbon under the knee.

“Not long,” answers Angela. “I’ll help you put it on right before class and then you’ll wear it during the entire presentation.”

“Just so you know, this may kill me. I may have to sacrifice my life for us to get a good grade on this project.”

“So noble of you,” she says.

I struggle into the corset and the long crazy hoops of the petticoat. Then I grab the hanger with the dress on it and march out onto the stage.

“I think I need you to tie up the corset before I put the rest on,” I say.

She jumps up to help me. That’s one thing about Angela: She never does anything halfway. She yanks the laces.

“Not so tight! I still have to breathe, remember?”

“Quit whining. You’re lucky we couldn’t find any real whalebone for this thing.”

By the time she slides the dress over my head I feel like I have on every item of clothing at the Garter. Angela walks around me pulling on the pieces underneath to make sure they look right. She steps back.

“Wow, that is good. With the makeup and the hair right, you’ll look exactly like Queen Elizabeth.”

“Great,” I say without enthusiasm. “I’ll look like a pasty-faced tart.”

“Oh, I forgot the ruffs!”

She hops down from the stage and runs over to a cardboard box on the floor. She pulls out a stiff round collar that looks like the things you put on dogs to keep them from licking themselves. There are two more for the wrists.

“No one said anything about ruffs,” I say, backing away.

She jumps toward me. Her wings come out with a flash and beat a couple of times, carrying her easily to the stage, then disappear.

“Show-off.”

“Hold still.” She puts the final ruff on the end of my sleeve. “My mom’s a genius.”

As if on cue, Anna Zerbino comes in from the lobby with a stack of table linens. She stops in the aisle when she sees me.

“So it fits,” she says, her humorless dark eyes looking me up and down.

“It’s great,” I say. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

She nods.

“Dinner’s ready upstairs. Lasagna.”

“Okay, so we’re done with the fitting,” I say to Angela. “Get me out of this thing.”

“Not so fast,” whispers Angela, glancing at her mom over her shoulder. “We haven’t done much of our other research.”