Lola at Last


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 
 
 
 To Jackie; I like you so much better than Jill
 
 
 Contents
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 One
 Two
 Three
 Four
 Five
 Six
 Seven
 Eight
 Nine
 Ten
 Eleven
 Twelve
 Thirteen
 Fourteen
 Fifteen
 Sixteen
 Seventeen
 Eighteen
 Nineteen
 Twenty
 Twenty-One
 Twenty-Two
 Twenty-Three
 Twenty-Four
 Twenty-Five
 Twenty-Six
 Twenty-Seven
 Twenty-Eight
 Twenty-Nine
 Thirty
 Thirty-One
 Thirty-Two
 Thirty-Three
 Thirty-Four
 Thirty-Five
 Thirty-Six
 Thirty-Seven
 Thirty-Eight
 Thirty-Nine
 Forty
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Books by JC Peterson
 Back Ad
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 One
 
 IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY acknowledged that boys make for the best mistakes.
 Speaking of. I clink glasses with the boy across from me and tip the shot back, my gaze tipping with it. From his white teeth, up to the white mast of the boat, up to the twinkling white stars pricking the midnight sky.
 Someone jostles my shoulder, and the boat sways under the soles of my platform sandals. My attention tilts back down to find Jasmine has pushed the boy aside, Meg in tow. Meg Grant and Jasmine LeGrange are two of my oldest friends. I mean, currently they sort of hate me, but . . . semantics.
 “Lola!” Meg says, all toothy smile and loose limbs, probably thanks to the vodka bottle hanging from one pale hand. I came late and alone, and she definitely did neither of those things. Meg squeals at someone behind me and hauls my twin sister in for a hug that makes Kat grimace. Or maybe that’s because she was caught trying to sneak by me with four beers for her new friends. Meg, though, grins and tilts her cheek against my twin’s long golden hair. “You both made it!”
 The cheap bourbon shot is still clawing down my throat, and I have to cough to clear it out. “Of course I made it,” I say with a practiced shrug. “It’s not a party without Lola Barnes.”
 Everyone knows that. Or they did. Kat snorts and squeezes the bottle necks in her grip, but that’s easy enough to ignore. Or actually . . . I snatch three of them and press the cold-slicked bottles toward Meg and Jasmine. Maybe they all just need a reminder of how much fun I am.
 “Hey, Crenshaw Day!” I shout, howling over the noise. “We’re gonna be seniors!”
 All around me, my Crenshaw classmates cheer. The feel of their eyes on me seeps into my skin and warms me up better than any cheap liquor. I spear Jasmine with a look.
 “See, Jas? Like I said. Not a party without me.”
 Jasmine blinks slowly but doesn’t respond. Point for Lola.
 Because that’s what every decade-long friendship runs on, right? Points and grudges. Whatever. Worming my way back in with Meg and Jasmine means being popular again. Because, honestly, I’m too fabulous to be unpopular.
 Meg clinks the neck of her bottle against mine. “You always make it fun,” she says, and my heart swells. She’s the only one who even takes a swig of the beer I generously procured, but maybe this is it, the night my friends are finally going to forgive me! We’ll go back to how it always was! Me and Jasmine shopping while Meg and Kat rate the boys walking by. The four of us—
 “Just, like, don’t sink Daddy’s yacht, okay, sweetie?” Jasmine’s words are honeyed and hard as rocks.
 My heart crashes, and my hope sours. Next to Meg, Kat picks at the peeling label of her untouched beer and is distracted by the crowd. So it’s still like that. “Best friends” who refuse to forgive me and a twin sister who’s moved on. I hone that soured hope into something sharp and snag Jasmine with a look.
 “It’s super cute you’d call this a yacht, Jas,” I say, smile serrated like a knife.
 It is, at best, an aspirational dinghy.
 “That’s why Daddy sold it for a bigger one.” She waits a beat, inspects the nail polish of one spray-tanned hand, and slides her gaze to Kat. “And Kat, maybe go check on your friends. They’re really bringing down the whole vibe.” She loops her arm through Meg’s, trills “Costume change!” and drags her off.
 We used to plan every outfit together, but now I’m only wearing these slouchy jeans and cropped sweater and have no idea what she has planned next. I swallow against the ache in my throat and refuse to remember the time in eighth grade when we convinced our whole group to wear evening gowns to school. We were all sent home early; it was fantastic. I have to clear my throat again, even though the bourbon’s long gone, but when I turn to Kat, trying to force out something sarcastic about ridiculous costume changes, she’s gone.
 Great. Really great. I spot her long blond waves disappearing through the crowd. My own hair, chopped above my shoulders and lavender this week, sticks on my lip gloss. I flick the strands away and stomp after Kat, only to spot her sliding onto a white leather couch near the prow with her shiny new friends. Who are all total nerds, by the way. The party teems around them, but they look like they’re discussing Kafka over black coffee. They don’t have their extra credit summer work out, but I bet it’s in the car.
 Kat glances up from the conversation, spots me hovering, and freezes. Like she’s been caught. Or maybe like she doesn’t want to be found. Too bad, sis, I found you in the womb. I sidestep the “CLOSED (FOR TWINS)” sign and plop onto the couch next to Joon Park. Everyone stops talking, record-scratch style.
 Across from me, Ezra Reuben lifts his hand in a sort of half wave, then clearly thinks better of it and tugs at the collar of his short-sleeved floral button-down. His cheeks blaze and he drops his chin, and I feel, for the barest of seconds, like I get it. That sense