Fan Art by Sarah Tregay Page A

them all. But we probably wouldn’t. I think we sold about three hundred last year. Then we used some to apply for the award, and donated a bunch to other schools’ libraries. That was why we needed funding from the school. From taxpayers. Gumshoe wasn’t making a profit at four bucks a pop. Why isn’t it five dollars? Or ten?
    It takes me two hours to proofread every page, and another half hour to make the changes. Mom comes inand looks at the pages spread out in front of me. “It looks great, honey.”
    “Thanks.”
    She gives my shoulders a squeeze. “I’m proud of you.”
    “Enough,” I say, teasing.
    “Never,” she replies, and hugs me again. “Lock the door when you leave.”
    I click print again. While I wait, I put the marked-up pages in the recycling bin under the desk. From the shadows, a black-and-white sketch catches my attention. I pull the paper out from under the pages I just put in the bin.
    It’s a page of Challis’s short—the one with the party invitation in the envelope and the little heart floating up. My heart feels warm in my ribs, like I am standing in a sunny window, as I read over the speech bubbles:
                    “But not me. It’s okay.”
                    “Just because I didn’t have your address. Here.”
    Then, like algebra with Mr. Middlebrook, pieces of a plan begin to fall into place in my mind. I click into InDesign, find the pages from an old document, and copy them into my new one. After which, the document has an odd number of pages, something that doesn’t work when you’re laying out a magazine. And I know who can helpme even them back up again. Scrolling through my contacts on my cell phone, I find Eden’s number.
    “Jamie!” she answers. “Did you get my corsage?”
    “Yeah,” I say absentmindedly, even though I didn’t. And prom is Saturday.
    “Can you get a phone number for me?” I ask.
    “Sure,” she agrees before I tell her whose number I’m looking for.
    Then, after I tell her, she asks, “What’s this about? Prom stuff?”
    “Sorta,” I answer. “I want to ask her something.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
    EIGHTEEN
    Prom day is finally here. I have showered, shaved, and found a matching pair of black socks. I’m working on buttoning the starchy shirt when one of the twins bangs on my bedroom door. The accompanying yelps tell me it’s Ann Marie.
    I bend down to twin level, and then open the door. “Hi, Annie M.”
    She’s wearing a tutu, a red Supergirl cape, and one of Mom’s high-heeled shoes. A purse swings in the crook of her arm. The other shoe is abandoned in the hallway. She flings her arms around my neck and that’s when I see my mom aiming her smartphone at us, obviously making a video.
    “Ooff!” I say, and let Ann Marie knock me over.
    She lands safely on my chest and crawls up me on all fours, losing her shoe. She kisses my face with a-little-too-wet kisses as Mom towers over us with the phone.
    “Where’s Elisabeth?” I ask.
    “Waiting to make her entrance,” Mom says. “We’re playing dress up, in honor of prom.”
    “I noticed,” I say, sitting back up and cradling Ann Marie like a baby. She screeches and wiggles to an upright position on my lap.
    “Elisabeth,” I call through the open door.
    She doesn’t quite get the concept of making an entrance but rather runs down the hall with her arms flapping like she’s about to take off.
    “Whoa,” I tell her. “I want to see how pretty you look.”
    She screeches to a halt and stands still, her fingers twitching with the effort. She has on a purple satin dress-up gown over rainbow leg warmers and a pillowcase cape. A rhinestone tiara slides down her forehead and lands on her nose like sunglasses.
    “Wow!” I say. “You look like a prom queen!” I hold out my free arm for a hug. She takes off her tiara and runs to me.