Gorgeous by Rachel Vail Page A

apologetic. Weird.
    “Did I do something wrong?” I asked. “Am I punished?”
    “Not at all, Lemon-head,” he said, reaching toward me. Thinking he was trying to grab the letter, which was in fact touching my left pinky toe under the bed, I hid my empty hands behind my back. “Not at all.” He dropped his hands and came to sit beside me on my bed, which wrinkled my duvet. “You’re not in trouble at all. We are so sorry. But there was a logjam at the bank, apparently, because of some complicated financial maneuverings Mom had to make, which, to be honest, I’m not sure I fully understand myself, and the bottom line is, the payment to Tennis Europe didn’t go through.”
    I surreptitiously shoved the letter a bit farther under the bed.
    “We’re really sorry, but it looks like you won’t be able to go on the trip.”
    “That’s okay,” I said.
    “I know you and Jade and Serena have been looking forward to going together, and it was certainly an exciting opportunity…”
    “Seriously, dude,” I said. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
    He shook his head and reached out his arms. Before I knew what he was doing, he had gathered me into a hug. “What a generous person you are, Allison. Thank you.”
    “It’s no big deal,” I said. “I don’t care about Tennis Europe.”
    “I know that’s not completely true,” he said. “But I appreciate your saying it anyway.” He let go and looked at me. “You are really growing up so beautifully.”
    My eyes felt tight, like they might start to cry, so I just looked away and asked, “Is Mom okay?”
    “Stressed,” he said. “But yes. We’ll all be fine. We’ll find something good for you for the summer, okay, sweetheart?”
    Usually he only calls Phoebe sweetheart. “No problem,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll figure something out.” Like maybe I’ll go to the South of France.
    He got up and went to my door. I resisted straightening out my duvet. He smiled at me, so I smiled back, noticing that his lips disappeared, too, and it wasn’t so hideous. It was kind of cute.
    When he had closed the door, I fixed the duvet and sat back down to reread the zip paperwork. Ten thousand dollars if I won. Ten thousand dollars I could give Mom and Dad. No way Phoebe was making $10,000 this summer, or even Quinn. Ten thousand dollars. I pictured myself handing it over to them, insisting they take it, the whole thing, not even hoarding ten bucks for myself. The whole fat wad of cash, all for them, to help out. To be generous. From their difficult child.
    Picturing that was even better than picturing myself on the cover of a magazine I had always—it was true—looked down my (apparently quite lovely) nose at. I grabbed an envelope from the box on my desk and addressed it. My heart was pounding as I reread the forms. Ten thousand dollars. I forged Dad’s signature and licked the envelope shut before second thoughts could overtake me.

11
    T HE NEXT MORNING ON the way to the bus stop, I had the envelope in my hand, which was sweating inside my sweatshirt pocket. Well, it’s not like I could have left it overnight in the mailbox with the flag up the way I did when I was little and I left notes out there for the tooth fairy. (I know, I know, you’re supposed to leave your tooth under your pillow, but there was no way I could go to sleep thinking some lady was about to fly into my room and take away one of my body parts for a minimal payment—sorry, that’s creepy.) First of all, I wasn’t completely convinced anybody but the tooth fairy checked the mailbox for outgoing mail, and didn’t want to offend Evangeline so early in our friendship. But second and more importantly, one or both of my parents could easily notice the flag up, I realized, and if they went to investigate, I’d be cooked.
    So I had to drop the letter in the mailbox halfway up our street toward the bus stop.
    My plan was to be up and out early and for once leave without Quinn, but it