"Brielle—get up! Quinn's here," my mother shouted from the hallway. "I know, I know!" I threw the quilt off and tangled my feet, hitting the floor hard enough to make the lamp wobble. "Show some class. It's his car," Hadlee called, already in my room, hair half curled, mouth full of lipstick and instructions. "Class?" I grabbed my uniform and answered the mirror. "I studied for class. I am class." "Right," Hadlee said, waving a bobby pin like a baton. "Act normal. Act like you've never plastered your bedroom door with Quinn posters." "My posters are in the attic," I lied. "And they're not posters. They're—" I stopped. I couldn't finish. "Spare me," Hadlee said. "Do your hair. Breathe. Don't faint in front of the Brennan chauffeur." "He's not my chauffeur," I said, which was true and not true. My mother poked her head in. "No fainting. And stop practicing that smile in the mirror. You smile like a deer caught in headlights." "Quinn's on time," Hadlee said. "He's probably bored. Do something interesting." I wanted to tell her: Years ago, in grass with scraped knees and a crooked rope swing, Quinn promised me something stupid that I had kept like a secret treasure. I wanted to say that I had rehearsed a thousand confessions and none of them sounded like me anymore. I said nothing. "Five minutes," Mom announced. "Todd's waiting. He told me he's never