After cheer practice ends at 5 o’clock, we’re all starving, and I mean starving. Throwing each other around in the air isn’t as easy as it looks on TV. Those are professional cheerleaders, and we’re ninth graders. The pressure is on to perform perfectly. I like to think that we succeed, but it may not seem that way to viewers. In any case, it’s hard work.
“Dakota, you coming?” my best friend, Cheyenne Zachmann, calls to me from the locker room entrance.
I finish mopping up the puddle of my sweat that’s been collecting on the ground around me all practice (ew) and sprint over to the locker room. “Coming!”
My stomach is growling all throughout my shower. I can distantly hear Arianna Colombo, one of my other best friends, singing as she shampoos. Arianna is in the Honors Chamber Chorus, which is ridiculous because she’s only in ninth grade. She’s super short - 4’11” - but she’s got a set of pipes that can blow the roof off.
After my shower, I pull on my usual post-practice uniform - a pair of XL men’s sweatpants, a huge San Francisco 49ers T-shirt, fuzzy socks, and slides. I’m a big believer in being comfortable.
“Am I the only one who hated that practice?” Greta, one of my other friends, asks. Greta’s kind of small and fragile. She has acute myeloid leukemia, so she really shouldn’t be exerting herself at all, but she couldn’t find time to spend with us outside of cheer practice. She hates every practice, but I actually agree with her on this one.
“I mean, the routines were just the same as usual, but I really don’t think it’s necessary to take up so much time weight training the day before a game,” Adeline, our other best friend, says.
“Agreed.” I start trying to yank a brush through my ridiculously tangled wet curls. For the record, curly hair is sooooo annoying. I have to spend about half an hour every single day on my hair alone.
Arianna grabs my hairbrush and pushes me down so I’m sitting on the locker room bench. She slowly brushes my hair, brushing the tips first and then brushing from the middle, and then the roots. Arianna is super great with hair and makeup. She says she doesn’t want to be a cosmetician, because who wants to deal with other people’s gross hair and faces all day? Her skills still come in handy when we’re preparing for a big game or competition, though.
After we’re all finished, we troup out to Waffles Supreme to meet our other friends. Brady, Martin, Ian, Dean, Xander, Adele, Brooke, Ryanna, and Donna. This is our post-practice tradition (basically every day). The guys are all on the wrestling team. Adele, Brooke, Ryanna, and Donna are all on cheer with us, but they kind of hang out in different groups. We’re all still great friends, though.
Currently, Brady and Arianna are going out. It’s totally adorable. Right now, Arianna is wearing Brady’s wrestling team sweatshirt. It totally envelops her, since he’s this great big 6 foot tall hunk of muscle and she’s tiny and skinny, especially right next to him.
We all order waffles. Our go-to foods after practice are always waffles or bagels with fruit and chocolate milk. Arianna always brings about twenty bottles of chocolate milk and keeps them in her locker with a huge ice pack and an air freshener to protect them from the stinky socks smell that seems to hover around every locker.
Our waffles arrive. Cheyenne starts wolfing hers down.
“Life is pretty crazy right now,” Ryanna complains, stuffing her face with her chocolate-syrup-y waffles. “Not even kidding, in approximately ten minutes I have to run to gymnastics practice, and then I have a soccer game at 8.”
Adele pats her arm sympathetically. “Think of how good this will look on college apps, though.”
“I’m not thinking about that junk. I’m in ninth grade.” Ryanna takes another (gargantuan) bite of waffles.
“We’re all too busy these days,” Greta says with a sigh. She’s not wearing her wig, since she wore it to cheer practice and needs to wash it; she has on a knit lavender hat. She looks so small and sad, sitting with an untouched plate of waffles in front of her.
Just then, in walk the quadruplets. Carol, Cheryl, Darryl, and Pharrell. They’re kind of goofy, but these four are the most endearing, loving, adorable people I know. They’re in the Honors Chamber Chorus with Arianna and Greta, and the six of them always make us go Christmas caroling with them and then shock us over and over again with their voices.
“Afternoon, laddies!” Darryl slides into the huge circular booth we’re all seated in and steals a bite off of Greta’s plate.
Greta smiles up at him. “How was debate practice?”
“Far too short, in my humble opinion.” Darryl rolls his eyes dramatically.
“Just like you,” Arianna deadpans.
“Look who’s talking.”
Darryl is the sweetest guy ever. He’s super short, about 5’2”, so all the girls at school fawn over him. He’s bubbly and boisterous and a total extravert. He’s kind of flirty, but he really isn’t interested in anyone. He’s told all of us multiple times that he’s leaving the dating for after college, which is probably a good idea. He’s a great platonic guy friend to Greta and Arianna.
Pharrell sits down lightly next to Brady at the end. They do that bro-handshake thing that’s much less efficient than a hug. Pharrell looks up at Greta, who’s staring right at him, and then glances sharply down at his lap.
Sparks between those two? I make a note of it. Cheyenne and I are expert, experienced matchmakers. We got Greta and Jeremy together (even though they broke up) and I got Christopher and Cheyenne together (even though they broke up) and Cheyenne got Robert and me together (even though he tried to cheat on me). We’ve only ever fudged a match once. Actually, twice. Those were both accidents. I mean, how was I supposed to know that Megan would manage to spill a whole plate of spaghetti on Joey’s lap?
Okay, maybe we’re not expert matchmakers, perchance, but we’re definitely experienced. We can get Greta and Pharrell together, no doubt about it.

“Do I like who?”
Greta blinks her innocent green eyes at me, but it’s a ruse.
“Pharrell Warren. Do you like Pharrell Warren?”
“I would tell you guys if I did.” She tries to scurry away, but I block her path.
“That’s not a no.”
“Shut up, Dakota!” Greta’s tiny voice rises, and I can tell she’s about to kick me, because that’s just her habit. I move out of her way, and she kicks her way through the crowd to get to math class.
“Resistance?” Cheyenne stands up from leaning against her nearby locker.
“Of course.”
“No worries. We’ll get them together.”
Every student has one free period per day, so the Honors Chamber Chorus meets during that time. Cheyenne and I drop in to watch their rehearsal. Our jaws are on the floor in shock at the pure beauty of everyone’s voices blending together.
Mr. Stern, their conductor, cracks a joke, and everyone laughs. Even their laughter sounds like music. They all look so happy, almost magical, standing on the risers with their folders in hand.
The magic is broken when the bell rings and they all file off the risers. Greta and Arianna look a little surprised to see us sitting in the back of the room, watching them.
“I didn’t know you were interested in joining, Dakota,” Greta begins. Suddenly, her eyes flash in recognition - she’s caught on to our motives - but before she can accuse us of anything, Arianna cuts her off.
“Of course she isn’t. She’s a terrible singer.” Arianna laughs - musically, of course - as the quadruplets come up behind her.
“Thank you for being a supportive friend, Dakota,” Darryl starts, managing to keep a straight face. “You see, it isn’t often that those of us who are - ahem - less musically gifted come together to cheer on those who are - ahem - profoundly musically gifted, and I’m extremely proud of you for hiding the immense jealousy that I know you must be feeling…”
Greta is practically bent over laughing. I give Darryl a shove, and he topples over into Pharrell, laughing.
“You realize that I have eight inches on you, boy,” I tell him, half glowering, but I’m smiling. “I could smash you into the ground.”
Darryl doesn’t bat an eye as he reaches up on his tippy toes and pats my head gently. “I’ve got Pharrell as my bodyguard. I think I’ll be okay.”
“Nah, man, I think I’ll just turn you over to the wolves,” Pharrell says, picking Darryl up and literally holding him upside-down. This is what happens with brothers of the same age who have a 14-inch disparity in height.
“Putmedownputmedownputmedown!” Darryl’s shrieking like a banshee, and Carol and Cheryl are pulling his arms in different directions, practically torturing him like all good little sisters do. Arianna starts tickling him, and Darryl is practically crying from laughing so hard.
And then along comes Nora. And Marissa. And Layla.
Nora is the biggest queen bee in the school. At least that’s what Mrs. Hawkins, Greta’s mom, calls girls who think they’re in charge of everything. Nora is such a diva that her middle name is literally Diamond.
On our first day of school, we were all super excited. Our first grade teacher, Miss Hannah, was taking attendance in order of middle name, so Nora was right before me.
“Nora Diamond O’Reilly?”
“Present,” Nora said primly, tossing those perfect blonde curls.
I’d gaped at her.
“Dakota Elizabeth Zeigler?”
I was speechless, so I got marked absent. Miss Hannah called my parents, then asked me what my name was and why I wasn’t on her attendance list.
And then there’s Marissa. She moved here in seventh grade. She’s from England, so she’s got the best British accent. All the guys were fawning over her because she’s flipping gorgeous, so Nora snatched her up into the popular posse to make sure everyone knew that Queen Nora was still in charge of everyone.
Finally, there’s Layla. Layla’s not so bad on her own - she’s actually the most down-to-earth and relatable girl in their posse. But she’s so obsessed with what people think of her. She wears designer jeans and shoes and never leaves the house without making sure that her latest Instagram post has received one hundred likes. If not, she literally sits around making fake accounts and liking her own posts. I only know this because we had a sleepover in seventh grade for some reason.
Anyway. The popular posse comes sashaying toward us. Pharrell, Darryl, Arianna, and Cheryl ignore them, but Carol springs back from her brothers as if she’s embarrassed. Greta glances down at the ground, obviously wishing they would go away. Cheyenne glares up at Nora from under a furrowed brow.
“Afternoon, darlings,” Marissa says in that posh British accent. “How did you manage to get yourself in that situation, Darryl?”
Darryl attempts to straighten out and folds in half again as Arianna pokes his belly. His abs (what abs?) must be in pain. “Ah, you know how it goes, Marissa. You’re just minding your own business when all of a sudden, someone snatches you up from where you were minding your own innocent business, and they try to corrupt you. Am I right?” He winks, obviously alluding to Marissa’s arrival at our school two years ago.
Marissa ignores this. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Darryl, but frankly, you look ridiculous.” She pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of Pharrell dangling him upside down.
Just then Marissa’s boyfriend, Beckham, arrives on the scene. (He’s British too. His parents named him after David and Victoria, obviously.) He’s super jealous and doesn’t like Marissa hanging around other guys. “Marissa, why are you taking pictures of a guy upside down with his shirt half off?”
“It’s not like that -”
“Says you.”
As a pop posse fight ensues, we back away from the divas. Pharrell sets Darryl down none too gently, and Darryl wobbles a little bit, the blood having flooded his head.
“I kind of pity them,” Cheyenne says thoughtfully.
“Pity who? And who says pity anymore?” Darryl teases, poking her in the shoulder.
She swats his hand away. “The pop posse. They look like they have it all, but they’re so superficial and really stupid.”
“Putting it kindly,” Pharrell adds, his deep voice startling me.
Greta sighs a little. “I can’t believe I was ever friends with them.”
Greta used to be a mean girl, the queen of the queen bees. When she was diagnosed with AML in sixth grade (it’s been a long time), Nora and Layla totally ditched her and reformed the posse. Greta’s been doing cheer with us since forever, so we befriended her, I guess. It feels like we’ve been friends forever. Greta was never the diva type, which is probably why Nora and Layla looked for the quickest, easiest excuse to drop her.
“Someone’s birthday is on Friday,” Darryl says, sing-song.
I groan, dropping my head into my hands.
“You’re gonna be fifteen! A big girl!” Arianna exclaims, giving me a mini-hug. “Welcome to the team.”
Lightbulb.
I pull Cheyenne aside. She’s had the same idea as I have.
“Big birthday party,” she hisses. “Don’t have any inappropriate couple games, because no, but try to get them to come together.”
“Will do.”
“Friday night?”
“If my mom says okay.”

Getting my mom to agree to a big birthday party is a struggle.
“What do you need a big birthday party for, Dakota?” my mom asks distractedly, rooting through a kitchen drawer for a pair of scissors. She pulls out the grill tongs, shakes her head, and throws them back in.
“I’m going to be turning fifteen, Mom. It’s my quinceañera!”
“You’re not Spanish, Dakota. And I told you we’d pull out all the stops for your sweet sixteen.”
“I don’t want to spend a lot of money. I just want to have friends over, eat cake, hang out in the backyard with some snacks, play some games, and have all the girls sleep over. No guys will be sleeping over.”
“I don’t know, Dakota.” Mom finally fishes the scissors out of the drawer and cuts a thread off the sleeve of Jeremiah (Jem), my little brother.
“Please, Mom? I’ll buy all the snacks and drinks myself and make the cake myself and everything.”
Mom whooshes out a breath of air and hands Jem a bowl of dry Cheerios. “The cake would probably turn out better that way, wouldn’t it?”
I force a laugh. “Probably.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyoubestmomever!” I throw my arms around her neck, finding it necessary to stoop down a few inches in order to carry out this action.
She pats my shoulder. “Yup. Thursday night, right?”
“Uh, no. I was thinking Friday night.”
“Virginia and I have our mother-daughter yoga class for two hours on Friday night. You wouldn’t have any adult supervision.”
I sigh. My own mother doesn’t trust the daughter who’s never gotten a detention in her entire almost-fifteen years of life. “We’ll all be responsible. I promise. If anything gets out of hand - which I highly doubt will happen - I’ll call you immediately. And if you’re unavailable, I’ll call Claire.”
Claire is Cheyenne’s mom and also my mom’s best friend.
“I guess…” my mom says slowly. “Be careful. Do not answer the door unless it’s one of your invited friends or their parents come to pick them up. We’ll get stuff set up over the next few days.”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyoubestmomever!”
“Right,” Mom says drily, handing Jem a bowl of peas.
As I call Cheyenne, peas ricochet around the kitchen, Jem’s “I DON’T WANNA EAT VEGGIES!” quickly becoming the background noise that I’m so used to.
“Dakota? Did your mom say yes?”
“She did! You have to come over right now and help me go shopping.”
“It’s literally seven o’clock at night.”
“We literally won’t have any other time this week to shop that’s not seven o’clock at night.”
Big sigh from Cheyenne. “Coming over now.”

We bump into Pharrell, Cheryl, and their mom at Walmart.
“Hey, chicas!” Cheryl does the French air-kiss thing and grins at us. “Whatchu doing here?”
“Shopping for my birthday party. Sending out evites later,” I tell her. “You and you are both invited.” I nod at Pharrell.
He nods back down at me. “We’ll be there.”
“Don’t RSVP now!” I swat his arm. “Wait until you get your evites that I have definitely put my heart and soul into.”
“You put your heart and soul into everything, though,” Cheryl remarks. “You’re so dramatic… you take everything so seriously, as if everything’s a matter of life and death.”
I stick my tongue out. “Just wait. It’ll be the party of the century.”
I’ve been babysitting Vee (Virginia, my nine year old sister) and Jem whenever I have any spare time in order to give my mom some time to herself, so I have a pretty nice stash. We buy Doritos, Chex mix, Pringles, several flavors of Oreos and Chips Ahoy!, about seventeen bushels of candy and chocolates, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Coke, and Sprite. We probably (hopefully) have the ingredients for a decent cake at home, but I buy flour, brown sugar, and baking powder anyway.
Cheyenne helps me stash all the snacks away in my closet once we get home so that Vee won’t get into them, and then we start on the evites.
“This is a ridiculous endeavor. It’s eight o’clock. And a school night.” Cheyenne whooshes out a deep breath as she clicks random options for the design of the evite. We end up with an evite with dancing rainbow hedgehogs, purple and white polka dot background, and KIDZ BOP music in the background. I roll my eyes and undo everything.
“This has to be perfect. Greta and Pharrell both need to be here. We can’t let anything get in the way of true love.”
“You’ve been watching waaaay too many Hallmark movies lately.”
I poke out my tongue. “Says you. There’s no such thing as too many Hallmark movies. I’m even wearing those socks. See?” I pull my feet out of my Crocs. The bottoms of my socks read, “If you can read this, leave me alone, I’m watching Hallmark movies.”
Cheyenne laughs.
We eventually crank out some decent evites.
“I feel like such a middle-aged mom, sending out evites instead of texts or whatever,” Cheyenne says as I create a group chat over iMessage and send out the evites through the app.
“Same though.” I make sure to enter Greta’s phone number right after Pharrell’s, for good luck.
“What if Greta’s unavailable?”
“Believe me, she’ll come.”

“What do you mean, you can’t come?”
I stare at Greta, aghast. The entire point of my birthday party is to get her and Pharrell together.
Greta smiles sympathetically, obviously thinking I’m being a diva. “Sorry. I’m going to a free trial of this mother-daughter yoga class.”
DANG YOU, MOTHER-DAUGHTER YOGA!
I take a moment to breathe and calm down. “Please? Can you come?”
“This Friday’s the only Friday my mom is available to take me to yoga.”
“You can go any other Friday with my mom and sister. They go to that class too. Please, I really need you to come to my party.” I take another deep breath. “It won’t be the same without you, Greta.”
Cheryl was probably right about me being overly dramatic.
Greta raises an eyebrow. “I rarely ever get to spend time with my mom, Dakota. I really want to come to your party, but I have a prior commitment.”
Does Greta show any emotion? At all?
“Please?” My voice - I’m being extremely dramatic right now - is practically a whisper as I bend down to Greta’s height. Dang, my neck hurts right now. How does she live this way?
“I can talk to my mom, but no promises.”

“What do you mean, you can’t come?”
This time I’m yelling at Pharrell, who’s gesturing apologetically as he explains.
“I’ve got a Scouts meeting that I absolutely cannot miss.”
“What time is this meeting?”
“Five.”
“Then leave at six!”
“It lasts till eight.”
I am so annoyed right now.
“Please come, Pharrell. I’m inviting literally everyone. You already told me you’d come.” I’m close to tears, for some crazy reason. How dare he let a Scouts meeting get in the way of true love!
He sighs. “How late will your party last?”
“Midnight. We’ll have the whole house to ourselves because Mom and Vee are going to a mother-daughter yoga class about two hours away, and they’re staying with my Aunt Mary while they’re there. Jem’s going with them. Please come?” I muster up my best puppy-dog eyes and gaze at him.
Pharrell looks as if he’s about to laugh. “I’ll try my best, I promise.” He pats my shoulder and walks off as the bell rings.
“Didn’t know you were interested in Pharrell,” Adeline teases.
I jump. I didn’t even notice her walking up behind me. “I am not!”
“The way you were acting around him would suggest otherwise.”
I nearly growl. I don’t really want to have to share Cheyenne’s and my plans. “Ugh. I promise that I’ll explain everything at my party on Friday. You RSVP’d already, right?”
“Yeah. And sending out evites is such a mom thing to do.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

“I told you to turn the oven to bake, not broil!” I shout at Cheyenne, spraying the fire extinguisher all over my kitchen.
Cheyenne looks aghast. “I’m super sorry, Dakota, I think I pressed the button too many times.” She has to shout to be heard over the screaming fire alarm.
I finally manage to extinguish the last of the flames and run over to the fire alarm, fanning the air around it to get it to stop wailing.
“If this is any indication of how well your birthday party is going to go, I may change my RSVP,” Cheyenne says wearily.
“Shut up. It’s going to be fabulous.” I rest my head in my hands.
Cheyenne opens a few windows and throws the ruined cake and cake pan in the trash. I pull out disposable cake pans this time and start over on the batter.
I love baking, despite the incidents that seem to occur whenever I set foot in the kitchen. My dream is to pursue culinary arts and cheerleading in college, become a professional cheerleader when I’m in my 20s, and then open my own bakery when I’m older. Arianna’s mom is an amazing baker. She runs her own bakery and catering business out of her house, but she doesn’t make a ton of money. My dream is to have my desserts and treats tasted and praised by the most famous food critics around the globe.
I finally manage to whip up some decent cake batter. I’m making a variety of cakes: red velvet, chocolate, mint chocolate chip, vanilla, and hazelnut, with matching frosting and filling for each. Cakes are the most fun thing to bake on the planet.
“That’s a really large amount of cake,” Cheyenne says.
“Can you go get ice cream too? I need ice cream for each of these flavors.”
“You better be glad I love you, because anyone else would be out of this by now.”
“Thank you!” I give her a mini hug, careful not to squeeze because I could probably crush her, having six inches on her.
Cheyenne sets off for Walmart on her bike, and while the cakes are cooling, I whip up buttercream frosting for each cake, as well as ganache for filling. Each cake has three relatively small layers.
Last year, I only got one birthday present. It was an industrial baking oven, and it was crazy expensive. I babysat Vee and Jem for free for weeks after that to thank my mom for the best gift ever. It’s really coming in handy today.
“Party’s tomorrow,” Cheyenne remarks when she comes back and sees how little progress I’ve made.
“Yeah, I know.” I shake my head wearily. “How in the world am I going to finish all these cakes? They’re going to be as tall as I am.”
“Doubtful. Here, I’ll help you.”
I eye her warily but allow her to step up and take a piping bag of vanilla buttercream.
Minutes later, my beautiful vanilla cake is dashed to pieces on the floor. Cheyenne looks sheepish, apologizing as she starts to clean up.
“How about you make cookies?” I tell her, because I want her to stay in the kitchen but to do something relatively harmless. Plus, I have beaucoup chocolate chip cookie dough in the freezer.
She succeeds in this endeavor. I pop more vanilla cake batter in the oven and start to pipe giant frosting roses all over the sides of my cakes. They look luscious, so, in order to prevent them from harm (cough cough), I put them under my extra-large cake covers and put them into the industrial-size fridge.
Finally, all cakes are done and in the fridge, and Cheyenne’s relatively successful triple chocolate chip cookies are in a Tupperware container stashed in my closet with the billions of other snacks.
“It’ll be a great party,” Cheyenne assures me while I make the trundle bed for the sleepover another time. “After all this, I’m sure nothing else can happen.”

She totally jinxed it.
I wake up to see my dog, Austin, licking up the crumbs of the leftover chips.
“AUSTIN!” I holler. He literally ate every single chip and snack that didn’t contain chocolate. (We trained him to sniff chocolate out and avoid it a long time ago.) I am angry beyond words right now.
“Bad dog. Bad, bad, bad dog!” I shake my fist at him and shove him into Mom’s bedroom, closing off the door with a baby gate.
Returning to my room, I sigh at the mess and text Cheyenne.
She calls me back immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“Who said something was wrong?” I say sarcastically.
“Well, what else am I supposed to derive from a message in all caps screaming at me, ‘OMW EMERGENCY!!!!!’ at six in the morning?”
“Austin ate all the snacks.”
Cheyenne sucks in her breath.
“Yeah. I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Buy more stuff, I guess. I don’t know when I’ll have time to, though. Should I skip our meeting at Waffles Supreme?”
“No! I’ll bring over some snacks. It’ll be okay.”
“What snacks?”
“Well…” There are some rustling sounds. “How do you think our friends would feel about edamame and chickpeas?”
I groan, resting my head on my dresser.
“Do you not have any other snacks?”
“There are the cakes and the cookies and the brownies and the Muddy Buddies and the chocolates, but those are all so chocolate-y.”
“Call Adeline. I’m pretty sure she’ll have something at her house. Unless her mom’s on another health kick.”
I hang up instantly and call Adeline.
“Dude, I literally just got up,” Adeline complains.
“Good for you. We have a major emergency.”
“Emergency as in ‘My mom bought me teal nail polish instead of turquoise’ or ‘My little sister is dying’?”
“My dog ate most of the snacks for my party. Which happens to be tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Do you have any snacks?”
“Yeah. Hold on.” I can hear her brushing her teeth as she makes her way down the stairs. “Yeah. We have Pwingwes and Dowidos and Cheez-It shnark micksh.”
“What?”
A pause. “Sorry. I was brushing my teeth. We have Pringles and Doritos and Cheez-It snack mix.”
“Thank you so much. You are a lifesaver.”
“You better remember that.”
“Can you bring the snacks early tonight, before the party?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks a million. You’re the best.”

At last, everything is falling into place.
“My mom has to work tonight, so we’ll be going to mother-daughter yoga another night. I can come to your party.” Greta smiles at me as if giving a prize to an insistent child.
“Thank you thank you thank you!” I throw my arms around her. I probably am too dramatic. “The party, at last, will be complete.”
“Right.” She rolls her eyes but smiles.
I bump into Pharrell in between periods.
“Pharrell! Hey! You’re just the guy I’m looking for.”
“Uh, hi, Dakota.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away.
“Are you available to come to my party tonight?”
“Yeah. Um, Dakota–”
“Sweet! See ya there!”
“Dakota, I need to talk to you.” Pharrell looks majorly uncomfortable.
“Okay, what’s up?”
“Um, I appreciate your, er, attention lately, but… I don’t think we’re right for each other.” Pharrell glances away.
I. Am. Confused. “Uh, what do you mean?”
“I have observed your behavior toward me lately, and I appreciate it, but I don’t have feelings for you, Dakota.”
What? “I don’t have feelings for you either, Pharrell,” I tell him, my brows furrowed.
“Then what-” He also looks very confused and also a little bit embarrassed.
“I am literally not interested in dating anyone right now, and I don’t know how you got the idea that I like you like that, but I will try not to be offended by the fact that you-”
“Wait. Dakota.” Pharrell puts his hand on my arm. “You’re not interested in going out with me?”
“No, I’m not.”
Pharrell whooshes out a big breath, looking majorly relieved. “Okay. I’m super sorry. The way you were being so persistent to invite me to your party - and I thought you were flirting with me at Walmart - I was afraid you liked me. The fact is, I actually-”
“Well, I’m not.” I smile brightly. “And I know someone I think you’d actually be interested in dating. I’ll talk to you about it at my party. See ya there!”
What. The heck. Was that.

Finally, it’s six o’clock. Cheyenne has been with me ever since we got back from Waffles Supreme, helping me to set out platters and trays. Adeline brought over the snacks about thirty minutes ago, and Mom was kind enough to purchase some cheese and cracker platters for the party. I’ve laid out peppers, carrots, and celery sticks with a HUGE tub of ranch dip, and I also have a fruit platter with Cool Whip and a seven-layer dip surrounded by chips. Snacks must be the main focus of every party.
“Feliz cumpleaños, chica!” Cheryl cheers when I open the door to her knock. She air kisses me on both cheeks and hands me a huge gift bag.
“Cheryl, you didn’t have to get me a gift.”
“It’s your birthday, girl. You get gifts on your birthday. End of story.”
Cheryl’s a bit headstrong.
Behind her, Carol trails in, carrying a huge stack of pizzas.
“Carol! You shouldn’t have. We have so many snacks, I think we’re going to be in sugar comas for days.”
“And you don’t have any main course. Every party needs some good pizza. This is good pizza too. Take it.” Carol shoves the hot, hot, hot boxes into my hands. I practically throw them down on the kitchen countertop.
“Your house is so cute!” Cheryl squeals, running her hand over the fringed throw pillows in the living room.
“Aw, thanks.”
“Birthday girl!” Darryl screeches from behind Carol.
I glance over and immediately start laughing.
“What, you don’t like my outfit?” He sounds incredibly insulted.
“Er, well…” I pat his arm, practically bent over double laughing. “I appreciate you doing this for me.”
“Doing this for you, nothing. I was waiting for an opportunity to wear this outfit.”
Darryl’s wearing a confetti-patterned tuxedo over a bright purple button-down shirt, with a huge birthday hat perched on his head, practically falling over one eye. He looks both fantastically overdressed and ludicrously underdressed at the same time. It’s such a Darryl outfit.
Not long after, Arianna and Greta run in. Arianna practically smothers me with her hug, then nearly hits me in the face with her really long, thick ponytail when she whips around to talk to Darryl. She’s especially bubbly and exuberant tonight.
Finally, everyone except Pharrell is settled in the living room, eating snacks and trading gossip. I am working up a panic.
“What if he won’t be here like he said he would?” I whisper to Cheyenne.
“Relax. He’ll be here. Eat your pizza. It’s really good.” Cheyenne pats me lightly on the arm and nearly shoves a plate overflowing with pizza into my hand.
I breathe in and out slowly and come out to the living room.
“How many pizzas did you get, Carol?” Brady is asking as I come in, his arm looped over Arianna’s shoulders as they lounge on the hugely overstuffed couch.
“Eighteen, one for each person,” Carol replies, taking a HUGE bite of bacon pizza. Where does she put it all? She’s one of the skinniest people I’ve ever met in my whole life.
“Honestly, I’m not sure that that’s enough,” I tell her, eyeing the growing pile of pizza crusts on Xander’s plate.
Ryanna snickers. “That’s not even all the pizza he’s eaten. I’ve been eating his crusts. I think he’s probably eaten five whole pizzas by now.”
“Have not.” Xander elbows Ryanna lightly, and she punches him in the arm, taking the opportunity to snatch some more of his pizza crusts.
We actually manage to eat sixteen and a half pizzas. I have no idea how, and I have no idea why, but we do. We leave two for Pharrell. I’m growing anxious. It’s practically black outside, we’ve eaten half the snacks, and he hasn’t even called or texted to confirm that he’s coming.
“Where’s your brother, Cheryl?” I ask around 8:30.
“Right there, hon. You need to get your eyes checked.” She nods toward the couch, where Darryl and Martin are fighting over the last Pringle.
“Not that brother. Other brother. Pharrell.”
“I don’t know. He’s probably out with one of his friends. And why are you so obsessed with him?” Cheryl pushes herself up on one elbow. “That’s a little bit creepy, just a little bit.”
“WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK THAT-” I stop. “Attention! Everyone! Let this go on permanent record. I do not have a crush on Pharrell Warren, or on anyone, for that matter, and everyone needs to stop jumping to conclusions.”
“Okay, okay, chill.” Cheryl holds up her hand. “But seriously, why is it so important to you that he is here for your birthday party?”
“Because,” I say stubbornly. “You’re all my friends, and I just want to have a night to celebrate my fifteenth with you all before we grow old.”
“We’re not growing old anytime soon, honey.”
“Speak for yourself. I can already feel my rheumatism acting up.”
Cheryl rolls her eyes.
Carol comes over and taps my shoulder. I bend down ten inches, and she whispers in my ear, “Are you trying to hook Pharrell up with someone else here?”
“Maybe,” I whisper back.
“I’m pretty sure he’s already dating-”
“Don’t!” I hold up my hand. “I want to at least try to get this doomed plan to work.”
Carol shrugs lightly and returns to stuffing her face with nachos. (She and Darryl had left at about 7:30 and returned with chips, Velveeta cheese, and Rotel tomatoes to make nachos.)
8:30 turns into 9 and he’s still not here… and finally he stumbles up the steps and knocks on the front door.
I whisk it open. “You are so late.”
“I know,” he says. “Is there any food left?”
I roll my eyes. “Typical guy.”
As he makes his way in, he turns. “Oh, by the way, this is for you.” He hands me a tiny envelope. I open it to find a $10 Dairy Queen gift card. How nice.
Finally, I can relax. We play some board games and some active games, and I make sure that Pharrell and Greta are always seated together or partnered together. They don’t seem to mind. I’m thrilled. My plan is working!
“Pharrell and Greta look pretty cozy,” Cheyenne whispers, her eyes dancing.
“Yeah, I know, right? Clearly we both are geniuses.”
“Now we can at least say we’ve gotten one couple together.”
“We’ve gotten couples together in the past.”
“With disastrous results, to say the least.”
“It wasn’t my fault that Megan was such a klutz.”
“It was your suggestion that they go out for spaghetti.”
“I didn’t think that she’d actually manage to dump everything that was on the table on Joey’s lap.”
“We should plan these things ahead of time, like we did with this one.”
“We did good.”
We watch them for a little while longer, occasionally taking part in conversation with Adele and Brooke, who are arguing whether or not diving is actually a sport. Adele says that it is (because she is a diver). It looks like a terrifying combination of gymnastics and swimming, so I say it’s a sport.
At midnight, Greta and Pharrell are nowhere to be found.
Until we find them.
Making out in the hall.
“We did it!” I crow exuberantly.
Greta and Pharrell spring apart, but not too far apart.
“Did what?” Greta asks innocently.
“Cheyenne and me! We hooked you two up! This is fantastic!”
Greta starts laughing for some reason.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Pharrell and I have been dating for weeks,” she says.
That… is not what I expected to hear.
“You what?” Cheyenne’s jaw is practically on the floor.
“We’ve been dating for weeks. We were going to tell you tonight.”
“I tried to tell you earlier, Dakota,” Pharrell says. “In the hallway. You wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
I sputter, trying and failing to think of a good comeback.
“It’s okay,” Pharrell tells me, patting my arm.
“No, it’s NOT! Why didn’t you guys TELL ME before this?!”
“I thought you’d figure it out. We didn’t want to tell anyone in case this totally bombed.”
“That is not how a relationship works.”
My phone rings loudly. Greta jumps away from me.
“Dakota?” My mom’s voice shouts in my ear.
I move the phone further away. “Uh, hi, mom. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Dakota. Are your friends still there?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“All of them?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I believe you told me that your guy friends would be leaving before midnight.”
“Oh. Uh. GUYS, MOM SAYS YOU HAVE TO LEAVE!”
Brady, Dean, Ian, Martin, Xander, Pharrell, and Darryl trail towards the door, as if waiting for this announcement.
“Thank you for irreparably shattering my eardrum, Dakota.”
“Welcome as always.”
“Please clean up any messes that you all made.”
“What if we didn’t make any messes?”
“Nice try. See you tomorrow.”
I roll my eyes and hang up.
“I’m terribly sorry to leave in such a hurry, Dakota, but someone–” Darryl glares at Arianna, who looks as if she can’t contain a laugh “–spilled Dr. Pepper all over this suit. Do you know how much dry-cleaning costs?!”
Count on Darryl for comic relief.
We practically shove them out the door and then start cleaning up the living room.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Dakota,” Greta says timidly once the guys have all left. “I didn’t want to ruin your matchmaking.”
“W
ell, you did.” I sweep all the chip crumbs off of the coffee table.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not actually mad, silly. But Cheyenne and I did all this–” I sweep my hand all around the room “–for you. That’s the only reason I had a big-ish birthday party in the first place. And you have no idea how many difficulties we ran into.”
Cheyenne starts giggling. “Broiling the first cake?”
“And you knocked over the big vanilla cake.” I grin toothily at her.
“And Austin ate all the snacks.”
“And that stupid mother-daughter yoga class.”
“And those evites.”
“And everyone thought I was inviting Pharrell because I liked him.”
“Sending out evites was a total mom move, by the way,” Ryanna says from behind the couch, from where she’s vacuuming the Cheetos dust that the guys (SOMEHOW) got into the heater vent.
I stick out my tongue. “Shut up.”
“Dakota. Stop obsessing over everything for a hot second.” Greta places her hands on my shoulders. “You just turned fifteen. You are an incredible person for trying to do this for my happiness. Thank you for your efforts.”
I poke my tongue out again.
We finally finish cleaning up and crash on air mattresses and sleeping bags in my room.
Cheyenne and I remain awake for a little while, then sneak downstairs for a late snack, as has been our tradition for our numerous sleepovers.
“I’m kind of sad that we still don’t have a victory under our belt,” Cheyenne whispers as we tiptoe downstairs.
“Me too.” A stair creaks and we freeze. No one comes out from my room, though, so we continue.
“It would’ve been great if we could say we’re the ones who got them together. When we’re seniors, they’re going to get the cutest couple senior superlative and we can’t get any credit.” Cheyenne grabs the platter of hazelnut cake out of the fridge.
“Nah, I think that’ll end up being Arianna and Brady.” I grab a tray of DoubleStuf Oreos and a can of Pringles.
We make our way back upstairs. “I think that technically Arianna got them together, though,” Cheyenne whispers. “She convinced Greta to join the Honors Chamber Chorus, where she met Pharrell.”
“Honestly? If we’re going to use that logic, nearly anyone could be declared responsible for getting them together.”
Cheyenne nibbles not-so-daintily at a Pringle as we tiptoe into my huge walk-in closet, scattering crumbs all over my shag rug. I wince, and she immediately ducks down to try to dust them off.
“In a way, you kind of did get us together.”
I whip around to see Greta. She’s a bit of a startling sight - she’s not wearing her wig, since she’s supposed to be sleeping, and the moonlight coming in through my big picture window reflects off of her bald head. Standing in the doorway of my closet, she tugs at the sky blue tee that hangs loosely off her shoulder - it’s huge, so it must be Pharrell’s.
“Sorry for the guilt trip,” she continues in a whisper, tiptoeing over. “But you totally did get us together, actually. You guys gave me the confidence to join HCC, and Arianna introduced us, and you’ve been spending so much time with the Warrens lately that it was inevitable that we should get together.”
“You really like him, don’t you,” Cheyenne comments, her mouth stuffed with cake.
“Yeah.” Greta tugs on her tee again, a small smile pulling up the corners of her mouth.
“I’m happy for you.” Cheyenne finishes off her piece of cake and cuts another. (A cheerleader’s stomach is never full.) “So can we take the credit?”
“Absolutely.” Greta gives her a little hug. Must be feeling sentimental tonight.
Cheyenne cuts another slice of cake and slides it over to Greta, who immediately scoops a huge bite into her mouth.
“You have to be a baker someday,” Cheyenne tells me, contentedly munching away.
“I hope so.”
“And a matchmaker.”
“If my attempts to bring people together take as much time, energy, and resources as this did, I’m not sure I’ll ever break even.”
“It’ll be worth it,” Greta whispers, leaning her head on my shoulder and munching on an Oreo.

On Monday, I bump right into Pharrell after history class.
“Dakota!” He grins.
This is not the reaction I would have expected. Perhaps some running away, screaming like his butt’s on fire, would have been more appropriate. Maybe some kicking of dust into my eyes, perhaps faking a heart attack.
Aaaaand I’m being overly dramatic again.
He’s not actually offended, my inner voice suggests.
Shut up, I nearly say out loud.
Pharrell comes closer and actually gives me a little hug. “Thanks so much for your efforts with your birthday party. It was so sweet of you.”
“Is something wrong, Pharrell?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Greta told me all about everything you and Cheyenne did. I think that you’re an amazing friend.”
“Oh, thanks, Pharrell…”
“By the way, do you have any snacks still left from the party? Cuz if you do, I’ll take them.”
I can’t help laughing. “Yeah, sure. I’ll bring you some stuff tomorrow if there’s still any after Vee and Jem get into them.”
“Great. Thanks, Dakota. Really.”
I smile at his retreating back.
Maybe we did actually make a match after all.

“Julie!” I call up the stairs, staring down at my book. “Breakfast!”
There’s no response, not even a “Coming!” or a “One sec!”.
I yell louder. “Julie! Breakfast!”
“Go upstairs and wake her up, Josh,” Mom scolds me.
I take the stairs two by two, not bothering to grab the railing. I grind to a halt at the top of the stairs. “Julie?” I ask, peering into her room.
She’s not even in there.
I check her bathroom, her closet, all the other bedrooms. I take a deep breath like Ms. Walters always tells me to do when I’m frustrated and take a peek under the bed. Still nothing.
“Mom, I can’t find Julie,” I yell down the stairs.
“I can’t hear you!” she yells back, which is complete nonsense. If she knows to reply, she can hear me. She just couldn’t understand me.
I leap down the stairs and into the kitchen. “I can’t find Julie,” I state.
“She’s not in her room?”
“I’ve looked in every place I could think of, and she’s not upstairs.”
Mom flips a pancake on the griddle and pulls out her cell phone to text Julie. No response. She opens Find My iPhone to find Julie. Julie’s phone is still sitting on her nightstand.
The pancakes are burning.
“Mom?”
Mom stares down at her phone, lost in thought.
“The pancakes are burning!” I yell.
“Inside voice, Josh,” she says automatically, absentmindedly. She flips the pancakes. They are now black, a deep coal black. I nearly stick my tongue out in disgust but remember the talk that Ms. Walters and I had about expressions and actions that might hurt people’s feelings. I’m getting better about it.
“I’m going to look in your room,” I say, like this is a game of hide-and-seek, like Julie will jump out any second, Boo, I really scared you, didn’t I?
Julie’s not anywhere upstairs. I try to identify the emotion I’m feeling. Worry, anxiety maybe?
I’m a little scared.
I lift up the books on Julie’s nightstand - as if Julie would be found crouching under Twilight and The Hunger Games - and there’s a piece of notebook paper. Did she leave a clue as to her whereabouts? I snatch it up eagerly.
It’s just a doodle of a stick figure girl strumming a guitar. It must be a self portrait of sorts. Julie loves to play the guitar. She’s never told me so, but I know from the expression on her face when she plays. According to the chart of facial expressions Ms. Walters gave me, when Julie plays the guitar, she is somewhere between happy, relaxed, and excited. She’s never that way about anything else.
But there’s another piece of notebook paper, music notes scribbled on the back, and Julie’s handwriting on the front.

Dear Josh,
First of all, do NOT tell Mom anything about this letter. You got that?
I’ve run away, if I want to put it in straight terms. I’m a legal adult, perfectly capable of being on my own. Don’t tell Mom, but I changed my major. If you want to find me, I’ve left a trail of clues only you can figure out.
This is starting to feel like an action movie. Don’t worry, I’m not lying to you. I love you and wish you luck in finding me.
Jules

My brow furrows in confusion. Julie ran away? Why would she do that? Why would she change her major? What would she change her major to? I wish she’d told me all the facts. I hate not knowing things.
But I won’t tell Mom, because I am very good at following directions. I will find Julie.
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
Care for an introduction, some background perhaps?
My name is Josh Adams. I am a thirteen year old male from somewhere in North Carolina that my sister calls the “middle of nowhere”. I have autism spectrum disorder. I have a hard time understanding emotions. I am easily frustrated, and I space out a lot thinking about what’s going on. The woman named Ms. Walters that I keep mentioning is my therapist. She helps me understand people and situations better. Despite what may seem like problems, I am very smart. I am not bragging. I am very gifted at math. I have coded entire complex games. Julie knows all this. The clues she left will probably be very hard.
Julie is my older sister. Today, she was supposed to head back to the University of Virginia for summer classes. (She’s going to become a doctor.) She didn’t go back, obviously. The first clue she left was at the bottom of her letter.

P.S. I’m not at UVA. I’ve left three clues in special places. Look first where Mom would never look. It’s not under my bed.

Mom is crazy about cleaning. There are three places she never looks to clean. She never looks under Julie’s bed because it’s so messy that she feels it’s hopeless. She never cleans or dusts or even looks at the bookshelves in my room because I clean them myself, meticulously. I don’t want my books or shelves to gather dust. Finally, she never cleans Julie’s bathroom, because she makes Julie do that all by herself. If it gets messy, “it’s Julie’s fault”, and Julie has to clean it.
I peer into Julie’s bathroom again. There’s nothing super obvious at first glance. I open the medicine cabinet, the cabinets under the sink, the shower curtain. Nothing.
“Josh! You’re going to miss your bus!”
With a sigh and a final glance backward, I head out the door.
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
“Eureka!”
“What’s that, Josh?” Mom yells up the stairs.
“Nothing!” I holler back, my heart pounding in what I think is anticipation or excitement.
I found a scrap of notebook paper in between pages 124 and 125 of my copy of Life of Pi. The note reads:

Josh, the next clue is where food goes to die.

That would be Mom’s pantry. Half of the food she cooks is inedible, and the other half is disgustingly healthy. Julie always joked that poor, innocent fruits and veggies would find their way into the pantry and find themselves destined for unfortunate ends.
“Joshua!” Mom shouts. “You have your meeting with Ms. Walters now!”
Later. I’ll figure out where Julie is later. If later isn’t too late.
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
I fish the scrap of paper out from underneath the box of Pop-Tarts. This is a brilliant hiding spot. Mom would never touch a box of Pop-Tarts. She is probably afraid that she will gain fifteen pounds by thinking about Pop-Tarts.
I grab a pack and rip off the foil wrapping, biting into the first Pop-Tart as I read the clue.

Josh, you’re so close. These haven’t seemed challenging so far, but this next one will be the hardest of all. You know my friend Nico? He has the next clue, the final solution. Find him at his workplace at seven thirty on Thursday night.

It is, indeed, a Thursday.
I know Nico, or at least know of him. He’s a friendly guy and was always teasing Julie in a way that would seem friendly and not flirty. He’s at least two years older than Julie. I have no idea where he works.
I peek through Julie’s journal pages. There is nothing about Nico (although there is something about an “incredible” guy named Kent). I type Nico’s full name - Nicolo Giovanni Colombo - and find nothing.
I stare hard at her phone. I have no idea what the password is, but knowing Julie, I think I can guess. I type in 6426 - the numeric equivalent of NICO according to Julie’s phone’s password keyboard. The phone unlocks.
I stare, baffled, at a picture of Julie and Nico together that’s set as her phone wallpaper. There’s a big sign on the wall that reads “Wal-mart - save money, live better”. Nico’s wearing a Wal-mart vest. Julie’s carrying a reusable Wal-mart shopping bag.
So if Nico does work at Wal-mart, there is a problem. The nearest Wal-mart is twenty minutes away. I know for a fact that Mom just went shopping. It’s four thirty now. I have three hours.
I call Mom.
“Josh? What’s wrong?” she asks, rushing down the stairs.
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if I could-” I’m a terrible liar “-sleep over at Michael’s house tonight.”
Michael is a kid from the autism support group at my school. He and I are quite good friends. Michael lives twenty minutes away, practically across the street from Wal-mart.
“I guess you can. Is it okay with his mom?”
“I, er, I wanted to get your approval first before asking his mom.” I pull out my phone and text Michael: May I sleep over tonight?
His reply is instantaneous, as if he’s been waiting by his phone all day for me to text him: Sure. Let me ask my mom.
Then: Sure, come on over whenever.
“She said it’s okay,” I tell Mom.
“I’ll drive you over.”

“Do you want to hang out at Wal-mart?” I ask Michael casually.
“Why do we need to hang out at Wal-mart?” he replies instantly, suspiciously.
“Well… I need some supplies. I need a new pencil case. And new pencils too. And new pens, while I’m at it.” I shrug at him.
“I guess we could ride our bikes over,” Michael says slowly.
I have to borrow Michael’s dad’s bike, which is much too large for me, but it does the job. We make it to Wal-mart at seven twenty.
“Hmm…” We’re casually strolling through the school supplies department. “Not that one… not that one… how about that one?” I gesture toward a navy blue pencil case with thinking emojis all over it. “I mean, in school, we do a lot of thinking.”
“Sure, grab it,” Michael says impatiently.
I grab a pack of standard orange No. 2 pencils and glance at my watch. Seven twenty-five. We’re cutting it close. I browse the pens and grab a pack of plain black pens. “Come on, let’s go.”
“I thought you wanted to hang out at Wal-mart,” Michael says, confused.
“Yes, but I just spotted someone from school that I really do not wish to talk to presently.”
Michael believes me. Without a backward glance, we head toward the checkout counters.
I search them for Nico’s counter. Found it! I hurry over and dump my purchases on the checkout belt.
“Josh,” Nico says quietly.
“Oh, hello, Nico,” I try to say casually.
“Do you know this man?” Michael asks bluntly.
“Yes, actually, Nico is my sister’s friend.”
“She gave me something to give to you,” Nico says, handing over another scrap of notebook paper.

Dear Josh,
I’m living at 882 Cedar St. with my friends: Kaitlin, Rachelle, and Holden. We’re starting a band. We’re hoping to get signed. I’m not sure if it’ll work out, but I’m not sorry. I didn’t want to be a doctor anyway.
I hope this letter doesn’t cause you too much anxiety. Don’t worry: I’m fine, and I promise to tell you if there’s anything wrong.
You can tell Mom now, if you want. This little treasure hunt was my last gift to you. Don’t worry: you will see me again, just not for a while.
Lots of love,
Julie

“Josh? You good, buddy?” Nico is asking.
I wave him off. “Yeah, I’m doing fine.”
So now everything is made known. I solved the puzzle.
I’m really sad, and a little bit angry, but I understand the choice that Julie made. In school, teachers always say to follow your dreams, wherever they may take you. That never made sense to me, but Julie’s dream was to become a famous musician, a star, not a doctor. I miss her, but I know that she’ll do well as a musician. The next time I see her face will probably be in concert.
“Nico? If you see my sister again… tell her that I understand.”
“Will do, buddy.”
I do understand.

jsyk these are completely different stories

jsyk these are completely different stories

nice story