Page 66 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I remove my hand, and Louisa manages to restrain her shrieking. Sort of.

“You’re going to be an author!” she whisper-shouts.

“I’m already an author.”

“Yeah, but now you can be an author of books people actually read.”

I let this one slide. She’s not entirely wrong.

“Mom has to give us the rights,” I tell her. “She doesn’t own the notebooks, but she heads the estate that owns the intellectual property of the world and characters.”

This puts a damper on Louisa’s excitement. She huffs in frustration as she changes into the chiffon dress. It’s iridescent with a scooped neckline, a waist sash that ties in the back, and a full, ruffled skirt. It invokes both hydrangeas and a 1980s prom. I zip her up, and she sputters with giggles as she catches her reflection in the full-length mirrors.

“Put on the same one,” she says. “We’ll exit the dressing room singing ABBA.”

While I peel off winter layers, she twists up her long hair, using bobby pins provided on a small vanity, along with hair elastics, double-sided tape, a comb, a hand mirror, and bra pads.

“Maybe if we present a unified front,” she says, “the four of us can back you up. Get Dylan down here, too. I know Mom thinks he’s taking gross advantage by living in your house for free, but his hotness might fluster her, and she won’t be able to say a firm no.”

I shoot Louisa a look that suggests this is a highly unlikely outcome.

She waves off my look with a flick of her wrist and carries on with her hair while I slip into a dress just like hers. It doesn’t escape my notice that this is my first time putting on clothing with color in a lot of years, and it’s something my mother picked out, which isn’t the way I want to emerge from my gray cocoon. An issue I need to address. Soon. As the dress rustles into place, Louisa motions for me to turn around so she can help with my zipper. I hold my low ponytail out of the way and she starts tugging, but she stops with the zipper partway up.

“What the—?” Without warning, she flings open the dressing room door, pounds on Eleanor and Haley’s door, and demands that they join us in our dressing room.

I peek around the open door, holding the half-zipped dress to my chest. “Lou?”

“Do you need a hand?” one of the clerks asks.

“No! Nope! Absolutely not. All good!” Louisa fires at her as she drags Eleanor and Haley into our suddenly crowded dressing room and slams the door behind them. Eleanor’s in a simple taffeta A-line dress she looks great in, and Haley’s wearing a midlength Grecian cut over top of her jeans. Not that I have much time to process what they’re wearing, because Louisa spins me away from them and brushes aside my ponytail. “You’re seeing what I’m seeing, right?”

“Are those . . . ?” Eleanor starts but doesn’t finish.

Haley leans in. “It’s been a while since I’ve had one on the back of my neck, but . . .”

“They are,” Louisa hisses. “They totally are. You little liar. You are sleeping with him.”

My entire body flushes, which isn’t a great look against blue and purple chiffon.

I open my mouth to deny the accusation, but it’s too late. My body has betrayed me in more ways than one. If I had any doubts about the matter, a quick glance with the help of the nearby hand mirror confirms that I have several distinctive bruises on the back of my neck and shoulders. Also, my sisters might as well know, even though this wasn’t how I imagined telling them, and even though I don’t have good words yet for what Dylan and I are to each other.

“It happened after I saw you guys at El’s party,” I say.

“I’m so jealous,” Louisa says. “Don’t tell Reuben. I adore him, but he’s no pirate king.”

“Neither is Dylan,” I remind her.

“Whatever. You can still cosplay some ah-maaaazing sexual fantasies.”

Haley peers at my neck again while zipping me up. “Looks like they already did.”

Eleanor lets out a comically exaggerated sigh. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

I wave my sisters away, buying myself a few inches of space as my anxiety spikes.

“Just, I can’t . . . I don’t—” I press a hand over my breastbone and force myself to breathe.

“Holy shit.” Louisa’s eyes go wide. “You’re not just sleeping with him.”