“Okay, we can go together. If you let me drive the Porsche,” I say, because a red Porsche is always more preferable to a yellow bike when making an entrance at a party.

“Do you know how to drive a stick shift?” Joe asks wearily.

“No, but I’m a fast learner.”

He hesitates for a moment.

“I can always walk.…”

“Fine,” he says, and hands over the keys. “You look stunning in that dress, by the way. I knew that color would be perfect with your eyes.”

“You picked out my dress?”

“Does that surprise you?” he says with a wink and grin.

Part of me wants to go back upstairs and change into my maxi-skirt just to spite him, but the part of me that has never felt so beautiful in my life manages to win out. “Thank you,” I say softly.

“Now let’s go party, shall we?” he says, offering me his arm.

The mayor’s mansion is on the exact opposite side of the lake from Joe’s place, so it takes us a while to drive there—mostly because I keep stalling out the Porsche. I am surprised at how well Joe has managed to keep his cool as we grind our way into Tobin’s driveway. We stop in a long line of cars waiting for valets at the front door.

“Right here’s good enough,” Joe says, gritting his teeth. “We’ll just let the valet come to us. How’s that?”

We idle in silence for a few minutes. There hadn’t been much time for talking on the drive over except for Joe’s strangled instructions on how to shift gears. “So …,” he says awkwardly, and I know an attempt at conversation is coming. Joe gives me a grin that reminds me of the stray dogs my mom is prone to bringing home. Long, reaching notes fill his voice as he asks, “What are your thoughts about the opera? Are you excited to be playing Eurydice? What do your friends think?”

I can’t help laughing. Doesn’t he realize that because of his “grand gesture,” I don’t have any friends? Other than Tobin, that is. I’d thought I didn’t care about meeting new people when I agreed to come to Olympus Hills, that I’d come just for the music, but after almost a whole week of having nobody to talk to at school, with Tobin out on suspension and the Sopranos’ blackballing me, I’d never felt so lonely. In Ellis, I had people to eat lunch with and hang out with on the weekends—here, I spend most of my free time writing new songs so I’ll look too busy to care when the Sopranos pass me, talking behind their hands.

And I miss CeCe. I’d never been super-BFF-close with any of my school friends. But CeCe—despite her being almost five years older than me—and I had been supertight ever since she came to Ellis when I was eleven. Except now I’ve been gone for a week and still haven’t been able to get her to call me back. And my calls are all going straight to voice mail. Jonathan says she took the week off with the flu, but I can only think that she’s superpissed at me for abandoning her. And it only made things worse that today is her birthday.

But it’s more than the friends thing that irks me so much about Joe’s big surprise. It’s the same reason I wanted to change out of this gown when I’d heard he’d picked it out for me. Anger rises up my spine, and I find myself wishing I had changed.

“I’m not your puppet, Joe. You can’t just offer to buy me nice things or dress me up pretty and put me in some play and make me sing the words you’ve written—and pretend it makes up for every minute of my life that you’ve ignored me. You should have told me about your plans beforehand. You should have asked me if I wanted to be part of it.”

Joe’s grin vanishes. “I thought you’d be happy. I’m just trying to help.…” As they fall flat, I realize those reaching notes coming off him were the sounds of eagerness.

He really thinks he’s helping me, I realize. Mr. Morgan says that Olympus Hills productions usually bring in a huge audience, but with a name like Joe’s backing the opera, scouts from all the major music colleges, not to mention Broadway, and probably big recording labels will show up for opening night. This is a billion times bigger than that talent competition I’d wanted to enter back in Utah. Normally, I’d kill for a break as big as this one. I’d work my butt off to take advantage of every second of the opportunity, and a part like this is exactly the reason I’d agreed to come to Olympus Hills. But I wanted to get the part because I’d earned it, because I’d put in the hard work—not because Joe gave it to me.

Maybe Mr. Morgan had given me the part because of my audition. Tobin and Iris had said that I’d done an amazing job. But the suspicion (in both my mind and every other student’s) would always be there—that I’d gotten the part only because I am Joe Vince’s daughter.

I want people to hear my voice when I sing. Not his.

I want them to see me. Not just a shadow of Joe.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m sure the play will be great.”

I suddenly feel the urge to put a little distance between the two of us. I pull the car’s emergency brake and open the door. “I’ll find you when I want to go home,” I say, and exit the Porsche.

There are luxury cars galore lining the street in front of the mayor’s mansion, and I’m not the only one who’s showing up with an escort, based on the number of adults who mill about in suits and fancy gowns. I don’t see one maxi-skirt in the group of students who are all dressed more like they are going to the Metropolitan Opera than a school party. Clearly, no one is going to be eating chips and dip.

I walk through the house at the behest of the doorman and follow orchestra music out into the backyard. The mayor’s house isn’t as large as Joe’s, but the yard is at least ten times the size, large enough to accommodate the band and space for a dance floor on the stone patio alone. The decor of the party is a modern fusion of ancient Greek and Japanese influences that would make a designer like Jonathan drool. Glowing, cube-shaped lanterns hang from every tree, and lotus blossoms cupping tea-light candles float on the surface of the pool. Partygoers fill the yard, some dancing, others talking in small groups, their happy chatter mixing with the music from the orchestra.

I look for Tobin but I don’t see him anywhere in the crowd, so I make my way to the long buffet tables that take up most of the north side of the yard. A spread of every kind of food imaginable sits on elevated tiers on white satin tablecloths. Floral arrangements of orchids, tulips, cherry blossoms, hyacinths, and narcissus cascade from tall Grecian-looking urns on the buffet. I pick up a plate made of thin bone china, from the stack at the end of the table, and make my way through the culinary paradise in front of me. I don’t even know the name of some of the foods, but I do recognize the sushi rolls, because Jonathan has a weakness for late-night infomercial shopping and once bought a “create your own sushi” kit. I use silver tongs to pick up pieces from two rolls that look familiar, and then a third one that looks scary. Like it has spider legs sticking out of the ends.