To Brenna, my little sister extraordinaire

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

       SEVEN

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       FIFTEEN

       SIXTEEN

       SEVENTEEN

       EIGHTEEN

       NINETEEN

       TWENTY

       TWENTY-ONE

       TWENTY-TWO

       TWENTY-THREE

       TWENTY-FOUR

       TWENTY-FIVE

       TWENTY-SIX

       TWENTY-SEVEN

       TWENTY-EIGHT

       TWENTY-NINE

       THIRTY

       THIRTY-ONE

       THIRTY-TWO

       THIRTY-THREE

       THIRTY-FOUR

       THIRTY-FIVE

       THIRTY-SIX

       THIRTY-SEVEN

       THIRTY-EIGHT

       Acknowledgements

       Copyright

ONE

      The wrapping paper on my birthday present is impenetrable. Mom must have used half a roll of tape to secure the sharp folds, creases, and delicate trimmings just so. She wants my Sweet Sixteen to be special — more special than me wearing a Hanes undershirt, Levi’s, and my dirty pair of Converse in our cramped mustard-yellow kitchen.

      “I bet you can’t even fit into that pretty sundress I bought you in August!” Mom taunted when she realized I was dead serious about not dressing up for dinner. “You’ve shot up at least three more inches since then.”

      It was endearingly pathetic. So I put on a foil party crown.

      Mom cooked her homemade ziti, got me a whale-shaped ice-cream cake with chocolate crunchies from the Carvel across town, and invited my friends over at nine to help me blow out the candles. Once we’re all tweaked out on sugar, we’re going to bail on Mom for some suburban debauchery in my honor. Even though it’s Thursday, I’m allowed out until midnight.

      “Dinner was awesome,” I say, and watch Mom’s lean body shake with elbow grease as she scrubs hardened noodles off a Pyrex dish. A chocolate-brown ponytail swishes across her shoulder blades and a few gray hairs catch the light from overhead. They seem to sparkle.

      “The trick is, I cut all the ingredients in half . . . except for the cheese,” Mom tells me over the sound of running sink water. She is a pro at halving family-sized recipes. The anti–Betty Crocker.

      I shake her present next to my ear. It doesn’t make a sound. “Can’t you do the dishes later?”

      “All this buildup. The suspense must be killing you!” When she turns around, her grin is wide. She flings a damp dish towel over her shoulder and plops into the seat across from me. “Happy birthday, Ruby.”

      I tear into the package, prepared to give an Oscar-worthy performance of Best Reaction to a Bad Present. Historically, Mom has exploited gift-buying opportunities as chances to make me more girly. A baby-blue eyelet blouse with cap sleeves to soften my angular boyish figure. A palette of sparkly eye shadows to brighten my strikingly plain face. Some dangly earrings that get swallowed up by my dark, thick hair. I never begrudge her thinly veiled