I grin sheepishly. Can’t argue with that.

“But I’m serious,” she whispers. “You don’t want to live here.” Her almond-shaped eyes dart toward the doorway. “Kaya is like a drill sergeant. It’s her first year as Kappa president, and she’s on some crazy power trip.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say dryly.

“You should’ve seen what she did to Daphne! She acted like it was the alcohol thing, but really she was just jealous because Daph slept with her ex-boyfriend Chris, so she made Daph’s life miserable. One weekend when Daphne was away, Kaya ‘accidentally’”—Bianca uses air quotes—“donated every piece of her clothing to these freshmen who were collecting stuff for the annual clothes drive. Daph eventually quit the sorority and moved out.”

I’m starting to think that alcohol poisoning was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to Daphne Kettleman, if it got her out of this hellhole.

“Whatever. I don’t care if I live here or not. Like you said, I’ll be just fine.” I put on the cavalier, nothing-in-life-ever-ever-gets-to-me voice that I’ve perfected over the years.

It’s my armor. I pretend that my life is a beautiful Victorian house and hope that nobody peers close enough to see the cracks in my facade.

But no matter how convincing I am in front of Bianca, there’s no stopping the massive wave of anxiety that hits me the moment I slide into my car five minutes later. It stilts my breathing and quickens my pulse, making it hard to think clearly.

What am I supposed to do?

Where am I supposed to go?

I inhale deeply. It’s okay. It’s fine. I take another breath. Yes, I’ll figure it out. I always do, right? I’m constantly screwing up, and I always find a way to unscrew myself. I just have to buckle down and think—

My phone blares out its ringtone rendition of Sia’s “Cheap Thrills.” Thank God.

I waste no time answering the call. “Hey,” I greet my brother Dean, grateful for the interruption.

“Hey, Boogers. Just checking that you made it to campus in one piece.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Gosh, who knows. You might’ve run off to Miami with some hitchhiking wannabe rapper you picked up on the interstate—or what I like to call a recipe for becoming a serial killer’s skin-suit. Oh wait! You already fucking did that.”

“Oh my God. First of all, Jasper was an aspiring country singer, not a rapper. Second, I was with two other girls and we were driving to Daytona Beach, not Miami. Third, he didn’t even try to touch me, let alone murder me.” I sigh. “Lacey did hook up with him, though, and he gave her herpes.”

Incredulous silence meets my ears.

“Dicky?” That’s my childhood nickname for Dean. He hates it. “You there?”

“I’m trying to understand how you think your version of the story is in any way more palatable than mine.” He suddenly curses. “Aw fuck, didn’t I hook up with Lacey at your eighteenth birthday party?” A pause. “The herpes trip would’ve happened before that party. Dammit, Summer! I mean, I used protection, but a warning would’ve been nice!”

“No, you didn’t hook up with Lacey. You’re thinking of Laney, with an ‘N.’ I stopped being her friend after that.”

“How come?”

“Because she slept with my brother when she was supposed to be hanging out with me at my party. That’s not cool.”

“Truth. Selfish move.”

“Yup.”

There’s a sudden blast of noise on the line—what sounds like wind, car engines, and then a barrage of honking. “Sorry,” Dean says. “Just leaving the apartment. My Uber’s here.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Picking up our dry-cleaning. The place Allie and I go to is in Tribeca, but they’re awesome, so worth the trek. Highly recommend.”

Dean and his girlfriend Allie live in the West Village in Manhattan. Allie admitted to me that the area is way fancier than she’s used to, but for my brother it’s actually a step down; our family’s penthouse is on the Upper East Side, making up the top three floors of our hotel, the Heyward Plaza. But Dean’s new building is near the private school where he teaches, and since Allie has a lead role on a television show that shoots all over Manhattan, the location is convenient for both of them.

It must be so nice for them, having a place to live and all.

“Anyway, are you nice and settled at the Kappa house?”

“Not quite,” I confess.

“For fuck’s sake, Summer. What did you do?”

My jaw falls open in outrage. Why does my family always assume that I’m in the wrong?

“I didn’t do anything,” I answer stiffly. But then defeat weakens my voice. “They don’t think someone like me is good for the sorority’s reputation. One of them said I was an arsonist.”

“Well,” Dean says not so tactfully. “You kind of are.”

“Fuck off, Dicky. It was an accident. Arsonists intentionally set fires.”

“So you’re an accidental arsonist. The Accidental Arsonist. That’s a great name for a book.”

“Awesome. Go write that.” I don’t care how snide I sound. I’m feeling snarky, and my nerves are shot. “Anyway, they kicked me out, and now I have to figure out where the heck I’m going to live this semester.” My throat catches on a lump that appears out of nowhere, and a choked almost-sob squeezes past it.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks immediately.

“I don’t know.” I swallow hard. “I… This is ridiculous. I don’t know why I’m upset. Those girls are awful and I wouldn’t have enjoyed living with them. I mean, it’s New Year’s Eve, and they’re all on campus! They’re doing some charity fundraiser thing instead of partying! That’s so not my scene.”

The tears I’ve been holding at bay are no longer controllable. Two fat drops slide down my cheeks, and I’m so glad Dean isn’t here to witness it. It’s bad enough that he can hear me crying.

“I’m sorry, Boogers.”

“Whatever.” I angrily swipe at my wet eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to cry over a few mean girls and an overcrowded house. I won’t let it get to me. Would Selena Gomez let it get to her? Absolutely not.”

There’s a confused beat. “Selena Gomez?”

“Yes.” I jut out my chin. “She’s a symbol of class and purity, and I try to model myself after her. Personality-wise. Obviously, when it comes to style, I will forever strive to be Coco Chanel, and I will forever fail because nobody can be Coco Chanel.”

“Obviously.” He pauses. “Which era Selena Gomez are we talking about? Justin Bieber or The Weeknd? Or Bieber part two?”

I frown at my phone. “Are you for real right now?”

“What?”

“A woman isn’t defined by her boyfriends. She’s defined by her achievements. And her shoes.”

My gaze lands on my new boots, courtesy of Nana Celeste. At least I’ve had smashing success in the shoe department.

The rest of it, not so much.