Charisma by Jeanne Ryan Page B

dress sticks to my back and how hard I’m breathing.
    Jack catches me by the elbow and escorts me to the hallway. He checks his phone. “Damn, you were supposed to be home twenty-five minutes ago.”
    I nuzzle into his chest. “Don’t worry. My mom probably fell asleep.”
    Zoe and another girl slink toward us pointing cameras. “Anything you want to say to the world? Maybe a PSA for plastic surgery?”
    I clear my throat. What to say to “the world”? The first thing that comes out is: “Have a blast. But if you have too much of a blast, be sure you’re an organ donor.”
    Everyone laughs. I pretend to as well, even though I know the reason for my weird comment is the scary probability of Sammy needing a lung transplant someday.
    A few minutes later, when I say good-bye to Evie, she nudges my arm. “Okay, I wanna sign up for the you-know-what too.”
    I glance at Rafe, who hasn’t strayed from her side all night. “You’re doing fine.”
    Jack speeds home, only to take our time parked in front of my house. Whenever his skin meets mine, I shiver. No way will I bring him to the porch, where Mom can interrupt us. At quarter after eleven, I kiss him one last time and run to my door with a smile that makes my cheeks hurt.
    Opening the door quietly, I let out a huge sigh to find the living room empty. But as I tiptoe upstairs, Sammy’s coughing seems to jangle the walls. I peek into his room to find Mom offering him tissues and a plastic pail.
    They both turn to me with wounded eyes.
    I say, “Sorry I’m late.”
    Mom pats Sammy’s back. “You couldn’t call?”
    Sammy hacks another chest-rattling cough and puts his face into the pail.
    â€œI totally lost track of the time. Really, I’m so sorry.”
    Sammy wipes his mouth. “Give her a break, Mom. She’s never had a boyfriend before.”
    Mom’s stern expression is more about breaking bones than granting breaks, but all she says is, “You’d better get some sleep if you want to be alert at work tomorrow.”
    I nod and shut the door.
    But my insides tingle too much to go to bed. I savor the electric memory of my first real kiss, and my second, tenth, and twentieth. As if I could sleep after that.
    I hop onto my computer, and, before I know it, post a few random thoughts about the party. A couple of other kids who were there answer with notes of their own. Soon there’s a flurry of updates and connection requests. Someone posts videos of us dancing. In the midst of the activity, I notice Chloe returned my private message from earlier with: HAPPY YOUR LIFE ROCKS. MAYBE ALL THAT THEORETICAL KNOWLEDGE ABOUT GUYS WILL BECOME ACTUAL. HAHA! HAVE YOU SEEN SHANE’S PAGE TODAY?
    I groan, but check out his page anyway. Apparently, he’s taken his girlfriend application process to the “next level.” Half expecting he means orgies, I find the next level involves a plan for local film students to follow him around and produce
The Shane Show
for the city cable channel.
    Puh-leeeze. What girl would want to be part of that? I sigh. No amount of Charisma would persuade me to do that.
    Unless . . .
    Grinning, I get a wicked idea, and fill in the online application form. Without any bikini shots handy, I link to a dance video from the party. Someone needs to put this guy in his place.
    I submit the application, and then a trickle of guilt persuades me to find ways to use my upgraded personality for something more than messing with Shane’s ego. No ideas as to what this greater good might be occurs to me by the time I slip under the covers, yet I fall asleep hopeful I can make a difference in the world. My own world has already changed for the better. Miraculously. Of that, I have no doubt.
    After only six hours of sleep, I awake the next morning raring to go. For sixteen point nine years, my mornings were always weighted by fears to face