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of the party is over, we’ll probablyjust paint our toenails and watch TV until it’s time to climb into our sleeping bags (or cot, if you’re Veronica) and whisper secrets about which movie star we’re crushing on (hello, Graham Cabot all the way) and what three items we’d want if we were stranded on a desert island. I already have mine picked out: my iPod, with one of those solar batteries that recharges in the sunlight; an array of shovels so I can spend my days making incredible sand sculptures and also SOS sand letters that planes could see from the sky; and a fishing net . . . because, entertainment aside, a girl’s gotta eat.
    â€œAll right. Close your eyes, please,” Madame Mesmer says in a voice just above a whisper. “Now I’d like you to imagine yourself in your happy place, somewhere that is relaxing to you. It might be the beach. It might be a field of grass. Wherever you are, take a moment to look around. Now feel your surroundings. Feel the sun on your face and the sand or the grass under your feet.”
    I wiggle my toes but keep my eyes screwed shut. I try extra-hard to picture the art room at school with my class’s latest still-life paintings hanging to dry and the pottery wheel in the back corner. It’s fuzzy, but I force my brain to stay there. Is this working?
    â€œGood,” says Madame Mesmer. Her skirt swishes and her bangles clatter as she weaves her way among us, stepping over our legs. “Working bottom to top, you’re going to let eachpart of your body relax. Relax your ankles. Now press the backs of your knees into the floor. Feel them getting heavy and connecting with the carpet. Next relax your bum.”
    I can’t believe none of us giggle over the word bum . I have one about to bubble out of my throat, but I stop it with an exhale, letting my (mostly flat—blergh) chest rise and fall with deep breaths. This whole time my eyelids have been fluttering because they want so badly to peek, but now they finally relax, and I start to concentrate only on Madame Messmer’s voice. It’s soooo soothing. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can let go.
    â€œNext I want you to imagine yourself flying through the air. Swoop your arms low on one side; now dip to the other. The wind is in your hair; you are a bird, incapable of falling. Just feel the freedom of flight; let the joy of it bubble up in your chest. Take a rest on a puffy cloud and then swoosh back through the air again.”
    The room is totally silent, except for Madame Mesmer’s voice. Is anything happening? I don’t feel anything happening. But I’m going with it. I think maybe I even want it to work.
    â€œOkay, now, when I count to ten, I want you to slip into a deep state of hypnosis. One . . . two . . . three . . .” She continues to count until she reaches, “Nine . . . ten. You are now in a state of hypnosis. You are safe. Your entire body feels relaxed and free. You are peaceful as you sink into a deeper and deeper state of hypnosis. You are safe. You are free.”

PART TWO

CHAPTER FIVE
One-a-Chick, Two-a-Chick
    T ake me to New York. I’d like to see LA. I really want to come kick it with you. You’ll be my American boy. . . .
    I bolt upright, tangling my legs in my sleeping bag.
    â€œWhat the what?”
    The music from Summer Dance Party blares from the TV so loudly, I think the police might show up. There’s something hard underneath my butt; I scoot over, yank the remote out from my jumbled mess of covers, and jam my finger on the power button.
    Ahhhhh. Blissful quiet.
    Without the glare from the flat-screen, the room also goes to mostly dark, but there’s some crack-of-dawn light streaming in from the half windows, enough so I can make out the shapes of my friends as they start to stir. I can’t imagine how any of them slept through that .
    A beam of light shines