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Quincy for that.” She and my older sister shared the same bright shade of blonde, and I wanted no part of that madness. Plus, I had plans to spend part of the day at La Période Bleue, my favorite gallery in SoHo. I didn’t bother telling her that, though. She didn’t give a shit about my “little hobbies.”
    “After you hear your father’s announcement on Friday, I think you will agree that a makeover is critical. You are such a smart, beautiful girl, but…”
    I tuned out her voice and turned my attention to the grapefruit on my plate.
    Freedom was so close I could almost taste it.
    I lifted a spoonful of bright pink pulp to my lips.
    What the hell did freedom taste like?
    My mind immediately thought Dare .
    I almost laughed out loud. That wasn’t going to happen. I never went back for seconds.
    Never.

seven

    “W hy do both of these have to be tonight?” I groaned, more to myself than the two girls sitting at my table in Learner Hall lounge. I had an art show brochure in one hand and a political seminar flyer in the other. The first week of classes hadn’t even concluded, and I already had to choose between passion and duty.
    When I wasn’t hitting the books, I interned at La Période Bleue Gallery. Being around art gave me hope. It filled my mundane, black-and-white dreams with bright bursts of color. Sabine Rochard, the gallery owner, allowed me to scout for her because I had an eye for talent.
    She’d asked me to hit up a show in Queens this evening and find some potential artists for an up-and-coming talent showcase happening at the end of October. And my Intro to International Politics professor had made attendance at a seminar on world trade tactics mandatory for passing his course.
    “Summer’s over, Reagan.” My friend Carrie snatched the art show announcement from my hand, crumpled it up, and tossed it into a nearby garbage can. “Time to get back to reality.”
    Penelope took a sip of her latte and sighed. “Why does reality have to be so painful?”
    I scoffed. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re studying Art History!”
    “Exactly,” she said. “It’s hard. And boring. And dry. Have you ever tried writing a paper on the influence of impressionism on Northern Europe?”
    “What I wouldn’t give to trade places with you right now,” I said. “I would happily do every single one of those assignments you always complain about. Of course, my parents would have multiple strokes if I told them that I even entertained the idea of switching into ‘such a frivolous major.’ Their words, not mine.”
    Carrie’s bright green gaze locked onto mine. She searched my eyes like she was trying to determine if I was joking or if I’d actually gone insane. “Say what you want, but your parents are right to push you toward law, business, and politics. You’re wicked smart, Reagan. Studying anything else would be a waste of your time and talent.”
    I groaned. “Studying anything else would be heaven.” One look at my Ethics of Political Theory textbook made my head hurt.
    “Well, if you need something to help you get through the next few weeks, let me know,” Carrie said. “I have a whole stash of my brother’s Ritalin. I’ve been pill-switching for years—the stupid little shit has been gulping Aspirin tablets without even knowing it. That’s how I passed all my Financial Economics midterms last year.”
    “Oh, great. How much are my parents paying you to attend school here and make sure I don’t steer from the straight and narrow path to corporate hell?” I was joking. I hoped.
    Carrie shrugged. “Your parents are right about this. And they want to make sure you don’t end up like this one.” She nodded at Penelope. “Let’s not kid ourselves. Penny, with her major, has trophy wife written all over her.”
    “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Penelope pouted. She opened her mouth to protest, but quickly shut it and burst into a fit of giggles. “Well,