Chapter 1

You cant buy happiness, but you can buy smoothies, and thats close enough.
~ Unknown
The Jamba Juice is empty and a bad recording of California Girls crackling through a
speaker somewhere above my head is all that's keeping me company.
I glance at my watch and take a small sip of my smoothie. I cross my legs and uncross
them. I fiddle with the upll string of my hood. My first (and probably last) blind date, and he's
late, leaving me alond in an already lonely smoothie shop.
I shouldn't be suprised at how this is turning out. My first date was in ninth grade with a
boy named Cody Callahan. He asked me out in the middle of lunch in front of everyone. I hadnt
really wanted to go on a date with him, or anyone, because I was still that dinky freshman getting
used to high school and being social. I still got nervous around boys and felt sweat building up
on my brow when they held eye contact for more than a full second. Cody asking me in front of
everyone was a clever move because he knew I wouldnt decline. No one has the heart to turn
someone down in a full cafeteria. So Cody Callahan took me to Chuck-E-Cheese and ordered me
a slice of pepperoni pizza that he ended up not having enough money for, so there went my
weekly allowance. There was no second date. If he had been a nice, funny guy who took me to
have an adventurous day with Chucky the mouse, sure, I might have considered going out with
him again (that's a big maybe. He also had pickle breath). But he looked miserable the entire
time, and I found out later that asking me out was a dare.
My second date was in eleventh grade with a tall, lanky boy named Ethan Pelitola. He
was as gorgeous as they come and I was basically hopelessly in love with him. Whenever I saw
him in the hallway I would forget where I was going and walk into a wall. When Sydney finally
nagged him enough to ask me out, he did it quickly and without much thought. I felt a tap on my
shoulder at the end of the day and he was standing there with his beautiful hands stuffed in his
pockets. He mumbled, Wouldyouliketogetcoffeesometime, and it took me a full two minutes to
figure out what he said. I agreed quickly once I finally realized that he was asking me, me, to get
coffee with him.
The date was anticlimactic. We both ordered a hot caramel latte from Candles &
Cappuccinos, the small coffee shop in town. We talked about his position on the school lacrosse
team and what his favorite color was. Never before have I asked someone what hue of blue do

you like? It was when that question came out of my mouth that I knew that date would not lead
to something more.
I haven't been on another date until today. And hes horribly, horribly late. I'm not even
dressed for a date. Im wearing black leggings with a hole in the thigh, worn out converse, and a
Northbranch High School sweatshirt. My hair is in a wet bun on the top of my head and the
perpetual purple bags under my eyes are probably especially prominent. I hate to admit it
because it makes me feel really lame, but I dont think I was planning for this date to work. Hell,
its my last day of school tomorrow, and the next day, I get on a plane that will take me across the
country. I dont even know what Im doing here.
But you cant blame me for saying yes when a hot guy from match.com, (which Sydney
made for me because she thinks Im antisocial), tells me he lives in the same town as I do and
would love to get together for smoothies. I mean, smoothies. My profile name on there is
MangoPassion101. He chose well.
Unless, of course, its all a joke. He sees a girl whose username is named after a drink
from Jamba Juice and decides to play a harmless prank.
Can I get you anything else, Hun? the lady behind the counter asks.
I sigh and shake my head. Thanks, but Ive already had two of these."
She smiles kindly and tucks her pen in her curly black hair. It might not be my place, but
if he doesnt show, darling, hes not worth it.
I scrunch my eyebrows but smile politely. I'm not sure how she knew I was waiting for a
boy. I guess I just look that lonely.
I rub my eyes as I glance at the clock one more time and the reality of the situation gives
me a swift kick in the butt. This is probably a sign, if not a prank. Taylor, the girl everyone likes
but nobody loves, the girl whos only been kissed during truth or dare. Maybe its supposed to
stay that way.
Thanks, I say, finally standing up. The woman behind the counter nods and winks at
me.
An evening full of decaf coffee and Netflix sounds amazing right about now. Downtown
is buzzing with couples laughing as they make their way into Firefly, the new restaurant, and the
ice cream place across the path. Its a beautiful night in Maryland. But not beautiful enough for
me to want to stay.

Don't get the wrong impression. I dont hate Maryland. Ive loved growing up here,
where everyone spends their Sundays at the farmer's market and there seem to be endless
parades. This town is known for its relaxed attitude and on Wikipedia it's even labeled "Hippie
Town, East Coast." In other words, the people here are known for smoking an outrageous amount
of weed. If you spend long enough in any public park, you'll catch a whiff. It's inevitable.
I unlock my front door, eager to get inside and collapse on my bed. But my house isnt
empty when I walk in. The minute my hand turns the doorknob, a flying ball of almond hair and
bangles smacks me in the face.
Sydney, I groan as she pulls me in the door and slams it behind me.
You leave in two days, she says, out of breath. Her chin-length hair is stuck to her face
but she peers excitedly at me through it. So its time for a celebration.
I dont do celebrations, I mutter, but Im smiling at the thought of one of our famous
sleepovers. We haven't had one since Sydney broke up with her boyfriend. My phone rang at
midnight and I fell off my drooly pillow and croaked into the receiver. Emergency sleepover.
Now, she had said, and there was nothing I could say. We had a deal.
Were gonna eat ice cream and exchange clothes and drink beer and talk about boys,
she says, her eyes glazing over contentedly. More accurately, we're going to talk about her boys.
As per usual, I am a male-less female and will probably have nothing to contribute to the
conversation.
Really, Syd? Beer?
She sighs and her wistful demeanor dissolves into fake annoyance. Fine, no beer. I
know you dont drink. Just my luck Id pick a straight edge wimp as a best friend.
Hey, I protest.
You know Im kidding. Gosh, Ty, loosen up, smoke some weed.
I think theres enough of that in this town.
She shrugs and grins at me. You can never have enough pot, my dear.
Sydney hangs out with the crowd that likes to loiter in the park and smoke even when the
five-year-olds are there, so she likes to tease me about my "timid" lifestyle choices. Im perfectly
content with Modern Family and my pajamas.
So, whats first? I ask.

She shifts her weight to the balls of her feet, letting out a squeak of joy. I couldnt wait
for you to ask. Im taking all your old workout clothes and exchanging them for some new, sexy
choices that will make the boys go wild.
I dont do sexy, I protest. I like my sweatshirts and leggings. Theyre comfortable and
not horribly ugly.
Everyone does sexy, she says, waving me off like she would an annoying bug. Its
just harder for some people.
I dont have the body for sexy, I say nervously, glancing down at my thighs and the
small layer of extra fat lining my stomach.
Have I taught you nothing, Taylor? Sydney asks, looking thoroughly exasperated now.
All you need to be sexy is a butt, a face, and a sliver of personality.
What if the person doesnt have a butt or a visually appealing face?
Then the personality will have to do.
And with that she pulls me up to my room, pulls out my drawers, and begins the quest to
make Taylor Oakes sexy.
Whatever that means.
**
Sydney rids my closet of all the clothes I love most in the world. My worn out soccer
sweatshirt from 9th grade, my cupcake socks, and my ripped, saggy jeans that are the most
comfortable pants in the entire universe.
These things are old, she said. You never wear them anymore, she said.
Does it look like I care, Sydney? But theres really nothing I can do to get her to change
her mind, and I am incapable of staying mad at her, so I find myself standing in front of my
closet mirror in a skimpy yellow tank top and shorts so short they could be classified as
underwear.
I look like a prostitute.
No I say simply, shaking my head. She rests her chin on my shoulder and pouts her lip
out at me.
Please? she asks. You look gorgeous.
No, I look like I want someone to rip my clothes off and throw me in bed.
Isnt that what were going for?

No, Syd. I want to look like a respectable teenage girl.

So you want to look like a virgin.
I glare at her. I am a virgin, so it all works out.
She throws her head back and laughs: a high, ugly sound. Sydney Masters is perfect in
many ways, but her laugh is not one of them. She sounds like a hyena having a heart attack.
I met Sydney in fifth grade at an ice cream social. I distinctly remember she was the first
one to climb up on stage during the talent show. Her short brown hair was plastered to her
cheeks with strawberry ice cream and her eyes were wild from the insane amount of sugar
coursing through her bloodstream. She turned up her iPod to full volume and plugged them in
the speakers. Hannah Montanas Best Of Both Words came on and she lip-synced the entire
thing. Then the sugar high came to an abrupt end and she crashed onto the floor.
I was given the task of taking her to the bathroom and cleaning her up. Sydney was no
help. She went limp in my arms and groaned as I tried to wipe the dessert off her face. Neither of
us announced it, but it was obvious then we would become the best of friends. She even sat at
lunch with me the next day and stole my french fries.
Can I at least keep the jeans? I pout, holding them up in front of me. The fabric has
worn so thin it will rip in two if I so much as sit the wrong way, but theyre just so soft.
Fine. But you have to wear the yellow tank top with them. Itll give you the grunge
look," she says. I glare at her, but hey, Ill take what I can get.
On another note, she continues, packing my old clothes into a trash bag and writing
Value Village in big letters on the front, Hows your mom been doing?
I turn away from the mirror and slip on my sweatshirt. Sydney pats the spot next to her
on my bed.
Shes alright. Struggling with the fact that I want to leave. We had a big argument the
other day about Berkeley."
Yeah?" Sydney asks.
"I mean, you know that she agreed to let me enroll with a one year deference, but if I
don't get this smoothie shop up and running in that time, I'm screwed."
"Hey, University of Maryland is not what I would call 'screwed'," Sydney reminds me.
"Yeah, it's close to home, but it's a good school. And they offered you a shitton of money."

"I know," I sigh. "But this smoothie shop is my dream. And Berkeley fits right in with
that dream."
Sydney shakes her head. "I know. I still don't understand why she doesn't just move you
guys out there anyway. All she ever talks about is going back to California."
People have asked me that question time and time again since my dad died. Why dont
you just move? Your mom seems unhappy here.
You know why, Syd, I say, casting a sad glance her way. This is where she met him,
this is where they fell in love. Everywhere she looks she sees him.
My mom grew up by the beach in California. She only came to the east coast for graduate
school. She swore she would go back. But then she met him, and now she can't seem to leave.
I know, darling, she says. She glances at her purple iPhone and her eyes go wide.
Shit, its almost one in the morning. My moms going to kill me. I sort of told her I was
just going to pick up milk at the Co-op.
I roll my eyes. She wont be mad.
Sydney grins and wiggles her eyebrows at me. Youre right. But she will smell my shirt
to check for alcohol and she will poke a flashlight in my eyes.
Tell her you were with me, I say. Sydneys mom approves of what I choose to do with
my nights. I hear the front door close quietly and then I finally slump back against the pillows
and close my eyes.
One more day, and then I get to go. I get to start over.
Owning my own smoothie shop is all Ive ever really wanted. I make smoothies for my
mom all the time, but she always smiles and says, Its good. Thats it. Just, its good. Theyre
so much better than good.
Why dont I just open one on the east coast? Two reasons. One, nobody here appreciates
smoothies like they should. Two, I dont want to live my whole life here. Ive only ever been up
and down the east coast and to a few random foreign countries for short summer vacations. I
want to see where my mom grew up. I want to see the place she loved so much.
I slip out of my shoes and kick them to the floor. Without looking, I reach out and
fumble for the light switch. Soon, the room goes dark around me and I let my exhausted mind
give in to sleep.
One more day.

**
I wake up to my mother barging in the door and squawking, TAYLOR OAKES IT IS
7:30 YOU HAD BETTER GET DRESSED, GRAB A POWER BAR, AND GET OUT OF THIS
GOD DAMN HOUSE BEFORE YOU MISS YOUR HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION."
I roll out of bed, groaning, and smack my chapped lips. My eyes are heavy with sleep and
my mouth is dry. I spit my retainer out, pull on a pair of jogging shorts and a T-shirt, stuff my
feet in my converse, and sprint out the door. Only when Im in my moms beat up old Buick do I
realize my breath probably smells like cat piss.
My mom looks at me out of the corner of her eye and smirks. Ive insisted that I can drive
myself to school but every time I bring it up she goes off on a rant about how Im going to crash
into a tree and my brains are going to spill out onto the sidewalk.
Sweetheart, Taylor, I hate to break it to you, but you look like you got carried away by a
bird and that bird dropped you into a pile of thorns."
Its the last day, I mumble, It really doesnt matter anymore. My mom shrugs with a
small smile, but she unlocks the door and blows me a kiss as I join the crowd of kids rushing into
the building.
My school is home to a few thousand students- the biggest one in our county. Im a speck
in the scheme of things, and it suits me just fine. I have my friends, I have the people I love, and
I dont care if anyone else knows who I am. Im not going to see them again after next year
anyway. Hopefully, if this summer is successful, Ill be saying goodbye for good today.
Well someones looking cheerful this morning, Sydney says in a singsong voice,
landing next to me as she hops through the hallways. Shes holding her famous mug and its
steaming with freshly brewed coffee. That thing must be the size of her head, I swear to God.
I didnt have time to brush my teeth, I mumble, glaring at her.
Or your hair, apparently, she says, cringing as she picks at a clump of the rats nest
sitting on top of my head.
Lay off, Syd, I groan, batting her hand away. She chuckles and holds up her arms in
surrender.
Have a good day, Ty, she says, and then shes blended into the crowd.

I braid my knotted hair as I step into the Calculus classroom and slump into my seat in
the far left corner. My teacher hands out our final exams and tells us we have two hours to take
the test. I gnaw on the eraser of my pencil and tap my foot against the tile floor. One more day.
I close my booklet and leave the classroom before anyone else. I may not like math, but
I'm damn good at it.
I grab a bagel from the cafeteria and the lunch lady smiles at me as I pay. She even gives
me a discount.
Its the last day of school, she says cheerfully, shaking out her long, wavy hair from its
net. And shes not the only one in such a good mood. The sulky kids that usually hog the tables
along the wall are all laughing and wearing bright colors. The stuck-up athletes are sitting with
the math team, talking and having an honest-to-god conversation. Sydney is standing on top of a
table, singing Super Bass at the top of her lungs. I guess I cant use her as an example, though.
She always does that. I give her a small wave and she grins back.
Before I know it, the bell is ringing and kids are running over each other as they try to get
out the door as fast as possible. The humid air hits me as I step outside, but I cant help the shiteating grin that makes its way to my face.
Im done with my junior year of high school. I could be moving away, permanently.
The only person I dont want to leave behind is Sydney. When she found out I was going
to California, and maybe not coming back, she begged and begged her mom if they could come
too. Of course, the answer was no. But we've got Facetime, Skype, Facebook. Well be fine.
My phone chimes and I fish it out of my pocket. Speak of the devil.
In Cali, remember: Boys first, smoothies second. I laugh under my breath and shake my
head. Never.
I go home, change into pajamas, and drag my suitcase out from my closet. In go all the
shirts I own, sports shorts, bras, socks, my converse, flip flops, and my comfortable jeans. I pack
my toothbrush and my hairbrush, my book, my journal, and my earphones. My laptop goes in
too. When everything is all packed and sorted I step back and admire my work. My One
Republic posters stare down at me from my ocean blue walls and my bird clock ticks in the
background. I'll be coming back for them soon.

I grab my suitcase and begin to lug it downstairs, but then I pause. I reach back in my
drawers and pull out one more garment. Smiling to myself, I unzip my pack and stuff the yellow
tank top Sydney gave me in the corner.
**
June 14th is hot, even for Maryland. I stare up at Baltimore Washington International
Airport. It sparkles in the scorching sunlight. Airplanes taking off above me disappear in the
humid haze.
Todays my day.
Come on, Taylor, we dont want you to miss your flight, my mom says, dragging my
purple suitcase behind her. I told her I could carry it, but as always, she didnt listen. In her
eyes, Im still her little girl.
The next hour passes in a blur of tickets and security and mixed berry smoothies from
Starbucks. But finally I find myself hugging my mom as she smiles at me and whispers go get
em, girl. I hand the attendant my ticket and am ushered into the window seat of row 30. A tall
girl with golden skin and jet-black hair sits next to me. Her head bobs up and down absently as
she listens to the music flowing out of her ear buds.
Mia, she says, offering me her hand. I take it and flash her a quick half smile.
Taylor, I answer. She tugs out one earphone.
Im heading back to Hawaii. You? she asks. I can see her Hawaiian roots, now. She has
a narrow face and wide brown eyes. Her hair is long and wavy and her skin has a natural bronze
glow.
Santa Cruz.
She smiles and turns to face the back of the seat in front of her.
Good luck, she teases. Ive been there once. Its quite the place. Lots of boys.
Boys. I dont get the big deal. Yeah, itd be nice to have someone who loves me, really
loves me, but I have years for that.
Smoothies first, boys second, I think to myself. Maybe, if it all works out, both.
Maybe I can meet a boy who makes smoothie.
That would be really flippin' awesome.