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My heart stops. “They sell vibrators?”

She snickers. “Not just any old vibrators. Orchid vibrators.”

“That’s . . .” A shudder runs through me.

“Genius?”

“Can they even do that? Print my name . . . and my face on T-shirts and other assorted souvenirs?” I can’t shake the thought of my name emblazoned across the side of dozens of neon sex toys. “Gross.”

“Capitalism at its finest.” Nicole shoves her phone into her bag. “And it’s all in the fine print of the contract you signed. I suspect the merchandise will be paying your tuition. Which reminds me . . .”

“The damned interview.” I mutter under my breath like a church lady whispering cuss words on a Sunday. I know I can’t run from the inevitable forever, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“Yes, the interview. You keep dodging me.” Says the woman who ditched me for a quick round of tonsil hockey this morning.

I check the time on my phone before shoving it into my back pocket. “I’m not dodging you. I’m dodging them.” Dodging what I know will be an intrusive dive into my past . . . my present . . . my whole life, dredging up things I really don’t want unearthed.

“You’ve run out of excuses. I’ve scheduled everything for next weekend, where you’ll officially announce the four finalists, then the five of you will pose for pictures with Eve’s photographers. It’ll be fun.”

Instinct tells me to say no. But having my personal relationships plastered all over the internet seems as inevitable as the shifting tides. Based on the slew of paraphernalia for sale and my run-in with Dylan, I’d say stopping this runaway train is as likely as putting the egg back into the chicken.

I blow out a breath. “Your idea of fun is vastly different from mine.”

Nicole barks out a laugh. “Trust me, your definition will change the minute you seal the deal with”—she looks over her shoulder and leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper—“your freak show boyfriend.”

I shoot her an icy glare. “I told you not to call him that.”

“Whatever.” Nicole butters her lips with a fresh layer of lavender gloss. “Unless he has supernatural powers, he can’t hear me.”

“I can hear you.”

She shrugs, unapologetic. “It’s not my fault Jordan looks like he plays Guitar Hero in his mother’s basement.”

“No.” I snort out a laugh. “He wouldn’t . . . he doesn’t even . . . I’m sure he—”

She stabs me with a pointed glare, and I realize I have no idea what Jordan does in his free time. I don’t even know what kind of music he listens to. I’ve always made assumptions based on his choice of vintage clothes. Maybe Nicole’s right. Maybe Jordan is a closet gamer. I make a mental note to ask him the next time I get the chance.

The alarm on my phone goes off, and I quickly silence it. “I need to run. Professor Breen locks the classroom door exactly five minutes after class starts.” I lean in to give Nicole one of those insincere air-kisses she’s so fond of, then scurry off to class like a rat on a sinking ship, as if I wasn’t the one who drove the damn boat straight into the iceberg.

The overpowering odor of burned gym shoes hits me when I walk through the door Wednesday afternoon after being frantically summoned home by my mother.

“Mom? Are you cooking meth in here?” Against my better judgment, I drop my bag at the foot of the stairs and follow the sound of clanking pans to the kitchen.

Wearing an apron painted to look like racy black lingerie, Mom stands at the stove, frantically stirring something in a pot. Her untamed blond mane has escaped the messy bun on top of her head, leaving loose tendrils plastered to her sweaty face and neck.

“I made dinner!” she announces proudly.

“Great.” I glance at Rachael Ray, streaming from an iPad propped up on the counter. “I hope that’s not why you needed me to drop everything and rush over here.”

“Of course not.” She gives her concoction another stir.

I peer over her shoulder at the black sludge in the pot. I sort of wish she was cooking meth. At least that would be worth something on the open market.

“What exactly did you make?”

“Chili with black beans and corn bread.”

She peels back the foil from a casserole dish on the stove, and I flinch.