Free You’re Invited Too by Jen Malone and Gail Nall

she could show it to our science teacher, Mrs. Fenimore. Now, I ask, how on earth could someone who has no issue with seventeen thousand twitching spider legs be freaked out by one small, innocent metal eyelash curler?
    However.
    Tomboy Vi caring about curled eyelashes is majorly exciting. She’s like a tiny doe and I’m holding out my palm full of yummy deer food. (I have no actual idea what baby deer eat, so we’re gonna go with generic deer food here.) But I know I have to stand extra perfectly still so I don’t scare her away.
    â€œSuuuuuuuure, Vi,” I drawl gently. “Anytime you want. Maybe before your soccer game this Friday?”
    â€œBefore my . . . ? Why would I curl my lashes to play soccer, exactly?”
    â€œMaybe since you’re on the team with all those cute boys? And, well, since Lance is starting forward?” I hold my breath, since bringing up Lance around Vi these days is kind of a no-no. Her eyes burn lasers into the floor, so I change the subject super fast. “You never answered me before. Did you get it?”
    Vi blinks and looks up. “Repeat: get what ?” she asks.
    â€œThe invitation to my sleepover. I hand-delivered it to your meemaw’s yesterday and left it on the back deck right outside the family-room door.”
    Vi’s head tilts to the side. “Was that the purple satiny thing? What was that? I thought it had blown in off the beach.”
    I will not pout, I will not pout, I will not pout, I . . . “Off the beach?? It’s a sleep mask. What would a sleep mask be doing on the beach?” I whine. Under my breath I mumble, “And it was lilac, not purple.”
    â€œOh. Um, okay. I’m really sorry, Becs.”
    Vi does look sorry. Her eyes are all droopy. Hmm. Maybe I should catch a ride home with one of the high school kids at lunch so I can grab that eyelash curler sooner versus later. Happy eyelashes help droopy eyes sooo much!
    I smile at Vi to show I’m over it. “Well, I hope you brought it inside, because I wrote the details for my sleepover birthday party in marker on the back. Get it? Sleep mask for a sleepover? Not that I’m ever, ever, ever gonna allow anyone to actually go to sleep, no matter how much Daddy begs us, but . . .”
    Vi shakes her head. “Becs, we’ve been talking about your sleepover for weeks now. Even Lauren rescheduled her dance-alone-in-her-room time to fit in your party. We don’t exactly need written invitations.”
    â€œWe’re party planners by profession now. We have a reputation to uphold. We can’t skimp on our very own parties just because we’re in the biz, as they say.”
    â€œThey? Who’s ‘they’?” Vi tugs on the zipper of my hoodie as she grins at me.
    I’m trying extra hard to think of a witty answer when someone shouts, “Oh, gross, Hunter!”
    Hunter Crestling rushes past, clutching his stomach. About three steps past us he bends in half and pukes all over the tiled hallway floor. “Oh, gross” is right. It smells worse than the fish cannery on a July day. I’m so glad I’m not a sympathetic puker, because the smell alone is enough to make someone—
    Fingers curl into my forearm.
    I turn and peer into Vi’s face. Uh-oh.
    She’s looking so green, no mere eyelash curler could save her looks right now. I forgot: Vi is totally a sympathetic puker, and by the way her lips are clenched, I’m guessing her stomach is rolling worse than the waves at the beach.
    â€œLet’s get you out of here,” I order, grabbing her backpack from the floor and turning her away from Hunter.
    She nods weakly and allows me to pull her down the hall, but she stiffens and stops when we hear a singsong “Oh, Mr. Allllllber-haaaaaasky! Your assistance is required in the seventh-grade corridor.”
    Linney Marks.
    Vi’s face was bad before; it’s now