I slap it off and then sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes. My blankets are twisted around me because I’ve spent half the night tossing and turning, angry about the disaster of my party.

I’m dreading today. I don’t want to know if Janae told everyone about how my party was like one bad eighties movie or how I was trying to look cute in my ugly sailor dress. Or if my mom is annoyed that I blew out the candles and then promptly left and retired to my room and locked the door, blasting Blink-182 so I didn’t have to listen to the crowd outside.

I yawn as I stand and stretch my arms over my head, grumbling about the start of another day of my less-than-stellar life, when I see something bright flash across the lawn below my window.

Pink.

Are there still workers here, taking down the party decorations?

I wrap my neon-green-and-orange plaid quilt around my body even though I’m wearing a dorky flannel pajama set that covers me from head to toe and lean against the windowsill to get a better look. Below me, the backyard looks exactly as it did forty-eight hours ago: plain old grass. The cedar fence is no longer adorned with flowers, the tent has disappeared, and the punch bowl—er, fountain—has been retired. The aggregate patio below me is once again sporting the black, wrought iron patio set, nothing more.

So what was that flash of pink?

I yank the window open and press my forehead into the screen so that I can look to the right and left of the house. And that’s when I see it again: a burst of pink as it rounds the corner.

Hmm. This reeks of my brother. He probably has a water-balloon ambush planned, and he’s trying to lure me outside. It’s probably fifty-four degrees out. He’d just love soaking me.

And there’s no way I’m falling for it. He’s one of those people who will try the same gag over and over, as long as it works. And he did this exact thing a month ago. He set up camp and then threw the balloons at my window. I went out the back door to yell at him, and he totally slammed me with an explosion of water.

Maybe I can go around the front of the house and use the element of surprise to snag his own weaponry and use it against him. Years of playing little sister have shown me that brains are more powerful than brawn, especially if you’re talking about my brains and his brawn.

I throw on a fluffy blue robe with clouds all over it. It was a Christmas present, which is why I didn’t get the black one with a cute lime-green skull-and-crossbones design.

I take the stairs two by two and am at the front door in seconds. I click it open as silently as possible and then walk across the slate-tiled stoop and down the steps. I hoof it across the lawn, the grass cold and dewy on my bare feet. I tiptoe into the backyard. My brother is probably on the other side of the rhododendron bush, staring around the corner of the house, expecting me to exit out of the back door.

As I turn to shut the gate behind me, I feel it: hot breath on my neck, whiskers tickling my ear. Ew, my brother has a serious five o’clock shadow. So gross.

I spin around to face my brother, but I see nothing but dead air. And that’s when I feel it again: hot breath, this time on the bare part of my stomach, between the top and the bottom of my blue flannel pajamas, where the robe has fallen open.

And when I finally look down, I scream and leap back, crashing into the gate and hitting my funny bone. Pain ripples up my arm.

The pony—the pink pony—its dark eyes widening, sort of jumps into the air and then plants all four feet, as if I’ve startled it. Its nostrils flare, and it takes in a big, quivery breath. It’s not very tall—its back probably reaches my waist. Maybe it’s a miniature horse and not a pony. Or are they the same thing? Either way, it’s not supposed to be pink, and it’s definitely not supposed to be in my backyard.

We stare at each other, seemingly frozen, until it spins around and trots away, its blue-streaked tail dragging behind. It lets out a long, shrill whinny as it disappears around the corner.

Someone has seriously messed with that pony. I’m guessing it was white at one time, because that’s the only way dye that pink would ever take. And the mane is mostly white too, except those crazy electric-blue streaks.

And I swear to you, it had an ice-cream cone painted on its hindquarters. Three scoops. Sugar cone.

I rub my eyes a few times. This isn’t real, is it? Did the little guy escape from a local farm? Who did this to him?

Or wait. If it’s pink, it’s probably a girl.

I stomp after it, annoyed that I’ve gotten out of bed for something this insanely ridiculous. Who paints a pony pink? Shouldn’t that be animal cruelty or something?

When I round the corner of the house, I get a full view of the backyard and the totally empty expanse of grass. Huh.

I walk around the garden shed and peek inside, but the pony isn’t in there, either. The side gate is open on the other side, so I walk around to the front of the house and stand on the sidewalk. I look both ways, down the street, but I don’t see her.

I close my eyes for a long moment, half expecting to feel warm breath and whiskers again, but there’s nothing. The pony is gone.

It’s official: I’m crazy.

I go back to the house and walk into the entry, where my mom is putting on a pair of sensible black pumps, her hair blow-dried and curled to perfection.

“What are you doing outside?”

I stand there dumbly. “Um, looking for the paper. For a current-events homework assignment.”

“It’s on the counter,” she says, giving me an odd look. It is always on the counter.

“Oh.”

She stands to leave.

“Mom?”

“Mm-hmm . . . ”

“Did you rent a pony for my party?”

My mom laughs. “Of course not, honey. You’re too big for a pony.”

And then she walks away, toward the garage door, where her shiny Lexus awaits. I watch her go, wondering if I’m crazy or if the perfect events coordinator doesn’t even know what kind of activities she booked for her daughter’s sweet sixteen.

Shaking my head, I go back to my room. Clearly, my brain doesn’t function properly without twenty minutes of a hot shower.

And I only have nineteen before I’m late.