Oomph. I'm knocked to my knees, but I manage to catch myself before face planting.

That's when I feel a chill seeping through my shirt, spreading so my entire back is covered in icy-coldness, and goose bumps pop up all over my arms. I twist my head and see a woman holding a half empty pitcher of iced tea, a black apron tied around her waist.

"Are you okay, love? Oh blimey, you're soaked! I'm so sorry. I was just walking by and you jumped out in front of me," she says, more to herself than me. "Let me help you up."

"Uh, I'm okay, really. No biggie."

I take a deep breath and look up at the trio of girls next to me. Angela is fighting a huge grin (and losing) but Mindy is just staring, her face blank of all expression. Summer is hiding behind a menu, her face turned downward so all I can see is her highlight-streaked dark hair.

"You okay?" Mindy asks.

"Smooth move," Angela says. "Very graceful."

Summer's tiny shoulders shake with silent giggles as my face nearly bursts into flames.

"Oh. Uh, I'm fine. I'm just... soaked. I, uh, I'm fine. Thanks."

And then I bail. There's no way I can talk to them now. Like they're going to invite me to the club? Ha. Right. I've just confirmed the reason they don't hang out with me. God, I'm a walking disaster.

I bolt through the cafe's side-door and duck into the hotel lobby bathroom, the closest door to the scene of my humiliation. I go into one of the fancy pink wallpapered stalls and sit down on a toilet for a few minutes, my face buried in my hands, trying to compose myself. There's a lump in my throat, but I won't cry because it's not worth it. This kind of stuff happens to me all the time, and tomorrow it won't sting so much. I'll block it from my memory like it never happened.

My mom has always told me I have two left feet, but I think that's giving me too much credit. I'm so clumsy I deserve my own cliche. I'm sure eventually falling flat on your face will be known as "pulling a Callie Montgomery."

I get up and leave the stall, the automatic toilet flushing behind me. I shuffle to the sinks, sniffling back the last few tears that still threaten.

Once in front of the gilded mirror, I twist around to survey the damage. My white tee is totally soaked through so you can see my black bra strap. The ends of my lifeless blonde hair aren't exempt from the iced tea treatment, either. They even smell like lemon.

I sigh and grip the edges of the sink as I stare back at my reflection. It's not like I'm horrendously ugly. I'm just kind of plain. Straight, narrow nose. Average cheekbones. Dull blue eyes. Could I be anymore average?

It's no wonder I've never even been kissed. My lips are sort of thin. Not full and kissable like Angela's.

The door swings open and I look up to see Mindy stride in. I yank back from the mirror so she won't know I've been staring at myself.

She's retying the knot in her charcoal-gray shrug when she sees me, and her glossy lips part — and then freeze like that — a tiny little o of surprise.

I drop my hands to my sides and try to ignore the prickling feeling of the wet shirt glued to my back.

"Oh," she says, and then stops at the door, halfway into the bathroom and halfway out, like she might get bubonic plague from me if she gets too close.

"Hey," I say. My hands are suddenly in need of a good washing, so I stare at the soap dispenser as I pump it five times, filling my palm with pink suds. I'm overly aware of her presence in my peripheral vision, and have to force my eyes to remain on the ultraimportant task of personal hygiene. Why is she staring at me like that?

Mindy finally walks into the bathroom stall as I switch the faucet off and reach for a few paper towels. I use them slowly, one square at a time, until she comes back out.

I toss the paper towels and pretend to fix a few strands of hair as she walks toward the sinks. She stops halfway there.

"Oh, urn, Callie?"

I perk up and turn to look at her. She's smiling at me.

This is it! My ticket out of the hotel.

"Um, I just wanted to, well — " she pauses for a second.

My heart is going crazy. I knew Mindy would come through if I gave her the chance. I just know we'd click if I could stop acting like a freak for more than five minutes.

She clears her throat. "You have toilet paper stuck to your shoe."

Chapter 2

"Huh?" I look down at my flip-flops and the giant chunk of toilet paper trailing off the toe of one of them. "Oh. Uh, thanks."

I reach down, yank off the T.P., and then rush for the door without another word.

I make it out the front of the hotel before I even know what I'm doing. I haven't had the guts to leave without a "buddy" ever since the big lecture from Mrs. Bentley yesterday when we arrived. She swore if she caught any of us out alone she'd send us home.

But if I want to get back to my room, I have to walk right through the cafe again, my flip-flops slapping against my feet to announce my arrival. I'd have to walk past Angela and her sneer and Summer and her giggles.

I can't take any more of them right now. I have to get away and clear my head and figure out how I'm going to get through this trip.

I slow down when I realize I've gone several blocks on Sloane Street without noticing. Our fancy five-star hotel is situated in the best shopping district in London, or at least that's what Angela talked about the whole flight here.

Not that she was talking to me, of course. She was sitting between Summer and Mindy, in the row in front of me. I got a window seat next to an elderly man who snored the whole flight. Even though I pretended to be reading, I eavesdropped on them the whole time. I think Angela was listing the designers in alphabetical order; I got lost after Armani, Burberry, Chanel, Coach, and Dior.

I must be on the right track, because the waif-thin girls walking past me look like models, and I think I just saw the third foreign sports car in as many minutes.

Crazy. I definitely don't see that every day. Our little country town is more likely to have jacked-up trucks and a Target than Ferraris and a Louis Vuitton shop.

The architecture here is gorgeous: all sorts of brick buildings, elaborate archways, stone carvings, open-air cafes, glossy store fronts... everything is just so English I feel a little sophisticated and chic just walking down this street, like I should be eating a croissant or debating the finer sides of Chaucer or something.

Maybe if I soak up a little of this... aura, I can act a little less classic Callie and figure out a plan to get to the club tonight.

Hyde Park and Sloane Street. That's where the club is. Maybe I can pick up some cute clothes and then go scope it out and it won't seem so intimidating. Maybe I can get thenerve to crash later. Mindy is pretty nice, after all. She could be cool with it. If I look cute and act normal, they'll get over their idea that I'm deadweight.

Still deep in thought, I pass a window filled with mannequins. One of them has a baby blue cami just like the pink one Mindy was wearing.

Yes, this could work.

Step 1: Retail Therapy.

Two hours later, my arms and feet are killing me. I'm still not sure what look I'm going for, but if I can't decide on something from the two-hundred dollars — er, pounds — worth of clothes I've bought so far, I'm hopeless. The thing is, I don't want to seem like I'm trying too hard but I don't want to dress like a total scrub either. I have to look killer tonight.

Pulled off correctly, it will reverse my fate, and the rest of my European vacation will be spent with Mindy, having real fun.

I'm just about to turn around and head back to the hotel when I see it: a five-story brick building with huge bay windows on every floor. Fluted white casings frame the entry.

At the street level is a wall of glass, polished to such a shine I can see my own reflection staring back at me.

And hanging over my head, in shockingly simple block letters, is a single word: PRADA.

I stare at the storefront with Angela's words ringing in my head. She knows shoes.

She knows fakes. And she knows the real thing when she sees it. What if I bought a pair of true Prada shoes and wore them to the club? Would she admire them? Would she at least say something and break the ice, and then I could say something brilliant hack, and she'd forget that she never invited me out in the first place?

Desperate times call for desperate measures. The desperate measure in this case being my Mom's credit card, which was given to me with a stern warning about "emergency usage only." In my book, this qualifies as an emergency. After all, I'm about to have a life-changing night.

Still outside, I peer farther into the store. There's a banner announcing the arrival of the summer collection, and a dozen or so pairs of heels on little acrylic perches. I spot a pair of lavender platform pumps that makes my heart jump — the heel is painted to look like little flowers. But then I think about what Angela would say, and I realize they're too showy.

That's when I see them: a pair of shiny red patent leather pumps with sky-high heels and a cute buckle detail. They're totally classic, and yet there's no way anyone could mistake them for another brand. My mind made up, I shove open the door and step inside. I'm not even going to try them on; they're mine.