Perfect for fans of Morgan Matson and Netflix/Hallmark Channel rom-coms, this is the story of a girl who decides to give in to the universe and just say yes to everything, bringing her friendship, new experiences, and, if she lets her guard down, true love. "I would say yes to this adorable love story again and again. It is an instant dose of happy." --KASIE WEST, author of P.S. I Like You Rachel Walls has spent most of high school saying no. No to dances, no to parties, and most especially, no to boys. Now she's graduating at the top of her class, and for the first time in her life, there's nothing stopping Rachel from having a little fun--except herself. So when she stumbles on a beat-up old self-help book, a crazy idea pops into her head: What if she just said yes to . . . everything? And so begins Rachel's summer of yes--yes to new experiences and big mistakes. Yes to scooping ice cream alongside Miles, the guy she's known forever; yes to spontaneous road trips with her longtime crush, Clayton; and yes to seeing the world in a whole new way. "I would say yes to this adorable love story again and again . It is an instant dose of happy." —KASIE WEST, author of P.S. I Like You " A definite purchase for YA collections, this winning book will have readers considering how a few key decisions could alter their entire lives." — School Library Journal , starred review “The breezy plot . . . is held together by a compelling cast of supporting characters.” — Kirkus Reviews LINDSEY ROTH CULLI writes books for teens and people who used to be teens. She holds a degree in journalism and an MFA. She resides in Maryland with her husband and a hodgepodge of two- and four-legged creatures. lindseyrothculli.com @LRothCulli 1 The middle of delivering your valedictorian speech is a terrible time to have an existential crisis. “I, uh . . .” I glance down at the damp, wrinkly index card clenched in my hand, my meticulously typed notes blurring together until they look more like alphabet soup than the speech I’ve spent every available moment of the last month perfecting--skipping my lunch period to work on my draft in the library, revising in my head in the shower at night, chanting the words over and over as I sprinkled shredded mozzarella on pizzas in the steamy kitchen at my parents’ restaurant. I can feel my cheeks heating now as sure as if I’m standing directly in front of the five-hundred-degree oven, a salty band of sweat beading on my upper lip.  I force my eyes up at the crowd in the auditorium, my classmates gazing back at me with a mixture of boredom and what I’m pretty sure is grim anticipation, all of them wondering if I might be about to choke and go rushing off the stage: Tricia Whitman, whom I know from her many #cruiseclothes Instagram posts, is spending the next two weeks on a luxury ocean liner somewhere in the Caribbean. Henry Singh, who had a huge fight with his boyfriend in the middle of the diner a couple weeks ago and dumped an entire Caesar salad onto the guy’s lap before storming out into the parking lot. Cecily Johnston, the only person at our whole school who scored higher than me on the SAT.  I’m not friends with any of these people, to be absolutely clear. The truth is I’ve never even talked to most of them. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what they’re like, even if the vast majority of them probably saw my name in the program this morning, turned to their neighbor, and said something along the lines of Who the hell is Rachel Walls?  I wince at the thought of it, imagining their furrowed brows as they tried unsuccessfully to place me: Was I that foreign exchange student who was only here for one semester, maybe? The weird theater girl who always wore shapeless black dresses and a netted veil? An unexpectedly brilliant janitor who snuck into Ms. Ali’s math room late at night to do complicated calc proofs on the whiteboard?  Then, vague recognition slowly dawning as I stepped up to the podium: Oh . . . her.  The gunner. The wet blanket. The prude.  Get a grip, Patatina. I hear Nonna’s voice inside my head in the instant before I finally spot her with my mom and stepdad near the back of the auditorium, her neat gray bob cocked slightly to the side as she waits for me to continue. I take a deep breath, getting a lungful of forced air and perfume and polyester-graduation-robe BO for my trouble, then clear my throat one more time. After all, just because I’m not exactly about to be voted most popular in the yearbook--that would be Clayton Carville, he of Westfield soccer stardom and a criminally beautiful jawline--doesn’t mean I haven’t earned this. The opposite, actually. In fact, the choices that have rendered me utterly invisible to these people are the very same ones that have led me here, to this moment and what comes next.  That is, delivering this damn speech and then getting the hell out of town so that my real life can finally start.  Pressing my hands against the lectern,