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I check my own reflection in the mirror: I am as pale as Lara is dark, skinny where she's curvy, nervous where she's confident, edgy where she's sensual. Lara has orgasmic sex with every partner she chooses; I have never come, never been able to relax that way, although I would never tell anyone this. I think I've been close a few times, felt butterflies in my stomach when I've kissed a boy, but those fireworks that Lara talks about? It's never happened to me. I guess some girls just aren't programmed to enjoy sex that way.

We've been traveling through southern Spain for ten days now, and while Lara fries herself in olive oil every day I've had to carry a parasol and smother my body in SPF 50. I have nothing to show for my time in the sun but a smattering of freckles on my nose. Well, that's not quite true: My already blond hair has been bleached almost white. Each fine, straight strand will look luminous tonight. I decide to wear the cobalt-blue sundress I've been saving for a special occasion. It makes my blue eyes, the only splash of color on my milky-white face, stand out. I may not have many assets, but I know how to make the most of those I do have.

Before we go to dance, Lara and I share a huge plate of paella in a restaurant in the town square, marveling at the enthusiasm of the town's young people. Groups of beautiful young men stroll arm in arm through the square. Teenage couples kiss passionately, oblivious to the merriment surrounding them. Children, who, back home, would have been in bed hours ago, sit on laps, crawl under tables, or sleep on seats. Lara and I linger here, watching the people and absorbing the atmosphere. Even someone as uptight as I am feels the tension melt away, and I start to unwind. I feel my limbs loosen, and I'm even breathing more deeply, slowly, more relaxed. We stay at our table until the square becomes so full of people that I don't believe there's room for a single extra soul, and a very modern sound system starts blaring out Euro house. Those not already standing leap to their feet and begin to dance where they are.

"It's early," says our waiter as the clocks strike midnight and grandmothers dance with toddlers to the sound of a throbbing disco beat. "The night is… What are the words?… still young!"

Lara and I walk through the streets together, happy just to absorb this wonderful atmosphere. We turn heads everywhere we go, all the boys looking at Lara in her white dress. She looks like a bride, a princess. I feel like a ghost by her side. Lara nudges me in the ribs.

"Helen!" she whispers, excitedly. "You're a sensation!"

"Don't be ridiculous," I say. "They're all looking at you. They always do."

"Don't be so sure," replies Lara. "Listen."

As I listen, I hear "bianca guapa," which means "white beauty." When I realize that they're talking about me, I become a pink beauty.

"They've never seen anyone like you around here," says Lara. "You're a hit!"

Feeling a little more confident, I smile shyly at one boy in washed-out jeans and a pale-blue T-shirt. He's the only one not whistling or catcalling to me, but I like the look of him the best. He looks like all the rest of them-tall, lean, tanned, and chiseled-but he's silent, respectful, and there's something intense about him that draws my eyes to his.

Lara gets chatting to one of the guys. Her Spanish isn't much better than his English, but even I know what bailamos means. "Let's dance." And so a group of us follow him down a side alley to a little flamenco bar that appears to be carved into a rough hole in the wall. Inside it's more like a cave than a club, the whitewashed walls curving over to touch each other in the middle, forming a ceiling that hangs low over our heads. An old man plays guitar while the women dance and make animal-like noises, whooping and clapping, and I know that I've stumbled across real flamenco whose sexy, earthy beat has pulsed in this city for hundreds and hundreds of years.