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All things considered, I’ve been minimally unhinged about the situation. In fact, I’m fully hinged. For example, I haven’t even checked my notifications for precisely forty-five seconds. World record, round of applause,

gold medal, et cetera.

“All yours, Amelia Bedelia,” says Zora. She steps out of the bathroom in her suit and white socks and hardly any makeup. Just

a hint of blush against the brown of her cheeks.

I drop my phone, facedown. Mash that screen right into Natalie’s blue floral comforter.

Zora studies my face. “Hey—you good?”

“Great! Good. You look dressed. Sorry, you look great. And you’re dressed.”

“Um. Thank you?”

“And I’m good!”

She nods slowly. “Still nothing from Walter?”

“Nope! Because Walter”—I do a quick drumroll—“thinks I’m a creep.”

“Bet he didn’t even see the post.” Zora crosses the room, scooting onto the bed beside me. “And if he did, he probably thinks

it’s cute. I’d think it was cute!”

“But would a boy think it was cute?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Mark, get in here!”

Ten footsteps later, he’s in Natalie’s doorway. Wearing a tux. Well, mostly. Vest isn’t buttoned, and his tie’s draped loosely over his shoulders, but still.

I sit up straight. “Well, hello there, Hot Mark.”

His eyes narrow. “Why are you being weird?”

“See,” I say, “boys think I’m weird.”

“Can confirm.” His gaze lands on my phone. “Nothing from the redhead?”

“Nope.”

“Bummer.”

“It’s Natalie’s fault.” I puff my cheeks out and sigh.

Well, it’s technically Claire’s fault, since Claire’s the one who interrupted last month’s choir concert with a prom-themed

rewrite of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Which, to be clear, would have been downright iconic under any other circumstance. But to

inflict that on Natalie? A girl who’s so allergic to being the center of attention, she tried to duck out of her own b’nai mitzvah reception ?

I’m just saying: if your best friend’s girlfriend acts like a clown, she deserves to be clowned on. Even if it means Nat gets

to give me shit about Walter in return. And if said shit-giving leads to Nat calling my crush a no-risk parasocial infatuation , I’m taking it as a challenge. End of story.

Zora blinks. “Want me to bring her back up—”

“Nope.” I angle one leg up, smoothing the tulle of my prom skirt over it like a tent. “Absolutely not.”

Listen, I have zero interest in interrupting Nat’s magical prom couples’ photo shoot with Claire “Fuckery Is My Love Language”

Zimmerman.

“Well, if you want the bathroom, now’s your moment. Group photos are in”—Zora glances at her phone—“fifteen minutes.”

I cover my face with both hands. “I can’t believe I got rejected right before prom.”

“You posted it today! Who even knows if he saw it,” Zora reminds me. “That’s not a rejection.”

“It feels like a rejection.”

I mean, I knew it was a long shot. Even though I doubt Walter lives more than ten minutes from me, and I know people who go

to his temple, and I’m pretty sure my uncle Mitch plays golf with his dad.

Because the thing is, Walter’s famous.

I don’t mean famous- famous—though he used to be. We’re talking over a million followers at the height of the Drama Clash era. Two years ago, he

and Hayden Geller were basically headlining VidCon. People have written fan fiction about them. Even now, they have multiple

dedicated subreddits. Obviously, things have been much quieter since he transitioned to his solo channel nine months ago,

but he’s still Walter Holland.

So, yeah—I knew prom was unlikely.

It’s just that daydreams never seem to care what’s likely. And brains don’t always know the difference between if-only and

maybe .

What I’m trying to say is this: There’s a prom in my head, and that prom includes Walter. Specifically, Walter staring into

my eyes on a bisexually lit dance floor. Walter driving me home hours later. Parking outside my house, leaning in, and—

“Can’t you just delete the video?” Mark asks.

Leave it to Mark. Always has to pop the bubble.

“You know what? You’re right.” I scoot forward, tapping my phone screen. “Time for a good old-fashioned dirty delete.”

“Right now?” Zora asks.

“Boom. Done. It never happened.” I stand, shoot her with finger guns, and drag myself to the bathroom.