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Cause of death: murdered by sunbeams. Time of death: ass-o-clock in the morning. I don’t know whose Aunt Jojo needs to hear

this, but window blinds exist.

I force myself to sit up, staring dazedly out at the lake. God knows if I slept last night. Pretty sure my brain’s on low-battery

mode.

But even I have to admit it: Oneida Lake at sunrise is a full-on masterpiece. Wisps of pink and orange clouds over a distant

tree line, perfectly mirrored in the glassy, still water; scored by birdsong. Nature at its least subtle. It’s the type of

beauty that punches you straight in the face.

I grab my phone from the table to snap a photo—except, it turns out, my brain’s not the only one with a battery problem. I

stare uselessly at my reflection in the blank dark glass of my screen. I know my charger’s in my bag, and my bag’s right by

my feet. But then I’d have to find a wall outlet, too, which requires standing and moving and being a relatively functioning

human.

I lean back into the cushions, staring, trancelike, at the ceiling. Every bird chirp feels like a radio dispatch from a million

miles away.

But then a door creaks.

A moment later, Zora tiptoes out of her bedroom in jeans and the hoodie Edith gave her for Christmas—eggplant purple, with the words Blackwell College in white on its chest. If I’m remembering right, Edith’s older sister just finished her first year there. And, of course,

Edith starts as a freshman this fall. Which kind of sucks, in the sense that Zora will be at East Seneca with me. But at least

Blackwell’s only an hour or so from Ithaca. Compared to now, that’s barely even long-distance. Moderate distance, maybe.

“Morning!” I whisper to Zora, popping my head over the back of the couch.

Zora practically jumps. “Did I wake you up?”

“Totally not. It was my big buddy up there.” I gesture out the window. “Sunny Sundalia McShine.”

“You nicknamed the sun.”

“Yeah, we keep it casual here.” I rub my eyes. “What time is it?”

Zora peeks at her wrist. “Six thirty.”

“Cool, cool. Okay, hypothetical question: is six thirty too early for a nap?”

“Did this hypothetical person get any sleep last night? At all?” She eyes my tangle of blankets on the couch, looking stricken.

“Millie, there’s a futon! Remember?”

“Oh, I know. I’m just lazy.” I yawn. “Are you going somewhere?”

She points to the beach. “Just a walk.”

“Wait, I want to come! Can I come?”

“Yeah, of course. If you want.” She smiles a little. “No nap?”

I scoot off the couch, throwing down a firm pair of finger guns. “Never been tired in my life.”

I slip out of my sneakers as soon as we hit sand. Me in my romantic protagonist era. That’s right, hotties. I’m Amelia Hart

Applebaum, she/her, and I like candlelit dinners and long walks on—

Seaweed. And nine zillion broken shells.

“Not that kind of beach,” Zora says, watching me tug my sneakers back on.

“Well, it’s still pretty.” I retie my laces and stand, facing the lake. There are lots of houses and wooden docks, but it

looks like no one’s really awake yet. It’s quiet in a way I’m not used to: trilling birds, rustling trees, and water faintly

lapping against the shore. I stop to grab a smoothed-out piece of glass, before sidling up to Zora. “All right, question.

And be totally honest.”

“Okay.” She bites her lip.

“Nothing crazy! Just need, like, a gut check.” I rub my forehead. “Do I shit on Claire too much?”

“Claire, like Natalie’s Claire?”

“Eww! Not anymore!” I say, nose already scrunching—but then I catch myself. “Yeah, no—I don’t believe that designation is

currently accurate.”

“So, the Claire formerly known as Natalie’s Claire,” Zora corrects, lips tugging up at the corners.

“Yes.”

“And you’re asking me if I’ve heard you shit on her?”

“Oh—I mean, I shit on her, yeah. But is it a proportionate amount of shitting, in the context of her crimes?”

As soon as Zora opens her mouth to reply, a bunch of ducks start losing their ever-loving minds. Angry squawks, flapping wings,

general quackery, et cetera. It’s unhinged to a degree that’s actually kind of impressive. I shake my head. “Are they calling

us out? Are we getting canceled for quackbaiting?”

Zora visibly relaxes. “Better start drafting an apology.”

“Yes!” I reach into my pocket, but of course I come up empty. “Wait, I need your Notes app!”

“Oh, we’re committing to this bit?” She passes me her phone.

I start typing. “Dear fucks—whoa, easy there, autocorrect.”

“I don’t think that’s how autocorrect works—”

“Okay, how’s this?” I narrate as I type.

“ Dear ducks: we deeply apologize for our fowl behavior. ” Zora rolls her eyes, smiling.

“ We ducked up. But we’re so grateful for those of you who took the time to share your feedquack .

Moving forward, we’re fully committed to meeting our web-footed friends with kindness. For a duck may be somebody’s MILF. ”

For a moment, Zora just stares. “Amelia. Your mind .”

“Why, thank you!” I hand her phone back.

“So what’s the deal with Claire?” Zora asks, as we turn back toward home. “Did Nat say something?”

“No! I mean, kind of? I don’t know.” I make a face. “Did you know Claire texted her yesterday? Already trying to reel her

back in. You can’t trust her!”

Zora nods slowly. “Right—”

“Claire, I mean! I trust Natalie . Obviously.”

“So you think Claire’s in it for some kind of revenge?”

“I don’t know!”

“Revenge for what, though?” she asks.

“Right? Natalie didn’t even do anything!”

“No, I get that.” A breeze hits, and Zora rubs her arms in her sleeves. “I’m just not sure I’m following the logic here. What,

exactly, do we think Claire’s up to? Like what’s her endgame?”

“Getting Natalie back,” I say.

“And that would be bad for Natalie?”

“Extremely,” I say. “Per the evidence. Yes.”

“Evidence! Wow.”

“Okay, we both know Natalie’s happier when they’re not dating.”

“I mean, who knows?” Zora shrugs. “Clearly, they keep getting back together for a reason.”

“That’s what I’m saying, though—Claire’s manipulation is the reason!”

Zora looks at me, lips pursed.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“It’s just—do you really think that?” she asks.

I tilt my head back and groan. “How do you not think that?”

“I mean, Claire’s kind of intense. And she’s impulsive.” Zora tucks her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie. “I don’t know.

She’s not that bad. She’s nice.”

“Fake nice,” I mutter.

“Maybe? I guess it’s just like—it’s Natalie’s life, you know? I don’t think it’s entirely our business.”

“But Claire makes it our business! She literally dumped Natalie at prom because she felt threatened by us!”

“Us?” Zora asks, lips settling into something just shy of a smile.