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“So you guys have more family stuff, right?” Edith asks Tessa, as we make our way out of the bookstore. We linger near the

entrance for a minute—that dance you do when you’re not sure whether it’s goodbye.

“I mean, they’re at the hotel—probably passed out. So we’re all yours until five thirty.” She tugs Imogen’s ponytail, then

grabs her hand. “Scotty here is getting lots and lots of quality time with my family this weekend.”

Imogen shrugs. “Maybe I like quality time with your family.”

By now, it’s late afternoon, and I guess the graduation committees are done setting up—they’ve roped off most of the quad,

diverting foot traffic to the perimeter. It’s actually kind of wild remembering how quiet things were when we got here. The

grass is finally dry, which means the courtyards are a patchwork of picnic blankets. Every path on campus feels like a city

sidewalk.

I feel like I’ve stepped out of time. It’s not even my school, but it’s so easy to pretend for a minute. I sneak a glance

at Natalie, who’s peering around like a tourist. She’s barely said a word since the diner, but maybe she’s time-traveling

like I am. One foot on the quad, and one foot in the future.

“I think there’s some kind of alumni jazz performance happening,” Imogen says. “Or it’s about to happen? They have all this special programming this weekend. There’s a whole app.”

“Yeah, they have an arts and crafts station next to the scissors,” says Edith. “Like, that’s kind of cute.”

“I can think of cuter things involving scissors,” says Tessa.

In the end, we stake out a relatively shady spot outside Imogen’s dorm, settling onto the grass.

I scoot in next to Nat. “Hey, you good? You’ve been so quiet.”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” She shoots me a quick sideways smile. “I’m just—”

“Shy,” I say fondly. She nods, and I study her profile. Her hair’s down, tucked behind her ears, but there’s a little piece

askew. So, with one quick swipe, I loop it behind her ear with my fingers. “Guess what.”

She looks up at me. “What?”

“Your hair’s really pretty.”

She makes a face. “Thank you.”

“It is! It’s extra shiny. I think it’s sucking up all the sunlight.”

“Sucking, huh?”

“Yup. Sucking, soaking, absorbing. You name it.”

We smile at each other, and then we both look away, and I can’t pin down a name for this feeling. Something rosy and cloudless

and a little bit dreamy, but it has a kind of gravity, too. It’s not the high-saturation glow of “Kodachrome.” Definitely

not the sepia of “Scarborough Fair.” It’s more of a raw-footage feeling. Maybe it’s “Song for the Asking.”

I run my hands through the grass, letting the blades slide through my fingers.

Zora and Edith are sitting side by side with their legs overlapping, and it looks like Imogen’s showing something to Mark on her phone.

And Tessa’s leaning back on her elbows, head tilted back so far, her hair almost touches the grass.

It’s bobbed short, like mine is, but hers is kind of halfway pulled back.

Except she’s twisted the side strands before pinning them.

From directly behind, the parts above her ears look almost woven.

“You’re just staring at everyone’s hair today, huh?”

I turn to Nat, smiling. “Are you calling me a slutty hairsexual?”

“Noooo. No way. Never.” She glances at me sideways, eyes gleaming. “I just shouldn’t have assumed I was the only sucky-haired

girl—”

“Nattywillow, that is not what I said.” I laugh. “Your hair is emphatically not sucky. No suck. Not you, not Tessa, not...” I trail off, realizing

with dawning horror that Tessa’s fully turned around and listening. “Oh God. Sorry, I’m not—”

“No, you’re good. I love not sucking.” She nods solemnly.

I press a hand to my forehead and grin. “Okay, good. You don’t suck. No one sucks. I promise we’re—”

“We just like your hair,” Natalie blurts. Then she swipes her hands along the sides of her own hair, like she’s pinning it

back. “It’s really cute.”

Imogen looks up. “Right? I love it, too.” She beams at Tessa. “Told you.”

Tessa laughs. “Thanks. I take absolutely zero credit. It’s all Rachael—my sister,” she adds. “She has many talents. And, uh,

many opinions.”

“Also,” Imogen points out, “if you think Edith and I look alike, just wait.”

“I literally can’t imagine looking more alike than you and Edith,” Nat says.

“I think we need some photo evidence,” I say.

“You’ll meet her in a few hours!”

“Oh!” I blink. “She’s coming to the show?”

“Please. They’re all coming. Rachael, Dan, my parents. That’s why dinner’s so early.”

“That’s—so cool.” I shake my head, slightly stunned. Is this a thing? Did I just miss the memo on Walter amassing some kind

of vast, intergenerational fanbase? I don’t know, maybe he popped off on Facebook. But how far does it go?

Are there boomers? Are they shippers? Are they throwing up Hayter lore in all-caps status updates? With emojis and stock balloon

backgrounds?

As soon as we’re back at the dorm, Natalie plops down on the bed.

And then she immediately gets back up. “I have time to shower, right?”

I glance at my phone screen, adding up the time in my head. “Yeah, I don’t think we have to get there that early, right?”

“I don’t think we have to get there early at all.”

“I mean, we should probably get there a little early.”

“How early is a little early?”

“I don’t know, thirty minutes?”

“Thirty minutes?” She lets out an incredulous laugh. “What, are you worried we’ll get turned away at the door? Full house?”

“No! I don’t know.” I rub my cheek, smiling. “I just don’t know what to expect, you know? I remember people waited hours for VidCon, but that was two years ago. And it was also Hayden, so.” I flip my palms up. “No clue.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ll be fine,” she says, with a flash of a smile. She unzips her suitcase and starts rifling through it.

“I know, I know. But then you’ve got the moderator, and apparently, they’re a pretty big deal online, too. Mika something.

They’re, like, an artist?”

Nat’s eyes go wide. “Mika Hiyashi?”

“Yes! And they’re a student here. Actually, it sounds like they’re friends with Imogen and Tessa.”

“I... did not know that.”

I look up at her, beaming. “Is this you fangirling? Oh my God, are you blushing ?”

Natalie face-palms. “Nooo. God. I just like their little shoebox art, and they talk about queer stuff and Asian stuff—”

“IS MIKA YOUR WALTER?”

“Goodbye!” Natalie flings a towel over her shoulder, grabs her shower bag, and vanishes.

I think I hate my outfit.

Which, to be clear, isn’t a thought that pops up in my head all that often. It’s practically a jump scare—an invasive species

in the Amelia brain ecosystem.

Not saying I’m walking around aggressively loving all my outfits. Unless I have to be fancy, clothes just aren’t a thing I

spend a lot of time thinking about. Fancy isn’t even the issue now, though. I’m literally wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans.

But the jeans feel weirdly stiff. And there’s something awkward about the way my shirt hangs over my hips—like it’s too loose

and too tight, all at once.

I tug the hem away from my body, stretching the cotton a little.

Giving all my squishy parts some extra breathing room.

Mom hates when I do that, and not only because it warps the fabric.

She just thinks baggy clothes are unflattering.

And by that, she means they make me look bigger.

Mom’s always been a little shitty when it comes to body stuff.

More so to herself than to me, I guess. She’s usually on some kind of diet, though she hates calling it that. She’ll call

it a “health kick.” Like, if we go out to eat, she puts half her meal in a to-go box right away. And if she gets dessert,

it’s always “a light small” or “just a bite.” Never ice cream—always sorbet.

I’ll give her credit, though: she’s never tried to make me diet, even though I’m at least a size or two bigger than her. I’m

kind of tall and medium-fat, and I pretty much like my body. Or at least I don’t not like it. Mostly I just don’t think about it; I just throw my clothes on and go.

Except tonight, apparently.

Maybe I could roll up my jeans a little. Cuff the hems. I could probably add a cardigan, too. Also, the fact that I’m dedicating

brain cells to this is actually so fucking depressing. As if that’s how I make Walter Holland like me. That’s the make-or-break

detail. A cardigan.

And that’s not even touching the question of why I want him to like me.

It’s not like I have an actual crush on him, though. Not a real crush. Maybe I have a crush on the possibility of Walter—because, at the end of the day, I barely even know him.

Though sometimes it feels like I do. All the hours I’ve spent with his thoughts over the years. Watching his face, hearing his voice. At some point, does it ever add up to something real? Does it ever count?

I’m just so antsy right now. But it’s still almost two hours until showtime.

I could add a bracelet or something.

I should probably brush my teeth again, too. Maybe wash my face.

I lock the door when I leave, even though it feels kind of silly. Pretty sure there’s only one other occupied room on this

hall. Highly doubt anyone’s hiding in the shadows, waiting for me to go pee so they can swoop in and steal our crooked plush

rat dog. But then again: Nat’s guitar.

Nat’s shower’s still running when I reach the bathroom, but the mirrors by the sinks aren’t too foggy. I settle in, draping

Imogen’s keys around a soap dispenser and dumping my toiletries on one of the shelves. I didn’t even bring a real toiletry

bag; I just shoved a few things in a Ziploc and called it a day.

Maybe I could use a reset, you know?

I brush my teeth, and that helps a little.

Water’s still running. I sneak a quick glance back at the showers, and then—

I turn back to the mirror. Tug out my hairband. Shake my hair loose and run a hand through, top to bottom. It really is the

same length as Tessa’s, almost exactly.

I lean in, separating out a strand from the front—just above my left ear. Then I twist it between my fingers and pull it back,

holding it in place with the heel of my hand. It looks—

I turn my head sideways.

Maybe if I loosened the twist, just a little?

Okay, that’s definitely not it. Not the vibe. Am I even supposed to twist it? Should I braid it?

“Whatcha working on?” Nat asks, and I almost jump out of my skin.

She meets my eyes in the mirror and grins.

“You—” My hand falls to my side. Heart’s in my throat. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“Wow. You must have been focusing really hard.”

She smells like citrus soap, and her glasses are off. Cheeks still flushed from the heat of the shower. She left her hair

dry, but she’s knotted it back off her face, and she looks—

Also, she’s wearing a towel.

“Anyway, take your time! I’ll go get dressed.” She leans forward, holding her towel in place with one hand, and plucks Imogen’s

keys off the soap dispenser. Then she shoots me one last insufferable gleam of a smile in the mirror. “You know, if you want,

we could see if Tessa’s sister—”

“Oh my God, shut up .” I’m bright red and laughing, burying my face in my hands.