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To my credit, I manage to wait until I’m back at the dorm before fully losing my shit.

“Oh, thank God, you’re awake. Because this?” I exhale. “Is fucking wild . Nat, I’m. Just.” Complete discombobulation. I’m bubbling over. Brain’s unzipping. “I think Walter’s our friend now?” I plop

down onto my bed, grinning dazedly. “Wow.”

“Wow,” Nat repeats. She sets her phone on the bedspread and yawns.

“Natalorica, he wants to hang out! Like in real life! He was like, bro, let’s get together when we’re back home and everything .”

She tucks one leg up on the bed, raising her eyebrows. “He called you bro ?”

“It was implied.” I tilt my head back. “Can you believe this? Is this real?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty...” She trails off, smiling flatly.

I smile at her. “ What? ”

“Nothing. I’m happy for you.”

“No, what were you about to say?”

She flicks her gaze upward, just for a second. “I don’t know. I’m just not getting bro vibes, is all.”

“Okay?” I laugh shortly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you clearly don’t see him as a bro.” She tilts her palms up. “So maybe stop being coy about it? It’s—like, it’s insulting.”

“I... what?”

She sighs. “You know, it’s—”

“I wasn’t trying to be coy. Like—I’m not.” I shake my head, chest tightening. “I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“I know.” She shuts her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“You don’t have to be sorry!”

She scoots back, leaning against the wall with her legs stretched straight out. Just the way I found her at prom. And then

we just sit there, for a minute, not quite facing each other.

“I’m not sure what I did,” I say slowly. “Are you mad about tonight?”

“Why would I be mad about tonight?”

“I don’t know! Because you hate Walter and didn’t want to hang out with him?”

She presses a hand to her cheek. “I don’t hate Walter.”

“Well, you’re doing a great imitation of hating him.”

“Why, because I’m not in love with him?”

“Oh my God, Natalie.” I lean back on my hands. “Like, what ? Did he do something, or say something—”

“He didn’t do anything.”

“Or even—”

“He’s fine, okay? He’s great!”

I press a hand to my forehead. “So you just randomly dislike Walter for no reason?”

Natalie lets out an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious—”

“So, let’s get this straight. Me disliking your YouTube boyfriend is so unacceptable—”

“I never said you had to—”

“And, again, I don’t dislike him,” she continues. “He’s fine . I’m just saying, if I did, you’d have some kind of problem with that. But you’re allowed to shit all over Claire for literal

years?”

“I’m sorry, what? What does Claire have to do with this?”

“Amelia, you can’t even say her name without rolling your eyes!” She shakes her head. “Like, do you not see the hypocrisy

here? It’s this whole fucking trip—why am I even here? Oh, right, it’s because Amelia thinks she’s some kind of schemelord—”

“What the fuck is a schemelord ?”

“What do you think? Whisking me out of town to, what, keep me away from Claire? That’s, like, Shakespearean-level scheming!”

“Oh my God, it’s a road trip!” I feel almost lightheaded. “Also, hey! I don’t know if you noticed, but Claire fucking sucks!”

“Why? Why does she suck?” Nat shakes her head, blinking fast behind her glasses. “Because she dumped me?”

“At prom! And on the choir trip! And during Chanukah! Over text—”

“A year and a half ago. And you hated her before any of that happened!” Natalie’s eyes flash. “And what was Megan’s crime—winning

the science fair?”

“She didn’t even win! She got first prize!”

Natalie looks bewildered. “What?”

“Grand prize outranks first prize! Zora won the fucking science fair—she’s just too polite to say it!”

“Oh my God, I don’t care who won the sixth-grade science fair!” She stands, yanking her suitcase closer. “Like. Are you seriously that stubborn, or are you just completely incapable of self-reflection?”

My eyes won’t stop prickling. “What? Like—I don’t understand.” My voice cracks. “You’re mad because—what? You want to hate

Walter, and you don’t?”

“No.” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “This is so stupid. Can we just—reset? I’m sorry, okay?”

“Me too.”

“Okay, cool.” Nat nods stiffly, picking up her toiletry bag and draping her towel over her shoulder. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Okay.”

I stare at the door after she shuts it, feeling completely unglued.

That tiny, stiff nod when she left. And the way her voice shook, just barely. Are you seriously that stubborn, or are you just completely incapable of self-reflection?

It’s like trying to do math in a dream. Claire plus Megan divided by Walter equals my voice isn’t working and also I’m at

school with no pants.

How am I supposed to keep my thoughts in straight lines when she’s mad at me?

I lean all the way back to stargazing position, except instead of stars, it’s ceiling tiles. No spots of light, and no space

for wishing. Thirty minutes ago, I was practically bubbling over. Is that feeling just... gone?

Can I keep the mental transcription, at least?

I reach for my phone, pulling up the photos Nat sent me from the meet and greet. Not my best angle, and definitely not the best lighting, but they’re fine. No one’s blinking. We all look happy. Even Natalie—right?

Then again, Walter and Hayden always looked happy in photos, too.

My chest twists so sharply, I have to shut my eyes for a second.

The thing Walter said in his coming-out video. You don’t actually remember feelings—you remember their echoes.

I think that might be the problem. It’s never just an echo with Nat.

The door creaks back open.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” My stomach’s already in knots, but it certainly doesn’t help that there’s a towel involved. Doesn’t help that her cheeks

are flushed pink from the heat.

I pin my gaze to the wooden door behind her. It’s not that I don’t want to see her expression. I just can’t bear to look at

her face long enough to read it.

I sit up and reach for my bag. “I should shower, too.”

I put my pajamas on right in the stall when I’m done. Then I spend a little time messing with my hair. Wiping my face. I’m

kind of waiting for my chest to unclench.

But drawing this out doesn’t seem to be helping.

I step into the wide, empty hallway. I can’t imagine we’re the only ones staying here. Maybe we’re just the only ones still

awake.

We’re the only door on this hall that still has light behind it.

Music, too.

It’s so easy to picture her—cross-legged on the bed, with her back to the wall. Guitar pressed tight to her chest, with strands of damp hair grazing its wooden top edge.

Three notes in, and I can already place the song.

El Condor Pasa.

I’ve only ever heard it with Paul Simon’s lyrics, but the melody came first. And he didn’t write it. It’s a Peruvian song,

and it’s over a hundred years old.

It’s pluperfect. A memory of a memory of a memory. It’s a croissant.

I stop short, pressing my palm to my chest.

Nat isn’t singing; just strumming—but my mind pins the words to each chord. I always do that. I know she’s doing it, too.

If I only could.

Has this song always been about wishes?

My eyes are wet. I never cry. Almost never.

I lean against the wall for a second, trailing my fingers along the cracks between cinder blocks.

She’s right there. Inches away. I turn around to face the wall, pressing both palms flat against it. I can tell from the sound:

I’m standing right where she’s sitting.