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“You just couldn’t wait, could you?” Mom swipes past photo after photo. We’re parked, but she’s still in her seat belt. “That’s

really what you wanted for prom? For your pictures?”

“Yeah? I don’t know. It’s just hair.” I finger the ends, tilting them up so they tickle my cheek. It’s just shy of shoulder-length,

really—only a few inches shorter than before. Biggest difference is the front pieces won’t stay in my ponytail. But that’s

fine. You be free, front pieces.

“Well.” She exhales. “Thank God for Jenny. Okay, let’s go. Move your tuchis.”

I unbuckle, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. It’s not even nine in the morning; downright criminal, considering

it’s a supersized holiday weekend. The district even tacked on two unused snow days on the front end. Genius move, all things

considered—built-in prom recovery week.

Which is precisely what I should be doing. In an alternate universe, I’m still sleeping. Nothing on the gay agenda but the

second annual prom postmortem with the twins and Zora, traditionally conducted over ice cream.

Instead, it’s the obligatory Emergency Damage Control haircut, because Mom is Mom is Mom.

We check in at the front, and she proceeds to give the receptionist a full, detailed account of my hair’s former glory, including references to specific compliments from strangers and a fairly lengthy commentary on its genetic lineage.

When Jenny pops out to escort me to the sinks, Mom swoops in right behind me. No unsupervised haircuts until I’m forty now,

probably. But the joke’s on her, because Jenny—an actual haircut professional—deems my work “not that bad, honestly.” In the

end, it only takes about thirty minutes to even things out.

I scoop it back to half-ponytail mode as soon as we leave. “Happy?”

“Sure.” Mom rolls her eyes—but it’s clear the storm clouds have lifted.

“Okay, I need a ride to the twins’ house,” I say, once the car’s in reverse. “It’s an emergency.”

“An emergency! Wow.”

“Uh, yeah. Claire dumped Nat. Again. At prom .”

“Did she really? What a shame.”

Full-body scoff. My gaze flicks to the ceiling.

“Right! Not a shame. We don’t like Claire. Thumbs down for Claire.”

“Yes!” I clap my hands together. “Exactly.”

“So the breakup’s a good thing?”

“Very.”

“And an emergency.”

“Absolute catastrophe.”

“Okay?” Mom shoots me a puzzled glance.

I scoot forward in my seat, straining against the strap of my seat belt. “Because Claire’s not really gone . She’s a Whac-A-Mole. She keeps coming back.”

“And we want to bonk her on the head!” Mom does a little punch on the side of the steering wheel.

“That too. God I want to bonk her.”

Mom’s brow furrows.

“Bonk!” I add, quickly. “On the head. Not boink. Jesus Christ—”

“Sweetie, we’re Jewish.” Mom pulls to a stop at a light.

“So was he!” I lean back. “Just hurry, okay? Please? Claire’s probably already there.”

“Doing what?”

“Being a menace! Sweeping back in with a mid-tier grand gesture like she does every freaking time . This girl thinks she’s the third act of a romantic comedy, I swear to God.”

“Well, you tell Nat to say, ‘No way! Game over!’”

“Yeah, but Claire’s diabolical. She’s like a master of persuasion. Nat needs a 24/7 bodyguard just so Claire can’t try this

sh—”

Mom raises her eyebrows.

“—crap. Maybe I should camp out there all weekend. Set up the Home Alone traps.” I point at Mom. “ Happy Memorial Day, ya filthy animal. ”

It’s actually not the worst idea I’ve ever had. Maybe we’ll skip the violent booby traps, but a little extra Nat supervision

wouldn’t hurt. Puts me on hand for all necessary post-breakup distraction and fuckery fighting. Mark tries, bless him, and

he’s an excellent brother, but Claire Zimmerman requires a degree of cunning that no straight boy can deliver. He needs backup.

And Zora’s there now, sure. But Zora leaves town first thing tomorrow to visit Edith, her girlfriend. So, what then?

Standing loud and proud in the twins’ driveway: Zora’s gently used gray Honda Civic. No green Subaru. No Claire. Thank God.

“All right—heading into the office for a bit, but Dad and Audrey are home if you need anything. Don’t do anything violent to Natalie’s girlfriend.”

“ Ex- girlfriend.” I glance at her slyly. “And let’s keep it that way.”

“Okay, please—”

“Bye, Mom.” I wave her off. But of course, she stays parked in the driveway until I’m fully inside.

Natalie’s strumming her guitar; it’s the first thing I hear when I cross the threshold. Not an actual song, though. Just the

same two chords on repeat, since she’s been really focused on chord transitions lately. Also, she’s trying to be more “intentional

about fingering,” a phrase she will never, ever live down in my lifetime.

I take my shoes off, like I always do at the twins’ house. The twins take theirs off everywhere—their dad’s Chinese, and he’s

pretty strict about that.

Another sequence of chords. I follow the sound upstairs, to her bedroom. Zora’s sitting at Natalie’s desk, and Nat’s sitting

in a nest of pillows on her bed, fully wrapped in her own comforter. She looks up, smiling, when she sees me, which throws

me a little. Unfortunately, she and Mark both have the kind of dimples that could get you out of a jail sentence.

“Do we get to see the haircut?” asks Zora.

“Oh—I mean, it’s, like, the same.” I shrug, pulling it out of the half-ponytail. Natalie and Zora exchange glances.

“ Much better,” Nat says.

“Okay, why are you so cheery?” I look from her to Zora, narrowing my eyes. “Was Claire here?”

“What? No—”

My phone buzzes loudly against my hip, through the canvas of my crossbody bag. Fun fact about me: I have zero impulse control when it comes to incoming texts. None. Not a shred. Except—

Turns out, it’s not a text.

It’s a notification: a brand-new Walter Holland post.

What’s wild is how fast my brain shifted last night. I’d been so fixated on the promposal video—what Walter would say, whether

he even saw it, whether I should quit the internet and move to Antarctica, and/or launch myself into another galaxy. It was

all I could think about.

Until Claire dumped Natalie.

What can I say? Flip me into Protective Best Friend Mode, and it’s over.

At least, it was over.

Walter’s posted a graphic. To his own Instagram grid, I mean. Obviously not a response to my video. It’s just a few lines

of text and a selfie. But he looks so cute and bashful, and the text is just so Walter —playful and weird and a little self-deprecating.

Announcing: MY FIRST SOLO TOUR!!! (ONE city!!!) (Worldwide!!!) (Stadium seating, probably!!!!!)

WORLD TOUR?? ME???

At first, I don’t even notice the inset in the corner—a New York state map, with one town circled in red.

But then—

My mouth falls open. “Holy. Fuck.”