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Here’s the thing: sometimes, in my head, I’m a million years old. At least thirty-five. Mother of two with a mortgage. A MILF,

no doubt, but still.

And then there’s moments like now.

I feel like I’m twelve. Not a single day older.

Nat and Zora are both looking at me. Even Nat’s naked-ass mole rat plushie is looking at me. And Mark’s here now, too, in

the doorway. The words holy fuck really do work like a summoning spell when you say them earnestly enough.

Somehow, I’ve crossed the room. Somehow, I’m perched on the edge of Natalie’s bed.

“Hey. You good?” Nat asks, finally.

“Yeah, of course!”

Which prompts Mark and Natalie to make this particular face they’ve always made, where they tilt their faces down, peering

up over the rims of their glasses. Weirdo twin synchronicity at its finest.

The heel of my hand finds my collarbone. Like it’s trying to tamp down the flutters.

The problem with me is: when I want things, I want them so, so badly.

“Walter Holland’s doing a meet and greet. In person .”

“Good for him,” Natalie says, yawning.

Already, my brain’s scrambling for the best way to spin it. Technically speaking, I’m the only true Walter Holland fan among

us. I’ve taught everyone the basic Drama Clash lore over the years, and I’ve bullied them into watching a few of his videos.

But they’ve never quite grasped Walter’s particular charm. I mean, Zora doesn’t really do parasocial relationships in general,

apart from Mae Jemison. And the twins, for the most part, seem to find my devotion to Walter amusing. “Like, he’s just some

guy .”

That was Nat’s reaction when I made her watch Walter’s video about the metric system.

“He’s relatable!”

“Because he doesn’t know how long a kilometer is? That’s literally every dumb American.”

“Exactly. Voice of a generation,” I’d said.

That’s the thing with Walter, though—or even Drama Clash in general. It’s hard to really understand their vibe without watching

their content. Once I saw a listicle describe Drama Clash’s humor as “charmingly goofy,” and I think that’s pretty spot-on.

But it’s a mellow brand of goofiness—nothing too unhinged. Basically, they’re every single boy I’ve ever known from Hebrew

school.

Which isn’t to say they’re indistinguishable, or even alike. They’ve always belonged to two entirely separate breeds of nerd.

You have Walter, with his freckles and red hair and twitchy earnestness. But then there’s wry, self-deprecating Hayden with

his million-dollar facial expressions. And together? They’re irresistible. You can’t manufacture chemistry like that. I’m

a Walter girl through and through, and even I get that.

I don’t know, there’s just something about Walter Holland.

Or maybe it’s the way I feel when I watch his content.

I’ve never been the type to fall in love with musicians or actors.

But it’s like I’m drawn to his face, to his laugh, to the sound of his voice.

It’s just this unshakable feeling that our brains speak the same language.

I turn back to my phone, expanding the graphic to show Zora. “Okay, what if I told you the event is this Saturday? And it’s

driving distance.”

Zora looks at me. “Isn’t Walter from Scarsdale?”

“Yeah, but what am I gonna do—show up at his house? This is an actual event! So, you know, it wouldn’t be weird.”

“Mmm.”

“Minimally weird. Parasocially acceptable. Better than a prom invite,” I add, and even Mark cracks a smile. Which means I’m

getting somewhere. Maybe.

Better whip out the biggest of the big guns. The unstoppable ace up my sleeve.

“But I know what you’re wondering.”

“We’re not,” Mark replies.

“Markerino, you most certainly are. Look at you. Sitting there with bated breath, waiting—just waiting —for the location reveal.” I make a big show of zooming in on the map. “Ahem. Geneva, New York. Blackwell College, fourth

floor of the student center. Right on campus. Wait!” I look up, straight at Zora. “Blackwell College? You mean... the future

school of one Edith Scott? The one that’s ten minutes from her house?”

Zora opens her mouth and then shuts it. “Technically more like twenty.”

“HER HOUSE, WHERE YOU’LL LITERALLY BE STAYING THAT NIGHT!”

“Where are you going with this?” Natalie asks.

“You know exactly where I’m going with this.” I elbow her. “Come on . It’s a mega long weekend. You’re coming fresh off a very shitty, yet deeply necessary breakup. Obviously, you’re desperate

for distraction—”

“Desperate?”

“Not desperate in a desperate way,” I say quickly. “I’m just saying, if there’s anyone who deserves a road trip right now,

it’s you. And then—whoa! What? Our favorite YouTuber announces a meet and greet?”

“Playing fast and loose with the word our , I see.”

“Like, what are the odds? His first public event since Drama Clash ended—dropping at the perfect time, I might add—and where

does he choose to go?” I turn to Zora. “Your girlfriend’s literal fucking doorstep .”

“That’s not what ‘literal’ means,” Mark says.

“You guys, fate is screaming at us!” I press a palm to my cheek. “We don’t even need to find a ride. Zora’s already going there .”

“Okay, but not right away. First, I’ve got Aunt Jojo’s house.”

“Zoroura Borealis, you think that’s a deterrent?”

As if I’m not obsessed with Aunt Jojo. As if not being obsessed with Aunt Jojo were even humanly possible. Jojo’s like a parent, if parents were young and cool and artsy.

She’s Zora’s mom’s baby sister—just turned thirty, so it’s an even bigger sibling age gap than Audrey and me. Except Audrey’s

basically a tiny version of Mom, which is pretty far afield from Future Cool Aunt territory.

Jojo’s the original cool aunt, though. She codes websites, but she’s also an artist—mostly pottery. And she has a camper, so she travels a lot. She’s childfree and single. And according to Zora, her house is so close to the beach, you can see Oneida Lake from her living room.

“The point is, as long as we’re on campus by Saturday at eight p.m., we can spend tomorrow night on the moon .” I clasp my hands. “Also, weren’t you just talking about how Edith wants to meet us? Like, for real , for real.”

Zora smiles a little. “She does.”

“Okay? So let’s do this! I mean, at the very least, think about poor Natalie!”

“Poor, poor Natalie,” says Natalie.

I hook an arm around her shoulders, turning back to Zora. “She needs this. It’s the perfect distraction. Quality time with

the besties, taking in a little performance art—”

“Performance art?” The distance between Mark’s eyebrows and the rim of his glasses is, quite frankly, unprecedented. “It’s

a meet and greet with a kid from Scarsdale—”

“What? Open your mind, Groucho. It’s art! You’re just biased.”

Mark chokes back a laugh. “I’m biased? You’re the one parasocially infatuated with the guy.”

“I’m not parasocially infatuated!”

“Didn’t you just ask him to prom—”

“Platonically!”

“How is he your friend if you’ve never even spoken to him?”

“We’ve interacted, though. He literally replied to my comment once—”

“He did what ?” Natalie gasps.

“He did! Back in, like, September—”

“Why didn’t you tell me he replied to you on September sixteenth at 8:49 p.m. eastern time?”

“Okay, I—”

“And!” She points. “You could have at least considered screenshotting the notification and sending it to me no fewer than eight times over the course of—”

“Zip it.” I cover her mouth with my palm, turning to Zora.

Because here’s the thing: Natalie’s poker-faced sarcasm doesn’t matter. And neither does Mark’s unstoppable grumpiness. The

twins simply have no authority in this jurisdiction.

At the end of the day, only one of us owns a car.

And said person is currently looking at me with pursed lips and an almost-imperceptible brow furrow. Classic Zora face. It’s

hard to capture every nuance of its meaning, but it’s probably something like this: Amelia, your absolutely indestructible points have moved me beyond all comprehension, and I stand here in full and emphatic agreement.

At least, I’m pretty sure that’s where she’ll end up. You really have to hand it to the introverts, though. Mature decision-making

for me means taking half a breath before the caveman instincts take over. Meanwhile, Zora’s workshopping a full range of relevant

hypotheticals before she even opens her mouth.

“I mean, as long as you can be ready by eight in the morning tomorrow,” she says, nodding slowly.

“Really?” I clap a hand to my face. “Oh my God, you won’t regret it. For real—we’re gonna find our own place to sleep, okay?

We won’t ruin your Edith time, I promise. We’ll stay completely out of your hair.”

Zora laughs. “I thought you wanted to meet her in person.”

“I do ! I just mean, like.” I waggle my eyebrows. “I’m not going to let these meddling twins bust in when you’re trying to make

out—”

“Okay!” Zora cuts in, eyes going wide. “Let me text Aunt Jojo. And, uh—you guys might want to ask your parents?”

“Absolutely. But.” I point at her. “Can we make a pit stop?”