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Listen: if there’s one game I know by heart, it’s the game of persuasion.

Not in a diabolical Claire way, of course. It’s more like the Four Sons from the Passover seder. Definitely a fucked little

premise if you read it too closely. Definitely my favorite thing in the Haggadah anyway.

It’s about these four kids. Four brothers, I guess, and the first one’s very wise and dapper and sexy. But the other three?

Clowns. There’s the wicked one, who’s just a garden-variety asshole. Then there’s the simple son—gold medal in finding the

dumbest way to ask any question. And then, of course, my most relatable king: the son who doesn’t even know how to ask a question.

He’s so totally incompetent and overwhelmed that you basically just have to pat him on the head, give him a piece of matzah,

and tell him not to worry.

Anyway, it’s all about knowing your audience and tailoring your message accordingly. That’s it. That’s the takeaway.

So let’s say you’ve talked Zora into stopping at Longford’s Ice Cream—hypothetically speaking, of course.

First of all, you’d probably need to start with a late morning Cookie Monster waffle cone.

Ice cream in its most delicious, most iconic form.

And you’ve earned every single bite of it.

Wholly and completely. You’ve survived rejection, humiliation, eight months of Calculus, et cetera.

Your eight-year-old sister, on the other hand? Has neither toiled nor suffered. Has earned nothing. Is entitled to no compensatory

damages.

And yet!

Here I am, readily able to provide such a bounty, should I so choose. I possess both the funds and access. And my depths of

knowledge, insight, and utter MILF energy are as boundless as the Wise Son before me.

It comes down to three interconnected truths:

Audrey loves Cookie Monster ice cream.

Mom loves it when I’m nice to Audrey.

And, most important: Mom’s permission is the last thing standing between me and my latest, greatest if-only.

Fast-forward an hour, and here’s where we’re at: me in Zora’s passenger seat, with no fewer than four hand-packed quarts in

my lap. Cookie Monster for Audrey and Dad, and three separate flavors of fresh fruit sorbet for Mom. Mango, coconut, and raspberry,

like an ice-cold lesbian flag. By the time Zora pulls into my driveway, my mom’s car is back.

Which means it’s go time. I’ve got my talking points planned, quarts stacked, and puppy eyes set to deploy.

Audrey rushes to the door as soon as she hears my key turn, and her eyes go straight to the quarts. “What’s that?”

I sidle past her, bumping the door shut with my hip on my way to the kitchen.

“You got ice cream?”

“Where’s Mom?”

“Upstairs. And Dad’s getting chicken cutlets,” she informs me. “He’s at Trader Joe’s. You went to Longford’s?”

“Yup.” I tug the freezer open, shoving some Eggo waffles aside to make space. Audrey leans in so close, her chin’s an inch

from the ice cube tray. I elbow her. “Go get Mom.”

She elbows back. “You get her.”

I give Audrey a good old-fashioned scowl and pull out my phone, dropping a message into my ongoing text thread with Mom. But

I don’t wait for her response; instead, I scroll down to drop an urgent request in the group chat.

Btw Nattywhompus, you’re in charge of the road trip playlist

Please, I need hours of quiet sad acoustic guitar ppl I’ve never heard of with tattoos

I give you full control

Zora hearts my texts and immediately starts typing. Did your mom say yes?

She will, I write back.

Oh oh Nattt , I add, pls include at least 5-6 Simon and Garfunkel songs

This time, it’s Mark who replies. Full control, huh

Okay but she would have included them anyway, I reply, and you know it

Because our girl has TASTE

In music, not girlfriends, I add. Fuck you Claire

“You just swore,” Audrey says sternly, reading over my shoulder. I turn away, shielding my screen with my arm.

wow , Nat writes back. But she favorites my text saying she has taste, so I’ll take it.

What’s funny is, I’m sure she thinks I’m just blowing smoke up her ass. Nope. As far as I’m concerned, Natalie’s taste in

music is god tier. Or at least dad tier. And her playlists are even better, because it’s not just the song choices. It’s the

way she stacks them together. Bedroom pop and indie tattoo people and acoustic folk from the seventies. Old and new, intertwined.

She never lets me press shuffle. But there must be some validity to that because her playlists work on me like a locker combination.

Line the songs up just right, and you’ll break me wide open.

It’s always been like that. Scroll back in time through our messages, and you’ll find years of streaming links she’s sent

me. Just about every artist I’ve ever loved was originally a Natalie recommendation.

Everyone except Simon and Garfunkel, that is. That one’s all me.

Well—me and Mark, I guess, if you count his “Cecilia” fixation.

It’s his makeout song. Like, when he pictures making out, that’s the soundtrack.

And I know he’s being serious, too, since he admitted it during a game of Truth or Dare.

An inspired choice. The very pinnacle of romance, if you ignore literally all the lyrics and the fact that Mark has never once come close to making out with anyone.

“Cecilia” was actually one of the twelve Simon and Garfunkel songs Walter covered with Hayden Geller in the early days of their channel.

Before Drama Clash even had a real following. It’s one of the only covers that went even semi-viral—pretty sure there was

a clip trending with Walter pounding out the rhythm on the body of his ukulele.

I wonder if Walter will play something at the meet and greet. “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” maybe. Obviously, the harmonies

would be tricky without Hayden. I don’t even know if Walter makes music at all without Hayden. If he does, he doesn’t post

it. And he doesn’t do skits and scripted comedy on his solo channel either—for the most part, he’s been sticking to commentary

and casual discussion videos. But honestly? I prefer Walter’s solo stuff, even though it’s way less popular than Drama Clash.

Walter Holland Speaks isn’t quite as polished, but I think the vibe works really well. Makes his content feel more grounded.

“Is Mom even coming?” asks Audrey.

I shrug, tapping back over to Walter’s Instagram. Got to make sure I haven’t missed any critical meet-and-greet updates.

Nothing since the graphic. But the post has almost two hundred comments. Which isn’t anywhere near what he and Hayden used

to get at the height of the Drama Clash era, but these days? It’s basically unprecedented.

I can’t resist scrolling through them, just a little.

He’s replied to a few of the top ones—mostly just banter with his blue-check friends, fellow YouTubers, et cetera.

But he’s replied to some regular fans, too, leaving hearts and emojis to people who say they’re coming on Saturday.

And when one girl asked if the show’s just for students, Walter said: NOOOOOO, all are welcome!

!!!! (PLEASE PLEASE COME). And then he pinned it to the top of the post, like he’s worried no one will show up otherwise. It’s actually so fucking endearing.

“Oh, she’s on the phone,” Audrey says suddenly.

I look up, just as Mom steps into the kitchen. Normally, her high heels mean she can’t sneak up on me—at least not on our

ground floor, where it’s all hardwoods.

“Okay, let me give you a call right back. Amelia just walked in.” Muffled chatter drifts through the speaker, and she shoots

me a wry half smile. “Yup!” she says. “Oh, she’s good.” And then: “I’ll tell her. Yup. Mom—”

“Hi, Bubbe!” I say.

“Okay—yup. Yup. Love you, too.” She ends the call. “Hey! Sweetie, how’s Nat?”

“Fine—”

“Amelia brought ice cream! From Longford’s. And sorbet.”

“Ooh, yummy!” Mom says.

“Four quarts,” Audrey adds darkly. “She’s up to something.”

I make a face at her. “Can’t I do something nice for my family?”

“You tell me.” She plants her hands on her hips.

Mom turns back to me, smiling. “Well, that’s very sweet of you. I love sorbet.”

Audrey stares me down until I crack.

“Okay, I did want to ask you—”

“I knew it!”

“—one tiny thing. It’s like—not even a big deal, honestly.”

“Four quarts sounds like a big deal to me,” Audrey points out.

Mom raises her eyebrows. “What’s up?”