Dedication

For Teddy and Willow, to whom I am famous

Part One

Wednesday, May 24

Larchmont, NY

One

All things considered, I’ve been minimally unhinged about the situation. In fact, I’m fully hinged. For example, I haven’t even checked my notifications for precisely forty-five seconds. World record, round of applause, gold medal, et cetera.

“All yours, Amelia Bedelia,” says Zora. She steps out of the bathroom in her suit and white socks and hardly any makeup. Just a hint of blush against the brown of her cheeks.

I drop my phone, facedown. Mash that screen right into Natalie’s blue floral comforter.

Zora studies my face. “Hey—you good?”

“Great! Good. You look dressed. Sorry, you look great. And you’re dressed.”

“Um. Thank you?”

“And I’m good!”

She nods slowly. “Still nothing from Walter?”

“Nope! Because Walter”—I do a quick drumroll—“thinks I’m a creep.”

“Bet he didn’t even see the post.” Zora crosses the room, scooting onto the bed beside me. “And if he did, he probably thinks it’s cute. I’d think it was cute!”

“But would a boy think it was cute?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Mark, get in here!”

Ten footsteps later, he’s in Natalie’s doorway. Wearing a tux. Well, mostly. Vest isn’t buttoned, and his tie’s draped loosely over his shoulders, but still.

I sit up straight. “Well, hello there, Hot Mark.”

His eyes narrow. “Why are you being weird?”

“See,” I say, “boys think I’m weird.”

“Can confirm.” His gaze lands on my phone. “Nothing from the redhead?”

“Nope.”

“Bummer.”

“It’s Natalie’s fault.” I puff my cheeks out and sigh.

Well, it’s technically Claire’s fault, since Claire’s the one who interrupted last month’s choir concert with a prom-themed rewrite of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Which, to be clear, would have been downright iconic under any other circumstance. But to inflict that on Natalie? A girl who’s so allergic to being the center of attention, she tried to duck out of her own b’nai mitzvah reception?

I’m just saying: if your best friend’s girlfriend acts like a clown, she deserves to be clowned on. Even if it means Nat gets to give me shit about Walter in return. And if said shit-giving leads to Nat calling my crush a no-risk parasocial infatuation, I’m taking it as a challenge. End of story.

Zora blinks. “Want me to bring her back up—”

“Nope.” I angle one leg up, smoothing the tulle of my prom skirt over it like a tent. “Absolutely not.”

Listen, I have zero interest in interrupting Nat’s magical prom couples’ photo shoot with Claire “Fuckery Is My Love Language” Zimmerman.

“Well, if you want the bathroom, now’s your moment. Group photos are in”—Zora glances at her phone—“fifteen minutes.”

I cover my face with both hands. “I can’t believe I got rejected right before prom.”

“You posted it today! Who even knows if he saw it,” Zora reminds me. “That’s not a rejection.”

“It feels like a rejection.”

I mean, I knew it was a long shot. Even though I doubt Walter lives more than ten minutes from me, and I know people who go to his temple, and I’m pretty sure my uncle Mitch plays golf with his dad.

Because the thing is, Walter’s famous.

I don’t mean famous-famous—though he used to be. We’re talking over a million followers at the height of the Drama Clash era. Two years ago, he and Hayden Geller were basically headlining VidCon. People have written fan fiction about them. Even now, they have multiple dedicated subreddits. Obviously, things have been much quieter since he transitioned to his solo channel nine months ago, but he’s still Walter Holland.

So, yeah—I knew prom was unlikely.

It’s just that daydreams never seem to care what’s likely. And brains don’t always know the difference between if-only and maybe.

What I’m trying to say is this: There’s a prom in my head, and that prom includes Walter. Specifically, Walter staring into my eyes on a bisexually lit dance floor. Walter driving me home hours later. Parking outside my house, leaning in, and—

“Can’t you just delete the video?” Mark asks.

Leave it to Mark. Always has to pop the bubble.

“You know what? You’re right.” I scoot forward, tapping my phone screen. “Time for a good old-fashioned dirty delete.”

“Right now?” Zora asks.

“Boom. Done. It never happened.” I stand, shoot her with finger guns, and drag myself to the bathroom.

Two

It’s really my hair that’s the problem. Seven bobby pins and counting, and it’s still not right.

It’s hard to explain. Technically, I look just like I always do. Same face, same eyebrows, same freckles. Same Jew hair—thick and wavy, way past my shoulders. The color’s the only thing that throws people; always some gentile who doesn’t know Jews come in blond.

I lean closer, gripping the edge of the twins’ bathroom counter. Ninety-nine percent sure that’s still yesterday’s head on my neck.

But I feel so itchy in my skin when I have to be fancy. Or even somewhat fancy, since according to Mom, I’m, quote-unquote, “dancing right up to the line.” But after weeks of negotiations, the treaty’s been signed, sealed, and delivered. Mom gets tea-length tulle and a solid color on top; I get sneakers. For the dance and the pictures, even though you only get one senior prom, Amelia, and don’t you want it to be special? Apparently, thirty years from now, my life’s big regret will be prom footwear.

Mom just cares a little too much about this stuff. Always has, always will. My dad says it’s because I’m graduating soon, so she’s scrambling for some semblance of control. But I swear it runs deeper than that. This is a woman who got the flu last year and proceeded to text me a full-page getting-ready-for-school morning checklist from her sickbed. She reads all my assigned English class books and then lends them to Bubbe, so we can have our monthly multigenerational Bagel Book Brunch. And you’d better believe my phone’s location tracker stays on; it’s the only reason I’m even allowed to have a phone. I like to think she’ll loosen the reins when college starts. Or this summer, maybe, since I’ll be entering my working woman era. In the form of scooping ice cream at Longford’s.

Something I was definitely only hired for because Mom knows the owners.

There’s a tiny rap on the door. “You about ready?” asks Zora.

“Almost! Sorry.” I scrunch up my nose in the mirror. “You guys can head down! I’m right behind you.”

I slip the pins out of my hair, shaking it loose. Maybe Google can fix this. How to not look like Alice in Wonderland.

Ten minutes left until group pictures. Not even.

Claire insisted on coming over early for couples’ shots with Natalie—and by that, I mean a full-on themed photo shoot at the woodsy edge of Nat and Mark’s backyard. Just a pair of sparkling prom lesbians prancing around the enchanted forests of suburban New York. You’ve got to hand it to her—no one painstakingly cosplays Spontaneous Carefree Authenticity quite like Claire Zimmerman. All you need to know about Claire is that she’s a natural-born theater kid who refuses to do theater. Full-throttle drama with no proper outlet.

It isn’t just that she’s annoying. I can deal with annoying. But she’s a shitty girlfriend to Natalie. They met in tenth-grade chorus class, and since then, it’s been a pretty steady cycle of tearful soliloquies, impulsive breakups, and apologetic grand gestures. Suffice it to say, she’s a nightmare and a half.

And she’ll be in every single one of my prom pictures. Just how I always imagined it, right? Me, my three best friends since literal kindergarten, and Nat’s on-again-off-again histrionic mess of a girlfriend.

Five more minutes.

I flip my phone upside down. Though it’s not the ticking clock that’s wringing my brain out. It’s the radio silence from Walter. Combined with the fact that I could hear from him. At any moment. Just because the video’s gone doesn’t mean he never saw it.

The problem is, my brain wasn’t built for this level of mortifying uncertainty.

The problem is, I might actually erupt through my skin.

I slide the top drawer open. Grab Natalie’s scissors.

What’s weird is that it doesn’t actually feel like I’m doing this. More like I’m remembering doing this.

I lean closer to the mirror again.

Nothing extreme or dramatic. Just—

Different.

Those two extra-blond strands in the front, where the sun hits hardest. I start there.

Three

Zora and Mark beat me to the living room, where the paparazzi have fully assembled: both Rosemann-Long parents, both Zimmermans, Zora’s dad, my mom, Audrey, you name it. Wouldn’t be a problem, under any normal circumstance, since I’m basically the Pied Piper of parents, empress of aunts, et cetera. Not this time, though. Raised eyebrows all around, but it’s Mom who actually gasps when she sees me. “Oh, honey. What happened?”

“Is this a cry for help?” Audrey asks, snapping a picture.

I glare at her. “Excuse me?”

She plucks the white-edged square of film from the front of her camera, setting it gingerly on the coffee table. What’s fun is that it’s my own fault. Guess which genius decided a Polaroid was a good Chanukah gift for an eight-year-old. Guess who’s regretted it ever since the very first low-angle picture of my nostrils.

The image sharpens into an off-center, mid-blink, blurry-edged masterpiece—classic Audrey. But even in three square inches of frame, there’s no missing the hair. I managed to pull back most of the messy parts with bobby pins, but the rest stops about an inch above my shoulders. Wouldn’t even be considered short, by any normal standards. But Mom’s standards have never been normal.

“When did this happen?” She’s standing directly in front of me now, lips pressed flatly together. So I guess that’s some kind of milestone. We’ve officially graduated from figurative to literal hovering.

“Why are you treating my hair like it’s a crime scene?”

She pokes at one of my bobby pins. “It’s not not a crime scene.”

“Well, I like it.”

I mean, I think I like it. I definitely like how light it feels—like taking off your backpack at the end of the school day.

Mom repositions a few pins, stepping back to frown at me.

I raise my eyebrows. “Are we good?”

A door creaks open behind us, and Claire’s voice drifts through the kitchen. “Quick, there’s perfect photo lighting!” She does this urgent little gasp when she says it, like the sun itself is a rare and startling phenomenon that she personally discovered. Case in point: she’s already uploaded a full carousel of prom selfies. Photo after photo of her pale pixie face, her dark curls threaded with flowers. Found my light—that’s her caption. Like the sun exists just for her.

Mom herds us outside, and Natalie’s eyes go wide when she sees me. So, I shoot her a wink, crossing the lawn to settle in beside her.

“Your hair.” When she reaches her hand out to touch it, her corsage tickles my neck. “I leave you alone for one hour.”

“Oh, I like that!” Mom says. “Let’s center you in front of the hedges. Zora, you come in by Amelia . . . good. And then Mark. Claire, you’re perfect. Okay, freeze!”

Audrey snaps another Polaroid. Looking mighty smug for someone covering half the lens with her finger, I might add.

Natalie leans in again. “Was this a panic haircut?”

I laugh. “A what?”

“A Walter-induced panic haircut!”

“I’m not panicking—”

“Eyes on the prize, ladies!” Mom says, and we both flash quick smiles at the camera.

“He’ll respond,” Nat adds quietly.

I snort. “He will not.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Beautiful!” Mom declares. “Now say, ‘senior prom’!”

“Senior prom!” says Audrey, and only Audrey.

I turn back to Nat. “I deleted it.”

“Good,” she says, leaning even closer. But then Claire’s arm tightens around her waist, and she immediately straightens.

“Let’s do a funny one,” Mom says. “Give me some tongue!”

“MOM.”

She sticks out her tongue and makes some kind of horrifying rock-and-roll hand signal.

“Kill me,” I murmur.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Nat says, leaning closer, “I think the hair’s really cute.”

Walter Holland Net Worth, Age, Relationship Status, Bio

Walter Holland is a highly popular celebrity for his young age of eighteen whose fame gives full gratitude to the platform of YouTube. He is known for his YouTube video content which includes a popular channel known by the name Drama Clash. Drama Clash has over a single million subscribers, and she was created in accordance with actor Hayden Geller, who is also in fact a fellow YouTube creator on the platform. Walter Holland boasts a multitude of platforms, which does include Instagram. He has a modest stature of five feet with nine additional inches, and his appearance includes red hair and hazel eyes. He is known to be one of the Taurus in zodiac, with a specific birthday of April 30. His exact time of birth remains unknown.

Walter has a traditional middle name of Joshua, and at this present time, his nicknames include Walt. He hails from the proud town of Scarsdale, New York, which is the vicinity in which his parents also reside. Precise details are unknown regarding Walter’s pet, but it is reported to bear the name of Vinny. His parents reside with him in Scarsdale, and there is a firstborn sister who attends the university named Anne. Walter’s mother is Celia Waxman, who is a renowned realtor in her town of Scarsdale. She is of Ashkenazi Jewish descent, thus allowing Walter to inherit a Jewish bloodline. His father, Ellis Holland, is a business owner in the local proximity, and he is a nonpracticing adherent of the Christian faith. Specific details are unknown with regard to the physical appearances of Walter Holland’s closest family members.

Pertaining to net worth, Walter’s financial details are thought to be unknown. It is estimated that he is a successful earner in his endeavors on YouTube. His bisexual identity was revealed in a video on his YouTube channel with the title of “My Sexuality (a bi-ographical update).” His fanbase released a response of celebration and support to this revelation. He has no known girlfriend at the time, and his relationship status is widely known to be single.

Four

Prom itself requires a very particular headspace. Unfortunately, that space does not currently contain my head.

“Nice convalescent Victorian pose you’ve got there,” says Mark.

Mark, who’s slouched so far into an armchair, his head barely clears the back cushion.

But he’s right. That’s the sad thing. I’ve got kind of a full-body splay going on, arms hanging limply off both sides of a chaise lounge. Technically, it’s a little less “dying of consumption,” and a little more “cure my hysteria, Dr. Freud,” but you can’t expect that level of nuance from a straight boy. Either way, it’s a green-velvet-couch kind of moment, and there’s nothing for me to do but—quite literally—lean into it.

Because I’m a hermit now. And in accordance with the full hermit lifestyle, we’ve taken over a powder room near the entrance of the New Rochelle Golf and Moneybags Harbor Society, whatever this place is called. It looks exactly how you’d expect it to look: gilded wallpaper, lots of mirrors, and a chandelier overhead. Old in the expensive way. My chaise faces a wall with big picture windows, overlooking Long Island Sound. But in the spirit of true hermitry, I talked Mark into closing the curtains. I’d have done it myself, but I was too busy convalescing.

“What’d I miss?” Zora asks, fresh off the phone with her long-distance girlfriend. She leaves the door cracked behind her, just a little. Enough to catch the music from the ballroom, without revealing our coordinates to drunk wanderers in formalwear. She settles into an armchair near Mark. Cross-legged, since her parents aren’t afraid of prom pants.

“You missed moping,” Mark says.

Zora studies me. “Are you—”

“Not moping. How’s Edith?”

“Good—”

“And where’s Nat?”

Zora glances quickly at Mark. “Somewhere with Claire? I don’t know.”

I wrinkle my nose and reach for my phone.

“I thought you deleted the post?”

“I did. Just making sure it didn’t go viral on a repost.”

I can already picture the reaction video thumbnails. TRY NOT TO CRINGE DURING THIS GIRL’S PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A PROMPOSAL! VIRAL SINGING PROMPOSAL VIDEO LEADS TO DANGEROUS LEVELS OF SECONDHAND EMBARRASSMENT. YOUTUBER SEEKS RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST UNHINGED FAN, STATES: SHE ISN’T EVEN THAT CUTE.

“Maybe it’s time for a phone break?” Zora’s voice is so excruciatingly gentle, I want to sink into the cushions. To think I used to have my own built-in face curtain. One disaster haircut later, and there’s nowhere to hide.

I stand abruptly, instead. “Be right back.”

I’ve got this spring-loaded feeling, like even the soles of my feet are buzzing. I can’t tamp myself down. I pass the ballroom; normally, I’d be on the dance floor. Last hurrah, close it out with a bang, et freaking cetera. It’s not that I’m particularly sentimental about high school ending. I just love a grand finale. If it’s set to music, even better. But the music feels so far away now, like I’m hearing it through someone else’s headphones. There has to be a way to fix this feeling.

Really, I just have to find Nat. She’s the only one who could make this funny. She’ll give me just the right amount of shit. Or she’ll start riffing on Walter’s insufficient cuteness, his general unworthiness as a crush target, et cetera. Which, incidentally, is quite the bold statement coming from someone who’s literally dating Claire Zimmerman, but what do I know?

I check the bathroom; no Natalie sightings. Just Kylie Elfman, my lab partner, lurching out of a stall, mouth falling open when she sees me. “Oh, your hair! I love it!”

I tack on a bright, beaming smile. “I love your dress!”

“Wait! Okay, wait, I’m washing my hands, but then.” She points at me. “Selfie!” Her voice has this fluid sort of lilt at the edges. Nothing sloppy, but she’s definitely not sober. Sounds like a pretty ideal headspace, honestly, but Mom would sniff me out in a heartbeat. I’d be grounded until graduation. God knows I’m already on thin ice with the haircut.

Kylie ends up talking me into a whole series of selfies; apparently she’s a perfectionist when it comes to things that aren’t chemistry experiments. “I’ll tag you when I post them! Ready to dance?”

“Definitely. Yes! Yup. Meet you in there?” I’ve already got my eyes on a side door.

Turns out, it leads to the harbor club’s wraparound porch.

It’s beautiful out here—soft and still, barely even a breeze, and the sun’s just starting to set over the Sound. In an hour, it’ll be twinkle lights reflected in water. Already, a few couples have made their way out here for semi-public makeout purposes.

But all of that’s on the other side of the clubhouse. You could say I’m more of an empty-space-overlooking-the-parking-lot kind of hermit.

One more Instagram check—just to confirm I’m not a viral laughingstock, obviously. It’s not like I’m expecting—

My heart leaps into my throat. There’s a tiny red circle in the corner of my screen.

One new message. If only—

I tap into my inbox, take an extended deep breath, and—

It’s a forwarded reel of a bottle-fed baby koala. From my aunt Stacey.

Which is fine. It’s great! Nothing against Aunt Stacey, and nothing against koalas. I’m a friend and ally to all marsupials.

But since I’m here, I’ll just sidle up to the search bar . . .

Walter’s handle pops up. His bright blue check mark. One quick peek.

There’s nothing on the grid since yesterday, and no new Stories since this morning. Last one was at least an hour before I posted my video, so maybe Zora’s right. Maybe it’s not a rejection. If he never even saw it—

“Amelia?”

I almost drop my phone. “Fuck—are you—” I whirl around. “Nat?”

She’s tucked behind a support beam; at first, all I see are her legs. Oxford flats, tights, and the pale blue hem of her dress. Have I mentioned I’m absolutely obsessed with Natalie’s prom dress? Gauzy and knee-length, with bits of lace near the collar. Paired with a cardigan. Zero evening vibes whatsoever. She looks like she’s dressed for a Kiddush bagel luncheon.

Then I see her face. “Whoa. You okay?”

“Absolutely amazing. Thriving.”

“Nat, what happened?”

She just shrugs. So I drop to the floor, scooting in beside her.

“Want me to guess? I can guess. Let’s see—I’m assuming it’s Claire-related.”

“Ding ding ding.”

“Okay. Yup. Are you guys—”

“Nothing,” Nat says softly. “We’re done.”

My palms smack the floor. “What the fuck did she do?”

“She didn’t—”

“No, for real. I’ll throw hands,” I say. “Watch me.”

“Watch you fight my ex? No thank you.”

Ex. Hey, that’s a nice word. Simple, easy to spell, warms the heart. Wholly underrated, if you—

Okay, head in the game, Applebaum. No smiling. Wipe it away. We don’t celebrate our friends’ breakups. Not even breakups with Claire Zimmerman, a known trash demon hellspawn who once broke up with Natalie on the first night of Chanukah and won her back five days later. By showing up in a snowstorm. With a plush naked mole rat! A creature that’s uniquely ill-suited to cold weather! How is she a serious person?

And that’s not even getting into sophomore year, when Claire dumped Natalie on the way to the big city choir trip, only to reel her back the next day with last-minute Hadestown tickets. Or two months ago, when Claire soft-blocked Nat after a fight, changed her mind, and proceeded to spam her DMs with links to an apology video.

“Fucking unbelievable. After she made you do a whole-ass photo shoot?” I shake my head. “Where is she?”

Natalie blinks. “I think she went home.”

“Like fuck she did. And she did it on prom night? At prom? I’m sorry, but that’s a new fucking low. That is unstoppable fuckery.”

“It wasn’t really—”

“Like, what—you weren’t living in the moment enough? You weren’t dancing enough?”

“Something like that.”

I laugh, sharply. “Seriously?”

“I don’t know—it was just stupid stuff. Like, we got here, and she wanted to dance—”

“I knew it!”

Natalie nods. “And I really just wanted to hang out with you guys, so—”

“Let me guess.” I pitch my voice up, drawing my vowels out like Claire. “You’re so focused on frieeeeends. You never prioritize meeeee.”

“I mean.” Nat tips her palms up and wrinkles her nose—but it’s the smiley kind of wrinkle. Smile-coded. I’ll take it.

Part Two

Thursday, May 25

Larchmont, NY

Five

“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.”

Drama Clash

Drama Clash is a YouTube channel co-founded by American entertainers/content creators Hayden Geller and Walter Holland. The duo met while attending a theater class at Scarsdale High School in Scarsdale, New York, an affluent suburb of Manhattan. At the time of the channel’s initial launch, Geller was a high school sophomore, and Holland was a high school freshman. They gained a small following by posting ukulele Simon and Garfunkel covers, but their audience grew significantly upon the release of their viral sketch comedy skit “Locker Room (YouTube video).” In the months that followed, the channel’s main focus shifted toward short-form comedy, slice-of-life video diaries, and casual discussion videos.

Within a year, they had amassed over a million subscribers, along with vibrant fan communities across multiple social media platforms. The duo were featured on panels at two consecutive VidCon events, and articles about their rise to success have appeared in multiple mainstream outlets, including: Vox, HuffPost, The Guardian, BuzzFeed, Out (magazine), and The Mary Sue.

Both Geller and Holland identify as Jewish, of Ashkenazi descent. They describe themselves as “best friends and bromantic life partners” and have collaborated on over 150 videos. The channel officially went on hiatus shortly after Geller’s graduation. Afterward, Holland announced the channel’s closure on his newly launched solo commentary and discussion channel, Walter Holland Speaks. Geller is currently a full-time professional actor and is set to star in the upcoming science fiction blockbuster The Odyssey Intergalactic, releasing in June.

Background

YouTube collaborations

Solo projects

Relationship speculation

Awards and nominations

References

Six

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?”

Seven

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?”

Pure Theatrics podcast (October, freshman year)

Kate: Hello, friends, and welcome back—or if you’re joining us for the first time, welcome! I’m Kate.

Anderson: And I’m Anderson.

K: And you’re listening to Pure Theatrics—

A: The podcast where two best friends and overgrown theater kids walk you through the latest and greatest drama, on and off the stage.

K: And today, we’re unbelievably excited to welcome a pair of VERY special guests to the pod. You might recognize them from—oh, you know—just a little YouTube skit called “Locker Room.”

A: I mean, it’s pretty niche. It’s only hovering around . . . what, three million views, at the time of recording?

K: Okay, real talk—how many of those views do you think are us?

A: ANYWAY! We are beyond excited to introduce the very funny and talented duo behind the buzzy new YouTube channel, Drama Clash! Hayden Geller and Walter Holland, welcome to the pod!

Hayden: Happy to be here!

A: So, you two are actually both still in high school, right? Hayden, you’re a . . . sophomore? And Walter, you’re a freshman?

Walter: Guilty as charged.

A: <laughs> It’s okay! We’re freshmen too.

K: <stage whisper> In college.

A: So you guys actually met in drama class, right?

<speaking over each other>

W: Well, tech—

H: We did! We—

W: Haha—you go first.

H: No, you’re good!

W: It’s fine! I was just saying we technically went to middle school together, but yeah, we didn’t really know each other well yet.

H: But look at us now.

K: <laughs> I read that you guys became, like, best friends, basically overnight. I imagine an experience like this—going as viral as you went with “Locker Room”—that has to bond you, right?

H: Oh, yeah. It’s been quite a ride. <laughs>

A: Hopefully in a good way?

H: Definitely.

W: Mostly.

H: <laughs> It’s a lot.

K: I can imagine! What’s been the weirdest part so far?

W: Huh. For me . . . I guess it’s the, like, split reality of it all? Like, we go to school and it’s business as usual. Math quizzes, cafeteria food—you know. But then you come home and open up your email, and it’s like—oh, interview request! Oh, we’re a trending sound now!

H: Listen, I came home from school one day, and we’d gotten over twenty thousand new followers. Just that day. I’m like . . . are you all lost?

<everyone laughs>

W: I literally thought it was a glitch! I was like . . . should we report this?

A: I’m obsessed with this.

K: Me too! Wow. So, like, how much pressure was it to follow that up with another big hit?

W: <laughs> Lots and lots of pressure.

H: Yeah, we actually filmed two entire skits that . . . let’s just say they weren’t quite ready for prime time.

W: Oh God. Yeah. Burn them. Please.

H: So I think what ultimately helped was deciding to just loosen the reins a little. Like, if we wanted to do a skit—great. Another uke cover—great. If we wanted to just pick a topic and shoot the shit for a little on camera—also great. I’d say that made things a little less intimidating.

K: That makes total sense to me.

A: Yup. And you guys have such insane chemistry, too, especially on video, it really works.

H: <laughs> Chemistry, huh?

A: Friend chemistry! <laughs> Or—look, I don’t know. You tell us!

Part Three

Friday, May 26

Larchmont, NY

to Sylvan Beach, NY

Eight

It’s not even eight yet, but I’ve been perched at the bottom of the stairs for ten minutes—full view of the front window, facing the street. I’m on my feet before Zora even pulls into the driveway.

I shout back over my shoulder, up the stairs. “All right, heading out—”

Suddenly, Audrey skids into the foyer, wearing just her nightgown and socks. “You’re leaving?”

“Uh, yeah.” I catch Zora’s eye through the window, turning back to Audrey. “Okay, tell Mom I say—”

Audrey bursts into tears before I even finish the sentence.

“Hey. Oh—okay.” I drop my duffel, leaning closer. “Aud, what’s up?”

She glares up at me, lower lip trembling. “You are not ready for college.”

“Whoa. Okay. I’m . . . not leaving for college now. I’m just visiting.”

Audrey scrunches up her nose. “Well, obviously.”

“It’s just a trip, okay?”

“Amelia Bedelia, you heading out?” Dad calls from upstairs. “Give me one sec—I’m coming—”

“Dad, I gotta go—sorry!” I shoot Zora a quick, apologetic grimace through the window. “Text you from the road, okay?”

“You better. Hey.” He appears at the top of the stairs. “Have fun. Drive safe. Keep your phone on.”

I shoot him a thumbs-up, grab my bag, and turn back to Audrey. “Just a trip,” I say again, ruffling her hair.

“I know!” Her eyes are glassy with tears, but she makes a big show of rolling them anyway. “I’m taking your room while you’re gone. Just so you know.”

“Try it and weep, Audrioso.” I honk her nose with my hand, pulling the door shut behind me. It’s a little unsettling, I guess. Audrey’s no ball of sunshine, but she’s not much of a crier.

I try to shake off my disquiet, but it must be written on my face. “You good?” Zora asks.

“What? Yeah.” I buckle into the passenger seat. “Audrey’s just being a weirdo.”

“Uh-oh. Back on her Beat poetry schtick?”

“Thankfully, no.” I sneak one last glance at my foyer as Zora puts the car in reverse. “Just being dramatic about the trip. She’s acting like I’m leaving for good.”

Zora shoots me a quick sidelong smile. “She’s gonna miss you, huh?”

“I mean.” I tip my palms up. “Can you blame her?”

It’s only when Zora pulls up to the twins’ house that the trip finally starts to feel real.

But I’m not getting out of the car. I don’t care how many times Nat claims to prefer the back seat. I don’t trust either of those twins for a single goddamn second.

They both look so endearingly sleepy and grumpy, though, with the matching red roller-board suitcases they’ve had since age twelve. Nat’s bag even still has its Year of the Rooster–themed luggage tag—that’s the twins’ zodiac sign, but it’s also the year they got the suitcases. She pauses in the driveway to hoist the rainbow strap of her guitar case back onto her shoulder. Which is my cue to fling the car door open and stretch my whole body toward her. Just have to keep one pointed toe on the passenger seat. “Here, pass it over.”

Natalie blinks. “Um. You good?”

I follow her gaze to my shoe. “Extremely good. Just hanging on to my shotgun privileges, thank you.”

“You know you’re the only one who cares about shotgun, right?” she says.

“I know that’s what you want me to believe.”

She makes a face at me, but she’s barely even biting back a smile as she hands me her guitar case. I slide it into the center back seat, body first, letting its neck rest on the console box. Then Nat slips away to join Mark for a round of suitcase Tetris in Zora’s trunk.

I twist around to watch it all unfold through the window. You simply never know what kind of treasure might reveal itself when Mark shuts the lid.

Mark shuts the lid.

Drumroll, please!

Presenting: the pinnacle of my artistic career. A masterpiece in three words. God’s own poetry in bold black serif—printed on simple white paper and taped to the inside of the rear windshield.

Walter Holland Groupiemobile

“Yeah, no.” Mark strips it down the second he’s in the car.

“Oh, take it! Frame it. It’s fine! Because you, sir”—I reach for the short stack near my feet—“are in luck. I’ve got so many more.”

I hold up a fresh duplicate for both twins to admire. And then I press it up against my own passenger-side window. Smack-dab in the center.

Naturally, the moment I do this, the twins’ next-door neighbor walks directly past me with Cooper, her collie. So I shoot her a quick thumbs-up and an extremely normal, minimally unhinged smile.

Status of the woman: visibly freaked out.

Status of Cooper: oblivious. Yet regal.

Status of Natalie: eye-roll-lip-tug-slow-blink combo. Possibly my favorite type of Natalie smile.

I give her a fist bump. “Okay, DJ Nat, I’m hooking you to Bluetooth.”

“On it.” She taps into her music app, home to her ever-growing library of playlists.

I make Natalie show me the playlist title, because she always, always has one. Usually a snippet from a song lyric, and never a capital letter in sight. Our little hipster. She’s named this one: counting the cars.

“‘America’!” I point at her. “New Jersey Turnpike.”

“Ding ding.”

I smile smugly and turn back around, tucking one leg up onto the seat. A bisexually triangular knee situation. Can’t be helped.

I still can’t believe we’re doing this.

I mean, I guess it’s not that surprising, given that I, Amelia Applebaum, am a creature of mystery and whimsy. A freewheeling adventurer with the heart of a butterfly, open to wherever the shimmering road wants to take me. Which will ultimately be Zora’s aunt Jojo’s house on Oneida Lake because my freewheeling butterfly heart respects Zora’s preexisting vacation plans.

But in the meantime!

Natalie’s singing along to Chappell Roan under her breath, and Mark’s fast asleep beside her. Which is what he does in all moving vehicles—the Metro-North train into the city, the twenty-minute limo ride to prom. Once he conked out in the back of Mom’s car during a five-minute drive to the farmers’ market. It’s a gift.

“I love driving through here,” Zora says.

“What, the Catskills?” I peer through the windshield—open road and tree-covered mountains, as far as the eye can see.

“I think we’re near camp,” Nat chimes in from the back.

“Oh, maybe! Yeah, it’s got to be somewhere around here, right?” I squint to read a hanging sign in the distance. I’m not a Catskills expert or anything, though I’ve been here a few times. It’s my parents who know just about every inch of the area.

“Well, we’re definitely in the Borscht Belt,” I say.

“The what belt?” asks Zora.

“Borscht, like the soup,” Nat says. “It’s just a nickname.”

“Because the old-timey New York Jews love borscht, and that’s who used to come here for the summer. Literally how my parents met.”

“No they didn’t,” Nat says. “They met at Grossinger’s.”

“How is Grossinger’s not part of the Borscht Belt? It’s, like, the most famous resort!”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t here. That was a whole different town.”

“It’s where Dirty Dancing was filmed, right?” Zora asks, and I nod.

Nat shakes her head. “No, but the movie was set there. The setting’s based on Grossinger’s.”

I twist around in my seat. “Says who?”

She holds up her phone.

“Okay, who are you going to trust? Me, a person who literally only exists because of this place? Or Google?”

“Google,” she says.

“Is that where . . . you were conceived?” Mark asks blearily.

“What? No! That’s disgusting. Wow. Just—Natalie, can you hit him?”

“On it. Hey.” She swipes his arm. “You’re gross.”

Mark drifts back off somewhere around Woodstock, and Nat’s just staring out the window. So I terrorize Zora for a few minutes by reporting on all the Instagram prom gossip. Evidently a sports guy cheated on a sports girl with two other unspecified athletes. Full marks for messiness, with gayness scores pending.

Then somehow I end up on Walter’s page.

Every time I look at his event graphic post, there’s a whole slew of new comments. Mostly just smiles and exclamation points and occasional pleading suggestions for future meet-and-greet locations. As always, there are a few spammy testimonials for work-from-home business opportunities. But there’s something else, too. You could say I’m noticing a trend.

Hi Walt will Hayden be there?????

HAYDEN GUEST APPEARANCE, LET’S GO

Hayters rise up

No Hayden? ☹

#walden

Hayden too pleeeease 🙏

Walter can u confirm if you and Hayden are still dating or broken up

Hayden Geller finally come out challenge!!!!!!!!

WAIT HAYDEN CAME OUT?? WHAT

you know they broke up right lmao

hayden confirmed for the blackwell event, hayteros u have nothing!!!!

U literally just made that up bro lmfao

“This is”—I shake my head—“so fucking rude. Wow.”

“Wait, someone on the internet was rude?” Natalie asks.

“Several someones! It’s the whole comment section.”

“Not rudeness in a comment section!”

“Natalie Mei Rosemann-Long, this is troll behavior. You?” I turn all the way around to point at her. “Are a troll. You’re the mother troll from whom all other trolls are born, from whose trollish teat they suckle—”

“Not. No.” Mark’s voice comes out husky, still threaded with sleep. He rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “Not teat.”

I beam at him. “Good morning, sunshine!”

“Are we”—he yawns—“almost there?”

“Who’s being rude on the internet?” asks Zora, and I can’t help but smile a little. Quintessential Zora: unflappable surface with a secret twitchy-brained center. She can sit there writing a paper for hours, but only if her laptop’s plugged in—because the battery icon is too distracting. She’s so funny to text with, too, because she edits out all her typos. And she responds to every text separately, even if it’s just with an emoji. Doesn’t matter how many you spam her with; doesn’t matter how many of them are keyboard smashes. There’s simply nothing our girl hates more than a dangling conversation. Just to put it in Simon and Garfunkel terms.

“Walter’s so-called fans.” I settle back into my seat, facing forward. “But they’re not even his fans! They’re literally just interested in Hayden.”

“Hayden’s the smoldery one, right?” Mark says. “With the abs?”

“Is smoldery a word?” Zora asks.

“Yup. Smoldery. Abs,” I say. “I’m not saying they can’t like him. But it’s just, like—imagine going into the comments of someone’s event announcement and saying you’ll only bother coming if a different dude shows up.”

Zora winces. “They said that?”

“Pretty much.”

“Why don’t they just go see the smolder dude?” Mark asks.

“Well, Hayden’s not touring,” I say. “Or—I don’t know—he’s not doing fan meetups right now. It’s just press for the space movie.”

“That movie looks so bad,” Natalie says. “Looks like—not even a good Star Wars rip-off.”

“I know, but it’s Hayden. We’ve got to see it. That’s Walter’s bestie.”

“You’ve literally never talked to any of these people,” Nat says.

“Yes I—”

“Not online. In real life.”

Like I said: troll with troll teats.

I spin around to face her head-on. “Excuse me. Online and real life—”

“—aren’t! Mutually! Exclusive!” chime Natalie and Mark.

I clasp my hands together, smiling. “Exactly.”

Lauren Lawson Tonight (May, senior year)

Lauren Lawson: Welcome back, everyone! Okay, I’m so excited to introduce our next guest. You know him as one of the co-creators and co-stars of the wildly popular YouTube channel, Drama Clash. Now, he’s set to make his acting debut in what’s looking like this summer’s buzziest film. Early reviews of The Odyssey Intergalactic have raved about his performance, and a recent piece in Variety called him “the second coming of Paul Newman.” <pause> I know, right? So please join me in welcoming Hollywood’s biggest rising star, Hayden Geller!

<applause>

Hayden Geller: Thank you so much for having me.

LL: Thank you so much for being here! This is such a thrill. I know I’m not alone when I say I’m literally counting down the days to the premiere of The Odyssey Intergalactic. No joke. I’m marking them off on my calendar. How much longer are you gonna keep us waiting?

HG: You tell me!

LL: Oh, so he’s a smartass. Okay, okay. <aside to audience> Thirty-six days.

<audience cheers and Hayden laughs>

HG: I’m actually so impressed.

LL: Why, thank you! So, I’ve got to ask—what’s it like to be Hayden Geller these days? We’re just over a month out from your feature film debut. Critics are already raving. And I’m certainly seeing the ladies—and gentlemen—throwing around the word “heartthrob.”

<Hayden covers his face, and the audience lets out a collective “awwww”>

LL: Listen, I’m just reporting the facts. So, I’m dying to know—what’s your headspace right now? You’ve been incredibly successful on YouTube, so I know you’re used to attention, but I imagine this is on a whole different level.

HG: Oh yeah. <laughs> Definitely. It’s . . . very surreal. I don’t think I’ve fully processed it yet, you know? I don’t know if it’s the kind of thing you can process! Truly a dream come true for me. It’s a great project—a total honor to be a part of it. Working with Alistair, Marley, the rest of the cast. I’m just so grateful to even have the opportunity, you know? And I definitely wouldn’t be here without the support of my friends, family, and my audience—so much love to the Drama Clash fanbase. I can’t thank you enough.

LL: See, that’s so beautiful. Tell me more about what the reaction’s been like from your existing fans. Are they excited?

HG: Oh, they’re the best. They’re so passionate and supportive, and they’ve been so hyped for Odyssey. I can’t even tell you how much it means to me. I just hope I make them proud! <sheepish laugh>

LL: Not a doubt in my mind.

HG: <laughs> Thanks. Yeah. I just feel so unbelievably lucky to be here.

LL: And you mentioned your friends and family! They must be over the moon for you. I know you’re very close with your Drama Clash collaborator and longtime best friend, Walter Holland. What does he think about all of this?

HG: He’s excited! Walter’s always been, just, my biggest champion. Right now, we’re both exploring solo projects, and I think we’re just both really thrilled for each other.

LL: That’s amazing. Oh, Hayden, you’re such a gem.

HG: Thank you, Lauren—so are you!

LL: Oh! Okay. Whew. <fanning herself> Well. Before we cut to commercials, I’ve got to ask it. <smiles at the studio audience; then smiles at camera> We polled you guys to find out what you’re dying to know, and we got some pretty enthusiastic responses. But, you know, there’s one particular question that seems to be on everyone’s minds.

HG: Uh-oh.

<audience laughs>

LL: The fans want to know! Relationship status. Hayden, are you single?

HG: <pauses, smiles shyly> Yes.

<Massive cheers erupt from the audience>

LL: You heard it here, folks! Hayden Geller, thank you so much for joining us. And in case you’ve been living under a rock: The Odyssey Intergalactic, coming this June to a theater near you.

Nine

It’s perfect weather all the way up the thruway. Partly cloudy, and the heat’s not supposed to kick in until late afternoon. We stop outside Albany for a pee and snack break, and I talk Zora into topping off the fuel tank so I can pay for it with my gas card. Otherwise known as Mom’s gas card, but I’ll probably definitely pay her back when my summer job starts.

“You know what we should do?” I buckle back into the front seat. “We should go rogue. Off the grid.”

Zora looks at me like I’ve sprouted antlers.

“I vote no aimless detour,” Nat says, yawning, “on the grounds of murder avoidance.”

I twist around. “Committing murder, or receiving it?”

She looks at me. “I don’t know if receiving’s the word.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. Because I’m not a murderer,” I inform her. “Also, did I say aimless? I don’t think I did. I have aims, Natalandria. Natalioness—”

“Nope. Lioness. Nope.”

“Natalicia Natalaurica Natallica.”

She wrinkles her nose at me, smiling. It’s funny—I keep waiting for Nat to freak out about the breakup, but she hasn’t mentioned Claire at all. Not even once.

Not saying I blame her. I, too, would be eager to move on from that shitshow. Of course, I wouldn’t have dated Claire in the first place, so what do I know?

Maybe I’m missing something. God knows I’m no relationship expert—me with my grand total of one ex-boyfriend. And that’s assuming you even count those two months in eighth grade with Jordan “Devil’s Advocate” Cohen. Hebrew school valedictorian, and proud owner of no fewer than nineteen fedoras. Wore Hawaiian shirts under blazers to every school dance. Never met an Instagram comment he didn’t feel compelled to reply to. When I broke up with him, his face got blotchy and red, and he said he was just about to break up with me anyway. Evidently, he’d “outgrown” me.

The truth is, none of us are playing in the professional leagues here. Mark’s completely useless around girls who aren’t us. I’ve literally never seen him flirt. If you even say the word kissing around him, he shuts down. Nat’s had one other girlfriend besides Claire, and she was shitty too. Meanwhile, Jordan and I didn’t even make it through the front half of his fedora collection. Zora and Edith seem like the real deal, but even that’s a pretty unusual arrangement. They’ve only ever met in person once—and that was spring break of this year. So, like, a month ago. Pretty wild, given how long they’ve dated.

They met on a Discord for queer teens—though they weren’t even teens at the time. Zora says she and Edith were the only two seventh graders in the group.

There was so much I didn’t know about Zora back then. Like how weird and lonely that whole year was for her. I mean, it was bar and bat mitzvah season in Westchester, New York. There’s simply no slowing down that ride once you’re on it.

And the twins and I were on it. Services and parties and Kiddush luncheons and memorizing five zillion blessings, syllable by syllable. Spent so much time with the cantor, I started thinking in melodies. I was reciting the Shehecheyanu in my dreams. And Mark and Natalie were in the exact same boat. The same little bulrush basket. I’m sure we talked about it constantly.

In retrospect? Probably a supremely isolating time for Zora to be the group’s token gentile.

But then she met Edith. It’s funny, because you wouldn’t think they’d have found much common ground—our soft-spoken STEM nerd and this small-town baby lesbian motormouth. But somehow it worked, like a key fitting into a lock. They’ve spent roughly every waking moment texting and video chatting for the past half a decade.

It honestly makes my head spin. To be in love for that long without ever once sharing space. Without knowing what it feels like to touch them. How is that even survivable?

Zora didn’t even tell us she was going out there to visit last month. Not until afterward, anyway. Just to take some of the pressure off, she said. I think she thought we’d be mad. But how could we be? It made complete, perfect sense. I’d be terrified, if it were me. Not about catfish scenarios. I guess I’d just wonder if love ever gets lost in translation.

I’d never say this out loud, but sometimes I wonder how they knew it was love. Romantic love, I mean. Because parsing it out in person is hard enough—that thin, dotted line between best friend and girlfriend. Especially when you’re still pinning down the sexuality stuff too. Case in point: the fact that I made out with Talia Schecter behind the boathouse at camp for twenty minutes and still came out of it thinking I was straight.

Maybe I’m a special case, though. Elite-level dumbass.

I lean back in my seat, tilting my head toward Zora. “I can’t believe we’re meeting Edith tomorrow.”

“I know!” She smiles. “Worlds colliding.”

“Are you just, like, completely flipping out right now?”

Zora shoots me a look. “Should I be? Are you gonna make it weird?”

“I’m never weird! I’m just saying, it’s a big milestone!”

“And it only took us six years to get here,” Natalie chimes in from the back.

You have to hand it to Nat—she may be a troll, but she takes music requests seriously. We’re still an hour from Aunt Jojo’s house, and we’re already on our third Simon and Garfunkel song. “Kathy’s Song.” That one’s always been Natalie’s favorite.

I swivel to face Nat as soon as the first verse plays through. “I bet the shippers were awful to Kathy.”

“Shippers?” She lets out a startled laugh. “Like, Simon and Garfunkel shippers?”

“Come on, you know there were shippers. Probably still are.”

She makes a face. “First of all, Simon and Garfunkel hate each other—”

“Enemies to lovers!”

“No, like. They actually really, truly can’t stand each other.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“I mean, it’s pretty well-documented.”

“But have you heard ‘The Sound of Silence’?” I ask. “You can’t harmonize like that with someone you hate.”

“Well, ‘The Sound of Silence’ isn’t exactly a love song,” she says.

But that’s the thing about Simon and Garfunkel. Their songs all feel like love songs, no matter what the lyrics are. It’s the kind of music that carves out space in your chest and makes your heart beat bigger to fill it. I don’t even know what you call that. Full-body wistfulness. “Kodachrome” feelings. Like someone dialed up the world’s saturation, then softened its filter. Makes me want to fall in love with literally everyone. Not even just in a regular bisexual way. It’s like having a crush on the entire natural world.

Mark’s sleeping again, and from the way Nat’s tapping her phone screen, I’m guessing she’s playing a house design game—the one I used to play, too, before I got too obsessed and had to delete it. But I like watching Natalie play. It kind of transports me back to those few weeks spent buying digital furniture pieces with tiny fake diamonds. Kind of like how certain songs make me think of ninth grade every time I hear them, because they were trending at the time. Or because someone blared it through their phone speaker on our way to a field trip. Little DeLoreans.

Maybe decades from now, I’ll hear a song from Nat’s playlist, and it’ll spool me right back to this particular sun-filtered moment.

I just want to know these three people forever. Natalie, Zora, and Mark. I want to sit on a park bench with them and say “remember when” and talk about the terrible strangeness of being seventy.

YouTube (February, senior year)

“Metric Interlude—ft. Atti the Good Boy”

Walter Holland Speaks

Walter appears in frame in black and white, with a dramatic newsroom sound effect playing. His normal background wall is visible behind him, featuring several larger-than-life framed pictures of his cat, Vinny.

Hi and welcome back to my channel! I’m Walter Holland, and this is Walter Holland Speaks, where I bring you HARD HITTING, EARTH SHATTERING JOURNALISM (words show up on the screen)

(Quick cut—words fall away with the exception of “HARD”)

Kidding, it’s like . . . inane tangents and dick jokes, mostly.

Which brings me to the meat of today’s topic, one that I’ve researched at great length

(MEAT and LENGTH pop up on screen)

Okay I’m done, I promise

So today . . . I think it’s finally time to discuss . . . the metric system. And by discuss, I mean I intend to expose myself as the dumbass American of your wildest nightmares. So I recruited my good buddy Atticus to help us out here. Atti’s joining us from the Australian outback

Atticus: (joining via video chat) Counterpoint: I am joining you from the suburbs.

W: The suburban outback.

A: Sounds like a car.

W: Exactly. So! Welcome to the channel, Atticus. Before we dive in, what time is it for you? As you can see, it’s 11:00 a.m. here in sunny Scarsdale, NY. (holds up phone)

A: (pauses while checking) Uh—about one thirty in the morning.

W: Living in the future!

A: That I am, Walt.

W: So you’ve prepared, like, a quiz for me, right? Here’s what I’m thinking. You’re gonna toss me a metric measurement, and—without googling, no research—I’m gonna give you my best guess for something in the real world that comes close to that measurement.

A: This is going to go well for you, I can feel it.

W: (Australian accent) Thanks, mate!

(Crickets sound effect to emphasize awkward silence.)

A: All right, I’m starting you off with an easy one, okay? Five centimeters.

W: You mean the size of your—

A: WOW

W: Pinky finger, roughly?

A: (laughs) Touche. Okay, okay—not bad. Next one’s harder, though. Twelve meters.

W: Um. Like. The length of a swimming pool?

A: You’re not bad at this, hey? American school system coming through.

W: Literally pulled that out of my ass.

A: (looks concerned) Literally?

W: Not—no! Wow. No. Ha.

A: How about 100 kilometers

W: A . . . football field?

A: Ohh noo—

W: Wait! No, god—no. Kilometers are like miles—

A: (shakes his head, mouths no)

W: I shouldn’t have brought up football. I’m so sorry.

A: (amused) Why, because I’m gay?

W: Because you’re (whispers) Australian.

A: Mate, it’s not a slur.

Ten

It’s just after noon by the time we reach Aunt Jojo’s house. Zora veers right and parks behind a Winnebago RV in the driveway.

Listen, I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in love with a place so fast in my life.

It’s an actual storybook cottage—we’re talking a literal white picket fence around the backyard. The exterior is slatted wood, painted a cool, beachy light blue with white trim. A boardwalk-style wooden path cuts through the front yard, leading to a bright turquoise door, surrounded by leafy green foliage. Hundreds of wildflowers. And Zora definitely wasn’t exaggerating when she said the house was on the beach—the sand starts just on the other side of the backyard fence, and you can see Oneida Lake from the driveway.

Jojo scrambles down the front steps the moment Zora turns the engine off. “You’re here! You made it! My loves! Mwah.” She tackle-hugs Zora and kisses her right on the forehead. “Hi!”

“You all remember each other, yeah?” Zora asks, as we shuffle around to the driver’s side. “I know you’ve all met, but Natalie, Mark, Amelia—”

“Never seen any of you before in my life,” Jojo says. “Who even are these people?”

Zora laughs, a little sheepishly. “I mean, it’s been a minute! I don’t know.”

“Man, you think I’m an old lady, don’t you?” Jojo says, tugging one of Zora’s curls.

“You’re not old!” I say, a little too fervently. Natalie bites back a smile, eyes flicking toward me.

Okay, you know what? Aunt Jojo is a bohemian goddess who regularly gets asked for autographs by people who think she’s Laura Harrier. Am I supposed to not be a little bit chaotically bisexual about that?

Jojo claps her palms together. “Okay, let’s get you all fed. We’ve got pizza warming in the oven, dino nuggets in the toaster oven. Where are all your bags? Load me up!”

“It’s just this stuff and Nat’s guitar,” Zora says, popping the trunk.

Jojo pulls the twins’ bags from the top of the pile, sliding their handles into position. “I got you.” I grab my duffel bag and follow her, the others trailing behind.

There’s no foyer—the front door drops you straight into the main living space, which bleeds straight into the dining room. Even the kitchen’s not fully partitioned off. We leave all the bags and our shoes and Nat’s guitar case by the door. I turn to Jojo. “Thank you so much for letting us crash here.”

“Are you kidding me? Made my week when this one texted me.” She hooks an arm around Zora’s shoulders. “Let me just give you the lay of the land, and then I’ll feed you and get out of your hair.”

“You can stay in our hair.” My hand grazes the doorway.

“I mean, I’ll be in the driveway if you need me. That’s what the camper’s for! Okay, so”—she gestures to an open door off the living room—“bedroom number one is the king bed, bathroom. The works. I’ll let you fight for it.”

The twins and I immediately look at Zora.

“I don’t need the big room,” she says.

“And through that door”—Jojo gestures to the other side of the living room—“the bunk beds! Bottom bunk is full-sized, though. I don’t know if that helps. And the love seat out here turns into a bed, too. I’ll pull some sheets out for that. Bathroom’s right up there—second door on the left. Zora knows all of this, sorry. Anyway, let’s eat!”

The thing I always forget about Aunt Jojo is that she’s constantly moving. All through lunch, she keeps hopping up to bring over more pizza or refill our waters. At one point, she disappears for a full five minutes to check on the camper—and returns with a bundle of freshly picked wildflowers for the table.

I may actually be obsessed with her.

“So tell me about this Walter,” she says, perching at the edge of her seat.

“Um, he’s a YouTuber? He was pretty popular a few years ago, I guess. He had a collab channel called Drama Clash. It was mostly skits and ukulele covers. Lots of banter. I swear they’re better than I’m making them sound. Um.” I lean forward, reaching for another pizza slice. “Do you remember that video from a few years ago, where it was like two boys on a bench in a high school locker room?”

Jojo shakes her head. “I’m out of the loop.”

“No, you’re good! Um. Have you heard of Hayden Geller? He’s about to be in that new space movie. The Odyssey Intergalactic.”

“Yes!” She points at me. “Little dude with the jawline and the pout. Yup.”

“That’s him!” I smile. “So, he was actually Walter’s collaborator, but then he moved to Hollywood. So it’s just Walter now.”

“Amelia’s in love with him,” Natalie says, matter-of-factly.

“Excuse me?”

She shrugs, picks up a stegosaurus nugget, and calmly decapitates it.

I turn back to Jojo. “I’m not in love with Walter. I have a respectful appreciation for his work.”

“I’ve got to look this guy up,” Jojo says, taking her phone out. “What kind of content does he do?”

“Mostly just, like, long-form discussion. Commentary, I guess?”

“Being a dweeb,” Mark contributes.

“Yeah, an adorable dweeb—”

“I’m sure he’s adorable,” Nat says, “when you’re love with him.”

When I turn to face her, she smiles—so I’m pretty sure she’s messing with me. She has to be, right? She has to know it’s not that simple. Am I a fan? Yeah, of course. And have I been known to indulge in the occasional daydream where I’m at his live event, and our eyes meet, and it’s this moment of soul-deep recognition. And it’s clear in an instant why I’ve always, always felt pulled to him. It was never in my head. It was never parasocial. We were always meant to know each other—as friends. Maybe with benefits. But!

To say I’m in love with him?

“Aww—this little ginger guy?” Jojo holds up her phone, and I nod. “He looks so young!”

“He’s our age. I think that’s an old picture.” I lean in. “Oh yeah, that’s from VidCon. Sophomore year, I think?”

“You would know,” murmurs Nat.

“Yeah, well, at least I’ve never dated Claire Zimmerman.” Everyone turns to stare at me, and the tips of my cheeks go warm. “What, are we just pretending she’s not awful? That girl’s, like, a poorly written antagonist, and you’re here shitting on Walter?”

“Excuse me?”

I snap back. “She’s a toddler! She throws a tantrum every time you breathe wrong!”

“Oh my God, seriously—”

“I don’t know how you don’t see it!” I laugh, almost incredulously, which makes Zora and Mark exchange quick, wary glances. “Nat, she’s insufferable!”

“All right!” Jojo says loudly. “Arms out, everyone.”

I turn to Jojo. “Arms . . . what?”

She extends her left arm horizontally forward, watching us expectantly. Then, when all four of us have assumed the position, she swipes four yellow paper strips off the counter. Bracelets, I realize. “I was going to surprise you guys with these later,” she says, “but I feel like you could use them right now. Plus, I think it’s supposed to rain in a bit. Has Zora told you about the amusement park?”

“We drove past it,” I say, watching Jojo wrap it around my wrist. It’s softer than paper, and it seals with a sticker. Two words printed in the middle: unlimited rides. “Okay, this is way too nice. Let me pay you back—”

“Absolutely not. I want you going hog wild.” She points at me, and then Nat. “And no moping, no bickering, none of that. It’s an amusement park. Go be amused. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say, and Nat gives a solemn nod beside me.

Reddit (January, senior year)

u/_bring_back_pearberry

THEY ARE REAL PEOPLE

Evergreen reminder that the boys are actual real people!!! Like I can’t believe I even need to say this?? Not trying to shit on anyone’s parasocial relationships, I’m right there with you, but THERE IS A LINE!!!!! You need to be mindful about what you’re posting, like you literally don’t know who’s reading it. It could be someone the boys know irl or THEY COULD LITERALLY BE HERE READING IT THEMSELVES. This is honestly Hayter behavior and I really thought we were better than this?? Not saying it’s every post—just a concerning trend I’ve noticed in this sub recently. I’m all for speculation, but keep it RESPECTFUL. Walden is supposed to be a safe space for ALL members of the community. Sorry for ranting, but I had to say it

u/monty_felicity_adrian

No but you’re right and you should say it!!!!! Also like, it’s bad enough that we’re lumped in with the Hayters—let’s not prove them right??

u/originalwaldentruther

Yup, this is not how we do it

u/just_like_other_girls

THANK YOU FOR SAYING THIS

u/Angelic_Ad_9860359012

also they are literally MINORS??? like wtf y’all

u/dramaclashtaylorsversion

Hayden isn’t a minor

u/Ok_elemental103952051

Agreed (tho hayden isn’t a minor fyi, he turned 18 in august). But yeah, some of the posts I’ve seen recently are pretty inappropriate imho. I’m not going to tell you not to ship them (obviously not, this is literally the walden sub lol), but you REALLY need to be careful to respect their privacy. And OBVIOUSLY keep things sfw (that goes without saying), but imo, we shouldn’t even be speculating about anything physical/$eggsual. Idk if that’s an unpopular opinion or what, but yeah

u/im_bisexual_actually123

Not an unpopular opinion

u/originalwaldentruther

It is on the hayter sub

u/Angelic_Ad_9860359012

sldfkjghsldkjfghslkjdfng

u/justanotherhayleigh989

okay so i’ll probably get downvoted for this, but i actually think there’s some nuance here. like yeah some of it’s extremely not good and I’ve seen some questionable posts in this sub from grown adults to say the least. but.

idk, like, a lot of us are literally just queer kids ourselves? like i’m literally their age, ill turn 18 like two months after walter. obviously don’t harass them, and even fellow minors absolutely need to be respectful. but idk man, some of us are just desperate for representation lol

u/Ok_elemental103952051

Real people aren’t “representation.”

u/fangoriously_devoured

This. Also, reminder that Hayden literally hasn’t even come out, we don’t technically know how he identifies. We’re all aware of the pressure he’s gotten from the hayters since My Sexuality (abu) dropped & the last thing we want to do is add to that.

u/justanotherhayleigh989

i agree with all of this, yes!

u/justanotherhayleigh989

okay? i’m not trying to say the purpose of their existence is to provide representation lol. im just saying, i think ~most~ (not all) of the posts in this sub are actually pretty harmless. like ymmv, but there’s a difference btw grown adults drawing nsfw fanart vs queer teens talking about the boys’ hands touching, you know?

Eleven

According to Jojo, the amusement park’s walking distance; technically true, I guess, since we’re walking there. She shooed us out the door right after lunch, in hopes of maximizing our chances to, quote-unquote, “beat the rain.” But rain itself feels like a concept from an entirely fictional universe. There’s a whisper-soft breeze, and my hair’s catching every ray of sunshine. Maximum hello lamppost vibes. Even the air feels sugar-spun.

I catch up to Nat, hop-skipping over a sidewalk crack. “You done picking on Walter, or what?”

“Never.” She smiles.

“Because God forbid you give him a chance and realize you love him, right?”

“Good point. It’s not like I’m driving six hours to attend his meet and greet or anything.”

“It’s a road trip! We’re distracting you from your breakup!”

“Definitely. Right. It’s about my breakup, not you chasing your boyfriend all the way upstate—”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s your subjunctive boyfriend.”

I let out a laugh. “What a callback!”

Leave it to Natalie, right? A vintage inside joke for every single occasion. This one’s a classic metaphor from the depths of Zora’s giant poindexter brain. Zora, who probably knows more about verb tenses than any teacher at our school. Though, it turns out, they don’t even call the subjunctive a tense. It’s a grammatical mood. And most of all, it’s a wish.

According to Zora, a subjunctive boyfriend is someone you wish was your boyfriend. An if-only, maybe-one-day kind of boyfriend.

“Walter Holland is not my subjunctive boyfriend, Nathaniel.”

“Hey,” Mark calls back—by now, he and Zora are almost a block ahead of us. “Why are you guys walking like elderly turtles?”

Natalie and I raise our middle fingers in perfect unison.

“Is this because of the prom video?” I ask. “Honestly, I just did that to prove you wrong.”

“Me?” Nat hits me with a side-eye so pointed, I’m pretty sure it counts as assault.

“Yes, you! You’re the one who called it a no-risk parasocial infatuation!”

“Okay, I take it back. You’re just in love with him.”

“Oh my God, I’m not—”

“Fine. You’re in crush with him.”

“He’s a YouTuber.”

“You can have a crush on a YouTuber,” Nat says. “I checked the rules. It’s allowed. Even geeky little ginger boys.”

“What do you have against geeky little ginger boys?”

“I love geeky little ginger boys. I just love them in a lesbian way.”

“In a lesbian way.” I squint. “So, like, brides dancing gayly to Ed Sheeran?”

“Okay, yes. Absolutely that.”

A breeze wafts by, tickling my cheeks with the loose parts of my hair. Number one favorite kind of weather, hands down. The air feels like a screened-in porch with a ceiling fan.

I pause. “Okay, but you don’t think I’m creepy, right? With Walter?”

“Um. What? No!”

“I just like his content. And I think he’s cool. And he’s cute.”

“Allegedly cute.” She shuts one eye.

“Says the girl who had a crush on the Aristocats.”

“Not all of them. Just Duchess.”

“I don’t know who needs to hear this,” I say, “but cats can’t be MILFs.”

We catch up with Zora and Mark at the end of the block. “Okay! Let’s talk strategy,” I say. “Do we want to get our priorities in order now? Wait until we get there?”

Zora furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

“I just want to make sure we at least get to our S-tier rides.”

“We get unlimited rides.” She holds up her hand. “Wristbands, remember?”

“Right, but I’m guessing the fast pass is separate.”

“Fast pass.” Zora laughs. “So, you’re picturing Disney World.”

I smile. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“It’s old-timey, right?” Natalie says. “I was reading about it. Apparently, some people think it’s haunted?”

“Exactly!” I point at her. “That’s what I’m talking about. Do we really want to wait in line with ghosts? Folks, just file right in behind Wraithlyn Shadonia Phantombreath and Ghoulia Hauntoria the Bloodless.”

“Depends,” Natalie says. “How bad’s the phantom breath?”

“Bad. And they’re not cute. We’re talking, like—big gaping eye sockets. Dripping with blood.”

Zora tilts her head. “I thought Ghoulia was bloodless?”

“That’s her name, not a literal description of who she is as a person. That’s like saying, Oh, your last name’s Long?” I gesture at the twins. “Must have a super long—”

“Wow, this conversation has been a journey!” Mark says.

“I’m just saying. Might be worth investing in—” I stop short. “Okay. Whoa. You know what Wraithlyn and Ghoulia would be absolutely flawless names for?”

“Cats?” suggests Zora.

“Not cats. What about . . .” I give my boobs a quick pat. “These. Supernatural. Entities.”

“Nope. No thank you. Kill me,” says Mark.

“If that’s what you want.” I clear my throat. “Friends and family, we are gathered here on this sad day in May to say our goodbyes to the esteemed Marquis de Mark. He died as he lived, panicking about boobs.”

Natalie pats his shoulder. “What a way to go.”

“A man of great courage. Let us honor him now by placing a hand—nay, both hands—on our chests. You know where. And we say, as one.” I exhale. “Breast in peace, young hero.”

“That was—wow.”

“I know. Be strong, sweet Natrina. He wouldn’t have wanted us to cry.”

Mark blinks. “No, he would.”

“Hey, look!” Zora lifts her chin.

I follow her gaze—there’s a playground, a candy shop, and an almost entirely empty parking lot. Right behind it: a domed white pavilion with an art deco facade, and the words “PLAYLAND” in all-caps, neon red letters. There’s another pavilion beside it, topped with giant, colorful letters spelling out something I can’t quite read from this angle. But the vibe is unmistakable. As are the two brightly painted clowns on the roof. As are the blue and red Ferris wheel capsule seats rising in the distance behind them.

“Told you it’s old-timey,” Nat says.

I shake my head. “When was this place even built? The fifties?”

She pulls her phone out to check. “Oh, wow. 1886.”

“That can’t be real.” Nat holds up her phone and I lean closer to read it. “Whaaaat?”

“I know!”

“It’s cool, right?” says Zora.

My only response: a stunned, wordless nod. Mouth hanging wide open. Hi! Amelia Applebaum here. I’m the girl whose face looks like the front of a mailbox.

Zora glances back at me. “Millie, you good?”

“Yeah. I’m just. Man.” I press my forehead. “Like, is your car the actual DeLorean? What century is this?”

“Who could say?” Zora presses the walk sign button. We’re just across the street from the entrance by now, and my eyes don’t know where to land first. There’s a polka-dotted ticket booth and a tall spiral of roller-coaster tracks. By now, we’re close enough to see the full front of the clown pavilion, which appears to be a nightmarish fun house called LAFFLAND. And there are other rides, too—poised to spin and whirl above the concrete, or tucked under striped domes like circus tents. Beyond that: rows of midway games, and at least three arcades. Everything’s painted in such vibrantly bright colors, it’s like we’ve stepped beneath a filter.

But here’s the most surreal part: it’s practically empty. Just some roaming groups of middle schoolers and a couple of families with kids. And us, I guess.

There’s no way this place is real. I think I might have dreamed it.

The walk light flips on, and I’m drawn in like a magnet. Toward Laffland, toward Playland, toward the rainbow-dot ticket booth.

But something stops me in my tracks, and it’s not a game or a ride or a weird painted clown. It’s a plain metal bench in the grass, surrounded by clover and weeds. And, most important: two perfectly spherical dandelions.

Twelve

Not the yellow kind of dandelion; the wishing kind.

It’s funny because I don’t actually believe in wishes—not with any kind of certainty. But I believe in the possibility of wishes.

Hear me out. Say you wish on a dandelion, and it comes true. Does that mean dandelion magic is real?

Nope. Just because the wish came true doesn’t mean the dandelion did it.

But it could have been the dandelion.

So now let’s take this scenario and flip it. Different wish. But this time, the universe ignores it. Honestly, you might as well start designing the YouTube thumbnail graphic. High-saturation selfie with an exaggerated shocked face, holding an impotent dandelion by its broken, bent stem. Dandelion magic: exposed as a FRAUD??? Right?

Wrong! Because maybe your wish will come true in an hour. Maybe it’s in progress. Or it was a faulty dandelion. Maybe you submitted the wish incorrectly. Didn’t get all the seeds off in one blow. There’s simply no real way of knowing.

So you have to leave the door open a crack. That’s all I’m saying. Make the wish, just in case.

Which is why I pluck both straight from the ground when we walk past the bench. A wish for me, and a wish for Nat.

“Use this responsibly,” I tell her. “Nothing about ex-girlfriends, got it?”

“Not even if it’s a revenge wish?”

“Oh! Yeah, that’s allowed. Encouraged, even.”

“Noted—”

“Though, feel free to run it by me just in case,” I add. “Painstaking graphic detail is fine. We wouldn’t want to violate the guidelines.”

“The wishing ball guidelines.” She nods soberly. “Good thinking.”

Wishing balls. I really used to think they were called that. Natalie’s the one who broke the news that they were dandelions. To which my dumb ass responded by informing her dandelions were yellow.

“Well,” she’d said. “Sometimes.”

It was the first night of camp, the summer after seventh grade. Sing-along had already started, but we’d slipped away for a quote-unquote “bathroom break.” As in: past the old outhouse and up the path to the lake. Per the map on the Camp Kunin website, that’s where they’d hidden the boys.

“You’re telling me these are dandelions. These.”

“Yup. Same plant.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“No, for real! She’s in her seed head era. Whole new part of the life cycle.”

I shook my head. “So it’s just . . . a baby dandelion?”

“More like a dandelion in heat.”

“Heck, yeah! Single and ready to mingle!”

She laughed. “Pretty much.”

“Now we have to blow them,” I’d said. “It’s our civic duty as wingwomen.”

“True.” Then she paused. “What are you gonna wish for?”

“Kissing,” I said.

“Uh, what?” She looked startled. “Kissing who?”

“I’m thinking . . . Zach Fine.”

“Oh, I can’t let you do that.” She pointed to the crown of her head.

I laughed incredulously. “You can’t let me kiss him because he wears a kippah?”

“I can’t let you kiss him,” she said, “because his kippah says yeet.”

“In Hebrew!”

“Amelia, that word is not in my Torah.”

Then she puffed her cheeks out without warning; took out both dandelions in a single sharp blow.

“For your own protection,” she told me. “You’ll thank me one day.”

The park is small, but in a good way. It feels like a place you could know every inch of. There’s a steady backbeat of arcade bleeps and zings, cut by the occasional roller-coaster whoosh. And every single molecule of air smells like fried dough.

“Rides before games, I think?” Zora says. “Looks like the weather might get iffy later.”

“Says who?” I tilt my head up toward the cloudless blue sky.

“My app.” Zora shrugs. “Might not happen though.”

“I say we start with rides anyway. Don’t want Mark to have to carry all our prizes around.”

“There’s that good old-fashioned internalized misogyny,” Mark says.

I pat his shoulder. “I mean it in a Mommy way, not a big beefy muscle-guy way,” I assure him.

He narrows his eyes. “In a—”

“Not a MILF way. Please. You’re no MILF.”

Admittedly, hungover-mom-at-the carnival-reluctantly-holding-everyone’s-ice-cream-cones is essentially Mark’s whole personality. But maybe this place could thaw him out. Is it even possible to be cynical here? As amusement parks go, this one’s definitely not like other girls. No corporatized merch or branded gift shops by the exit of each ride. Nothing’s branded here at all. The entire space looks like it was plucked from a picture book.

“I’m making an executive decision,” I say. “We’re starting chill.”

I point to a ride called “the Himalaya”—seems to be a mini roller coaster, where cars zoom up, down, and sideways along a simple, short track. There’s hardly any line; just two girls waiting for the previous cycle to finish.

Zora looks amused. “I don’t know if that one’s chill.”

Mark bows out like the mommy he is, but it works out in our favor. The rows of seating are just big enough for three.

“Ladies.” I sweep my arm toward the car.

“Please don’t wink,” Natalie says. “It’s giving fedora.”

I pantomime tipping an invisible hat. Jordan Cohen, your legacy lives another day.

Zora climbs in first, with Nat in the middle—then me.

A minute later, Natalie’s practically on top of me. More than practically. Wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the three of us have fused into a single compressed entity. Also, I clearly underestimated the power of the up-and-down undulation while taking whip-fast turns on a tilt. Not to mention the sheer visual chaos of roaring through a red-striped circus tent.

On the bright side: now I know what it feels like to be digested. My bones are actual dust by the time the ride jerks to a stop.

Zora exhales, unclicking her seat belt. “How are we feeling?”

“Amazing.” Blink. Double finger guns. The metal restraint bar lifts up, and I stretch until my knuckles crack. “Galaxi coaster next?”

Natalie squints. “Oh, hell no. That thing’s a million years old.”

“Exactly! It’s a piece of history!”

“Absolutely don’t want to be strapped into a moving piece of history.”

“Natronica, everything is history. We are pieces of history. Look!” I lean sideways to hug her. “You’re strapped into a piece of history right now.”

Natalie lets out a giggle, and everything’s one hundred percent rosy. Until the stupid thing happens, and my brain glitches out.

Thirteen

Let me try to explain it. Think of a song you know completely by heart. Not just the melody and lyrics. I mean the one you know so well your body anticipates every shift in tempo. Think of a song that feels like the inside of your brain.

Got it? Okay, now imagine this: you press play, and someone’s added an extra bass line. Or a tiny change in intonation; an extra beat of silence.

That’s my friendship with Nat. Most of the time, it’s business as usual. Same notes, same beat, same arrangement.

And then we’ll get a key change out of nowhere. Or there’s a brand-new riff before the chorus.

It’s like a tiny itch in the back of my brain. I don’t fully know how to make sense of it. Maybe it’s just a thing that happens sometimes when you’re both queer.

I always thought it was the funniest coincidence—even more so when you factor in Zora. Best friends since kindergarten, and all three of us turned out to be queer. If it weren’t for Mark, we’d have a perfect success rate.

I don’t really think it’s a coincidence, though. Maybe on some level, we knew. It just took us a while to know that we knew.

It took some of us longer than others, I fear.

Out of the three of us, I was the first to kiss a girl, but the last to know why. Because even after Talia Schecter and the boathouse, I still felt like a straight girl. That’s the weird part. I felt like a straight girl who maybe liked girls.

Me and my beautiful marble-smooth brain.

Words like queer, words like bi—they were like a new pair of shoes. Cute and properly sized, but they weren’t quite mine. I hadn’t broken them in yet.

It probably didn’t help that camp was so far from real life. It barely felt like it belonged to the world as we knew it. A week after it ended, I was half-convinced I’d dreamed the whole thing. Not just the kissing. Even the feelings felt fake.

Two weeks into eighth grade, Natalie officially came out. Not at school; that was down the line. But to her family, and us. And then Zora countered by dropping a gay bombshell of her own. The ultimate Uno reverse card.

Maybe I should have grabbed the baton and run with it. I wouldn’t have even had to change the topic.

The thing is, gay stuff was always the topic that fall. Quite frankly, I don’t know how Mark, Token Hetero™, survived it. Natalie and Zora spent weeks comparing notes on which Disney princesses had them in chokeholds, what it felt like seeing girls kiss in TV shows. The common ground was endless, and they were endlessly fascinated by it.

But things got fuzzy when I tried to play along in my head.

Zora and Nat were so certain about things—queerness was never a question for either of them. Even before they knew it, they knew. So what did it mean that I didn’t?

Online, there were quizzes and columns, thousands and thousands of comments. But nothing was clicking.

Is My Girl Crush a Real Crush?

Help! I Don’t Know If I’m Gay!

How Do I Know If I’m in Love with My—

It was unnerving. I’d never been the kind of person to second-guess myself, but I was an absolute pancake. I couldn’t stop flipping. I had to be queer, because no straight girl would be this hung up on the question. But then again, I had to be straight. After all, no queer girl would be this unsure of the answer.

The problem is: you can’t fully remember a feeling. You think you do, but it’s actually just a mental transcription. Your brain says, my stomach fluttered, but the flutter isn’t what you remember. It’s the thought. Almost like an echo.

Exactly like Walter said in his coming-out video.

The only thing feelings can do is fade.

I talk Zora into riding the Galaxi coaster—followed by the bumper cars, the Scrambler, and the bumper cars again. But as soon as we settle in for a snack break, she leaves to call Edith. And I can’t even give her shit for it since Edith is the undisputed queen of logistics this weekend. She’s the one who tracked down two empty dorm rooms for tomorrow when we realized every single hotel near the college is booked solid for graduation weekend. Walter-Holland-Consult-a-Calendar-Before-Setting-Your-Event-Date-Challenge: impossible. If Edith is the queen of logistics, Walter’s the king of the logistical nightmares.

So now it’s just the twins and me on the dandelion bench, where we proceed to annihilate a full bag of cotton candy. Nutritious and delicious. In related news, the Tilt-A-Whirl might be off the table for a while.

Natalie pats her stomach. “Arcade, maybe?”

Immediate verbal yes and a nod from Mark—for him, that’s pep rally–level enthusiasm. But I can’t sign off on this plan. Not yet.

“Hear me out. One more ride.” My eyes flick sideways. “Nothing dizzy.”

Natalie looks suspicious. “Tell me you’re not talking about the fun house.”

“It’ll be great! Just a nice silly time—”

“I don’t want a silly time. Not with them.”

“Who, those two?” I smile up at the clowns, turning back to Natalie. “You don’t think they’re kind of sweet?”

“I do not.”

“But they look so happy up there.”

We’re directly in front of Laffland now—close enough to see the brightly painted figures on the side of its structure. Just a couple of deeply wholesome, upbeat, family-friendly illustrations. A larger-than-life decapitated skeleton, for example. A giant horned demon. Possibly Satan.

“They’re ironic demons,” I explain. “That’s why it’s called Laffland. You’re supposed to laugh at them.”

“Laughing at demons.” Mark nods. “That always ends well.”

Natalie turns to me, anguished. “Why does the floating beard head have that face?”

“Excellent question! Let’s find out.”

“Okay! I’m gonna . . .” Mark trails off, pointing vaguely at Playland next door.

“Markatron, are you scared of Laffland?”

“One of those clowns just winked at me,” Natalie murmurs.

“Nice. You should give him your number.” I tug her sleeve. “Come on!”

There’s no one in line. Literally no one. The ride operator is a grizzled-looking white dude with a moustache, who grunts at our wristbands and ushers us into the ride car.

No seat belts, no lap bar, no safety restraints. The car lurches forward, and a door slams shut behind us. Then another door creaks open, and we’re plunged into darkness.

“Alexa, play ‘The Sound of Silence,’” I say, nudging Natalie sideways. She snorts, opening her mouth to respond. But then we’re jerked toward a glowing demon head before she can even choke out the first syllable.

Natalie grips the edge of the seat, suddenly breathless. “This place is actually terrifying.”

“Hey, it’s fine! You think I’d let a malevolent horned succubus emerge from the depths of hell to suck out every last flicker of light from your soul?”

“That is . . . oddly specific.”

A jump-scare demon lights up out of nowhere, and Natalie yelps.

I scoot closer, grabbing her hand, and she freezes. Just for a moment. But then she turns her hand just a little, tucking it more neatly into mine. By a skeleton’s light, I catch her glancing at me, mouth opening tentatively. But then—nothing. The sound of silence. And demons. And my own fucking heartbeat. Amazing. Now back to you, Brain, for some real-time narration about how my stomach’s fluttering.

But then the exit doors slide open, and somehow our hands disentangle. The ride spits us out where we started.

Natalie pulls her phone out as soon as we’re back on the platform. “Hey, you’ll never guess who bailed and walked home.”

“Not Marky Mark!”

She holds her phone up. “Says he wants to beat the—”

Suddenly, it’s raining—and not the gentle kind. It’s the kind that slaps the ground so hard, it almost ricochets. Niagara Falls, out of nowhere.

“—rain,” Natalie finishes, with a startled little head shake.

A laugh bubbles up in my throat. “The fact that we’re not soaked right now.”

By some miracle of timing, we’re still on that tiny stretch of platform, completely covered by the overhang. And since the moustache guy seems to have abandoned his post, it’s literally just us, Satan, and the decapitated skeleton. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you, demon guardians.”

“Nope.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Absolutely not.”

The ride car’s still parked on the track just behind us—we could easily reclaim it, if we wanted. Not to run through the actual ride again. But we could settle onto the seat and watch the rain. Like a drive-in movie. It would actually be really nice.

Natalie looks up from her phone. “Okay, Zora said just text her when we’re ready, and Aunt Jojo will come pick us up.”

“My hero.” I look out at the rain still pounding the concrete and gushing from the edges of benches. Flattening every dandelion into oblivion. “Wow. I don’t even think we could make it to the car without getting washed out to sea.”

“I mean, technically, we’d be washed out to lake.”

“Or pushed into lake.” I nod gravely.

She bites back a smile. “Okay, question. How much would you hate it if we got, like . . . a little bit soaked?”

“Counter-question,” I say, raising my hand like a schoolgirl. “Is ‘soaked’ a euphemism in this context?”

“No.”

“Is it—”

“Not a double entendre.” She shakes her head, smiling. “I was just thinking . . . we never made it to the arcade, did we?”

“We most certainly did not!”

“And you know how I feel about coin pushers.”

“You love them,” I say. “You’d get wet for them.”

“Okay, you’re actually insufferable.” She scrunches her nose, but she’s smiling.

I smile back. “It’s an art.”

Fourteen

The word soaked is such an understatement, it’s actually kind of comical. It’s like saying Princess Aurora got sleepy. It’s Star Wars, except the galaxy is “a bit of a schlep.”

Because, it turns out, Natalie’s not interested in the Playland pavilion next door. She wants the one that’s past Playland, past the gift shop, past the shooting gallery, in an entirely separate open-air building.

Suffice it to say that the Ziploc freezer bag Natalie stuffed in her purse this morning is the reason we both still have functional phones. I could probably fill a swimming pool just from wringing out my socks.

Nat reclaims her glasses from the freezer bag, and now they’re officially the only spot of dryness in the entire vicinity of her face. Her hair’s pulled back today, but the little loose front parts cling slickly to her flushed, gleaming cheeks. There are even raindrops on her eyelashes when she blinks. “Hey, we made it,” she says.

“I mean.” I let out a quick, breathless laugh. “We’re not technically at the bottom of Oneida Lake, so yeah.”

I peer around, taking in the rows of claws and Skee-Ball lanes and test-my-strength machines. There’s a Zoltar machine directly behind us, too, and in the center of the room: a literal carousel.

“Do we need a swipe card?” I ask.

Natalie grins. “Nope. Tokens!”

But apparently this place is too old-timey even for that. The games take quarters. It’s legitimately wild—I can’t remember the last time I’ve put a quarter in anything. I turn to Natalie. “What’s that trick to figure out if you’re dreaming?”

“You mean this?” She pinches my forearm.

“It didn’t hurt!” I press a hand to my mouth. “That means it’s a dream, right?”

Natalie laughs. “Let me get this straight. You’re questioning the very fabric of reality because an arcade takes quarters.”

“Correct.”

“But being surrounded by demons in pitch darkness—” She steps closer. “That part’s okay?”

“Yes,” I say, and my brain’s one big tangle of wires. No thoughts. Just electricity and chaos. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Because they’re my wingmen,” I say.

“The demons.”

“Yes.”

Those strands of hair are starting to curl around her ears as they dry, and it’s making my thoughts go blurry.

“How are the demons your wingmen?” she asks.

“Because demons have wings.”

“Right, of course.” She’s standing closer than normal. Closer than real life. “It’s their civic duty. How could I forget?”

We’re not even touching. That’s what’s so weird about it. It doesn’t feel like normal space between us. It feels like the space between magnets.

The stupid thing. The glitchy thing.

My brain’s completely underwater.

Someone just asked me a question. A kid in an orange Syracuse hat.

I blink at him. “Wait—what? Sorry—”

“Are you done?” He points to Zoltar.

“Oh! No. I mean, yeah. All yours.”

The front page of my brain refreshes. Welcome back, Amelia. It’s Friday, you’re soaked down to your socks, and if Zoltar turns this kid into Tom Hanks, it’s probably your fault.

I reach for my phone, just to anchor myself.

Pocket’s empty. But I’m not going to panic. I slide my bag off my shoulder and start rummaging through it.

“Lose something?” Nat grabs my phone out of her freezer bag, and I let out a laugh.

“Wow, I’m a dumbass.”

Natalie starts to smile. But when she glances down at her own phone, her expression falters.

“Why are you making a whoa face?” I ask.

“A whoa face?”

“Like, a whoa-I’m-freaking-out face. It’s the face! With the forehead!”

“I don’t have a forehead face!”

“Not in general! It’s one facial expression. Very rich in foreheadry. Kind of like”—I tilt my head down, wrinkling my brow—“this. See?”

“Very flattering, thank you.” She taps her screen and frowns.

“Hey.” I rest my hand on the coin machine, leaning in closer. “You okay, Nattywhompus?”

She blinks. “Sorry, yeah. Wait, I’ll get us some quarters.”

“I can get them,” I say, reaching for my zipper pouch. But I freeze before my hand finds my pocket. “Hold up. Claire texted you, didn’t she?”

Nat’s cheeks go pink. “What?” It comes out weirdly high-pitched. Almost squeaky.

“Oh my God, she did!”

“I guess—”

“Wait.” My heart drops. “Have you guys been texting this whole time?”

“No! Amelia—not at all. I haven’t even talked to her since prom.”

“Couldn’t even let you have the weekend. I swear to God. Every goddamn time.” I sink my hand into my pocket, grab my pouch, and extract a mostly dry five-dollar bill. Which I proceed to jam into the bill slot with extreme nonchalance. A pile of coins spills from the machine with a clatter, and I scoop them up with my palm. “What does she want?”

Natalie shrugs. “She just asked if we could talk.”

I lean back against a bank of coin pushers, feeling suddenly faint. “Are you going to talk to her?”

“I don’t know! Probably not.” She plucks a quarter from my hand, edging in beside me to slip it into a coin pusher slot. It’s a well-placed shot, but the moving shelves manage to absorb it without knocking a single coin into the winner zone. She wrinkles her nose at me. “Rude.”

“The coin pusher or your shitty ex?” I ask, but my chest’s already unclenching.

“Both.” She laughs, grabbing another quarter. She doesn’t change slots, but this time, it veers inexplicably into the center. “I think it’s rigged.”

“Let me try.” I drop a quarter into the slot, where it promptly sends a whole section of coins cascading down a level.

Natalie and I both stop short, eyes glued to the console.

And, okay, I know it’s just an arcade game. But that clang of falling coins, followed by a rush of spurting tickets—you can’t tell me that’s not music. It’s a whole entire symphony.

Reddit (September, senior year)

u/the_real_victoria_geller

DRAMA CLASH ENDING??

Okay I just watched Walt’s video and I’m actually so heartbroken?? I was a freshman when Locker Room dropped, I’ve been here since the beginning. It feels like my childhood is ending 😭 Anyone else having surprisingly intense feelings about this?

u/hot_magical_and_weston

Its not ending, just a hiatus

u/oddity_intergalactic69

Have u watched walt’s video yet? He just launched his solo channel, it’s called walter holland speaks and he confirms that Drama Clash is in fact over.

u/justhereforthediskhorse

Yeah I actually feel sick about it lmao. Do you think it’s because of the speculation on the hayter and walden subs

u/originalwaldentruther

just sliding in to note that there is a HUGE difference btw the hayters and the waldens

u/oddity_intergalactic69

haha ikr, they literally hate each other? r/HobbyDrama has a great post about it.

u/justhereforthediskhorse

okay thank you so much for this, what a journey lol

u/originalwaldentruther

I assume its related to contractual issues with hayden re: odyssey

u/the_real_victoria_geller OP

Yeah I would not be surprised

u/chanukahdramukkahshands

I don’t think it’s fandom related honestly—it’s either logistics or hayden having restrictions on what he can post during the TOI promo period

u/originalwaldentruther

Or both!

u/ultimate_theatre_kid99

I’m honestly devastated. DC is my comfort channel and honestly the boys got me through some of the hardest periods of my life. I literally don’t know what to do with myself now?? I’ll watch Walt’s new channel I guess but idk, it just doesn’t hit the same without Hayden.

u/the_real_victoria_geller OP

Yeah, it was definitely about their friendship for me & the way their humor played off each other, idk if that makes sense

u/mechanical_heart_repairs

And the uke covers!!!!

u/ultimate_theatre_kid99

Totally does, and I completely agree

u/haydenswalter090102145

Okay so I heard that 6 months after the film drops, the boys are free to relaunch. Anyone know if this is true??

u/_bring_back_pearberry

Do you have a source for that? I haven’t heard that

u/haydenswalter090102145

People are talking about it here and here

u/originalwaldentruther

Lol okay so hayters are FAMOUS for making shit up. I would not take anything on that sub as fact lmao

[removed]

u/originalwaldentruther

lol okay??

[removed]

u/originalwaldentruther

literally not what i said but go off

[removed]

u/monty_felicity_adrian

RIP the hayters have found this post

u/im_bisexual_actually123

Because it’s actually none of our business??? Fun fact: you can enjoy someone’s content and not devote your entire life to speculating about a relationship that literally doesn’t involve you. Hope that helps!

Fifteen

It’s stopped raining by the time we leave the pavilion, but Aunt Jojo insists on driving out to pick us up anyway. She’s draped towels over the seats, just like my parents always did after beach days and swim meets. I buckle in behind her, laying out my and Natalie’s prize haul on the seat beside me. Four Dum-Dum lollipops and one crookedly stitched pink plushie that might be a dog. Maybe a rat. That’s what five hundred tickets gets you in this economy.

“I’m digging the seat covers,” I say.

Jojo smiles. “I had a feeling.”

“We love feelings.” I smile back.

Which is when I realize Natalie’s staring at me. Like—fully twisted around in her seat, studying my face like it’s a road map. I make a goofy face at her. “What?”

Natalie blinks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not fight for shotgun before.”

“It’s called being generous!”

“Generous, huh?”

I toss her our little pink crooked rat dog. “Look, there I go again!”

“We have joint custody! That’s not generosity.”

“So, Natalie,” Jojo says, “I heard a rumor about you.”

“Is this about you-know-who?” I make a face.

“Ooh, I don’t think so.” Jojo waggles her eyebrows at me in the rearview. “But if there’s gossip, I want it—”

“Wait, what’s the rumor?” asks Nat.

“Right! So.” Jojo pauses, turning into the driveway—we’re already home. “Mark says you guys will be at Bader in the fall.”

“Oh—yup!” Nat replies.

“Nice.” Jojo high-fives her. “Did Zora tell you I went there?”

“Wait, really?”

Jojo laughs. “I can’t believe she didn’t mention it!”

“Zora never talks about college,” I explain, leaning forward.

“Or grades,” Natalie adds.

Zora’s always been weird about that stuff. Not academics in general, of course. She’s fine with those. More than fine. She’s the dweebiest, most logical AP-Calculus-loving brainiac I’ve met in my life. It’s just that the competitive aspects make her twitchy. Even bringing up East Seneca makes her palpably uncomfortable. My guess is that she feels weird about the fact that she’ll be on the full-honors STEM track, and I won’t be. As if that’s something I even care about.

I mean, yeah, there’s a not-so-slim chance she’ll replace me with some scraggly beardo dude who spends all day getting high and making up theorems. Or refurbishing computers. Hacking into the mainframe. God only knows what Beardo’s capable of. But in terms of me feeling jealous or competitive about it? I didn’t even apply for honors, so who knows what Zora’s smoking. I’m just amazed all four of us will be in the same city next year.

It’s the ultimate coup. My greatest triumph. I don’t care how much Mom wants me to stay closer to home. Or how hard Dad wants to side-eye me about it.

I still remember his face when the acceptance letter arrived.

He’d appeared in my bedroom doorway with a thick, packet-sized envelope. “Mail for you, kiddo!” he’d said, a little too brightly. “East Seneca, huh?”

I’d swiped it out of his hand. “What’s wrong with East Seneca?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m just—surprised!”

“Okay . . .” I turned the letter around in my hands. An envelope this size had to mean good news. It’s not like college form rejections came with campus handbooks and bumper stickers.

Dad was still watching me from the doorway. “Are you going to open it?”

“Sure. Sorry, you didn’t seem that invested.”

“What? I’m invested!” He stepped inside, scooting in beside me on the bed. “Just didn’t know East Seneca was a contender. Last I heard, you were wanting to stick closer to home.”

“No, Mom wants me to stick closer to home.” I shrugged, ripping through the seal. “Hey, look. I got in. Yay.”

“Heck yeah! That’s amazing.” He hugged me sideways. “So, you’re thinking Ithaca, huh?”

I winced. “Mom’s going to be so pissed.”

“Pissed that you got into college?”

“Dad.” I looked at him. “It’s like five hours away. Mom thinks New Rochelle is far.”

“She just knows how much we’re going to miss you!”

“Okay, there’s missing people,” I said, “and then there’s melting down at the slightest whiff of change.”

“Come on—mild tantrum at best.” He laughed, glancing down at the packet. “Well, tell me about East Seneca. What do you love about it?”

“Um, it’s a good school. The campus seems pretty. Good location.”

He looked at me, a little too knowingly. “Your friends will be in Ithaca.”

“Yeah, but that’s not why I want to go there.”

Dad raised his eyebrows.

“I mean, it’s one reason.”

He nudged me sideways. “But it’s your mom who can’t handle change, right?”

“I can handle change. I’m just choosing not to handle it.”

To be honest, I still don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Plus, it’s not like life will be exactly the same. It’s still a change in backdrop.

I can already picture it: rainy dorm room Fridays. Me, humming along to Natalie’s guitar while Mark annihilates me at Mario Kart. Zora on the bed with her laptop and noise-canceling headphones, ignoring all of us in favor of homework. Maybe we’ll meet downtown on Saturdays, when the weather doesn’t suck. We’ll wander through the Commons until Ithaca feels as familiar as Larchmont Village, as downtown Scarsdale.

And if I hold on to my friend group, so what? They’re my whole entire world.

Like, maybe it’s fine to keep a good thing going, you know? Maybe some things don’t need to be fixed.

YouTube (November, freshman year)

“Bromance AMA”

Drama Clash

Hayden: Welcome back, all you lesbians and thespians—I’m Hayden.

Walter: I’m Walter

H: And we are . . .

(in poor pre-recorded unison, alongside a title card with their channel logo)

Both: Drama Clash!

H: And today, by popular request

W: Very, very popular request

H: We’re gonna be answering YOUR questions from the comments. Last week, we asked you to hit us with your burning questions about, you guessed it . . . (quick sly lil eyebrow raise at Walter) us.

W: Our friendship

H: The bromance

W: And just so you know, we’re going in totally blindly here. We had our editor—

H: Shoutout to Eli!

W: —collect your questions (holds up phone). And we didn’t pre-screen anything.

H: So you’re getting our actual first reaction—

W: —but with the ums and errs edited out.

H: Shout out to Eli AGAIN!

W: You’re the best, dude.

H: So let’s dive in, huh! First question (points a finger up, and the text appears on the screen as he reads from his notes app). And it’s a wholesome one! “For Hayden, what is your favorite thing about Walter—and vice versa?” My favorite thing about Walt . . . (sidelong grin) hmm . . .

W: He’s stumped!

H: Ahem! My favorite thing about Walt is that he’s a legit nice guy.

W: (laughs, winces) That’s like saying I’m interesting.

H: Don’t worry, you’re not interesting. (arm punch) No, for real though. He’s a good listener. Thoughtful person. All-around good dude.

W: (a little embarrassed) Thank you.

H: Okay, do me! (flutters eyelashes, leans closer, hams for the camera)

W: My favorite thing about Hayden, huh?

H: Long list to pick from—I get it. (purses lips in an air kiss)

W: (rolls eyes but smiles) I think . . . you have this way of being very planted in every moment. Like, you’re very . . . present.

H: (touched) Walter! (to camera) See, I told you—I told you he’s nice!

W: I have my moments. All right, next question—“what’s your favorite memory together?” (glances at Hayden) Huh. I think for me, it’s like—okay, like, six weeks ago? Something like that? Right after Locker Room was starting to go viral—we’re sitting there in school, like we’re in actual drama class, and this girl Gracie is doing her monologue.

H: Shout out Gracie!

W: Yes! It was great—great monologue. But—okay, we’re sitting there, and we’re both getting flooded with notifications, and we keep sneaking glances at each other, like—holy shit. It was just—so surreal and so exciting, and it’s like, how cool is it that I get to experience this with my best friend?

H: Totally.

W: What’s your favorite memory?

H: Hmm—I don’t know, babe—I think I’ve got to go with right now (waggles eyebrows at camera). We just hit three million views on Locker Room, 100k subscribers and counting, and we’re just getting started—

Sixteen

Aunt Jojo disappears to the RV after dinner—but she’s left us no fewer than ten pints of ice cream in the freezer.

“Can she just, like, marry me already?” I shake my head. “I literally don’t think it’s possible for a person to be more perfect.”

“You know you can buy yourself ice cream without being a child bride,” Nat reminds me.

“Um, first of all, fuck you.” I settle onto the couch beside her, giving her ponytail a quick tug. “Second of all, I’ve been a grown-ass adult for almost seven months, thank you.”

“You’re in high school. Jojo’s thirty.”

“Natillion, I can’t help it if Jojo’s a MILF.”

“She’s not a MILF.”

“Rude!”

“Does she have children?” Nat asks. “Is she a mother?”

“See, you’re being too literal. MILFness is a state of mind—”

“Oh, we’re gatekeeping MILFness again?” Mark asks. He settles onto the love seat, balancing a full pint of chocolate ice cream on his thigh.

I narrow my eyes. “Only one spoon, I see.”

“Get your own pint,” he says.

“And get me one,” Nat adds.

“Admit—”

“She’s a MILF. Very MILFy.”

“Correct. Also, Zora Bora, why are you groping your own boobs?”

“As opposed to groping your boobs?” Nat asks.

“As opposed to groping no boobs—”

“Why are girls,” Mark says faintly.

“I think”—Zora pulls out the collar of her shirt, peering into it—“I dropped a Goldfish in my bra.”

“You know, that would be a fun sequel to Finding Nemo.”

Nat looks affronted. “Finding Dory erasure. Wow.”

Moments later, I’m back to distribute my haul. Three spoons and a stack of three pints. I kneel before them. “M’ladies.”

Zora and Nat just stare at me.

“Tough choices, I know. Here.” I hand a pint of cookie dough to Zora, chocolate for Nat, and then I stick a second pint of chocolate at the edge of the coffee table. “Here you go. Spoons. Man, I feel like such a provider right now. Lioness, home from the hunt. Feeding my pack.”

“Your pride,” Natalie says.

“It’s earned!”

She cracks a smile. “Pride of lions. Not a pack.”

“Right. Wow. I forgot how gay lions are.” I grab my pint and settle back onto the couch, right between Zora and Nat. “Hey, speaking of gay—”

“Nope. Not watching Shop Talk again,” Mark says. He’s sprawled across the entire length of the love seat, of course. “Vetoed.”

“Straight people banning gay content? Fun! It’s like a school board meeting!”

“Please tell me you know the difference between a ban and a veto.”

Zora smiles sheepishly. “Actually—can I co-veto Shop Talk?”

I gasp. “You love Shop Talk!”

“I do! I know,” she rushes to add. “But Edith and I were thinking about watching it together tomorrow. After Walter’s thing. It’s actually her—”

“Number one favorite movie of all time. I know—she’s only mentioned it on, like, fifty Zoom calls.”

“How have you had fifty Zoom calls with my girlfriend?”

I take a bite of ice cream. “I don’t know, maybe because you’ve been dating for a thousand years and we spend half our time in your room?”

Nat nods solemnly. “It adds up.”

“I literally can’t believe we’re meeting her in person tomorrow. Zora, this is huge!”

Zora smiles a little. “I’m not going to regret this, right?”

I let out a laugh. “You mean us meeting her?”

“She means don’t be a weirdo, Weirdo,” Mark translates.

I raise my spoon emphatically. “Okay, you know what—”

“You know who you look like?” Nat interjects. “The Statue of Liberty.”

“What? Absolutely not. She’s like this.” Spoon in hand, I stretch my arm fully aloft before pulling it back in. “I’m like this. Look. Look at that elbow.”

“Well, yeah. You’re the lazy girl version.”

I nod. “Lazy Liberty. Yes.”

“Statue of Lethargy.”

I poke her with the end of my spoon and turn back to Zora. “Anyway. Just saying, it’s going to be amazing, okay? We love Edith, and we love you, and we’re all gonna be on our very best behavior. Nothing to worry about.”

“Thanks.” She smiles.

“Won’t even heckle you guys if you start making out.”

“Ohhhhkay—”

“And there will be makeouts, I trust. Bountiful makeouts.”

“Bountiful. Wow,” Nat says, and Zora promptly buries her face in a throw pillow.

“As a matter of fact, Natalulu, the current probability of bountiful makeouts is said to be extremely high. Almost unprecedented, even.”

“Unprecedented with respect to the general population? Or just—”

“Speaking of,” Zora says, peeking over the pillow. “What’s the deal with Walter?”

I take another spoonful of ice cream. “What deal?”

“I believe”—Mark leans forward—“she’s inquiring about your makeout bounty.”

“Okay, this has nothing—I repeat—nothing to do with Walter.” I shake my head, make a hmph noise, and open Instagram.

“Nothing at all, clearly,” Nat says, leaning closer. “Are you commenting? Telling him we’re coming?”

I flip my phone facedown on my lap. “Hey! Movie time! What are we watching?”

Twitter (June, sophomore year)

@Haydenloveswalt11: Uh I’m sorry WHAT WAS THAT HUG #vidcon #walden #theHUG

@haydengellerswife: jfc the boys are not being subtle are they #theHUG

@Gemini_girlfriend: vidcon u have been a JOURNEY #theHUG #thePAUSE

@pikachumademedoit: Get a room, boys lmao #theHUG #dramaclash

@heart_of_a_hayter: EXCUSE ME WHERE IS HAYDEN’S RIGHT HAND?????? #theHUG #hayter #hayternation

@pegasusgirlie1192: okay yeah haha u all convinced me damn #theHUG #hayter #walden #haydengeller #walterholland #dramaclash

@alliegaylor131313: FIRST #thePAUSE, NOW #theHUG?????? They are not letting us rest this vidcon

@BethanyMakesPancakes: me when I regret missing vidcon lol😭 #theHUG

@monstermcmonsterface: definite vibe there, wow #theHUG #vidcon

@mrhayden_holland: THEY ARE BOYFRIENDS, YOU HEARD IT HERE #HAYTERS RISE UP!!!! #theHUG #thePAUSE #vidcon #dramaclash

@futuremrsrapp2009: actually shaking and crying rn #theHUG

@KaitTheMarvellous: who are these children and why are they trending lol #theHUG

@annabethchaaaase: ngl I want to be Walter Holland so bad rn #theHUG #haydengeller #haydenista

Seventeen

We settle on Dirty Dancing, as per the will of my ancestors. I flip the light switch, grab the remote, and settle back onto the couch. “Ready? Pressing play.”

“Don’t forget to picture Amelia’s parents when you’re watching,” Nat adds.

“Okay, first of all, my parents were there in the seventies and eighties. We’re talking a whole different era—”

“Didn’t this movie come out in the eighties?” Mark asks, mid-yawn.

“Yeah, but it’s set in the sixties,” I say, shooting Zora a quick, sidelong smile. “It’s pluperfect.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: no one poops out dweeby grammatical metaphors quite like Zora Winston.

Picture this: me and Nat two months ago, tipsy from an embarrassingly small amount of Manischewitz. We’d slipped away to search for the afikomen, but we ended up on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the ceiling like we were stargazing.

“Okay, okay. Here’s my theory.” Nat rested both hands on her forehead. “It’s about time.”

“I know. I know it is.”

“Time . . . isn’t linear.” She sounded breathless.

I nodded solemnly. “Yes. Okay.”

“It’s layered,” she said, raising both arms aloft, stacking one hand on top of the other. “Like, I was thinking about Taylor—”

“Me too. Always.”

“And I started thinking about the rerecords, right? You’ve got the old version, and now there’s this new one. Taylor’s version. So it’s this cool little juxtaposition of past and present.”

“Yes!” I clasped my hands.

“But it’s not.” She tilted her head sideways to face me. “Like, maybe at the very beginning, it is. But then it stops being the present, right? Think about it!”

Her cheeks were so flushed when she said it. Might have been the alcohol, might have been a Swiftie thing. But with Nat, it really could have been the conversation itself. Nat’s always liked the feeling of unlocking things.

And then there’s my galaxy brain. “So. Time . . . passes?” I’d said.

Boom. Nailed it!

But Natalie nodded eagerly. “Yes! So it carries two moments. Two timestamps. Like—okay—look at Speak Now (Taylor’s Version). It’s a snapshot of a snapshot. It’s 2010, but it’s filtered through 2023—which is also the past. I mean, look at Simon and Garfunkel!” She was propped on her elbows by then. “Concert in Central Park. 1981. But the songs—‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ came out in, what, 1970? And even on top of that, it would have been recorded in 1969.”

“And if you listen to the Drama Clash cover—”

“We’re living so many moments at once, Amelia. So many.”

I stared up at her. “It’s four different decades.”

“Or five! Because you could also think about the first time you heard it. Which would have been your past self, listening to a cover of a song that was written in the sixties and recorded in the seventies, performed in the style of a concert from the eighties, and on and on. See?” She beamed at me. “Layers.”

“Time,” I declared, “is a croissant.”

She gasped. “Millie, we have to tell Zora. We have to call her.”

So that’s what we did. We called Zora.

She asked us how the seder was. In response, she got two Manischewitz-level philosophers with a thirty-minute treatise on the croissantness of time.

But since she’s an actual saint, she nodded along the whole time. “Very cool. Yup.” And when we finally petered out, she said it reminded her of the pluperfect tense—a concept I apparently slept through in both English and French.

“It’s just a type of verb tense. He had gone, she had walked. So you’re telling a story that happened in the past, but you’re also describing a thing that happened even earlier than your story. It’s exactly what you’re talking about, right?”

Natalie was speechless. We both were. Here was this infinitely complex, incomprehensibly vast revelation.

And there was Zora, pinning it down with one word.

Edith calls halfway through the dance training montage, just when things are about to get ticklish. I make a halfhearted grab for Zora’s phone, but she’s already standing. “Tell her you’ll call her back! You’re the one person who hasn’t—”

“Hey.” Zora’s voice is soft and smiley. Her Edith voice.

I huff, and Nat pats my shoulder. “Something something baby in a corner, right?”

“Literally how do you not know the quote? You’ve seen this movie three times.”

“Yeah, but I’m not, like, studying the exact wording—”

“Natalie, everyone knows the quote. People on Mars know the quote.”

“People on Mars, huh?”

“Yup—shh. It’s the tickle!”

“Hey,” Mark says, standing, “there’s my exit cue.”

“Okay, Manly Mark. Sorry you’re too toxically masculine for a tickle.” I point at him, loosely. “Are you twinnifers taking the bunk beds?”

“I mean.” He glances at the screen. “I don’t want to kick you off the couch.”

“I wouldn’t have moved. Don’t worry!” I shoot him a smile with a side of heart hands.

By the time the credits roll, Zora and Mark are both in bed—or at least they’ve retreated to their respective bedrooms for the night. I shut the TV off, and the silence just hangs.

Natalie yawns, leaning back, so her hair hangs over the back of the couch. It looks like ink in the dim light, even though it’s dark brown in the sun. I’m pretty sure it’s been the same length, too, the whole time I’ve known her. Just a few inches past her shoulders when she’s standing.

I feel very awake, for some reason. My brain keeps flipping between today’s softness and the anticipatory thrill of tomorrow.

I lean back into the cushions, turning toward her. “So. Road trip, day one. How are we feeling?”

“I mean, I think I’ve lived an entire week today.”

“That’s the road trip lifestyle, Nattywhompus. Embrace it.”

“Seize this godforsaken, never-ending day.”

I poke her cheek. “Just you wait.”

She’s quiet for a moment, in a way that makes my brain itch.

I don’t hate silence, but sometimes I find it unnerving. Or confusing. It’s like a language I haven’t quite mastered. And with Natalie, it’s even more of a mindfuck. Her silence practically has its own syntax.

“So are you, like, so excited to meet Walter tomorrow?” she asks, finally, stretching and yawning again.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Why are you asking it like that?”

“Asking it like what?”

“With that voice!” I let out an exasperated breath. “Are you messing with me?”

“What are you even talking about?” Her brow furrows.

“Do you just hate Walter that much?”

“Why would I hate Walter?”

“You tell me!”

She laughs. “Sorry—because, what—I asked if you were excited to meet him?”

“Because you’re literally always weird about him! You’ve been weird since the first time I showed you one of his videos!”

“I have not.”

I put up a finger. “First you said he has a, quote-unquote, ‘nerdy demeanor.’”

“It was a compliment!”

Another finger up. “And you said he looks like someone who uses the crying-laughing emoji a lot. Like. A lot.”

“That was Mark!”

“Well, you laughed!”

“So did you!” she shoots back.

“Because.” I tip my palms up. “It was funny!”

Our eyes meet; suddenly we’re both fully grinning.

“Okay, the emoji thing is spot-on. But!” I pause. “You’re still a hater.”

She laughs incredulously.

“What?”

“Amelia, you called Claire a poorly written antagonist.”

“Was I wrong? She broke up with you at prom.”

Natalie frowns. “I mean—”

“And before that, Chanukah! How do you dump someone on the first night of Chanukah?”

“Better that than finding she was faking it all week. At least she had the guts to tell me.”

“The bravest Maccabee. Good for you, Claire.”

“Okay, as soon as you’re done shitting on my ex-girlfriends—”

“Only one of them,” I remind her. “But I’m happy to shit on Megan, too.”

“I know. I know you are—”

“Hey, remember when Megan won the sixth-grade science fair and proceeded to mention it literally daily for years?”

“Mm.” She nods. “Remember when your boyfriend wrote a rap about cryptocurrency?”

“Young Crypto Cohen! Wait, is that still on YouTube?”

Natalie raises her eyebrows. “Oh, are we back on the fedora train—”

“Excuse me, I’m not the one still texting my ex.”

“Okay, she texted me—”

“You didn’t write back?” Something twists beneath my rib cage.

She shakes her head, and I smile.

“Good work. Keep it up.” I give her two thumbs-up, and she rolls her eyes in response. But it’s the smiling kind of eye roll. I think I even spot dimples.

Eighteen

But now I really can’t sleep. I’m like a phone plugged into its charger. Bright and buzzing, whirring with symbols and data.

So that’s highly fucking weird.

I don’t mean it’s weird in general. Insomnia’s a thing. I get that. Just look at Mark; he’s a modern-day princess and the pea. Completely derailed by any deviation from the routine—light filtered through different blinds, changes in pillow density. Even at home, he says it’s hit-or-miss. Probably why he conks out in cars, to be honest. And why he’s such a prickly little pear half the time.

But I can’t seem to power down tonight. It’s like there’s a blinking red dot in the corner of my brain.

I swipe my phone off Jojo’s coffee table, and I guess my Instagram app learned how to open itself. Couldn’t have been me clicking that square.

Walter’s grid. His event graphic post.

I scroll through the comments until I find mine.

Nothing weird. Not even close to weird. Trust me, I’m not trying to double down on the prom video.

Three words: see you tomorrow!

Still can’t decide how I feel about the exclamation point. I spent an embarrassing amount of time going back and forth in my head about it. And yes, I know I’m being unhinged. Not exactly beating the crush allegations, either. Fully aware, thanks.

He’s responded to some of the comments, but he hasn’t responded to mine. Didn’t even throw it a heart emoji. Not even a thumbs-up. Which is fine. Because what we’re not going to do is be a parasocial monster about this.

He’s uploaded a new video—teased it on the grid and linked it in the bio. It’s prerecorded; he must have filmed it right after his haircut last week, because his ears stick out in the thumbnail. You can always measure time with hair if you pay enough attention. It doesn’t have to be some big, dramatic before and after.

Like mine was.

Mirrors keep catching me off-guard—but it’s not the haircut itself that throws me. It’s all the other stuff. Like how I can’t stop noticing my freckles now. I think my eyes look bigger, too. Kind of strange, since it’s literally the same face I’ve always had. But I was so used to my hair being the main event, the first thing you noticed about me.

The funny thing is, my hair’s not even particularly short now, and it’s still just as blond as ever. But the haircut seems to have recalibrated my face. It’s like meeting my fraternal twin sister every time I look in the mirror.

Maybe that’s my plan if Walter recognizes me from the promposal video. Blame it on my imaginary long-haired twin. Her name is Delia, and she’s very embarrassing. Very obsessed with Walter. We try not to let her leave the house.

But it’s irrelevant, really, because there’s just no way he saw it. Walter Holland is a very busy YouTuber with a Wikipedia page and a blue check mark, and I’m wasting my brainspace on this. The point is, none of it matters until I meet him tomorrow. Everything else is just noise. It’s just Instagram.

And who knows—maybe we’ll click. Maybe we’ll vibe.

Maybe it’s fate.

Sometimes it doesn’t even make sense, the way I feel about Walter. Not quite a real crush. It’s like a pre-crush. A seed. It’s just this weird gut feeling I have that Walter and I could be something.

If only we could talk, once, for real.

I guess I’ve always felt that I was meant to find his content. That there was some kind of cosmic reason I stumbled upon the Drama Clash cover of “Kathy’s Song.” You can’t even chalk it up to the algorithm, really. That one didn’t even go viral.

But it got me. And then, two years later, he just happened to post his coming-out video—a video that just happened to contain every single word I needed to hear.

It was shorter than his regular content. Unmonetized, too. Definitely nothing fancy.

I watched it three times through without pausing. It felt like my lungs had stopped working.

Every single thing he said was so—

Exactly right. Like he’d pressed the wrinkles out of my thoughts and sent them back to me, folded and ready to wear.

Like the part about trying to remember a feeling. How it starts to seem less and less real. How it starts to feel like a story.

And, sure, I’d gotten there. I’d cracked the sexuality code, for the most part. By the time Walter posted his video, I’d been fully out for over a year. I didn’t announce it online or anything. I guess I didn’t really announce it at all, apart from my friends—and, later, my family.

Really, it was fine. It was good. My parents did the whole forehead-kiss-thank-you-for-trusting-us thing. Whereas Audrey—who still regularly referred to Starburst as Star Wars— claimed she had gaydar and already knew.

What’s strange is that lots of people at school said that, too. Other queer people, especially. I could never wrap my head around that. The way I signaled queerness somehow before I even spoke the language.

Honestly? I said I was queer before I fully believed it.

I’d never told anyone else that. I guess I didn’t think anyone would get it.

But Walter did.

Don’t get me wrong—I mostly believed it. Some days, I was practically sure of it.

But I couldn’t quite make the words fit me. Not the way they fit other people. Bisexual. Queer. Everyone else seemed to wear them like leggings.

Would saying it out loud make it feel true?

It was kind of like shopping for clothing online. You pay for your labels upfront and hope that they fit when they get there.

So I left a comment. And he replied to it.

September sixteenth, at 8:45 p.m. eastern time.

Sometimes I can’t believe that actually happened. Walter Holland sat down in his navy-blue bedroom that night and read a bunch of words that came from my brain. Words I’d typed just a few hours earlier, in an adrenaline-fueled daze. My critically acclaimed, award-winning contribution to the general canon of unhinged social media earnestness.

Never in a million years did I think he’d even see my comment, much less reply to it.

Okay, I guess a tiny part of me thought he might reply. Or I hoped he would. Even if it was just a one-in-a-million if-only.

But it was all so completely surreal. I remember thinking that even then. Walter Holland was a stranger. But I also knew every single one of his facial expressions. I knew what his voice sounded like when he was getting a cold. I knew his middle name was Joshua, his sister’s name was Annie, and that he had a cat named Vinny, to whom he was vaguely allergic.

And, yeah, I knew the lore around Hayden. But I wasn’t in it for the ship. I never have been. Not like other fans I know I know I know. I’m an asshole.

But I feel like there’s something between us, you know? Some kind of half-written, subjunctive tense future.

YouTube (September, senior year)

“My Sexuality (a bi-ographical update)”

Walter Holland Speaks

(Open on Walter awkwardly perched in a chair in the center of a frame—a navy-blue wall is visible behind him, featuring several larger-than-life framed pictures of his cat, Vinny.)

Hi! (waves awkwardly) So . . . as you can probably guess from the title, I’ve got kind of a different video for you guys today. (nervous laughter) Yeah.

Anyway, first of all—hi, I’m Walter Holland, welcome to my channel—and I will love you very dearly if you subscribe, comment, click the bell, appease the algorithm gods, you know the drill.

Um, yeah. (double thumbs up) Okay, jumping right in. (laughs nervously) This feels so weird.

(Quick cut—Walter’s in the same spot, but he’s pinned a bi flag in the background, and he’s wearing a t-shirt that reads: “I’m bi, actually” with a picture of Nick Nelson from Heartstopper.)

So . . . BI the way (exaggerated nerdy wink), I have a bit of an announcement.

I, Walter Joshua Holland, am what’s known as a useless bisexual.

(applause sound effect)

Which basically means two things: 1. I am up for dating people of any gender, and 2. I have no rizz and will absolutely be single forever despite my theoretically expanded dating pool.

(finger guns)

So—hi! I’m bi!

(a few speech bubbles pop up in the background reading: “he’s a poet” “is that you, lord bi-ron?” “groundbreaking”)

And since I’m me, I’m gonna walk you through my whole “journey” (air quotes) with a level of detail literally no one asked for.

(more applause sounds)

Seriously, feel free to skip this—I have no idea if anyone even wants to know this. But! In case it’s helpful—

(Title card pops up: Our Hero Bi-wakens)

(Back to Walter, with the camera zoomed in a bit closer than before.)

It’s wild, because there really weren’t any clues.

(Camera zooms out to show Walter sitting in an unhinged pose on his bed, with one leg triangled up and the other triangled flat beside him. We then get a few quick cuts showing:

—his bookcase full of queer YA books

—David Bowie poster

—Converse sneakers

—cat photos

—a rapid series of still frames from videos where he’s giving finger guns, ending on one from earlier in this video)

(Back to Walter, camera zoomed back to normal)

For real, though. I . . . despite (gestures vaguely) everything, I didn’t know. Up until the point that I did. Which—I know, it’s the opposite of a revelation, but—

I guess what I mean is denial is REAL. Like. When I tell you I had, like, full-on crushes on several dudes . . .

But then (finger up) I also had full-on crushes on girls.

Which seems like a pretty straightforward equation, right?

(typed words pop up: crush on my gender + crush on different genders = some kind of queer (duh))

You would think!

(letters tumble out of frame)

I just . . . spent a pretty long time overthinking it, I guess. Like I’d have these cycles of uncertainty, where one day I’d be like, “Huh, I guess I’m definitely bi.”

But then two days later, I’m like, “Wait, maybe I’m GAY.”

Except then it’s like, “Okay but did I ACTUALLY feel attracted to that dude though?” Because, like—this is hard to explain, maybe it’s just my weird brain, but—I don’t know, maybe you get it.

Because it’s impossible to remember an actual feeling, right?

Like, hear me out. I’m not saying that I forgot I had a gay thought. It’s more like—I remember the inner monologue but not the feeling itself. You know what I mean? Like, I remember the internal experience of my brain saying, “Whoa that dude just made eye contact and I sure am feeling a certain way about it!”

But that’s not the same as remembering the FEELING. Because you don’t actually remember feelings—you remember their echoes. And eventually it all just starts to feel like a thing you made up. Like a story.

(long-haired black cat jumps onto bed, backs into Walter’s lap with his butt in the air)

Oh, hello, Vinny Vidi Vici, Lil Stink. Fancy meeting you here. Say hi to the people. Yeah, that’s right—you are a stinker. (Vinny snuggles and purrs)

(cuts to a minute later, with Vinny settled in Walter’s lap)

Anyway, for me, that made it easier to second-guess everything. Does that make any sense at all? Leave a clown emoji in the comments if this sounds like bullshit.

No, don’t—oh my God, don’t. Be nice in my comments, pleeeeeease. This is weird for me! Coming out is weird! Picking a label is super weird, because what if I pick wrong, and it’s like, well! Now it’s on the internet.

(Vinny looks up)

(finger guns at Vinny)

So yeah! I guess a part of me thinks I just have to rip the band-aid off and say it, just to see if saying it feels right.

Anyway, thanks for listening. I love you guys. Thanks for being here. I know I’m still finding my footing here, and it’s not exactly the Drama Clash content you guys are used to, but I’m just really grateful to have this community.

Part Four

Saturday, May 27

Sylvan Beach, NY

to Geneva, NY

Nineteen

Cause of death: murdered by sunbeams. Time of death: ass-o-clock in the morning. I don’t know whose Aunt Jojo needs to hear this, but window blinds exist.

I force myself to sit up, staring dazedly out at the lake. God knows if I slept last night. Pretty sure my brain’s on low-battery mode.

But even I have to admit it: Oneida Lake at sunrise is a full-on masterpiece. Wisps of pink and orange clouds over a distant tree line, perfectly mirrored in the glassy, still water; scored by birdsong. Nature at its least subtle. It’s the type of beauty that punches you straight in the face.

I grab my phone from the table to snap a photo—except, it turns out, my brain’s not the only one with a battery problem. I stare uselessly at my reflection in the blank dark glass of my screen. I know my charger’s in my bag, and my bag’s right by my feet. But then I’d have to find a wall outlet, too, which requires standing and moving and being a relatively functioning human.

I lean back into the cushions, staring, trancelike, at the ceiling. Every bird chirp feels like a radio dispatch from a million miles away.

But then a door creaks.

A moment later, Zora tiptoes out of her bedroom in jeans and the hoodie Edith gave her for Christmas—eggplant purple, with the words Blackwell College in white on its chest. If I’m remembering right, Edith’s older sister just finished her first year there. And, of course, Edith starts as a freshman this fall. Which kind of sucks, in the sense that Zora will be at East Seneca with me. But at least Blackwell’s only an hour or so from Ithaca. Compared to now, that’s barely even long-distance. Moderate distance, maybe.

“Morning!” I whisper to Zora, popping my head over the back of the couch.

Zora practically jumps. “Did I wake you up?”

“Totally not. It was my big buddy up there.” I gesture out the window. “Sunny Sundalia McShine.”

“You nicknamed the sun.”

“Yeah, we keep it casual here.” I rub my eyes. “What time is it?”

Zora peeks at her wrist. “Six thirty.”

“Cool, cool. Okay, hypothetical question: is six thirty too early for a nap?”

“Did this hypothetical person get any sleep last night? At all?” She eyes my tangle of blankets on the couch, looking stricken. “Millie, there’s a futon! Remember?”

“Oh, I know. I’m just lazy.” I yawn. “Are you going somewhere?”

She points to the beach. “Just a walk.”

“Wait, I want to come! Can I come?”

“Yeah, of course. If you want.” She smiles a little. “No nap?”

I scoot off the couch, throwing down a firm pair of finger guns. “Never been tired in my life.”

I slip out of my sneakers as soon as we hit sand. Me in my romantic protagonist era. That’s right, hotties. I’m Amelia Hart Applebaum, she/her, and I like candlelit dinners and long walks on—

Seaweed. And nine zillion broken shells.

“Not that kind of beach,” Zora says, watching me tug my sneakers back on.

“Well, it’s still pretty.” I retie my laces and stand, facing the lake. There are lots of houses and wooden docks, but it looks like no one’s really awake yet. It’s quiet in a way I’m not used to: trilling birds, rustling trees, and water faintly lapping against the shore. I stop to grab a smoothed-out piece of glass, before sidling up to Zora. “All right, question. And be totally honest.”

“Okay.” She bites her lip.

“Nothing crazy! Just need, like, a gut check.” I rub my forehead. “Do I shit on Claire too much?”

“Claire, like Natalie’s Claire?”

“Eww! Not anymore!” I say, nose already scrunching—but then I catch myself. “Yeah, no—I don’t believe that designation is currently accurate.”

“So, the Claire formerly known as Natalie’s Claire,” Zora corrects, lips tugging up at the corners.

“Yes.”

“And you’re asking me if I’ve heard you shit on her?”

“Oh—I mean, I shit on her, yeah. But is it a proportionate amount of shitting, in the context of her crimes?”

As soon as Zora opens her mouth to reply, a bunch of ducks start losing their ever-loving minds. Angry squawks, flapping wings, general quackery, et cetera. It’s unhinged to a degree that’s actually kind of impressive. I shake my head. “Are they calling us out? Are we getting canceled for quackbaiting?”

Zora visibly relaxes. “Better start drafting an apology.”

“Yes!” I reach into my pocket, but of course I come up empty. “Wait, I need your Notes app!”

“Oh, we’re committing to this bit?” She passes me her phone.

I start typing. “Dear fucks—whoa, easy there, autocorrect.”

“I don’t think that’s how autocorrect works—”

“Okay, how’s this?” I narrate as I type. “Dear ducks: we deeply apologize for our fowl behavior.” Zora rolls her eyes, smiling. “We ducked up. But we’re so grateful for those of you who took the time to share your feedquack. Moving forward, we’re fully committed to meeting our web-footed friends with kindness. For a duck may be somebody’s MILF.”

For a moment, Zora just stares. “Amelia. Your mind.”

“Why, thank you!” I hand her phone back.

“So what’s the deal with Claire?” Zora asks, as we turn back toward home. “Did Nat say something?”

“No! I mean, kind of? I don’t know.” I make a face. “Did you know Claire texted her yesterday? Already trying to reel her back in. You can’t trust her!”

Zora nods slowly. “Right—”

“Claire, I mean! I trust Natalie. Obviously.”

“So you think Claire’s in it for some kind of revenge?”

“I don’t know!”

“Revenge for what, though?” she asks.

“Right? Natalie didn’t even do anything!”

“No, I get that.” A breeze hits, and Zora rubs her arms in her sleeves. “I’m just not sure I’m following the logic here. What, exactly, do we think Claire’s up to? Like what’s her endgame?”

“Getting Natalie back,” I say.

“And that would be bad for Natalie?”

“Extremely,” I say. “Per the evidence. Yes.”

“Evidence! Wow.”

“Okay, we both know Natalie’s happier when they’re not dating.”

“I mean, who knows?” Zora shrugs. “Clearly, they keep getting back together for a reason.”

“That’s what I’m saying, though—Claire’s manipulation is the reason!”

Zora looks at me, lips pursed.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“It’s just—do you really think that?” she asks.

I tilt my head back and groan. “How do you not think that?”

“I mean, Claire’s kind of intense. And she’s impulsive.” Zora tucks her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie. “I don’t know. She’s not that bad. She’s nice.”

“Fake nice,” I mutter.

“Maybe? I guess it’s just like—it’s Natalie’s life, you know? I don’t think it’s entirely our business.”

“But Claire makes it our business! She literally dumped Natalie at prom because she felt threatened by us!”

“Us?” Zora asks, lips settling into something just shy of a smile.

Tumblr (January, sophomore year)

how-do-you-do-fellow-malignant-spirits

so i finally watched the chanukah video y’all are all riding so hard for and like. holy queerbaiting???? why is no one talking about this? listen i get it, they are very cute and the banter is cute, etc but WOW. it’s so transparently calculated and it is absolutely wild to see you people falling for this. like idk who needs to hear this, but these 2 (obviously!!!!!) straight boys are deliberately trying to court your attention for profit!! maybe consider removing your heads from your asses bc this is NOT representation. meanwhile, actual queer creators continue to get overlooked because the straights are doing the least and YOU keep giving them views.

#like be for real #yes i know we all live in a capitalist hellscape but some of you are getting a little too comfortable using that as an excuse to not even try?? #and don’t even get me started on the hayters and waldens and whoever the fuck else is out there writing entire multi volume conspiracy theories based on literally nothing #y’all are unhinged #did you forget they are teenagers??? #and real fucking people?? #look I don’t even gaf about walter and hayden, they can cry all the way to the bank, but like #it’s just uncomfortable #so please stop #queerbaiting #hayter #walden #hayden geller #walter holland #drama clash

Twenty

The whole walk back to Jojo’s, time hangs like a cloud. Zora says it’s only eight a.m., and I almost don’t believe it. Feels like we’ve been out here for hours.

Natalie’s on the back porch, playing guitar in her pajamas—head bowed forward, ponytail grazing her shoulder. I can’t tell if she’s singing along or just mouthing the words. But I know the exact moment she sees us. The dimples always give her away.

Zora goes straight inside, but I linger near the top of the porch stairs. “Whatcha playing?”

She strums a few chords instead of answering, and at first I can’t quite place it. But when she hums the next line, it clicks.

“‘I Say a Little Prayer’!”

She smiles. “Yup. Aretha Franklin’s version, though. Not the original.”

I scoot in beside her, studying her hands while I listen. It’s wild—she barely has to glance at them. Her fingers just know where to press, even for the most complicated notes, the fussiest transitions. All the parts she thinks she sucks at. “So who wrote the original?” I ask, once she’s finished. “I thought Aretha did.”

“Dionne Warwick. Actually—wait. I think it was written by Burt Bacharach?” She sets her guitar down and pulls out her phone to check.

I watch her for a moment, smiling. “I have a question.”

She looks up.

“When was”—I lean closer—“the last time you just listened to a song without needing to know the entire history of when and why it was written. And who it was written for. And what the songwriter had for breakfast that morning, and their full menstrual cycle—”

“I’m actually fine not knowing Burt Bacharach’s menstrual cycle.”

“You’re literally researching it! Right this second!” I point to her phone screen. “Ma’am, you are all the way down the rabbit hole.”

“You’re right. Slippery slope. Ten-second Wikipedia search today, binoculars in the bushes tomorrow.”

“Exactly. Man, the shit you and Mark give me about my quote-unquote ‘parasocial relationship.’ You don’t see me memorizing Walter’s stats—”

“Mmm. You’re just following him around the country.”

“It’s one event! We’re not even leaving the state.” I poke her arm. “Plus, it’s a public event, and I’m a member of the public. It’s basically mandatory.”

“Absolutely. Yes. That’s exactly how it works.”

“All I’m saying is, I’m not the one scouring the entire internet for fresh dirt on some musician. What are you looking for, his home address?”

She looks at me. “You have no idea who Burt Bacharach was, do you?”

“Nope,” I say. “Not a clue.”

By the time we head inside, Jojo’s back, and the whole house smells like butter. “Hope you guys are hungry,” she says, balancing a towering plate of waffles. They’re a mess of different shapes and widths, stacked like the end of a Jenga game. A drunk Jenga game, probably. Already the best breakfast of my life, hands down.

“So I did some research,” Jojo says, lowering the plate onto the edge of the table. “Walter and Hayden—wow. That’s a rabbit hole.”

I grin up at her, scooting into a chair next to Mark. “You found the shippers.”

“Big-time.” She points a fork at me. “Here’s what I don’t get. Why are there two warring factions when it’s the same ship? Am I getting that right? You’ve got the Waldens, you’ve got the Hayters, but they just don’t fuck with each other?”

“Yup. Yeah, it’s a thing. There’s, like, a whole lore behind it.”

“I want it. I want the lore.” Jojo settles onto a chair. “Fill me in.”

Cue Natalie and Zora making a whole show out of amused glances and head shakes.

Cue me making a whole show out of ignoring them. Because I’m pretty sure I was born for this moment. Pretty sure the universe itself is giving me a drumroll.

“So, it’s basically like you’ve got two competing belief systems. First, the Hayters—”

“But with a Y, like Hayden,” Jojo says. “That was clever. I liked that.”

I laugh. “Yup. So, the Hayters literally believe Walter and Hayden are dating. Not even as a theory. They take it as absolute truth, and that’s where the lore comes in. Basically, they go through the videos and find all this quote-unquote ‘evidence,’ and then they go back to their subreddit and treat it like straight facts. And if anyone tries to question it, they fight. We’re talking a full-on brigade.”

“That sounds very normal and not at all unhinged,” says Jojo.

“Right.” I nod. “So then you’ve got the Waldens, who also ship Walter and Hayden, but they’re way more normal about it? Like, I think most of them believe Walter and Hayden probably dated at some point, or they hooked up, or whatever. I mean, I’m sure some of them think they’re still dating. But they talk about it more in theoretical terms. Like they’re not claiming to know anything for sure. I think that’s the main difference.” I spear a piece of waffle on my fork. “And they really don’t like the Hayters, because they feel like the non-shippers and normies lump them all together, and they don’t want to be associated with that. And the Hayteros—”

“I’m sorry—Hayteros?” Jojo lets out a laugh.

I grin. “Yeah, they’re the ones who were, like, adamant that the boys were straight. Until Walter came out.”

“Wow,” Jojo says. “So the layers keep going, huh?”

“Infinitely,” says Nat.

“So which one are you? A Walden?” Jojo turns back to me.

“What? No—oh, definitely not! I’m neither. I’m just, like, a normal fan.”

“A normal fan,” Mark chimes in, “who asked Walter to prom.”

“A NORMAL FAN,” I repeat.

At least when it comes to shipping, that is. Have I dabbled in casual discourse consumption? Sure. But I was never out there flooding the boys’ comments or splicing together slow-motion video clips of every time they ever looked at each other. Nor have I ever chimed in on those endless Reddit threads analyzing the hug from their second VidCon, or the proximity of their hands in the Chanukah Dramakkuh video. There are people who claim they have proof that Hayden’s planning to come out via coded messages embedded in the script of The Odyssey Intergalactic.

And maybe he will—who knows? Maybe it’s all true, and they’re dating, and it’s just their managers who won’t let them say it. After all, the shippers were right about Walter. Him being queer, I mean. They kept the faith even back in the Drama Clash days, when people used to say he was so obviously straight. To be honest, that felt even weirder to me—the way the Hayteros dug their heels in on his straightness. They’ve shut up for the most part, I guess, now that Walter’s officially out. Now everyone just talks about Hayden.

Or they try to get Walter to talk about Hayden.

It’s actually a little bit terrifying. Even now, at least half the comments on Walter’s videos are just questions about Hayden. You can tell it makes him uncomfortable, too—which is probably why he’s never really addressed it. I mean, he and Hayden used to jokingly flirt in videos sometimes, but they stopped doing that when the queerbaiting accusations started. Other than that, as far as I know, it’s just been a handful of super vague interview answers—references to people “having lots of questions about our friendship” or “dissecting our personal lives.”

I really do feel so bad for Walter sometimes.

Hayden, too, in a way—though Hayden kind of seems built for fame. Not just because of the jawline and smoldery abs and everything. It’s just something about how he carries himself. And his facial expressions. Maybe it’s the way he looks at the camera when filming. And the way he always seems to know what his body is saying. But that’s never been Walter.

Walter blinks a lot. And fidgets. Sometimes he forgets where to look when he’s talking. There’s just something endearingly awkward about his whole online vibe. Even when Drama Clash was at the height of its popularity. I’ll never forget the time someone tagged him in a Hottest Ginger Boys tribute post, alongside Hunter from the band Kiss and Tell. When Hunter mentioned in the comments that he was a Drama Clash fan, Walter immediately went live just to freak out and fanboy about it.

I don’t know if I’m explaining this well. It’s more than just the fact that he seems down to earth. Walter’s famous, but he doesn’t have a famous personality. It’s like he tripped over his shoelaces and crash-landed into a spotlight.

Mostly, he just seems like a Jewish kid from the suburbs—the kind of boy you’d find hoarding the chocolate hamentaschen at the Purim mixer. Probably ordered a Wise Man costume meant for some nativity play, too, and styled it as Mordecai.

What I’m trying to say is, he seems like someone I could actually be friends with. In an alternate universe, he’s even here on this road trip—squeezed between Natalie and me in Zora’s back seat.

Instagram (January, senior year)

WalterHollandSpeaks

All requests

Koala Marie

Mentioned you in their story

Coral

PLEASE I NEED TO KNOW IF YOU AND HA . . .

Amber

Mentioned you in their story

Cumzilla

Hey sexyy want 2 chat 💦 DM me for nu . . .

Hallie Loves Evermore

Mentioned you in their story

Heart of a Hayter

Hi walter quick question!! Do u think hayd . . .

dani 4 real

my friends and i have a bet, is hayden a to . . .

Sunshine123

Can u confirm if drama clash is coming bac . . .

Twenty-One

We’re officially out the door before ten. Zora digs for her keys and double-beeps the car doors open—and Mark makes a sudden, sharp dive for the front passenger side. An act of warfare, quite frankly. “Seriously? You’re going to be asleep in five minutes.”

“Probably.” He shrugs. “I snooze, you lose.”

I glower my way into the back seat behind him, and then I spend a whole minute rooting through my bag for my phone. Which—lo and behold—is still deader than dead. A new milestone for everyday dumbassery, I fear.

But Zora passes back a USB phone charger, and my bad mood clears in an instant. “Hero.”

“I got you.” She taps into her GPS app. “Okay! Just about an hour and a half. Not so bad.”

I plug my phone in, jamming down the power button until it buzzes back to life. “Sixteen unread texts!” I hold my phone up to show Natalie. “You know what this means.”

“I do not,” she says.

“Ladies and Mark, Jews and Zora: the time is upon us. I humbly present”—I clear my throat—“a dramatic reading—nay—recitation of my latest work. I call it A Resurrection: The Collected Texts from When My Phone Died.”

“Stay in the left lane to get on the highway.”

“Yes! Okay! Let’s give it up for my opening act . . . Zora’s GPS!” I clap, balancing my phone on my leg. Natalie looks slightly alarmed.

“So, we begin! Starting with the group chat, where we have”—I tap the thread open—“eight new notifications. First up—let’s see—one from Zora Bo-bora Winston at 6:14 a.m. Going for a beach walk! Cereal and granola bars in the pantry if you’re hungry, followed by a yellow heart emoji.” I look up at Zora. “Interesting! Yes. Love the yellow—”

“We’re absolutely not doing sixteen of these,” Nat says.

“I’ll go fast. Another one from Zora, 6:18 a.m. Wait, pause on the cereal—Aunt Jojo wants to make us breakfast. Ooh, okay. One from Natty Lite, 7:34 a.m. good morning, sunshines! mark, did you get flushed down the toiled? Okay, Nat again. toilet.” I look up. “This is beautiful.”

Natalie lets out a long-suffering exhale.

I keep scrolling. “Okay, we’ve got Marky Mark at 7:41 a.m. responding to the toilet allegations. Claims to be showering.”

“I was showering,” Mark says.

“Incredible. Most hygienic boy,” I say. “A credit to your kind.”

“Are we done here?”

“No way. Okay, so Zora loves the toilet versus shower discourse, per her emoji reactions. And that’s it for the group chat. All right! Next up, we’ve got Last chance to get 25% off—okay, delete. Oop. Deleting all the spam. One from Mom. Sweetie, please text me when u get to Blackwell. Why am I reading these out loud?”

“That’s a very good question,” Nat says.

“Okay, okay—last, but not least, we have Audrey coming in strong with an iPad photo of a Polaroid. Appears to be stuffed animals posed in front of a white bedsheet. A bold message. Blurry, yet thought-provoking.”

I tap out of my messages and into Instagram, where I’ve somehow amassed a whole pile of notifications. All of which turn out to be comments on Kylie Elfman’s newly posted prom photos.

All except two.

“Oh my God.” I press a hand to my lips.

Natalie looks at me. “You okay?”

I stare at my phone screen, half-expecting it to vanish the moment I blink. But it doesn’t. The notification’s still there—bright blue check mark and all.

“He wrote back.” My voice comes out hushed.

“Who wrote back?” Zora asks.

“Walter! He replied to my comment. And he hearted it! Hold on, let me—” I tap over to my post, opening the comments. “Okay, so I said see you tomorrow!—this was yesterday. And he said . . . Can’t wait!! With two exclamation points. I’m—” I turn to Natalie, wide-eyed. “He can’t wait!”

“Well, that’s basically a marriage proposal,” she says.

“Right?” I laugh and then exhale. “Oh my God. We’re about to meet Walter. Today!” I cover my face with both hands. “I can’t even process this. I’m meeting an actual celebrity.”

“Celebrity?” Nat shuts one eye, tilting her hand back and forth.

“He has a Wikipedia page! And a blue check mark—”

“Right, of course. Very famous,” she says. “So famous.”

I cover her face with my palm. “You know what I mean! He’s supposed to live here.” I tap my phone screen. “But he’s going to be right there! In real life—in meat form!”

“Meat form?” Natalie gags, while Zora and Mark exchange tiny, quick smiles.

I ignore them, pressing the screen of my phone to my drumrolling heart.

Twitter (November, junior year)

@haydengellerswife: (1/??) Woke up today & chose violence, so here’s a 🧵 compiling all my PROOF that Hayden Geller and Walt Holland are/were boyfriends. Feel free to add additional info (ideally w/receipts lol) and PLEASE be civil in the comments!!! I will block you, fr. Also DO NOT harass the boys, thanks!! #hayter #walden

@haydengellerswife: (2/??) Okay first let’s go back to Locker Room—obviously a lot of people have talked about the glance on the bench (see first pic). But also note that the DAY BEFORE locker room was posted, Hayden posts a tweet consisting of the couch emoji w/ no additional context (screenshot below, second pic) please note that there is no bench emoji & couch is widely agreed to be the closest substitute

📸📸

@haydengellerswife: (3/??) Also worth noting that hayden has a well documented history of being very flirtatious w/walter (mostly here and in Instagram comments). this is NOT comprehensive, because he deleted them at some point lol, but i’ll post screenshots below of what we do have here and in the next tweet. Basically he calls him “babe” MULTIPLE times, says he looks cute when he blushes, etc.

📸📸📸📸

@haydengellerswife: (4/??) additional screenshots recovered from hayden’s accounts (also huge thanks to @Gemini_girlfriend and @haydenintergellactic for the screenshots in this & the previous post!!)

📸📸📸

@haydengellerswife: (5/??) okay so this one is about the video titled “Bromance: AMA” (NOT to be confused with the notorious AMA live lol, more on that in a sec). I will link below to the full vid, but specifically note that Hayden purses his lips like an air kiss at the 4:30 mark AND walt touches his hand to his chest at the 8:14 mark. Am guessing most of u didn’t notice this, but you’re probably aware that 4/30 and 8/14 are W and H’s birthdays, respectively

📎

@haydengellerswife: (6/??) Okay, as promised!! The live AMA—this was approx. a month before Chanukah Dramakkah. Screenshots below (with permission from @haydenintergellactic—thanks girlie!). Left screenshot shows the question in the comments w/ the commenter’s name blacked out. Commenter is asking if Walter has secret freckles (PLEASE NOTE: THIS QUESTION IS HIGHLY INAPPROPRIATE, AND I DO NOT CONDONE THE COMMENTER ASKING IT). Second screenshot is Hayden’s response (continued in next post)

📸📸

@haydengellerswife: (7/??) So here’s Hayden smiling and looking v embarrassed, and you can see in the closed captions where he answers “That’s what water wants you to think” (obviously water = walter here). So this actually Hayden pretty clearly implying that he’s knowledgeable about this topic

👀

@haydengellerswife: (8/??) Okay, real quick w/ the big 3, since I know you’re all very familiar with these, but just stating for the record that you’ll find LOTS of documentation scrolling through the hashtags for #theHUG and #thePAUSE. Also you can still see the hand touch in the original Chanukah dramukkah video, linked below (timestamp is about 15:10.)

📎

Twenty-Two

Zora parks in the Blackwell College visitor lot behind a bunch of brick dorms, tugging her phone off the charger.

To text Edith. To tell Edith we’re here. God knows what’s going on in Zora’s head right now. Imagine introducing your girlfriend to the crew after practically six years of dating. I mean, I guess it’s not a full-on introduction, seeing as we’ve had about half a decade’s worth of group video chats. But it’s still not quite the same as meeting in person. Especially when it’s only their second time meeting each other in person. Honestly, how is Zora still breathing? I, for one, can barely keep myself seated. “Zora, it’s happening!”

“I know!”

“The most distinguished, most notorious Queen Edith Scott, age eighteen—”

“Almost. July second.” Zora rubs the back of her neck, smiling faintly.

“Incredible. Top-tier birthday. We’re talking, like—practically up there with November fifth.”

“So glad you approve—”

“ZORNADO, WHERE IS SHE?”

Zora laughs. “She’ll be out in a second!”

“Is she staying on campus?” Nat asks.

“She did last night, but I think—” Zora tilts her head. “Well—okay. We’ve got two rooms for tonight and tomorrow night. Edith’s friend Lili has a single—she’s cleared out and gone home already. But we’ve got bedsheets and stuff, don’t worry. And then Edith’s sister is giving us her double.”

“Dibs on the double! Me and Nat.” I glance at Natalie. “That okay?”

“Works for me.”

“Okay, but Zoraline—where are you staying? Also, we’re not kicking Edith’s sister and her roommate out onto these mean streets, right?”

“Roommate’s already gone home,” Zora says, “and I’m sure Imogen’s just crashing with her girlfriend.”

Natalie looks up. “Edith’s sister is queer?”

Zora nods. “She’s been with her girlfriend for over a year, I think?”

“Now that is a parental success story. Absolutely no straights allowed. No offense,” I add, glancing at Mark. He tips his palms up.

There’s a knock on Zora’s window, and even my heart skips a beat.

Actual three-dimensional Edith. Screen not included.

Zora full-on leaps out of the car, and they hug like it’s the end of a movie. Zero space between their bodies. Not even a millimeter. Even watching through a window, I have to clutch my heart with both hands, just to keep it from floating away.

Natalie’s eyes well up behind her glasses. “Zora’s so happy.”

“I know.” My throat thickens. “God, Edith’s so pretty in person.”

By now, she and Zora have disentangled just enough that I can finally take her in. Loose blond curls scooped back into a messy half-bun, and the kind of smile that makes you reapply sunscreen. She’s dressed simply—a boygenius T-shirt, sweats, and a short stack of beaded bracelets. But what’s truly wild is how perfectly she fits beside Zora. Second time meeting in person, but somehow their bodies have already negotiated the space.

“I don’t know if we should interrupt.” I glance out the window again.

But Zora catches my gaze and smiles, leaning in to open the door. “You guys planning on coming, or what?”

I smile sheepishly. “We were letting you have your moment.”

“By watching through the window and giving running commentary,” Mark adds.

I scoot out of the car, smiling at Edith. “You’re real!”

“So are you!” She hugs me. “Can’t believe I’m meeting you guys in person! It’s kind of surreal.”

“So surreal. In a good way,” I add quickly. “God. You’re—okay, first of all, thank you so much for figuring out our rooms for tonight.”

“Of course! Easy-peasy.” She shoots Zora a quick sideways smile, and I realize with a start that Zora never answered my question. Specifically, the one about where she’ll be sleeping tonight. I mean, of course she’ll be with Edith. That was never really in question. But for some reason, my dumbass brain was imagining some kind of bunk bed situation.

Definitely not getting bunk bed vibes right now, to say the least. But I don’t even know what’s weirder: me sitting here wondering if Zora plans to have sex? Or the fact that it only just occurred to me to wonder about it.

“Okay! This is my sister’s dorm, with the double room.” Edith gestures at the building directly behind us. “That’s just the back door, though. We can cut through here. I’m supposed to sign you in at the front.”

She steps onto the curb, leading us down a narrow white path and into a bright, grassy courtyard. “Yup,” I say. “That’s a college.”

“It’s so empty,” Nat says. “I guess everyone’s already gone home?”

“Yeah, I think students were supposed to move out by yesterday, unless they’re staying for graduation weekend. But you had to specifically request that, so I don’t know how many people are actually still here.” Edith rifles around her bag for a moment, pulling out a keycard. “Might be more people inside? The grass is kind of gross still from yesterday. You guys had rain, too, right?”

I blink, and I’m back beneath the arcade pavilion, watching Natalie’s hair dry. The way the raindrops stuck to her eyelashes.

Edith swipes us into the lobby and signs us in. “I figured we could drop your bags off, and then I’ll give you an actual tour if you want. And Mark, I have keys and stuff for you, too.”

“Different building, though, right?” Zora asks.

“Yup! Not far, though. It’s just across the street, kind of near the scissors.”

Natalie’s eyes widen. “The what?”

“It’s a statue,” says Zora.

Edith nods. “An extremely gay statue. Okay—elevator!” She presses the button, and the doors open instantly.

We pile inside, and my gaze immediately drifts to a small bulletin board mounted near the emergency button. There’s a single printed flyer tacked to the middle—a plain text schedule of graduation weekend events. Alumni banquet. Honor Breakfast. Commencement ceremony. Luncheon. Community Dance Party.

The doors slide open, and Edith veers right, tugging a key lanyard out of her back pocket. “So, Imogen’s door is kind of an asshole. You have to yank the doorknob and sort of hold it in place while you turn the key.” She demonstrates, glancing back to make sure Nat and I are following. “And you might have to wiggle the key just . . . a little . . . okay!” Edith pushes the door open, flipping on a light switch as we follow her inside.

“Oh, it’s huge!” I peer around the space. “Wow. Okay. Do you think it’s too late for me to ditch East Seneca and apply here?”

Zora’s brow furrows. “Probably.”

“It’s not really that big,” Edith adds. “It just looks big now that it’s empty.”

I mean, it’s not actually empty. First of all, the furniture’s still here—desks, shelves, chairs, and wardrobes, and a pair of twin beds lined up end to end along the front wall. They’re both fully made: sheets, quilts, and pillows—even a short stack of folded towels.

I set my bag down, running my hand over one of the towels. “This is so sweet. It’s like a full-service hotel.”

“All Imogen. She said there’s shampoo and stuff for you guys, too, in the bathroom. And I think she left snacks in the top drawer—let me check.”

“Seriously?” I shake my head. “Okay, please tell her we say thank you. This is so above and beyond.”

Edith glances back, hand grazing one of the desk drawers. “You’ll meet her! She’s here—she’s just at brunch. Everything’s slightly chaotic with graduation stuff.”

“Why did I think she was a freshman?”

“She is—or, I guess she’s technically a rising sophomore now? But her girlfriend’s brother is graduating, so Tessa’s family’s all here from Philly.”

“Tessa’s the girlfriend,” adds Zora.

Edith nods. “Yes. Imogen’s the sister, Tessa’s the girlfriend. Of, you know. Imogen. Anyway, I think they have dinner reservations later, but they’ll obviously be at Walter’s show.”

“Obviously.” I shoot Natalie a tiny, smug smile. “I guess the show’s a big deal, huh?”

“I don’t know.” Edith laughs. “I guess—he has a pretty big fanbase, right?”

“No, yeah, he does. I don’t know what it will look like for an in-person event, though. I don’t think he and Hayden have done one in years. Not since VidCon. Now it’s just Walter’s videos and Hayden’s press stuff for The Odyssey Intergalactic.”

“Yeah, I guess tonight could go either way.” Edith pauses. “Also, that movie looks kind of . . . not good.”

“Right? That’s what I said!” Natalie reaches out to high-five her.

“Yeah.” I tilt my head. “I know. I feel like I have to see it, but . . .”

“Trailer was enough for me.” Edith smiles tightly. “I’m not the biggest Hayden fan. Oh, here—let me give you guys the keys. Okay—onward.”

“What’s your beef with Hayden?” I press the elevator button.

“Oh, it’s not real beef,” says Edith. “I don’t, like, actually know him. I used to watch his channel, but then he was weird online during the whole thing with Kara Clapstone.”

Zora translates. “The actress—she’s from Shop Talk. People were accusing her of queerbaiting, and then—”

“Oh, I remember,” Nat says. “Fuck that whole situation.”

The elevator opens again, releasing us into the lobby.

“Okay! Mark,” Edith says, “let’s get you settled!”

Twenty-Three

Edith takes us to a diner for lunch, and the whole campus comes alive while we’re gone. Especially the main quad—they’ve put up a platform stage, a big white tent, and rows of folding chairs that stretch almost to the edge of the green. Still not ready for showtime, I guess, judging by all the staff milling around with clipboards and walkie-talkies. There are lots of students around, too—hovering around the perimeter to watch the setup or playing self-conscious tour guide for their visiting relatives.

The entire tableau makes my chest squeeze—it’s that weird, contradictory mix of fullness and longing. Nostalgia really does contain multitudes. Right now, it’s not quite a “Kodachrome” feeling; it’s really more of a “Scarborough Fair.” Like I’m groping around for memories that aren’t even mine. Maybe there’s a verb tense for that—something you use when discussing your own borrowed future.

How do I already miss college when it hasn’t even started?

“Oh, I bet that’s my sister.” Edith stops to check her phone. “Okay, yup. They’re back from brunch and heading to the bookstore. Should we meet them there? I think it’s right off the quad.”

Turns out, the bookstore’s not just off the quad; it’s right behind us. You just have to walk around a building to find the entrance. In retrospect, the steady traffic of bald guys in “Blackwell Dad” T-shirts should have told us we were close. The DILFs always know.

“Multiple floors. I like it,” Nat says.

I follow her inside, gaze flicking from shelf to shelf. There’s a checkout desk along the side wall, a staircase in back, and a huge front display of books by alumni and professors. Of course, there are regular books, too, plus some picked-over shelves of textbooks, meticulously organized by course numbers. It’s just like the store at East Seneca College.

But the bulk of the space isn’t for books; it’s for gear. Racks and racks of T-shirts and hoodies, scarves and hats and windbreakers. Keychains and lanyards and plushies, oh my. Also, it’s teeming with people; it’s almost like a music festival’s merch tent. When you think about it, college really is just one big fandom.

I wander around the clothing racks, stopping periodically to feel the sleeves of fleece jackets, or to gawk at the occasional $80 sweatshirt—embroidered with a tiny Blackwell College crest, of course. Natalie’s quietly thumbing through the sweatpants; I’m just about to join her, when I run into—well, Edith. Except it’s not. It’s almost Edith.

Edith, but she’s wearing a sundress—and her hair’s a little browner. Her ponytail’s a little more wavy than curly.

“Okay, you have to be Imogen.”

Her eyes widen. “Yes. Hi! You’re one of—you must be Amelia or Natalie, right?”

“Amelia! Way to make me feel famous.”

She laughs, revealing a dimple just like Edith’s, and—wow. Between these two and the freaking Rosemann-Long twins, the dimple situation on this campus is downright out of hand. Thank God Mark’s such a little sourpuss; if he smiled more, I’d be done for. No bisexual on earth could survive that.

“You look so much like your sister.” I blink. “And you’re probably so sick of hearing that.”

“No, it’s fine! And we do—I know.” She laughs again. “Did you guys just get here?”

I tilt my head back and forth. “Like an hour or two ago, maybe? Also—God—thank you for giving us your room, by the way.”

“Oh man, you gave up your room?” chimes a freckle-faced brunette. “Where are you gonna sleep?” She hooks an arm around Imogen’s shoulder, and Imogen smiles up at her blushing.

I feel—holy shit. I feel so single right now.

“Oh—hi! I’m Tessa,” she adds. “Are you one of Zora’s friends?”

“Amelia.” I nod. “Also—sorry, I’m kind of obsessed with your shirt. Is that . . .”

“A photo of a pubescent boy in a snorkel mask?” Tessa grins. “Yup.”

“Oh my God. Okay.” Imogen turns to me. “That’s her brother, and it’s his bar mitzvah shirt from a million years ago. It says Dan’s bar mitzvah under the picture. I promise it’s less weird when the shirt’s untucked.”

“Well, technically, it says Make a splash at Dan’s bar mitzvah.”

“He’s graduating tomorrow,” Imogen adds. “She’s had this outfit planned for almost a decade.”

“Nice,” I say. “You should break it out again for his wedding day.”

“Already planning to!”

“Okay, sweet—you guys have met.” Edith drifts over, holding up a pudgy stuffed cat in a little Blackwell shirt. “Look who I found.”

“Oh, no way!” Imogen boops its nose.

“This is literally our cat, Quincy,” Edith explains, glancing quickly over her shoulder. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I’m buying him for Zora.”

“Is she here? Can we meet her?” Tessa asks.

“Yup.” Edith tilts her head toward the science textbooks.

Tessa presses a hand to her heart. “Look at that nerd.”

“I know.” Edith glances back at Zora and smiles, and I try to memorize what it looks like.

This is how you smile when you’ve been in love so long, it’s like breathing.

Twenty-Four

“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.

YouTube (September, senior year)

My Sexuality (a bi-ographical update)

914 Comments

@SAVYWRITESBOOKS ✅: Lord Bi-ron is weeping with pride right now

47 replies

@$igns_Of_Life_On_Uranus ✅: a motherfucking legend!!!!!

16 replies

@RKGold ✅: Proud of you, dude

32 replies

@Kelly-Waxman-Mom-Of-Three593013754: We’re proud of you, sweetie. Love, Aunt Kelly

4 replies

@Hayters*Always*Prosper: your move, Hayden 👐

152 replies

@Lucy_Loves_Dalmations48925029475: I have been your fan for two years and I love your videos so much. Thank you for opening up and making yourself so vulnerable about your journey and your sexuality. As someone who is questioning my own sexuality, it was really nice to see, and I think it will be truly helpful to many kids and teenagers like myself. Thank you and I can’t wait for your next

Read more

2 replies

@YourDaily^DramaClashEdit: WE TOLD Y’ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

17 replies

@heart*of*a*hayter: Hayters how we doing????😎

72 replies

@willowlpotter: so happy for u

@brynn^k: thank you for clarifying, ilu!!! any updates on hayden? can we expect a video from him soon? it’s fine if you can’t tell us though!

45 replies

@user-33592874582748957298475982759: Walter like this comment if ur banging hayden

87 replies

@artistic*exception: We love you so much Walter!!!!!

@hayden$walter: we’ve all seen u try to sit in chairs, we knew

21 replies

@zoe-witnessed-the-hug-in-person: Paging Hayden Geller!!!!!!!!!!!!

38 replies

Twenty-Five

Listen, all things considered, I’m a pretty easygoing person. Do I get mad sometimes? Sure. I live with Audrey. I’m just saying, it takes a lot for me to reach that feel-it-in-my-chest, can’t-joke-it-off, lava-tidal-wave kind of rage. But, my God, Mark Rosemann-Long is getting me there.

“He’s not even typing?” I scowl at Natalie’s phone screen. It’s 7:25 on the nose, and we’re outside the entrance to his dorm, just like we said we’d be. You know who else said he’d be here? Marky—

Nope. Not even going to dignify him with a nickname.

“I’m calling him again.” I swipe into my contacts. “Actually—here. See if Imogen’s keycard opens this one, too.”

I hand it to her, phone tucked up to my ear.

She dutifully holds it to the key reader; nothing. And Mark “no fucking nickname” Rosemann-Long doesn’t answer his phone. Downright abominable behavior. A throat-gripping betrayal. Sheer fuckery, to the highest degree. And no one’s entering or leaving, so we can’t even slip inside while the door’s open. Seven twenty-five p.m. on a Saturday, and apparently not a single person’s going to dinner. I guess they’re all just blowing off the alumni banquet, whatever the fuck that is. It’s like the dorm itself is taunting us. Even the scissors are casting mocking shadows as the sun sets.

I exhale. “So he’s just bailing? What a—”

The door swings open, revealing Mark. Except it’s not my usual Marco von Markeline—this one’s more like Prom Mark. Hot Mark. I mean, it’s not another tux or anything; just dark jeans and a navy plaid button-down. But it fits him, and it lays well, which gives him this casual sort of elegance.

“Hey. Holy shit,” I say. “Look at you.”

He stifles a self-conscious smile. “Didn’t know the dress code.”

“Well,” I say slowly. “It’s an eighteen-year-old YouTuber at the student center, so.”

“You look like Dad,” Natalie says.

I smile slyly. “I mean, your dad is kind of a—”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare say it.” She stares me down.

I widen my eyes and stare back. “What? Just saying your dad’s a good dad!”

From here, it’s a fairly straightforward walk to the student center, even on the wrong side of sunset. “So, Walter goes on at eight?” Natalie asks, holding the door with her foot.

“Yup. But I want to make sure we’re early enough to save seats. Zora says they just left Penn Yan, so they probably won’t get here until right when it’s starting.” I peer around the lobby, taking in the clusters of couches and cushiony chairs, arranged around tables. There’s a row of vending machines and a bank of elevators, arranged around a wide central staircase. “Okay! Fourth floor.”

I feel a little strange, almost lightheaded. Here I am, staring at the rows of numbered buttons. Normal elevator, normal building, normal ding when we reach the fourth floor. The elevator stops moving, but I guess my stomach missed the memo. Highly possible that I’m pregnant with at least one or two beehives and a fully operational roller coaster.

I can’t seem to talk my brain into believing this is real.

What am I even supposed to say to him? Hi, I’m Amelia, the girl who definitely, probably didn’t tag you in a singing promposal video this week!

Walter freaking Holland. Honest to God, he could pop up at any moment. He could literally be standing there as soon as the elevator doors open.

The elevator doors open, revealing a modest landing area. Empty.

I exhale.

“How are we doing?” asks Nat; I shoot her a wordless thumbs-up.

There are a few doors off the landing, but only one is wide open; Walter’s flyer is taped right in the center.

“This is it.” I stop at the threshold, peering inside. The room’s not tiny, but it’s cozy. Linoleum floors and painted cinder block, and there’s a mural of the New York City skyline on one of the side walls. In the front of the room: a navy-blue sofa, flanked by small wooden end tables. Someone arranged blue plastic audience chairs into welcoming, slightly curved rows.

Also, we’re the first ones here.

I only pause for a second before sitting down right in the front.

“Okay, listen.” I glance around quickly, lowering my voice to a murmur. “You can give me shit later. All night. All day tomorrow. The whole ride back home. Whatever you want to do. But. Not in front of Walter, okay?”

“Oh! Okay.” Natalie, queen of all shit-stirrers, turns to me with wide shit-stirring eyes. “So, like—you don’t want us to talk about the Walden shippers?”

“Absolutely not. Guillotine.” I smack the side of my palm into my fist.

“What about the Hayters?”

“Natalie! No! That’s not even—like, that literally isn’t even relevant. I was never—”

“But we can say you have a crush on him, right?” Mark chimes in, leaning forward to have a deeply unsubtle glance exchange with Natalie. Right in front of my face.

“No, you may not,” I explain, “because that? Would be misinformation.”

“Oh, okay.”

“In fact”—I raise a finger—“it would be DISINFORMATION!”

The elevator bings, and I freeze. The doors slide open.

A moment later, a trio of girls in Blackwell hoodies file through the doorway. “This is the Drama Clash event, right?” one of them asks.

“Yeah. It’s—I mean, it’s Walter from Drama Clash,” I say, gesturing at the empty couch for absolutely no reason.

“Cool.” She looks around. “So, we’re early, huh?”

But, before long, more people start trickling in—mostly students, as far as I can tell. But there are a couple of outliers—a pair of bearded middle-aged men holding hands, and a group of kids with dyed hair and lots of rainbow-striped enamel pins, who look like they’re probably in middle school. There’s even a little kid in a Drama Clash T-shirt who looks like she’s Audrey’s age.

No Zora and Edith, though—and Imogen, Tessa, and the others haven’t shown up either.

“Still seven minutes,” Nat says, when she catches me eyeing the doorway.

“I’m not worried! I’m—”

A chatty group shuffles in, commandeered by a girl who’s literally just Tessa with an extra five inches of hair. She surveys the chairs for a second, before sliding into one of the empty back rows. A woman with reddish-brown hair scoots in beside her, followed by a balding guy with a tweed suit and glasses. Then: a bunch of dudes, one of whom is definitely the graduating brother. By the time Imogen and the real Tessa come through, I feel like I’ve lived through an entire Thanksgiving parade. They wave and start to veer toward us—but quickly slink back to their seats when a second door opens beside them. It’s so well hidden by the mural, I didn’t even know it existed.

A student organizer in a Grad Committee T-shirt steps out, sets two water bottles and a pair of handheld microphones on the tables, and disappears. But a moment later, she reemerges to run a quick sound check.

Thumbs-up from Tessa’s dad in the back.

The organizer nods and lifts the mic—but before she even gets the word hello out, Edith and Zora rush in.

I lean past Mark to smile and wave at them, but I’m pretty sure time’s folding in on itself. Because the next thing I know, the organizer’s vanished, and everyone’s clapping, and Mika Hiyashi’s throwing down a wink to someone in the audience.

And then there’s Walter, barely even five feet in front of me—one leg tucked up onto the sofa like the ridiculous, life-changing bisexual he is.

Twitter (May, senior year)

@heart_of_a_hayter: okay folks I am coming at you live from the Walter Holland event at Blackwell U w/Mika Hiyashi. Ten min until start time, follow this thread for my real time reactions!!!!!

@heart_of_a_hayter: IT’S STARTING!!! LET’S GO

@heart_of_a_hayter: OKAY SO mika and walt are sitting very very close to each other on the couch lmao, anyone know if that’s a thing??

@heart_of_a_hayter: all right, mika’s welcoming walter to blackwell & walter says he’s happy to be here BLACKWELL REPRESENT

@heart_of_a_hayter: haha mika just asked if walt brought his ukulele tonight & he said he’s saving it for future apology videos lmao, obsessed with him

@heart_of_a_hayter: btw, thank u to the moots who confirmed mika has a partner who is not walter, good to know haha

@heart_of_a_hayter: okay so now they’re talking about Walt’s solo channel and what it’s been like to pivot his content style etc. response is kind of generic, ngl. He’s enjoying the change of pace, loves getting to talk about queer stuff, has felt even more connected with his audience. Okay, that’s pretty sweet actually

@heart_of_a_hayter: haha we’re 11 min in and walt’s already made like 3 bi puns. i love that little ginger so much, he’s such a dad

@heart_of_a_hayter: okay, we’ve moved into talking about the coming out vid! He says he was a little bit nervous to post it, but he was also really eager, and he’d been wanting to do it for a while at that point

@heart_of_a_hayter: uh so now I want to know who was preventing him from coming out sooner. (could it be, idk, hayden’s homophobic management team????)

@heart_of_a_hayter: now he’s talking about the reactions to him coming out and how the fandom was great and supportive 😂 my dude, you know we’re all queer, right??

@heart_of_a_hayter: also noting that mike has not asked a SINGLE question about hayden so far. Hasn’t even mentioned his name 😒

@heart_of_a_hayter: *mika

@heart_of_a_hayter: like how are we not even mentioning hayden TWO WEEKS BEFORE HIS MOVIE PREMIERE, I stg, Hayden, u never deserved this

@heart_of_a_hayter: yeah, theyre legit going OUT OF THEIR WAY to not mention hayden, like it’s actually pretty obvious 🙃🙃🙃

@heart_of_a_hayter: theyre seriously not even going to ask him about the movie???? Is he going to the premiere? Hayters need to knowwww

@heart_of_a_hayter: they just asked him about vinny the cat????????

@heart_of_a_hayter: All right wrap this up, I’m ready for the audience questions. we’ve got some hayters in this chili’s tonight, I can FEEL it

@heart_of_a_hayter: wow yup not a single question about hayden folks, we were ROBBED

@heart_of_a_hayter: OKAY FINALLY, AUDIENCE QUESTIONS!!!! Guys let me know if I should ask something!!

@heart_of_a_hayter: oh shit, home run right out the gate. Bless you, audience member number 1. First question is if he ever plans to collab with hayden again

@heart_of_a_hayter: uhhhh mika just did the shadiest little side glance at walter

@heart_of_a_hayter: MIKA WHAT DO U KNOW??

@heart_of_a_hayter: walter is being very vague, says he doesn’t have plans to collab again, they’re both very busy with solo projects 🙄

@heart_of_a_hayter: omg second audience question is SO BOLD. They just came out and asked it lmfao. “What do you think about the rumors that you and Hayden are romantically linked?” Hahaha they’re so real for this

@heart_of_a_hayter: Walter is denying it, shocker 🙃 Come on mika, give us a follow up, I BELIEVE IN U

@heart_of_a_hayter: OMG THEY CHANGED THE FKN SUBJECT!!!!!!!!! I’m actually livid, wtf

@heart_of_a_hayter: they’re like “I’ve also heard people say you’re considering acting, how do you cope with the false rumors” BESTIE, LITERALLY NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT WALTER CONSIDERING ACTING, YOU PULLED IT OUT OF YOUR ASS TO DEFLECT

@heart_of_a_hayter: are they on the studio’s payroll or what???

@heart_of_a_hayter: wait I love this audience sm, we truly did send our best

@heart_of_a_hayter: ok let me recap, a HERO named lacey was like “going back to the rumors, I know u said you and hayden are not together so did you break up?” hahahaha I love middle schoolers for real

@heart_of_a_hayter: so walters like “we care about each other a lot as friends, as bros, etc, but no we’ve never dated” lol okay walt whatever you want to call it

@heart_of_a_hayter: a literal child just asked if hayden is gay

@heart_of_a_hayter: obsessed

@heart_of_a_hayter: walter says he doesn’t know, they’ve never talked about it

@heart_of_a_hayter: ok walt, you get a free pass here, we know u can’t out your bf,

@heart_of_a_hayter: ok everyone shut up, baby queen lacey has the floor again

@heart_of_a_hayter: asking how hayden first reacted to walt coming out—wait that’s actually a really great question??

@heart_of_a_hayter: OMG I THINK HE’S GONNA ANSWER FOR REAL, BUCKLE IN

@heart_of_a_hayter: ill try to summarize lol. Ok

@heart_of_a_hayter: walter: it was actually rlly funny bc I was psyching myself up to tell him at vidcon

@heart_of_a_hayter: holy shit this is so sweet

@heart_of_a_hayter: he says he was only out to his sister and cousins at the time, so he was nervous AWW SWEETIE

@heart_of_a_hayter: saying he didn’t expect hayden to react badly or anything btw, was just nervous in general sfkljgnldskjfgnkldjnfglk PROTECT HIM

@heart_of_a_hayter: walter: so I made a whole speech and I say it and hayden’s like “uh what”

@heart_of_a_hayter: gonna try to describe the face he’s making rn hopefully someone got it on video tho. It’s like a head tilt brow wrinkle confused face

@heart_of_a_hayter: so walter’s like “what do you mean what” and hayden’s like “u already told me”

@heart_of_a_hayter: fdghkjsdhfglkjsdhfglkjshdfglkjhsdlkfjghslkdjfhglksjdfhglksjdfhglkjsdhfg

@heart_of_a_hayter: so fkn funny and cute I HATE THEM

@heart_of_a_hayter: mika’s like, was he psychic?

@heart_of_a_hayter: okay theyre saying one more question for my sweet ginger baby, I’M GOING IN WISH ME LUCK

Twenty-Six

Mika hands the mic to a girl at the end of my row—witchy makeup, and a voice that’s a tiny bit breathless. “Wow. Okay—hi!”

Walter smiles at her. “Hi!”

“I love you,” she adds, and there’s a ripple of good-natured audience laughter. “So, my question”—she scoots forward, almost to the edge of her chair—“goes back to the online discourse surrounding you and Hayden.”

I press my lips together, trying to rein in my expression. But I’m clearly not as slick as I think I am, because—

Walter looks right at me. Just for the barest split second.

The girl continues. “I know in the past, some people have accused you guys of queerbaiting, so I guess I’m just wondering what it was like having to navigate all of that in the public eye. Figuring out your identities, coming out, being in a relationship . . .” She pauses, letting the last part hang in the air. Then, smiling sweetly, she passes the mic back to Mika.

I open my mouth and then shut it. She can’t be serious, right?

Being in a relationship. As if it’s an established fact that he and Hayden are dating. As if Walter didn’t specifically debunk that five minutes ago. Is she trying to trick him into admitting he and Hayden are dating by pretending he’s already admitted it?

“Oh! Um.” He fidgets with the stem of his microphone, letting out a quick, polite laugh. “I mean, yeah, sorting things out in public was stressful. Announcing it on the internet was—a lot. But I’m, uh, definitely not in a relationship. Never have been.”

There’s an eruption of awwws from the audience, and someone in the back yells, “I’ll date you!”

“He’s saving himself for Hayden Geller!” someone shouts back, and a bunch of people start clapping. Absolutely no stopping my eye roll this time.

Walter looks at me again, smiling faintly, and my heart almost flips out of my chest.

Walter and Mika disappear as soon as the Q&A ends, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a quick break before the meet and greet. Most of the audience is still here, chatting across rows of seats or milling around edges of the space. The student organizers are back, too, dragging in a second weathered-looking couch from one of the common areas.

“Feeling good?” Nat asks. “You’re not nervous, right?”

“Nervous? Never.”

“You just squeaked.”

“It was an expression of nonchalance.” I lean back in my chair, barely suppressing a grin. “What’d you guys think? Other than the weird invasive fuckery from the shippers.”

“Yeah, that was pretty blatant,” says Nat.

By now, Edith and Zora have scooted over from the end of the row. “Good show,” Zora says, with an earnest little nod. “I get why you like him so much.”

“I told you! He’s the real fucking deal. Welcome to the fandom.” I turn to Mark. “And don’t think for a minute that I missed you giggling at every joke, Meghan Markle.”

He opens his mouth and then shuts it—which basically translates to Amelia’s right, I fucking know it, and I don’t have a single comeback. But I hardly even get a chance to give him shit about it, because the hidden door opens again out of nowhere. The next thing I know, Walter’s settling onto the edge of one couch, and Mika takes the other.

An organizer grabs the microphone. “Thank you all so much for waiting. I think we’re . . .” She glances briefly at Walter and Mika, who both shrug and nod. “Great! I think we’re ready to start the meet and greet. If y’all want, maybe we could line up along the edge of the rows here. I’ll be here, so you can give me your phone if you want pictures or anything. And that’s it!”

Natalie nudges me. “Now’s your moment.”

I glance back at Walter, gaze trailing back to the line already forming next to the mural. “Uh . . . you guys are coming with me, right?”

“Do you want us to?” asks Zora.

“Don’t you want to meet him? You know, now that you’re a big fan and everything.”

Zora laughs, tipping her palms up. “I—”

“Okay, come on. I’ve got you.” Mark stands, tugging me up by my cardigan sleeve.

I let out an incredulous laugh. “Look at you. Wow. Do we need to get you some merch?”

Natalie hops up to join us, and a moment later, the three of us have officially joined the line, right behind the Blackwell hoodie girls.

“I can’t believe Zora’s skipping the meet and greet.” I shake my head, watching her and Edith settle in with Imogen and Tessa near the back of the room. Tessa’s sister is there, too, though it looks like her brother and his friends have dipped out. But her parents haven’t even gotten up from their seats. “Fake fan.”

It’s a fairly short line, all things considered, but it’s certainly not moving quickly. Honestly, you’d almost think this was just some random campus hangout. Just a bunch of people chatting on the couches. “They seem to have, uh—lots of questions,” Nat says.

She’s not wrong. When the girls in front of us take their turn, it’s a whole interrogation.

So you haven’t seen The Odyssey Intergalactic yet? You should do a special screening! Okay, wait—has anyone ever said anything really crazy to you? Like, what’s the weirdest thing anyone’s ever asked you? Do you think you and Hayden would ever do, like, a Netflix movie together?

“People really like Hayden, huh?” Mark mutters.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. It’s kind of, like—rude, right? Hey, hey, what about your movie star best friend.”

“That’s so weird,” Nat confirms.

The hoodie girls scoot in close for a photo—and that’s when it finally hits me:

In a matter of moments, I’ll be sitting on a couch. Next to Walter Holland. Because he’s here. Life-sized and three dimensional, in full vibrant color. No ad breaks. Just—Walter.

He’s looking up at us now, smiling warmly. “Hey! Thanks for waiting.”

“Oh—God. Of course. Hi!” I feel like my brain’s fogging over. “Thank you so much. Really. It was such a good show. You guys were hilarious together.”

“Aww—thank you.” Walter smiles, glancing sideways at Mika. “I was trying very hard not to be, like, too blatant of a fanboy.”

“Can relate,” I say, and Walter blushes and laughs.

I still can’t believe this. The fact that he’s real. That he’s sitting two inches away from me, with his red hair and red cheeks and his real beating heart.

I take a deep breath. “So. Um, by the way, my name’s Amelia and we’ve interacted a few times? Like, on Instagram?” Holy uptalking, wow. Love that for me. “So I’m actually from Larchmont—”

“Wait—” Walter covers his mouth. “Amelia! From Larchmont! Hi! Oh man. Sorry—I didn’t—”

“No, you’re fine! Also, like—I cut my hair. I probably look totally different—”

“No, no—I just didn’t put it together. Holy crap.” He laughs. “Hi! Wow. Can I hug you?”

Yeah, so. I don’t even have to look at the twins to know there’s some kind of smile transaction happening at this very second. But I nod, and we hug, and nothing about this is actually possible. It’s like swiping past a photo of rain and getting droplets on your fingers.

After that, it’s a blur. He chats with the twins about a bakery that just opened back home, near Mamaroneck. Which quickly turns into all four of us collectively riding so hard for Longford’s, Mika has to ask if “Cookie Monster ice cream” is a drug euphemism. Then the organizer snaps a few photos on Natalie’s phone, and we’re done. We yield the couches to a group of middle schoolers.

And for a moment, all I can do is stand in the aisle, pressing my hands to my thundering heart. Walter knew me by name. Knows me by name. Amelia from Larchmont. I’d paint that moment on the inside wall of my skull if I could.

Not to mention the fact that he hugged me.

“Hey!” Walter’s voice, from a few feet behind me; he’s greeting the middle schoolers now. “Thanks for waiting.”

There’s a tiny squeeze in my chest.

One of the kids says something, but I can’t make it out from where I’m standing.

Walter laughs warmly. “Aww—thanks!”

Something about his intonation makes me feel like my throat’s closing up.

I sneak a glance back, and he’s listening intently to the kid. Then he nods and laughs and asks them a question. And it’s wild, because I can’t even see the kid’s face from this angle. But I know precisely what they’re thinking, how they’re feeling.

Something about painting that moment on the inside of their skull, I’d imagine.

I mean, he recognized me from Instagram. That actually happened. That’s real. At least it sounded real. But here he is talking to a ponytailed twelve-year-old, and—I don’t know.

That sounded real, too.

Parasocially infatuated.

I’m not completely delusional, right? I know how parasocial relationships work. Watching someone’s videos isn’t the same as actually knowing them. It’s not a real conversation, even if they answer all your unspoken questions.

Feeling seen doesn’t mean they actually see you.

I guess my stupid dandelion heart thought Walter could be an exception. Subjunctively speaking, I mean. Just an if-only.

Is it really that weird to imagine it? He’s a fellow Westchester Jewish kid. We’ve probably been guests at some of the same bar mitzvahs, at least. I could run into him at Bagel Power. At Barnes & Noble. In a supermarket line. I’ve spent my whole life seeing his mother’s face on real estate yard signs. For all I know, Walter was there dabbing alongside Jordan Cohen at all the JCC tween socials.

Amelia from Larchmont. He said it like a memory clicking into place. But did he actually recognize me? Did he even really say he did? Because, yeah, he replied to two of my comments, but he replies to lots of people. He’s probably replied to literally everyone in this room at some point. Everyone. The middle schoolers. The hoodie students. Tessa’s dad. Honestly, the more I think about it, the more it seems insane that I’d even be on his radar. There’s only one thing he even really could recognize me from, and—

Quite frankly, I’d rather he didn’t.

Twenty-Seven

Zora and Edith have been absorbed into Tessa’s family; they try to wave us over, but it’s a no-go for the twintroverts. We end up ditching the multipurpose room to wait for them downstairs, in the student center lobby.

Nat keeps shooting me these brow-furrowed looks, like I’m a half-solved puzzle. Makes me wonder what my face is saying.

The problem is, I don’t know the name for this feeling. It’s not out-of-body, exactly. More like I’m a transposed song—everything’s an inch to the left of where it should be. And now I’m on a weathered lounge sofa, just like the one we sat on with Walter upstairs. Nat’s tucked up, cross-legged, beside me; Mark’s half-sprawled in a nearby armchair, lost to his phone.

“Hey, you’re good, right?” Nat says, after a moment.

I look up. “What? Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I don’t know. You just seem kind of . . . under-reactive, I guess?”

I laugh. “How am I supposed to react?”

“You’re not! You’re just, like, surprisingly mellow for a girl who met THE Walter Holland.”

There’s a twinge in my chest, and I hate it.

“I mean, it’s not like he’s my bestie.” I shrug. “He’s a YouTuber.”

“Yeah, but I thought it went really well, right?” She looks at Mark, who tips a palm up and nods. “Were you, like—”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

“Oh,” Nat says faintly, as Mika steps out. They’re on the phone, but they shoot us a smile when they pass us; Nat looks so shell-shocked, I let out a laugh.

“Are you okay?” I reach out to hug her.

She rubs her cheek. “I wasn’t ready.”

Which gives me a pang out of nowhere. With Walter, I think I was too ready. Just a few too many daydreams. A little too much if-only. In hindsight, it’s so clear I set myself up for failure. How could reality measure up? How could it even come close?

And tonight was good! That’s the truly unhinged part. It was basically a perfect interaction. The hug, the vibes, the fact that I even managed to speak in his presence. I don’t even know what else I could have hoped for.

Maybe I just wish it was real.

The elevator opens again—Zora and Edith, this time. And Imogen and Tessa and Tessa’s whole family. Here’s a very normal relationship milestone: meeting your best friend’s girlfriend’s sister’s girlfriend’s parents. Hearing Tessa run through introductions is like when your rabbi starts listing out all the Abraham genealogy.

“So, Rachael’s my sister—she’s your age. And Dan was here, but he’s graduating tomorrow, so he, uh, went home early.”

“And he’s definitely telling the truth about that,” Rachael chimes in, perching on an armrest. “Absolutely, in no way is he out partying off campus right now.”

Tessa laughs. “Right. So. Dan’s definitely back home, definitely getting a full night’s rest, so he can wake up nice and refreshed for the big day tomorrow. Incredible. Good for him. And, uh, yeah! These are my parents.”

“And we even have names!” Tessa’s mom adds, with a wry little headshake. “Very nice to meet you. Kelly Waxman, and this is my husband, Geoff Minsky.”

“Geoff with a G.” Tessa’s dad leans in for a handshake, which sets off a whole cascade of handshakes.

“This is truly so wonderful.” Kelly tilts her head, smiling. “How long have you guys been fans of Walt’s content?”

Zora and the twins turn to look at me so pointedly, the whole group bursts out laughing. “Um.” I grin. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve followed him for years. Since, like, the ukulele days. But I actually like his solo stuff better.”

“Oh, no question,” says Geoff.

I point at him. “Yes! You get it.”

“I mean, we may be slightly biased.” He smiles.

I smile back, slightly baffled—but before I even have a chance to wonder about it, the elevator opens again.

“Minskys!” Walter crosses straight toward us. “I thought you left!”

My mouth falls open. “Wait.”

Rachael jumps up, greeting him with a full-on bear hug. And then Tessa hugs him, and her parents hug him, and—

“So you guys . . . definitely all know each other,” I say.

“Oh, yeah,” Edith says. “Tess and Walt are cousins.”

“They’re . . .” I blink. “How?”

Edith nods thoughtfully. “How are cousins made? Um, okay. When two couples love each other very much—”

“No, I mean. I just didn’t—” I shake my head, looking from Walter to Tessa. “You have different last names . . .”

“Yeah, that happens sometimes,” says Mark.

Natalie pats my arm. “I think she’s glitching.”

Edith laughs. “Sorry! I don’t know why I thought you knew that.”

“I kind of hijacked Dan’s graduation.” Walter rubs the back of his neck, smiling faintly.

“Oh. Okay, yeah,” I say. “This makes . . . so much sense.”

“All right, I think us hotel people better split. What time are you leaving tomorrow, sweetie?” Kelly nudges Walter’s bangs out of his eyes. “Can we treat you to breakfast before the ceremony?”

“I don’t know yet.” He tilts his head from side to side. “I should probably figure out dinner first.”

Silence drops like a curtain. Time itself seems to stop.

“You haven’t had dinner yet?” Kelly asks.

Tessa shakes her head, eyes glinting. “You really just said that in front of a whole group of your Jewish relatives.”

Walter’s eyes go wide. “Oh.”

“Sweetie, when did you eat?”

“Lunch? I don’t know. I drove straight here.” He shrugs. “I had some chips in the car.”

“You’re joking,” says Rachael.

“Straight from Scarsdale?” Kelly looks horrified. “Oh, you must be starving.”

“Mom, we’ve got this. I’ll feed him,” Tessa says, giving him a firm pat on the arm. “Go to bed.”

“Isn’t there a little cafeteria around here? How late is that open?” Geoff asks, peering around. “You know what? I’ll run back upstairs and ask those Grad Committee girls.”

“No, I’m fine. Seriously. I’ll grab something,” Walter says. “I promise.”

“I don’t know what’s open.” Kelly frowns. “I don’t know. I’ll feel better if—”

“Mom! We’ll be fine. I literally go here,” says Tessa. “I will feed this starving child.”

Kelly narrows her eyes, looking from Tessa to Walter. “You’ll text me when you find a restaurant?”

Tessa clasps her hands. “Yes. Good night. We’ll text you from the diner—” Kelly starts to reply, but Tessa heads her off at the pass. “And it’s definitely open. Because it’s a diner. Okay, who’s hungry?”

It takes me a second to realize she means all of us, including Walter.

All of us, including me.

Twenty-Eight

You’ve got to love the chaos of a big group location change. There are a few false starts at first—like when Edith realizes she left Zora’s cat plushie in the multipurpose room, or when two girls shyly approach Walter to ask for a selfie. The diner’s walking distance, thankfully, so there’s no coordinating with cars. But even the walking part is kind of wonderfully awkward, since we pretty much commandeer the entire sidewalk.

By the time we reach the edge of campus, though, we’ve split off into smaller clusters. Tessa, Walter, and Mark take the lead, while Imogen, Edith, and Zora drift a few feet behind them.

I hang back with Nat. She’s gone weirdly quiet again, but it’s not just the shy kind this time.

“Okay, what’s up?” I nudge her sideways. “I know you’re upset about something.”

“Um . . . no? I’m not.”

“Nope. Don’t believe you. I know you, okay? Longtime fan here. Very familiar with the Natalie Rosemann-Long cinematic mood-iverse—”

She laughs a little. “It’s called being in a bad mood. Is that allowed?”

“Wait.” I sneak a peek at her profile. “Did something happen?”

She shakes her head.

“No, for real—”

“Nothing happened!”

“Then why,” I poke her cheek, “are you in a bad mood?”

“Because people have bad feelings sometimes, and it’s fine?” She smiles a little. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“But if you don’t tell me why you feel bad, I can’t fix it!”

“I don’t want you to fix it!” She laughs, but it’s sharp around the edges. “You don’t have to do your whole Amelia thing, okay? I don’t need you to bury every stupid feeling with jokes and distraction and—I don’t know. The whole schtick.”

I laugh incredulously. “You think I do that?”

“Okay, here’s a question. When was the last time you were just, like, totally chill with someone being angry?”

“Oh.” I blink. “Are they angry at me, or in general?”

“Either. You know what? Doesn’t even have to be anger. How about plain old grouchiness? Seriously, how long could you go without swooping in to cheer them up?”

“Wow.” I step over a crack in the sidewalk. “Didn’t know that was a bad thing.”

“It’s not!” She pauses, biting her lip. “Sorry, I’m not saying it’s bad. It’s just—sometimes you just have to live with the fact that people feel shitty or sad or angry or—you know. Whatever.”

“Okay, counterpoint.” I shoot her a quick, sideways smile. “Mark’s very existence proves I’m able to tolerate grumpy people—”

“You’re doing it!” She points at me. “Right now. You’re uncomfortable, or you’re feeling tension—whatever, so now you’re sliding in with a joke.”

“It’s not a joke! Mark’s so grumpy—”

“Fine! He’s grumpy. But.” She turns to face me, with this quiet half smile. “Why is he allowed to be grumpy and sad, but I’m not?”

My breath catches so sharply, I can’t even speak for a moment.

Why is he allowed

But I’m not

I squeeze my eyes shut. Why—

Because I can’t even think straight when it’s you. Because when you’re sad, I can feel it.

“I don’t know,” I say, finally. “Sorry, I’m just. I don’t understand what happened. You seemed fine back there. At the student center. I thought—”

“No. You’re—sorry. I’m sorry. I think I’m just hungry.” She tugs my cardigan sleeve. “Let’s catch up, so Mark doesn’t hog the pancakes.”

Twenty-Nine

The diner turns out to be the very same diner we went to for brunch. So I wouldn’t say I’m positive it’s the only restaurant in Geneva, New York, but I’ve yet to see proof to the contrary. Also, it’s packed; there’s a line spilling all the way out to the curb.

Mark raises his eyebrows. “Graduation crowd, maybe?”

By the time we make it inside, it isn’t even a question. I’m sure some of these people are townies, and some are probably just random students who haven’t gone home yet. But there’s no denying that this place is MILF and DILF central. Definitely parents, alumni, or both. Our group of eight is too big for a booth, but we luck into a table that more or less works. “As long as you’re fine with close quarters,” the hostess says.

It’s one of those tables where only one side has individual chairs; across from that, it’s one big long bench affixed to the wall. I end up on the bench side, squeezed between Imogen and Natalie. But it’s a manageable sort of squeeze.

As opposed to the one in my chest when Walter Holland takes the chair directly across from me. “Mind if I sit here?”

Mark’s sitting in the chair beside him—the one at the end, across from Nat. “Go ahead.” He shrugs, and I nod, soundlessly.

I don’t know what my brain thinks it’s doing right now. I’m not a shy person. I don’t get tongue-tied, even with celebrities. Not that I’ve met many celebrities. But I was fine when a state senator talked at our school sophomore year. And there wasn’t a mouse, duck, or princess at Disney last year who could faze me.

It’s just Walter. Just this red-haired, bisexual nerd boy who, I’m now learning, has “mixed feelings” about pancakes. Which isn’t a particular problem, given that the menus here are roughly the size of Genesis.

Absolute perfect inverse of the number of words in my brain.

Since when is basic small talk this hard? Why have I spent the last ten minutes silently workshopping the slickest way to say hey, I’ve been obsessed with you for almost four years. Or watching your coming-out video might be the only time I’ve ever felt normal. Even dude, I liked your show.

I need a force quit. Reboot. I let my eyes drift toward the entrance, where the line’s even worse than before. There’s a counter there, too, with a jukebox beside it. A song just ended—not something I know, but it’s got major Dad’s-phone-hooked-to-the-Bluetooth energy. But then it slides straight into “Video Killed the Radio Star,” which always makes my heart feel like a strobe light. When the first oh-a-oh hits, I can’t help but mouth along. And neither can Walter.

We exchange grins, and it’s just enough to jolt me back to myself.

“Best song,” he says, throwing down finger guns.

So, I whip mine out, too. “Pow. Bisexual shootout.”

“Armed and dangerous!”

“I have to stay on guard.” I raise both guns to my lips and blow. “The bis are everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” Imogen confirms, shooting me from the side.

“Sneak attack!”

“So, you guys really came all the way here from Westchester?” Walter asks.

“So did you,” Mark points out.

Walter pokes his arm. “It was my show!”

“Definitely worth the trip,” I tell him. “You were so great.”

He smiles, blushing a little. “Ha. Thanks. I don’t know about that.”

“Excuse me—you were amazing. Brilliant, funny, charming.” Tessa shoves his arm lightly. “I did think Rachael was gonna beat up some shippers, though.”

Walter laughs. “I thought Amelia was going to!”

“Was I that obvious?” I grin.

“Oh, totally. Your face was like—” He widens his eyes, cocks his head, and presses his lips flat together.

I cover my face. “Oh God—”

“No, it was amazing,” he says.

“Are the shippers always like that?” asks Mark.

“Kind of.” Walter grimaces. “But I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, but in person? That was bold.” Tessa shakes her head.

“They’re always bold. Someone literally asked us at VidCon if we were, quote-unquote, ‘still dating.’ In front of, like, nine hundred people.”

I lean forward. “I remember that.”

“You were at VidCon?” asks Walter.

“Oh—yeah, no, sorry. Just saw someone’s recording.”

And I did. That’s absolutely, one hundred percent true. The clip was already doing the rounds on both subreddits before the panel even ended, instantly launching an all-out two-day war between shipping factions.

It was Hayden’s response to the question that fanned the flames. “We are . . . not dating,” he’d said—but he left this split-second pause halfway through, and it shook the entire fandom to its core. Like. I don’t even have the words to explain the degree to which people lost their shit over this.

The Pause, people called it.

To the Waldens, it meant, “We aren’t dating now, but we were.”

But to the Hayters, the Pause was Hayden’s way of placing an emphasis on the word are. Which was clearly a secret directive to ignore the not that came next.

It’s fundamental Drama Clash history. People practically wrote entire dissertations about it. And now I’m sitting in a diner, listening to the literal Walter Holland casually mention it like it wasn’t an entire cultural reset.

Does he even know it was a cultural reset?

He has to know to some degree, right? He obviously knows there are shippers. I’m sure the discussions and chats and forum posts are at least on his radar. There’s still discourse, even a full year after Drama Clash ended. Of course, the thought of him scrolling through even one comment thread makes me want to melt through the wall.

Then again, it’s hard not to be at least a little bit thrilled by the sheer holy shit factor. Every single user on those forums would flip if they could see me now.

Walter Holland. A table’s width away from me. Talking about shipping. I didn’t even know this was a thing I could daydream about. Didn’t know magic could exist this loudly. It feels too good to hold. Like one blink could dissolve it. I legitimately have to leave and go to the bathroom at one point, just to rein in my face.

Also, I’m pretty sure Walter’s managed to loop Mark into the fandom.

“So when you say no, they just ignore you?” Mark asks. “Do they think you’re just lying?”

“I guess?” Walter reaches for his water glass. “I know a lot of them think Hayden’s queer and closeted, so maybe they assume I’m lying to protect him. I don’t know.”

My mouth falls open. “That’s so shitty! Like, why would you put someone on the spot about that?”

“Right?” He shakes his head. “Luckily it’s mostly DMs and comments and stuff, so I just never respond.” But then he turns to me, smiling. “I mean, I don’t respond to those comments. Yours was different.”

Yours was different.

My heart does a full-on somersault. I’m vaguely aware of Natalie’s gaze flicking toward me.

Yours was different. My comment was different. He has to be talking about the one from his coming-out post, right? September sixteenth. He actually remembers. He recognized me.

Amelia from Larchmont. He wasn’t faking it. That wasn’t politeness.

“What was your comment?” Imogen asks.

“Just a porn link,” I say, and Walter almost spits out his water. I grin, turning back to Imogen. “No, it was just, like, me fangirling incoherently on Instagram after I watched his coming-out video.”

Walter scoffs. “It was not! It was such a great message. I read it, like, six times in a row.”

It’s so earnest, it makes my cheeks go warm. “What he’s trying to say,” I explain, “is that it was high-quality porn.”

“Exactly.” Walter laughs. “No, I don’t know. Like—when I posted that video, the general response was, you know—fine. Like, people were definitely . . . excited.”

Imogen’s eyes go wide. “They didn’t come after you, did they?”

“Like bigots?” asks Walter. “Not really. Maybe a few comments, but those all got reported. It wasn’t bad.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It was more that people—some people—interpreted my coming-out video as, like, an announcement that Hayden and I were dating.” He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, I don’t mean to keep dunking on people. It was just, like—I think they forgot I could be queer without dating him, specifically.”

“We don’t even know if Hayden’s queer, right?” asks Tessa.

“Right!” Walter flips his palms up. “Like, who knows? He’s literally never talked about it!”

I’m like a Polaroid. A sudden snap in my brain; a slow unblurring.

He’s literally never talked about it.

We haven’t even gotten our food yet, and Walter just obliterated two entire shipping communities with a single throwaway comment. Though I guess it’s hard to call it a revelation when he said the same thing in front of the entire crowd two hours ago. But you never know with these statements. It could always be PR misdirection.

Except he wouldn’t go out of his way to confirm it in private, then, right?

I glance sideways at Natalie, but she’s staring down at the tablecloth. Aggressively staring, like she thinks she’ll be quizzed on it later.

“It’s honestly fine. Like, you kind of have to expect it,” Walter says. “And it’s mostly queer kids, so I get it. I mean, I was out there, too, shipping the guys from Saturday.”

Edith lights up. “No way! Were you an Anjon shipper?”

“Actually.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Early Zuben. Like, before it was confirmed.”

I point to him. “Nice.”

“What can I say? I have excellent parasocial gaydar. And zero real-life gaydar.” He glances at Tessa.

“You mean how I had to come out to you twice, because the first time was too, quote-unquote ‘subtle’?” She rolls her eyes, smiling. “Like, we’re talking about my little cargo pants ass eleven-year-old self literally saying the words, ‘I’m very gay.’”

“I was nine! And I thought you were being ironic,” he says.

The waitress returns, leaving behind a whole assortment of pancakes. “And a yummy little butter bagel for the bagel boy,” says Tessa.

Walter raises his eyebrows at her, lifts the bagel, and plants a delicate kiss on its edge.

Reddit (April, senior year)

u/hayden_intergellactic

YOUR THEORIES

All right, just because I’m curious, I want to know your theories about the boys and their relationship, timeline, proof etc. Sound off in the comments, hayters!!!!

u/clashing-dramatically814430

I was booooorn for this question haha. Ok so I’m like 99 percent sure they did NOT hook up before locker room or during filming (probably sexual tension there tho lol). I don’t know an exact date unfortunately, but we know they’d at least kissed by chanukah-dramukkah. So my timeline guess is either at or right after the first vidcon, which lines up with the summer camp hiatus (also they absolutely lied about being at different summer camps, evidence suggests they went off the grid to nurture the relationship outside the prying eyes of the public). Also note walt’s thumb ring day 2 of second vidcon, likely a first anniversary gift!

So I believe they planned to come out in a joint video together shortly after that, probably before the end of pride, but I don’t have solid evidence for that unfortunately. But that plan was blocked by either hayden’s management or the odyssey production team (this was before he was announced but the timeline adds up with casting, etc.) and ofc we know they made them close the channel until probably at least 6 months after the film premieres. Anyway yeah, fingers crossed, hoping things start up again early next year lolsob!!!! Our boys will get thru this, though. They’ve survived worse! Stay strong hayters

u/leehan_is_my_bias_0000

Omg this is so great and thorough, bless you!!!!!!!!

u/xxx_hayt_to_see_it_xxx

Co-signing, this is actually the only timeline that makes sense

u/haydenswalter090102145

Ahhhh thank u, this is so helpful

u/hayden_intergellactic OP

“outside the prying eyes of the public”

Lol guilty as charged

u/exceptional_Ad873295

Question—where can I find the evidence u mentioned re: summer camp

u/well-isnt-that-something

Wish I could upvote this 100000x

u/shadowstorm-bitez-back

Hollywood is so fuckin homophobic it’s gross man

u/clashing-dramatically814430

I know, it’s actually heartbreaking

u/gonna_haytehaytehaytehaytehayte

Okay I’m just spitballing here, but my theory is they actually broke up during hiatus summer?? But then they were like, we have to be cool with each other as friends for the sake of the channel. And then OOPS they fell back in love!! def got back together at second vidcon.

u/hayden_intergellactic OP

This doesn’t work though bc of Chanukah dramukkah!! they were together then, idk if they broke up before that though

u/iknowyouarebutwhatameye

Okay yall are gonna downvote me but hear me out: fake dating trope. We know there’s a decent chance the boys are industry plants & I highly doubt they were even really friends at first. I def think they leaned into the speculation, like that’s pretty obvious, especially in interviews and stuff. They knew what they were doing lol. Basically I think they faked the whole relationship, but it turned real somewhere along the line (probably around Chan-Dram?). Idk if it counts as queerbaiting since they’re both gay, but yeah—that’s my theory!

u/xxx_hayt_to_see_it_xxx

Hey just sliding in to note that walter is bi, not gay—thanks!!

u/iknowyouarebutwhatameye

Oops you’re right, my bad!

u/hayden_intergellactic OP

This is actually insane lol, but I kinda like it

u/iknowyouarebutwhatameye

Haha thanks?

Thirty

It’s past eleven by the time we head back, but the walk back to campus makes it feel like the evening’s just beginning. People are everywhere—milling around the sidewalks, eating pizza on the curb, sprawled out on the arts center lawn. Even the sleepy residential streets have come alive; it feels like Halloween. The way the night itself seems to unlock.

Could this really be what college is like? This after-dark feeling; miles upon miles of if-only. It’s funny—I’ve been so hung up on everything ending, I’ve almost forgotten it’s not. College isn’t just the sun going down. Maybe it’s also the part that comes next, where you dress up like someone brand-new. Maybe it’s a line of houses with wide-open doors.

Edith and Zora bow out as soon as we reach the parking lot, since they’re driving back to Penn Yan for the night. “We’ll be back by breakfast, okay? Promise,” says Zora.

I hug her. “You should sleep in. Enjoy your love cave.”

“Nope.” Edith shakes her head firmly. “We’re a full two parents away from calling that house a love cave.”

“Shed’s nice, though,” says Tessa.

“Anyway, we’re off!” Edith holds out her arm for an entire orgy of fist bumps. Then she points at the twins and me. “Breakfast, bright and early. Don’t party too hard, okay? I don’t want to have to shake you out of bed tomorrow.”

Zora chimes in with a serious nod, and I can’t help but grin. She and Edith really are that fucking cute. Like, they’ve been pretty reserved, for the most part, in the sense that they’re not making out on street corners and stuff. But I don’t think they’ve stopped holding hands since we got here.

“Actually, I think I’ll head back now,” Nat says suddenly.

I turn to her. “Back to the dorm?”

“You don’t have to come.” She’s angled away from the group now, speaking just to me. “I’ll leave the room unlocked.”

“Wait—Nat, what happened?”

“Nothing happened. I’m tired.”

I stare her down.

“Seriously, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been really quiet tonight.”

“I’m feeling hermity! It happens.”

“I’ll come with you. I mean, it’s already, what, eleven thirty?”

“Amelia.” She glances at Walter, then back at me. “Come on. I’m not going to ruin this for you.”

“You’re not ruining it—”

“Here, you take this.” She hands me the keycard to the dorm entrance.

“And, what, you’re just going to break in? Climb up the side of the building?” I tap the card to her forehead. “Let me at least walk you back.”

“Wait, are you guys heading back to the dorm?” I look up to find Imogen. “Mind if I run up with you? Forgot my phone charger.”

Natalie shoots me a halfhearted smile. “Guess I won’t have to climb the building after all.”

Tessa leaves with them, so I guess I’m the final girl now. Me and my boys. One of whom happens to be Walter fucking Holland. What an extremely normal turn of events. Highly doubt I’ll spend the rest of my life casually inserting this story into every conversation I ever have with literally anyone, forever and ever, until death do us part.

But it’s funny, because the longer I live in this moment, the less weird it feels. Which may be the weirdest part of all. You wouldn’t think hanging out with your number one favorite YouTuber is the sort of thing your brain could acclimate to, but here we are. Just a nonsensically normal Saturday night.

We settle onto the lawn by Mark’s dorm, near the scissor sculpture. Turns out, Walter’s staying here too, in some other friend’s recently vacated dorm room. By now, it’s almost midnight, but I’m wide awake. Fully charged. And the courtyard’s still buzzing with activity, too.

“Geneva, New York,” I say. “The city that never sleeps.”

Walter laughs. “Tessa says this is where most of the underclassmen are staying. If they’re sticking around for graduation, I mean.”

“Right! That’s tomorrow.” I scoot back against a tree trunk, so I’m facing the sculpture head-on. “Sorry, I’m gonna need to keep these scissors in my line of vision,” I explain. “As a bisexual.”

Mark lets out a full-dimple laugh, and I have to grin back. He’s in such a weirdly chill mood tonight, and I love it. It looks good on him, too. Even his posture looks looser. “What time do you have to be at the ceremony?” he asks, turning to Walter.

“Oh—I’m not. I was just gonna sleep in and play things by ear. Is that bad?” He smiles sheepishly. “No offense to Dan. I don’t even know if I want to go to my own graduation.”

I open my mouth and then shut it. “Is that—an option? You can skip your own graduation?”

Walter shrugs. “It’s not illegal.”

“It’s illegal in my house,” I say. “Punishable by no graduation gifts.”

“Not that!” He lets out a fake gasp.

“Listen, I’ve got a whole lot of aunts and uncles,” I say, “and when I tell you they love multiplying by eighteen . . .”

“Jews,” Walter says fondly.

I laugh, a little breathlessly. “You know, this is so weird for me, right?”

“What’s weird about it?”

“Everything! You’re you! You’re right here.” I shake my head. “And you’re real!”

“That’s right. Pure realness. Not like that little faker online.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” I scrunch my nose up. “You’re definitely not fake. You’re, like, almost exactly the same.”

“Almost?” He raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know! Kind of? Like, this is you online.” I tilt one hand up in front of my chest. “And this is you in real life.” I hold up the other hand two inches away. Like prayer hands split apart.

“Huh.” Walter smiles. “Okay, how am I different?”

“Like, specific examples?” I glance back at Mark, but he’s giving me nothing. Probably because he’s never watched a Walter video on purpose. I turn back to Walter, trailing a hand through the grass. “Okay, so, it’s like—you have the same sense of humor, but it’s more fast-paced online.”

He laughs. “Because it’s edited!”

“Well, yeah. But you’re also just more loosey-goosey offline.”

“Everyone’s more loosey-goosey offline,” Mark points out.

“Okay, true.” I pause. “I don’t know—it’s hard to explain. Like, you move your hands more in real life. But the facial expressions are the same.”

“I don’t even know what kind of faces I’m making,” he says.

“Good.” I pat his arm. “It’s refreshing.”

“Refreshing,” he murmurs.

“It is! Like—you don’t act like a famous person.”

Walter laughs. “I’m not famous.”

Mark and I both look at him.

“I’m not!” He shakes his head. “Do you think I’m, like, out here getting recognized all the time?”

“Um. Yes?”

“What? No! Sometimes teachers will see my name and ask me if I’m Annie’s brother—”

“You’re telling me you’ve never run into a Drama Clash fan in the grocery store?”

“I mean, sometimes. But not, like, often. And if it happens, they’re usually just asking for Hayden’s number.”

“Well, that’s annoying,” I say.

“Very.”

“I don’t get it.” I tilt my head. “I like Hayden. He’s—you know, he seems great. But you’re the best thing about Drama Clash,” I say. “Always have been.”

Walter seems to hesitate. “Thanks,” he says, finally, with a split-second smile. “I think that’s probably an unpopular opinion.”

“Well, it’s the right opinion. Look, you want my hottest take?”

Walter raises his eyebrows. “Sure.”

“Hear me out. Drama Clash is good . . . but.” I raise a finger. “Walter Holland Speaks? Is immaculate.”

“Okay, that’s bullshit.” He scoffs, but he’s grinning.

“It is not. Back me up, Marcello.”

Mark nods solemnly. “She’s right. It’s been scientifically proven.”

“Oh, well.” Walter smiles. “Can’t argue with science.”

“Seriously! No shade on Drama Clash. Massive fan. But.” My cheeks go warm. “Walter, your coming-out video changed my life. You know that, right?”

Part Five

Sunday, May 28

Geneva, NY

Thirty-One

Fun new fact about me: apparently, I lose my inhibitions at precisely midnight. “Okay, I have to ask. How much do you know about the shippers?”

“Too much,” says Walter.

I laugh. “Do you know about the Hayters?”

“Uh, yeah. They’re up my butt, like, 24/7.”

“Oh my God.” I clap a hand over my mouth, glancing at Mark.

“I mean, I just see what’s in my mentions,” adds Walter, “but yeah. They’re not particularly subtle.”

I let out a laugh. “No. No, they are not.”

“Like they splice together these clips from VidCon and stuff, but it’s slow motion and set to music—and I don’t really care if they make them. It’s public footage, whatever. But then they tag me in it, and I’m like, ‘Am I supposed to leave a comment?’ Or they’ll invite me to be a collaborator on the post. I—no.”

“That’s so insane to me,” Mark says.

“I mean.” Walter shrugs. “They’re better than the ones who accused me of queerbaiting for three years.”

“Ah. The Hayteros,” I say.

Walter almost snorts. “Do they really call themselves that?”

“Well, the shippers call them that. I don’t think the Hayteros are self-aware,” I say.

Mark shakes his head. “So what does your actor friend think of all of this?”

“Oh, we’re pretending we don’t know Hayden’s name, now?” I turn back to Walter. “Ignore him. We respect your bestie, I promise.”

“You can disrespect him,” says Walter.

He’s smiling like it’s a joke. But there’s something sharp in his voice.

“Whoa.” I smack the ground. “What did he do?”

“What did who do?” asks Mark.

“Hayden.” I look at Walter, but he’s staring at the ground. “You don’t have to tell us. You know that. I’m just being—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says. “I just don’t want to, like—dump the drama on you.”

“Waltermelon, I am deeply fine with receiving your drama.”

“Waltermelon?”

“It means she likes you enough to terrorize you with a nickname,” Mark explains.

“Markeroni, I’ll show you terror.” I pinch his nose, turning back to Walter. “Okay, for real, though. No pressure.”

“No, it’s fine! It’s just not really public. Like, at all.”

“Got it. Lips are sealed.”

“You can tell Natalie and stuff. Just don’t tweet it, I guess?” He pauses. “So, uh. First of all, Hayden and I don’t talk anymore.”

My mouth falls open. “Oh.”

“At all. Or we haven’t. It’s been almost a year.”

“Wow. Okay.” I glance at Mark, before turning back to Walter. “I had no idea.”

“Right. No, yeah. I don’t talk about it.”

“That’s got to suck,” Mark says.

He laughs nervously. “Yup.”

None of us speak for a moment.

“Sorry. I don’t want to, like, shatter anyone’s image of him.”

“I care,” Mark says, “so little about Hayden.”

“Yeah, shatter away,” I add. “What did that fucker do?”

“Other than giving me the silent treatment for most of his senior year, and then ghosting me the second he graduated?”

I stare at him. “What?”

“Yep.” He smiles tightly.

“His senior year?” I blink. “But you guys were still doing Drama Clash.”

“Yeah. So. It was like—literally every time we weren’t actively filming content together, he’d just completely ignore me.”

“Jesus,” says Mark.

“But it was the absolute biggest mindfuck because he’d act completely normal when we were filming. And he’s such a good actor. Like, he’s honestly pretty incredible. So, every single time, I’d actually start to wonder—wait, is this in my head? Are we even fighting?”

“This is”—I shake my head—“so unbelievably messed up.”

“And then he just fully ghosted?” Mark asks.

“Haven’t heard from him since he moved to LA.”

Both hands fly to my mouth. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“And he never gave you any kind of explanation?” asks Mark.

“Nope. I mean, I have a few theories.”

“Sounds like someone thinks he’s a big-shot movie star now,” I say.

“Well, he kind of is one.” Walter leans back on his elbows. “I don’t know. I think being in the public eye made everything more complicated. And the shipping stuff.”

“Right.”

“Like, we both thought it was hilarious at first. But then I think Hayden started feeling kind of weird about it. Which—totally valid. He’d only complain about it behind the scenes, though.”

“Like . . . homophobic complaining?” I ask.

“Oh, not at all—no. It was just certain comments that bothered him. Like, okay, we did this AMA, and someone in the chat asked him—they asked Hayden—if I had any, um, secret freckles—”

“Are you serious?” Mark’s eyes go wide.

“I know. I think it was a kid, so it’s like—I never know how to feel about it. But. Anyway, Hayden responds, and he’s like, ‘that’s what Walter wants you to think.’”

I pause. “I don’t get it.”

“Me either.” He shakes his head. “I think the gist of it was, like—I’m lying about secret freckles in order to lure people into seeing me naked? Something like that?”

“That’s like . . . nonsensical.”

“Yup.” He tips his palms up. “I don’t think he meant it as any kind of insult. The question just made him uncomfortable, so he was joking around to deflect it. Afterward, he was pretty upset that they asked it.”

“I mean, yeah, that’s a creepy, shitty question, but he didn’t have to shit on you in the process.”

Walter smiles wryly. “So, like—I thought, okay, maybe I’m overreacting. I knew I could be a little sensitive about the queer stuff. That was when I was, like, actively questioning. Which—that was a whole thing, too, doing that under a microscope, with all the queerbaiting accusations flying around.”

“Those fucking Hayteros.” I exhale.

“The worst.” He tucks his knees up. “So, it’s like—Hayden would just say stuff like that sometimes. But it was never overtly mean. I know I’m not explaining this well—”

“No, you are! You’re good.”

“It’s just kind of confusing? It’s, like, foggy, almost. I tried to bring up the freckles thing, but he didn’t like that.”

“Oof. Okay.”

“So I let it go. Didn’t want to make it into a big thing. And it really was just a lot of little stuff, for the most part. We still got along. Still talked all the time, texted all the time. I just always felt like I had to be sort of . . . careful?”

“Like walking on eggshells?”

“Exactly.” He pauses. “But then I’d question myself a lot, because—I mean, I know I was part of that dynamic. I’m anxious. Like, diagnosed generalized anxiety disorder. I don’t really talk about it much online, but—yeah.” He shrugs. “So it was hard to tell sometimes how much of the eggshell feeling was the actual dynamic, and how much was in my own head. I don’t know how to be objective about that.”

“I literally can’t believe you had to deal with all of this.”

“Oh, it’s not—it really wasn’t that bad, mostly? Or it didn’t seem that bad at the time. I don’t know. It’s, like—I still feel really foggy about it. Like it doesn’t add up in my head. I keep thinking I’m overreacting. Or that I must be missing some big part of the picture.”

“I don’t think you’re overreacting.”

“I mean, Hayden and I were best friends. Or I thought we were? Right up until he decided we weren’t.” Walter tilts his head. “Also, I had kind of a weird experience coming out to him.”

“Is this, like—the story from yesterday?” Mark asks. “Where he thought you’d already come out?”

“Yeah . . . I leave out some details when I talk about it publicly.” He stares at the grass for a moment. “But it ended up being fine, and he was super supportive that whole weekend at VidCon. Like, he was the most attentive friend. Not in a weird way. Just—confusing.”

“And this was the VidCon with the nine hundred people? Where someone asked you—”

“Yes.”

“And you guys hugged afterward, right? That was a big thing online for a second.”

“Yup. Fun times.”

“Can I just say—this is actually so wild, hearing all of this from your perspective.” I study his face. “Like—God. Thanks for trusting us with this.”

“Thanks for being up for hearing it.” He bites his lip. “I promise I don’t normally overshare this much. I just—I don’t know! I knew you guys would get it.”

“Of course. Yeah. I mean, I’m horrified—”

“Oh, it gets even more fun,” he says.

I sit up straight, turning to gape at him. “How?”

“Okay, fast-forward to spring of junior year. Hayden’s coming up on graduation, and I’m finally starting to think about publicly coming out. So I talk to him, and obviously he’s fully supportive. We go ahead and schedule this whole video call with our management team—and I’m like, okay, cool, I’m going to come out to the team, and then we strategize the next stuff.” So I get to this meeting, and”—Walter’s eyes flick upward—“Hayden just casually outs me to the team.”

“He did WHAT?”

“Yeah, he just mentioned my coming out like it was a regular discussion item on the agenda. And obviously, at that point, I was fine with them knowing—”

“Does your team, like, get a say in whether or not you can come out?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I mean, not my team. They’re pretty chill. That does happen, though. Like, I literally know people who have to stay closeted, or they’ll lose contracts and stuff. But in this case, it was just . . . weird? Like I don’t think Hayden was being malicious, but it just threw me off, I guess. So I texted him after the meeting, just to ask him about it, and first he’s like, ‘you already came out to them.’”

“Wow, so that’s, like, his one move?”

“Right? So I’m like, ‘no, I didn’t—and we literally discussed this? In detail?’” Walter rubs his cheek. “When I tell you he absolutely flipped his shit . . . Like, he was operating from a whole different reality.”

“This is so fucked.”

“I know. And then he goes off on how I’m unfairly accusing him of outing me, when the only reason he was on the call in the first place was to support me. And that it was this huge sacrifice for him to even be there, because he was flying out to LA the next morning for an audition. Which—I mean, he was flying out there every week at that point, so—who knows. Maybe this was a callback or something. Anyway, he basically didn’t forgive me for that.”

“For what?”

Walter tips his palms up.

“I just—I actually fucking hate this guy.”

“I don’t hate him,” says Walter. “It’s just—he kind of broke my heart.”

Thirty-Two

My head’s spinning. It’s like when Kylie Elfman taught me about mirror-mode selfies. Call me a dumbass, but it legitimately hadn’t occurred to me that there was a reason my selfies looked different from my mirror reflection. And that the girl I knew from mirrors wasn’t quite real. She was an inversion of real.

That’s exactly how it feels. Everything I knew about Walter and Hayden was its own flipped mirror image, and it’s actually making my brain melt. The boys are walking me back to my dorm, even though it’s just across the street. Probably for the best, though. My mind’s so stuck on what Walter just told me, I barely know where I’m walking.

“How many people know the true story?” I ask.

“I guess—” Walter bites his lip. “I mean, that’s the thing. I’m sure Hayden has his own version of the truth, where I’m the villain.”

“You’re not the villain,” Mark says.

He smiles a little. “I hope not. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I’ve only told a handful of people. You two, Annie, my cousins. Um, a few of my YouTuber friends. My friend Eli from school. I filled Mika in tonight.”

“So, practically no one.” I shake my head slowly. “I would lose my fucking mind.”

“It’s a little tricky sometimes, yeah.”

“I mean, I can’t even imagine.”

It would be like living in a world where people think I’m still dating Jordan Cohen. Actually, it’s worse. It’s a world where everyone thinks I’m dating him and also his crypto rap went viral and now he has a full album dropping and he’s launching his own line of high-end fedoras.

“Wow.” Mark blinks. “And now you have people asking you about him all the time.”

“Literally daily,” says Walter.

“Well, fuck that.” I punch my fist straight into my palm.

Walter laughs. “I mean, I have my go-to answers and stuff. It’s fine. I just, you know. I try to just talk about how talented he is—because that’s true. He’s ridiculously talented. Or I’ll share an anecdote that’s basically true. Just—incomplete.” He rubs his forehead. “I’m not ever trying to poke the bear, I guess. Plus, I’m sure people would find a way to turn it into, like, proof of our undying passion.”

“Right.” I make a face. “They’ll be like, oh, he’s denying it. That proves he’s hiding something.”

Walter laughs. “Exactly. Like, they can’t even humor the idea that maybe, just maybe it wasn’t like that.”

“Did you ever want it to be?” The question leaps from my mouth before I can stop it.

“Did I want to date him?”

I face-palm. “Ignore me. Literally none of my business. I’m not—I promise I’m not—”

“You’re fine!” Walter smiles a little. “And honestly? No. He’s not—like, I’m just not attracted to him. I get why other people are, but—I don’t know. Maybe I knew him too well. Or I thought I did. He was my best friend.”

“Right. Yeah, no, totally. Makes sense. Dating your best friend is . . .”

“Normal?” Mark suggests.

“Well, yeah, but it’s risky.” My voice jumps. “Or—not risky. But it’s complicated. Seems complicated.”

“I think all dating is complicated,” says Walter.

For a moment, none of us speak.

“Well, I’ve got your back, okay?” I say, finally. “If you ever need someone to drop-kick anyone into the Pacific Ocean.”

Walter laughs. “You guys are the best.”

“You are!” I shake my head. “This is, like, the coolest thing ever. I’m so glad we got to hang out.”

“Okay, well, let’s get together sometime when we’re all back home, maybe?”

“I would fucking love that,” I say, glancing quickly at Mark. He’s nodding, mouth curved into a tiny half smile. Definitely not the face of a boy who rips down Walter Holland Groupiemobile signs, but hey: never too late to develop some taste.

We cross the street, cutting through the path that winds up from the back of the building. Somehow, there are people in the courtyard; we have to swerve around a group of shirtless guys tossing a Frisbee, like it’s not almost one in the morning.

The guys walk me all the way to the doors, hugging me goodnight before we part ways. It’s like the end credit scene of a movie.

Couldn’t have dreamed it better myself.

Messages (June, sophomore year)

Walt: Hey! Okay, ready when you are

I gave you my room number, right? 523

Sorry, I think I got my wires crossed—were you thinking tonight?

Hayden: Just got off a zoom!! Re: tonight—yes! How long were you thinking?

Walt: Like how long of a conversation? idk 😂

Hayden: Haha yeah I guess. no worries! I just need to make sure I’m back by 9, just had to schedule another zoom

Walt: At 9pm??

Hayden: west coast time 😎

Walt: say no more haha

okay well maybe we should wait until after your call, since it’s already 8:30

Hayden: oh, ok! so you’re thinking more than 30 min?

Walt: is that okay?

Hayden: Totally lol

Hayden: Hmm idk how long the zoom will be. Want to talk now and then press pause, and then we can circle back after if we need to?

Walt: it’s not really that kind of conversation haha

I feel weird, you’re making it sound like a work agenda item

Hayden: I mean drama clash is literally our work, idk what to tell you

lol

Walt: this isn’t about drama clash

Hayden: okay? what’s it about

Walt: can we have this convo in person please?

really don’t want to do this over text

Hayden: that’s fine, would just be helpful to know how long you think you need

just for planning purposes, so I can figure out the timing of stuff for tonight

Walt: seriously?

Hayden: or can you give me an idea of what this is even about?

Walt: okay, you know what? Why don’t you just text me when you’re done with your film calls. I don’t want this convo to be something you have to squeeze in

Hayden: Okay?

You get that i can’t really control when the team is available, right?

this is like

a pretty important project and it may actually happen, so

Walt: okay, I didn’t know that. sorry

Hayden: it’s fine!

Walt: Look, I don’t want to interfere with film stuff. I just really wanted to talk to you this weekend

since we’re both here

Hayden: lol we live 5 min from each other

Walt: yeah

you’ve been hard to pin down lately 😬

Hayden: Yeah, maybe bc I’m trying to land a fucking role for once and not have it snatched away at the last second again

you think I love flying across the country and back every week?

Walt: no I don’t think that

Look it sounds like this weekend isn’t good for you

Hayden: I didn’t say that?

I just asked for more info, that’s literally it??

Walt: okay wow just

I’m bisexual

there you go, there’s your info

I wanted to do that in person, but I guess it didn’t fit in the schedule

Hayden: okay?

yeah that’s not fair

I never said I couldn’t fit it in my schedule

and I literally had no idea it was about that??

Walt: wow

Hayden: ??

wow?

Walt: hayden I just came out to you

and that’s your reaction? To tell me I’m being unfair

for what, for not wanting to come out in a text?

Hayden: You CHOSE to come out in a text though????

obviously I’m happy for you

please don’t act like I’m a bigot when you KNOW I’m not

Walt: I don’t think you’re a bigot?? I just

idk, I don’t understand. Like I just CAME OUT to you

and all you can do is bitch about me accusing you of shit I’m not even accusing you of??

Hayden: that’s completely unfair and you know it

also we’ve literally already talked about this multiple times?? sorry I didn’t realize this was new information

Walt: what??

when have we talked about this?

Hayden: uh so many fucking times??

you’ve literally mentioned dudes you think are hot

or when the out magazine guy called us two straight dudes, and you did that little back and forth hand thing

Walt: that wasn’t me coming out!

Hayden: then what was it lol

Walt: idk! Just

I don’t think you get to decide what counts as my coming out

Hayden: well I don’t think you get to accuse me of responding in a certain way to your coming out if I had no way of knowing that’s how you viewed it

Walt: hayden, do you hear yourself? How is this the conversation we’re having rn

lol and now it’s 9

have a good zoom

Hayden: Do you want me to cancel?

Walt: lol no

forget it, I’ll see you tomorrow

Hayden: okay well

I’ll come by at 8 and we can have breakfast or something

okay?

Walt: whatever you want

break a leg

Thirty-Three

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.

Thirty-Four

I wake up with a pit in my stomach. Off to a winning start before I even open my eyes.

But when I open them, it’s worse.

Because Natalie’s gone. And not just in a woke-up-early-to-shower way.

Natalie’s gone, and so is her suitcase. Her guitar. Even our joint custody crooked rat dog. Her bed’s stripped totally bare; she’s left the sheets in a folded stack at the foot of the mattress. Towels, too. Every single trace is just—

Gone.

It takes a minute for my brain to catch up. I just sit there, staring dazedly at her neatly stacked linens. Silly to fold them when they’ll need to be washed. Even sillier to do it halfway through the trip. Except Natalie’s not—

My chest feels tight. There’s light leaking in through the blinds, voices in the hallway. I don’t know what time it is, though. Or what time she left. I must have slept straight through it.

I paw around the nightstand for my phone. Tug it off its charger. Rub my eyes and tap the screen. It’s just past eight thirty.

I don’t have a single missed text. Not in our solo thread, and not in the group chat.

My brain’s still foggy, but my heart and lungs are in overdrive. I keep glancing around the room like she’s here, and I just managed to miss her. Like she’s going to pop out from under the bed and yell boo.

I tap into my contacts and call her. Even though I hate the phone with extreme violence and passion. Doing this for you, Natalope.

It rings once, and the call ends.

I switch to texts, stomach twisting. Nat where are you???? what happened

No response.

I try again. Are you still on campus?

Are you okay??????

Ellipses. I freeze in place, heart thumping.

Nothing. Then nothing. More ellipses. More nothing.

And then, finally: left early, on my way home now. i’m fine

My thumbs are skidding all over the keypad within seconds. Wait what do you mean??

Nat where are you??????

No response. She’s not typing.

On her way home—but how? It’s not like she has a car here. Did she call her parents? Is she taking a five-hour Uber? Can you even do that? Maybe there’s some kind of message board for Blackwell students carpooling home. Lots of people heading toward the city, I bet. She could probably even find someone from Westchester. A hot Blackwell freshman, no doubt. Women’s studies major with a cute smile and an undercut and infinite capacity for self-reflection.

But, hey, at least it’s not Claire.

Suddenly, I can’t catch my breath.

It’s like watching a movie. Simon and Garfunkel playing in the background. Suitcase and guitar. “Homeward Bound.” Natalie, sitting on the curb in her oversized sweater, with her legs stretched straight out. She’s messy-haired and sleepy, but she jumps up as soon as Claire pulls into the visitor lot. Runs right into her arms. You really came, she’d say softly.

Claire would have had to drive the whole night just to get here. But it’s possible.

If there’s one thing Claire loves, it’s a grand fucking gesture.

My eyes start to prickle, but I squeeze them shut for a moment. No response from Natalie. Nothing but the nine words she already sent me.

I open a text thread with Zora and Mark. Guys Natalie’s gone?? She went home and she didn’t tell me, and she’s ignoring my calls/texts. This is all she’s saying

I screenshot Nat’s text and send it.

AA: Did she say anything to you??? What do we do, can we send like a helicopter or something???

MR: a helicopter? 🤔

AA: I DON’T KNOW HOW THIS WORKS!!!

ZW: Hey okay, it’s Edith, Zora’s driving. We’re like ten min away from you

Zora says “first of all, we know she’s fine, so don’t panic”

AA: but how do we know she’s fine??? what if someone kidnapped her and forced her to write that

AA: I think Claire might have written it????

MR: Ok wait is Claire the kidnapper, or are these separate scenarios?

AA: Mark, this isn’t funny

This isn’t funny.

Isn’t funny isn’t funny. Is. Not. Funny.

It feels like setting a bomb off. Because it’s always funny. And if it’s not, I’ll riff my way through until it is. Kind of like a person who buries every stupid feeling with jokes and distraction. Kind of exactly like Natalie said.

My phone buzzes in my hands; video call from Zora—but Edith’s face fills the screen when I accept it. “Hey! Sorry,” she says. “Seemed simpler to call.”

“Good morning!” adds Zora, and Edith flips the camera for a second, giving me a flash of her profile.

“Okay,” Edith says, “we’re almost there. Are you dressed and packed?”

“No. Sorry.” I blink. “Just woke up.”

“Oh, you’re fine. No worries,” says Edith.

“Millie?” chimes Zora. “She’s fine, okay? I just heard from her.”

“Wait, what did she say?” I scoot forward. “Is she with Claire? Is she home?”

“She’s on a bus,” Zora says, and my stomach unknots, just a little.

“Which bus?”

Edith’s eyes flick to Zora. “Don’t know. Bet we can figure it out, though. There aren’t, like, a ton that go through here.”

I nod slowly.

“For real—you okay?” Zora asks.

“Yup. I’m just—it’s weird, right? Like, she’s on a fucking bus? Did she say why she left?”

“Nope,” says Zora. “Okay, listen—go get dressed and pack up. We’ll call Mark, and then the three of us can head home and see what’s up.”

“Home, like—Larchmont?” My head feels fuzzy.

“Yup.”

“But it’s Sunday.”

Edith nods.

“You’d have to miss a whole night here.” I shake my head. “You guys, no. You can’t do that.”

“It’s fine! It’s one day—”

“One out of, what—ten days you’ve ever had together? You can’t—come on, I can’t let you do that.”

“Millie, we’ll talk in a sec, okay? I’m pulling in. Go get dressed!”

I pair a rugby shirt with jean shorts, and I’m out the door in five minutes—just in time to intercept Edith and Zora in the courtyard. I jog over, duffel bag hoisted awkwardly over my shoulder.

“Hey!” Zora hugs me. “Okay, so—”

“Zora, you can’t leave early.” I slide the duffel off my arm, letting it fall to the grass. “I’m serious. Drop me off at the bus stop.”

“Nope. That’s not happening. Mark’s meeting us out here in a sec—he’s just taking a quick shower.” She looks at me, voice softening. “It’s fine, okay?”

“No it’s not!” My voice comes a whole octave higher than normal. “She’s your—Edith’s your girlfriend, Zora. You never get to see her. You’re not—you aren’t even going to school together next year.”

Edith’s already pivoting, gesturing toward a nearby bench. “Actually, I’m gonna let you guys—”

“I’m not stealing tonight away from you guys. I’ll figure it out.” I meet Zora’s eyes.

She bites her lip. “Okay, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Okay?”

“I canceled my deposit.” She shuts her eyes for a second. “From East Seneca.”

I stare at her. “Wait.”

“I switched it. I’m going here. To Blackwell.”

“It’s too late.” I rub my forehead. “The deposit deadline.”

“I got it in before the deadline.”

My hand drops to my side. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about it. I didn’t—”

“No, I’m—it’s fine.” I try to smile. “So, you’ll be with Edith.”

Zora covers her face. “I know how that sounds.”

“No, no—sorry, I don’t mean it in a judgy way. It’s—you know. I’m just, like, wow.” I nod slowly. “Do the twins know?”

“No—oh, no. I wasn’t gonna, like—you know. I’ll tell them today. I was most worried about telling you, though.”

I shoot her a sidelong smile. “I’m the one who was gonna freak out, huh?”

“No, no.” She smiles back. “Not like that. It’s just—we were going to be at East Seneca together. We had plans. And I’m pulling the rug out from under you.”

“No you’re not!”

“And I know how freaked out you are by change.”

I scoff. “Me?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Zoracle, I’m so chill about change! Did I or did I not just cut off all my hair?”

“Millie, you’re not making the point you think you’re making.”

Listen, I’m not saying I crave change—but I’m perfectly capable of rolling with it. Didn’t bat an eye when Uncle Mitch shaved his moustache, for example. And God knows I’ve never once objected to a Claire breakup. But it’s not just the little stuff. I’m chill with major change, too. Or, you know, I’m pretty sure I would be. Mostly. Hypothetically speaking.

I guess it’s hard to know for sure. My life’s been such a straight shot, for the most part. I’ve never moved cities—actually, I’ve never even moved houses. My friend group’s been rock solid since kindergarten. I’ve never even painted the walls of my room. Apart from Audrey showing up, even my family’s stayed exactly the same. I was nine, almost ten, at the time, and Mom says I begged to skip school every day for a month. Just to be with baby Audrey.

When I leave, she’ll be the same age as I was when she came.

I press my thumb to my lips, ignoring the pang in my chest. “Okay, but this isn’t just a me thing! Nat’s liked the same music since middle school—”

“And I’ve dated the same girl since middle school.” Zora flips her palms, smiling faintly. “Yeah, none of us are good at it.”

“Maybe we don’t have to be good at it. We just have to go along with it if they force us to,” I say.

“That is one possible attitude a person could have toward college, yes.”

I laugh. “I don’t mean it like that! I’m excited for college. But it’s like—the door locks behind you as soon as you walk through it. You know? Once high school’s over, it’s over.”

“The simple past is, in fact, the most tragic verb tense.” She bites back a smile.

“You nerd. Wow. I hope Blackwell College knows what a GIANT FUCKING NERD THEY’RE GETTING—”

She tries to cover my mouth, but I swoop in first to hug her. “Hey. I’m really happy for you. And Edith. I’m gonna miss you so much, though.”

“Okay, but it’s—”

“I know it’s an hour away, Zorasaur. But—”

In my pocket: the unmistakable buzz of a text message landing.

It isn’t Natalie, though. In fact, I don’t recognize the number at all.

Heard a rumor that you guys need a ride home asap??

Then, moments later: This is Walt Holland btw!!! Sorry, got your number from Markiplier

*mark!! lol 😂😂

Zora’s brow furrows. “Wait, what’s happening?”

“Huh?” I look up.

“Is she okay? Why are you making that face?”

“I don’t know. It’s not . . .” I press a hand to my cheek, trying to dial my organs back to normal. Looking at you, lungs and heartbeat.

Walter Holland just texted me. Not a DM. A real text, like we’re—

Walt Holland. He’s Walt. We’re on Walt terms. A solid lineup of laughing-crying emojis from my good buddy Walt. I let out a slightly hysterical laugh.

This is Walt Holland btw!!!

“Amelia, what?” Zora’s staring at me.

“Sorry! I’m. I think—I don’t need a ride.”

“No, it’s fine! It’s not my one chance to hang out with Edith, okay? That’s what I’m saying—”

“No, I mean.” I pause. “Walter texted me.”

“Walter, like YouTube Walter?”

YouTube Walter. Who just texted me. I don’t know how to make it make sense. I legitimately don’t know how to make the pieces fit into one puzzle.

I glance back down at my screen. It’s still there. Still real. I turn back to Zora. “I think he’s offering to drive us home.”

Part Six

Sunday, May 28

Geneva, NY

to Larchmont, NY

Thirty-Five

It’s straight out of a daydream. That’s what makes this so nonsensical. Walter in my texts. Walter driving me home. It was the dumbest wish. Definitely not a when kind of wish. It was a true blue, never-in-a-million-years if-only kind of wish. Except it’s real.

I should be filled up to bursting, but it’s like my heart’s sprung a leak.

This unfinished sketch of a feeling.

I can’t stop looking at bus schedules. I’m in the back seat of Walter Holland’s mom’s Toyota Highlander, looking at bus schedules.

“It has to be the 8:35 a.m., right? I don’t think the other line even runs on Sundays.” I glance up. “So she’d be in White Plains by 3:30 or so. We can totally make that.”

“Probably? Depending on traffic, I guess,” says Walter. “Sunday of Memorial Day weekend is kind of a wild card.”

“But she’d probably be stuck, too, right? So it’s fine.” I drum the edge of my seat. “I mean, it’s definitely going to be fine.”

Mark pauses. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“What do you mean?”

The boys exchange quick sidelong glances, and Mark clears his throat. “Like, why do we need to beat Natalie home? What are you worried will happen?”

“Nothing! I’m not.” I lean back, glaring at the back of his seat. “I just think it’s weird that she’d rather take a seven-hour bus ride than wait for Zora like a normal person.”

“Yeah,” Walter says vaguely. “I don’t know . . .”

“And, like, how is she getting home from White Plains? Is she going to be stuck making some shitty decision just because she needs a ride?”

Walter hesitates. “You mean like—”

“She means Claire,” Mark says, meeting my eyes in the rearview. “Right?”

“Who’s Claire?”

“Natalie’s on-again, off-again—”

“Ex-girlfriend,” I interject. “And she’s an actual ghoul.”

“Ah,” says Walter.

“She is!” It comes out weirdly choked.

“Oh, I believe you,” says Walter.

“It makes me crazy that Nat doesn’t see it. No one sees it!” I press both fists to my chest. I feel like I’m on the verge of eruption. “Like, the fuckery’s right there! In plain sight.”

“Sounds familiar,” says Walter.

I let out a startled laugh. “Yes! Huge Hayden energy.”

“Okay, no.” Mark twists around in his seat, peering at me through his glasses. “Claire’s not that bad—”

“Are you serious?” I smack my palms down.

“She’s not! She’s just—I don’t know, kind of immature. But well-intentioned, I think.”

“Marky Mark, she dumped Natalie at prom!”

“Wait—I have a question,” Walter says suddenly. “Speaking of prom.”

I freeze. “What about it?”

“Hold on, let me get past this guy.” Walter sits up straight, shoulders tense. Doesn’t say a word until we’re in the next lane.

“Nervous driver?” Mark asks. There’s a smile in his voice.

“Nervous everything,” says Walter. “Anyway. I was just curious—obviously, you don’t have to answer this, but. Um. That video you made—”

“Oh God.” I cover my face with both hands.

“No! Oh, Amelia, I’m sorry! I don’t mean it in a bad way—”

“Okay, you have nothing to be sorry about,” I say. “Fuck.”

Mark turns in his seat to grin at me, and I scowl at him.

“Seriously, don’t sweat it. Sorry—I wouldn’t have even brought it up if I thought—”

“No—listen. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—God. I didn’t think you saw that.”

Incredible, groundbreaking, et cetera et cetera. On a scale from one to crawling-out-of-my-skin, I’d say we’re roughly at the level of sixth-grade sex ed.

He laughs. “How many singing prom invitations do you think I’m tagged in?”

“Please,” I say, “kill me.”

“Don’t kill her,” Mark says, turning to Walter. “Not here. Wait until we’re past Ithaca, at least.”

I mean, this is it, right? Peak mortification. Worse than the time I called Rabbi Weisenberg “Ribeye.” Worse than getting my first period in Aunt Stacey’s bathroom with the mirrored walls. Not even kidding. This is literally worse than infinite reflections of me with my pants down, trying not to drop my cousin’s junior tampon in the toilet.

Reader, I dropped it. And flushed it. And then the toilet clogged. But this is worse.

“I think,” I say faintly, “I dumbassed too close to the sun.”

He tilts his head to laugh, which makes his hair catch the sun through the windshield. I remember seeing a comment on one of his videos once. Dude, your hair’s so red, it looks fake.

“Seriously, it’s fine! I was just curious about the backstory.”

“Backstory?”

“Like, was it some kind of dare? Did you lose a bet?”

“I wish it was a bet.” I rub my cheek. Can’t be healthy to blush this hard. Highly possible I’m overheating. “God, you probably saw me in the audience and were like, oh, this fucking girl.”

“What?” He laughs. “Not even close! First of all, I didn’t even recognize you right away, with the haircut.”

“Yup. New clown wig, same clown.” I tuck both hands behind my head, leaning back with a sigh.

Twitter (December, sophomore year)

@not_quite_william: wow wow did I literally just see someone on this godforsaken app accuse real people of queerbaiting? With their whole chest, like are we seriously doing this again????

@not_quite_william: hey so 2018 just called, they want their discourse back!!!

@not_quite_william: come on, we’re better than this. WE’VE SEEN WHERE THIS LEADS

@Karaclapppstone999: @not_quite_william SAY IT LOUDER

@killing_x_stalking: @not_quite_william I saw that too lol, stg I almost deleted this app. Aren’t y’all tired of this yet??

@not_quite_william: @killing_x_stalking embarrassing at this point, fr

@abigail_elizabeth: @not_quite_william anyone know what this is about??

@alliegaylor131313 @abigail_elizabeth @not_quite_william not 100% sure, but I’m guessing it’s in reference to the discourse about the Drama Clash guys. Someone accused them of queerbaiting—they privated their account tho so idk what they said. But people are AT WAR over this lol

@not_quite_william: @alliegaylor131313 @abigail_elizabeth yup lol

@yourbestnightmare: @not_quite_william when can we ban #hayter and #walden from this app???? This is literally getting ridiculous

@mrhayden_holland: @yourbestnightmare @not_quite_william hi have you considered stfu??

@mrhayden_holland: @yourbestnightmare @not_quite_william if u think hayters are the ones calling ppl out for queerbaiting, u are literally delusional

@haydenintergellactic: @mrhayden_holland @yourbestnightmare @not_quite_william the hayteros have officially lost the plot I fear

@mrhayden_holland: @haydenintergellactic @yourbestnightmare @not_quite_william ikr 🤡

@gretchenpatterson: @not_quite_william I don’t understand, like just support actual queer artists

@mrhayden_holland: @gretchenpatterson @not_quite_william hayden and walter are in fact queer!!! hope this helps

Thirty-Six

We don’t stop for lunch. It’s not worth it. Because even a fifteen-minute Wendy’s run could spell game over. Lunch means Claire pulling up to the White Plains bus station Kiss and Ride with a giant bouquet and an old-timey boom box.

I try calling Nat each time we pass a new town, but she keeps sending me straight to voicemail. And she doesn’t respond when I text her from Binghamton. If she’s on the bus I think she’s on, there’s no way she’s home yet. But I can’t stop picturing the big Claire reunion that’s undoubtedly already in motion. I can practically smell the flowers from here.

“You good back there?” Walter glances up at me in the rearview.

I give him a forceful thumbs-up. “Totally.”

“Okay, because you look like you might need to . . .” He trails off.

“I think,” translates Mark, “he’s trying to ask if you’re about to pee-soak his car.”

“Eww, no!” I lean forward to swipe him.

“Oh, I meant vomit,” Walter says.

“Even worse!”

“Seriously, we can stop anytime,” Walter adds. “We really need gas soon anyway.”

“Aren’t we pretty close to home, though? Seems kind of silly to stop now.”

I just think it would be a little bit pointless, you know? I’m already seeing signs for the Catskills, which means we’re basically right at the Hudson Valley already. And at that point, we might as well be pulling into the White Plains bus station.

“I don’t think you’re going to get the girl if we’re stuck by the side of the highway,” says Walter.

I stop short. “Um. What?”

“What do you mean, what?” Walt asks, and Mark stifles a laugh.

“Get which girl?”

I stare at them both in the rearview. Walter glances sideways at Mark, who makes the same fucking face he always does, with the smile and the glasses. But of course, neither of them answer.

“You mean Natalie?” I ask, finally.

“Yes, I mean Natalie!”

“I’m not trying to get Natalie! Wow. Guys, I’m trying to rescue her.”

“Rescue her from . . . getting back with her ex?”

“Her horrible ex! Oh my God, don’t listen to Mark. Claire’s not—seriously, she’s not well-intentioned. She tricks you into thinking she’s well-intentioned, but that just makes her even more diabolical.”

“Right,” Walter says. “Or you’re just in love with her.”

Mark does a spit take.

“I’m not in love with Claire! Holy shit—”

“I’m not talking about Claire!” Walter’s voice is fully threaded with laughter.

“Well, I’m not—” I start to say—but it dies on the tip of my tongue.

I mean, I’ve thought about it. Of course I have. But you can’t convince me that’s not normal. I’m queer, and she’s queer, and we spend about a million hours a week together. I’m obviously going to wonder about things. Like whether her ChapStick tastes like it smells. But not in a gay way. Not necessarily.

Anyway, everyone has that one friend, right? Where sometimes it’s totally normal. And sometimes their smile makes you feel like you’ve tripped up the stairs.

“You broke Amelia,” says Mark.

“I’m”—I blink—“in love with Natalie?”

“Are you asking us or telling us?” Walter asks.

I try to laugh, but it comes out choked.

Like I guess it’s kind of gay to keep a mental list of the most fascinating Natalie details, including but not limited to: the way her eyes go soft when she listens to music. Her hair in the sun. The way she holds a guitar. Her cheeks, in smoothness and in dimple. The way she’s secretly the funniest person I know.

I stare down at my phone. At my lock screen. I change it all the time, but right now, it’s from prom. Nat, me, Zora, and Mark, in front of the Rosemann-Long hedges. Carefully cropped to remove all traces of Claire.

In the picture, our heads are almost touching. Mine and Nat’s. Well, for what it’s worth, she’d said, right before Mom snapped the photo, I think the hair’s really cute.

“What do I do?” I say, barely out loud.

“I mean,” Mark suggests, “you could talk to her.”

I press a hand to my forehead, like I’m holding my brain in place. Is it supposed to feel like this? Like my breath won’t catch? Like my whole body’s unraveling?

The way her smile makes my stomach ache. And how the sound of her laugh makes my brain spin out. Every time. Always has.

I feel like a bow, with the string pulled back. Arrow, locked and loaded.

“How much longer? We’re close, right?” I ask.

Walter shoots me a grimace-smile in the rearview. “Theoretically, yes.”

“Theoretically?”

“Well, now there’s some kind of slowdown? In, like, a mile or so. I don’t know what’s up.”

My heart drops. “You’re joking.”

“Could be nothing,” Walt says quickly. “I don’t know, sometimes it’s already clear, and it just hasn’t updated—”

“Can we go around it?”

“There’s no exit. I mean, nothing before the jam.”

“We are still on the fastest route,” Mark says, in a robotic GPS voice.

“Fuck. I can’t—fucking believe this.” I peer out the window. “It’s clearly sabotage! Claire, you did this!”

“Claire made the traffic?” Mark asks.

“She’s buying time to make her move! Making sure I can’t stop her!”

“Or maybe,” Walt says, “Natalie’s caught in the same traffic as we are.”

“Yeah, but.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “What if Claire’s not the only threat.”

“Define . . . threat,” Mark says.

“She could have met some girl on the bus! We don’t know who’s on there. Could be an entire bus full of hot lesbians. Could be a whole women’s field hockey team. Like a full team of muscle girls with tattoos and raspy voices, and they’re all single. Every last one of them. And Natalie’s strapped in there with them for seven hours, minimum. That’s without traffic! Do you have any idea what could happen in seven hours?”

Walter pauses. “I can’t tell if this is an anxiety spiral or a porn premise.”

“Both!” I cover my face with both hands. “Holy shit. How is this even—”

A sharp, urgent beep from the dashboard stops me short. I open my eyes. “What was that?”

“Okay,” Walt says slowly. “So—the gas light’s just a warning, right? Like, there’s still gas in there for a while?”

“Um. I don’t know,” Mark says.

“I’m pretty sure. Yeah.” Walter glances at him. “It’s probably fine.”

I nod quickly. “Probably. Yeah.”

“Not like it’s gonna stall out in the middle of the road or anything.” Walter lets out a slightly shrill laugh.

“When’s the next rest stop?” I ask.

“Um. Four miles.”

“I swear to God, this is Claire’s fault.”

Mark twists all the way back to face me. “Okay, what’s the scenario here?”

“The scenario?”

“Like what does Claire have to do with any of this?”

“Are you joking?” My mouth falls open. “Claire has everything to do with this—”

“No, for real. I don’t get the rush. Does Natalie have some kind of first-come-first-serve girlfriend policy, or—”

“Okay, no. Obviously not.” My eyes flick upward. “But Claire’s going to do the Claire thing, and she can be very persuasive.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, though,” Mark says. “You can’t talk someone into dating you—”

“I’m not!”

“No, I mean Claire can’t talk Natalie into it. Unless Natalie wants to, I mean. And if Nat wants to date Claire—you really think the timing is make-or-break here?”

“Wait.” I lean forward. “You know something.”

“What are you talking about?”

“With Natalie! Come on. What am I walking into? Is this going to be another me-asking-Walter-to-prom situation?”

Walter laughs. “That wasn’t a situation!”

“Please.” I hold Mark’s gaze. “What am I working with here?”

He puts his palms up. “Absolutely not. Nope. None of my business.”

“Oh my God, you’re no help.” I scowl, turning to stare out the window. But of course, our stupid unmoving car just happens to be aligned with some other fuck-ass unmoving car. And of course, some bozo in the back seat hits me with an eyebrow raise.

I stare them down without blinking, until they turn away in shame.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought—”

Mark laughs incredulously. “What the fuck kind of mood is this?”

“I’M IN LOVE, REMEMBER?”

There’s a short, hanging pause.

“Oh-kay,” Mark says, finally.

I turn back to the window. “Where even are we?”

“Um, the Catskills? Near Woodbourne,” says Walter.

“Shut up.” I cover my mouth. “Marcus Aurelius, we went to camp here!”

“Here?”

“Yes, sir. Camp Kunin! Woodbourne, New York!”

I shut my eyes, and I’m there.

Nat and I used to sneak out of our cabin after dark sometimes. Not for sinister purposes; mostly we just liked to wander. But a lot of times, we’d bring a blanket to spread over the grass of the meadow. Then we’d lie there for hours, making wishes on stars.

Funny how I don’t remember a single thing I wished for. But I remember how we used to overlap our legs at the ankles. The way it made my heart flip, like a hiccup. How I’d wonder, sometimes, if Natalie thought I was pretty.

Have I just been hopelessly in love with this girl for my whole stupid life? Has it always been—

“Nat?” Mark says, suddenly, and my brain goes blank for a second.

He’s on the phone. But not on speaker. It’s pressed to his ear.

“Oh no,” he says.

My heart jumps. There’s a pause.

“Oh. Okay, good. Fuck. Wow.”

I lean forward. “What?”

“No, I think—not until later,” Mark says. “But—wait, where are you?” He pauses. “Yeah, where on 52?”

“She’s still on the bus?” I nudge Mark’s arm.

He ignores me. “Okay, yeah. We’re—I mean, it’s bumper to bumper, but I think we’re, like, half a mile behind you.”

My jaw drops. “She’s where?”

“Walter and Amelia,” Mark adds. And then: “No, she’s still at Blackwell. Yeah.” Mark laughs shortly. “How is it your fault?” Pause. “Okay, yeah. Yup! See you in a sec.”

“What was that?” I ask, as soon as he ends the call. “She’s here? Is she caught in this shit?”

Mark glances back at me. “Sounds like her bus is the source of the shit.”

“Wait.” My chest clenches. “She’s okay, right? What happened?”

“Not an accident! She’s fine. The bus broke down. They’re sending a new one, but apparently everyone’s just chilling by the side of the highway right now?”

“Yikes,” Walter says.

“We have to rescue her!” I scoot forward in my seat. “Where is she? She’s close, right?”

“Yeah, she’s—”

“Are you texting her? Okay, wait, tell her—”

“You’ll see her in five minutes,” says Mark. “You tell her.”

Part Seven

Sunday, May 28

Geneva, NY

—to Woodbourne, NY

to Larchmont, NY

Thirty-Seven

Half a mile later, it’s a full-on shitshow. Nat’s bus is smack-dab in the middle of the road, blocked off by a whole battalion of parked cop cars. So now everyone’s taking turns in the westbound lane—which has the entire road clogged up in both directions, as far as the eye can see. But my eyes are fixed on the cluster of people milling around where the shoulder meets grass. No hot lesbian field hockey team, from what I can tell. Mostly, it’s a bunch of yawning college kids and a couple of pissed-off dudes yelling into their iPhones.

And in the thick of it: Natalie, in her yellow-striped T-shirt and shorts. She’s perched on her suitcase, glancing back and forth between her phone and the passing cars, and I’m officially the biggest clown on this side of Laffland. Just looking at her flips my whole brain upside down.

I roll down my window as soon as we’re in shouting range. “Nat!”

She stands immediately, eyes finding mine, and I beckon her over. But one of the cops intercepts her. Natalie points to Walter’s car, but we’re too far back to hear what she’s saying. But then Natalie turns back to face me, holding one finger up. And a moment later, she texts me.

Me. Not Mark. cop says pull all the way right before the pass point

I look up, and she’s pointing to a spot near the first parked police car. Then, as we inch nearer, two policewomen walk her there to meet us. I quickly scoot to the left.

The door opens, and Natalie’s guitar slides in first. Then the bag. And then Nat.

“Let’s get the fuck away from here,” she says.

Walter’s fuel gauge begs to differ.

“Okay, right turn here,” Mark says, staring at his phone screen. “There’s a gas station, like, a mile up this road. We’ve got this.”

I turn to Nat. “We really just scooped you off the side of the highway, huh.”

“You really did.”

“Like, I’m not saying it’s definitely a message from God,” I tell her, “but if I were God—”

“Wow.”

“Listen, if I were God, and my favorite, most beautiful child needed to be taught a lesson—okay, wait, I don’t mean taught a lesson. Wow, that came out sounding kind of violent.”

“Very Old Testament,” observes Walter.

“I’m just saying. Maybe some people might be less inclined, moving forward, to sneak off to the bus depot at the wee hours of dawn.”

Natalie’s lips tug up. “The more you know.”

“I’m serious!”

“Okay.” She’s not looking at me.

I turn away, casting my gaze out the window. I feel so—blurry, almost. Like someone double exposed my brain. Two Amelias scrambled together. I think my heart’s beating two separate rhythms.

We’re stopped at a light; I really do think we’re near camp. If I’m remembering right, we used to come here on day trips sometimes. The counselors would hype it up like a trip to Times Square, even though it’s basically just a block or two of houses and shops. But it had an old-timey Main Street vibe that I loved, where the world’s like an unlocked screen door.

Like Yiddish. Dancing barefoot. Like everyone you meet knows your grandparents.

As soon as the light turns, it’s confirmed. I’ve definitely been here. I know it as soon as we pass the abandoned Center Theater. Nothing but a blank art deco marquee against a gritty facade. But the sight of it makes me feel like I’m living in three timelines at once. One now, and two thens. Because my brain can’t help but superimpose the way it looked in its Borscht Belt heyday. The colorized pictures they showed us: summer Jews in their A-line dresses and suits, milling around the entrance in clusters. But there’s also a five-year-old camp day trip with its own memories attached. The present-past. Croissantness in motion. Remember that time we remembered that time?

It’s weird, because I don’t think of myself as particularly sentimental. I’m more of a live-in-the-moment, fly-by-night, go-with-the-flow kind of person. But then again—

I know how freaked out you are by change.

It seemed so out of left field when Zora said that. Yeah, I get wistful when it comes to the past. And sometimes I lose my breath just from the thought of time passing. Moments happen so quickly. You barely even get to touch them.

Was Zora right all along? Am I just a garden-variety nostalgia demon?

“I think that’s it on the right,” Mark says, but I cut him off with a gasp.

“Stop the car.”

Walter pulls over and stops.

“The sign.”

“Another update from God?” Natalie asks.

“Come on, at least one of you recognizes this, right?”

Mark tips his palms up, but Natalie freezes.

CAMP KUNIN: MAKE A LEFT! in vintage postcard font against a painted blue background.

I turn back to Nat. “I think we’re time-traveling.”

Door-to-door service isn’t happening, given the gas situation, but I talk the boys into dropping us off at the top of the dirt path.

“Fun,” Nat says flatly, sliding out the back seat. “Standing by the side of a road. Haven’t done that in ages.”

I laugh. “Come on. We’re at camp!”

Five years later.

I step out into the sunshine, stretching so hard my back pops. There’s that perfect kind of warmth in the air—soft and faintly breezy. Just enough to ruffle those little pieces of hair that like to jump out of my ponytail. They’re a little too short to be held down.

“Is this even allowed?”

“Is what allowed?”

“Being here? I don’t know.”

I bite back a smile. “No one’s arrested us yet.”

We set off down the path, past the parking lot; if I squint, I can almost see a line of camp buses. I remember us milling around in awkward clusters while our bags were unloaded. But then my memory gets a little tangled. Like the walk to the Main Lodge—I remember that being a full-on wilderness hike. But there it is, plainly visible through a small bank of trees, just on the other side of a clearing. It’s so strange being here. I’m not entirely sure it’s real. This entire place is one big if-only. It’s a wish you can walk around in.

“I forgot how much it looks like a slasher movie,” Nat says, and then she stops short. “Hold up.” She ducks down for a second to tug both her socks up, and it’s so nonsensically cute, I almost stop breathing.

“Okay,” she says, resurfacing, “I definitely remember this.” Her gaze drifts from cabin to cabin.

“Right? Me too. Can you believe your bus brought you here?”

“God sure taught me my lesson.”

I laugh, and she smiles, and I feel like I might bubble over. “Okay, come on.” I’m bouncing on my heels. “I want to tell you something.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Come on.” I grab her hand and tug her with me—past the lodge and around the edge of the central meadow. As far as I can tell, we’re the only ones here.

Nat glances back over her shoulder. “Didn’t there used to be a tetherball there?”

“No idea. Hey.” I drop to the ground, all of a sudden.

“Oop! You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just chilling. I like this spot. Come on.” I reach up to grab her hands, shrugging off the tiny, sharp flutter in my chest.

“If you say so.” She scoots in close, turning toward me. Suddenly our faces are just inches apart.

“So, I owe you a thank-you,” I say.

“For what?”

“Protecting me from kissing Zach Fine. You were right.”

“Who’s Zach Fine?”

“Yeet,” I say softly.

I tap the crown of my head, and she laughs.

“Also, hey—you know I didn’t hook up with Walter, right?”

“Um. Okay.” Her eyes widen.

“Is that weird to just—say? I don’t know. Just putting it out there. It wasn’t like that. It’s not like that. With Walter.”

She pauses. “It’s fine. I wasn’t—”

“I know you weren’t. I just felt like I should clarify that. Because—” I stop short, closing my eyes.

“Hey. Whoa.” I can feel her gaze on my face. “You okay?”

I nod, really fast. But I can’t quite dislodge the lump in my throat.

“Amelia?”

I open my eyes. “I’m okay.”

She hesitates. “Good.”

“But I don’t want to hook up with Walter,” I add.

And as soon as I say it, I know it’s one hundred percent true. I don’t want to hook up with him. Not even a little bit.

When the fuck did that happen?

Maybe it’s because he’s real now. He’s not just some distant if-only.

“I don’t want to hook up with Walter,” I say again, softly.

“Okay, cool. You don’t have to.”

“No, listen.” I inhale. “I think he’s amazing. Like, he’s actually great, and I know that’s not how it usually goes with famous people. I know that. But I really think he’s one of the good ones.”

“Hey. I think that’s great, okay? For real.” She elbows me gently. “And if you had a crush on him, that’s great, too—”

“No. Natalie—”

“Just let me say one thing, okay!”

The look on her face makes my heart catch. “Okay.”

“Amelia, I’m sorry—”

“Wait—no—”

She covers my mouth. “Oh my God—let me finish, all right?” She raises her eyebrows at me, and I raise mine back. “Got it?”

I nod. She takes her hand back.

“Okay, so. All I want to say is that—I know I’ve been so shitty about Walter. And it’s not—it wasn’t cool.” She pauses, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. Seriously. You shouldn’t have to dial down your feelings—”

“I’m not dialing down any feelings!” I let out an incredulous laugh. “For Walter?”

“I mean.” She flips her palms up. “I’m just saying. I’ve known you a really, really long time, okay? I know what it looks like when you have a crush. I do.”

“Oh yeah?” I turn to face her, head-on. “Tell me what it looks like.”

“You want me to—”

“Yup. Tell me. Me with a crush. Let’s hear it.”

“I don’t know.” She rubs her forehead, gaze flicking upward. “You get giddy. And kind of hyper-fixated. Like you were after the diner. And you flirt a lot—” I laugh, and she smiles. “You do! Like, you get really jokey. More than usual!”

“Jokes? Never.”

“And teasing—”

“Not teasing.” I scoot even closer. Close enough that our kneecaps are touching. “Nope. That doesn’t sound like me.”

She bites back a smile. “Oh, okay.”

“You know what?” I lean in. “I don’t think you can tell. I think you missed a few signs.”

She’s barely an inch away from me now; I can practically feel the heat from her cheeks.

“Hello?” I hear Mark’s voice before I see him. “Guys?”

I tap the end of Nat’s nose. “Hold that thought.” And then I scramble to my feet, reaching out for her hand. For a moment, she just blinks up at me, looking a little bit dazed. But she lets me help her up. And I guess the boys have spotted us now, since they’re cutting straight through the meadow to meet us.

“Hey,” Mark says. “Maybe consider—I don’t know—answering your phones every so often?”

“We thought you’d been eaten by mountain lions,” adds Walter.

Nat bites her lip. “There are mountain lions here?”

“I mean, it’s the Catskill Mountains. Mountain lions are cats. Who kill,” he says. “You do the math.”

Thirty-Eight

I’m a fidgety mess as soon as my seat belt clicks. Eyes need to blink, feet need to wiggle, hair needs to be removed from its rubber band, shaken out, and re-ponytailed. Meanwhile, Natalie’s gone quiet, but it’s not her normal quiet. The air around her is practically buzzing.

Honest to God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything was fine a minute ago. In the meadow. I couldn’t have misread the vibes that badly, right?

I try to catch her gaze, but she’s staring out the window. Don’t know if it’s on purpose. All I know is it’s making my brain spin sideways. I keep tucking strands of hair behind my ears. I used to twist the ends around a lot when I was nervous. Didn’t even realize I was doing it, but I feel the absence of it now.

The problem is, she’s an arm’s length away from me. Which is way too far and way too close, and it’s making my brain malfunction. I tap the edge of my seat. Press my palm down flat. “Oh!” I say, suddenly. “Nat, your suitcase.”

“It’s in the trunk. Guitar, too.” Mark looks at me strangely. “You good?”

I wrinkle my nose at him. “Oh, I’m very good. Top of my game, as a matter of fact.”

I mean, I’m keeping it together for the most part, right? Just a pinch of unhinged. Normal with an unhinged accent. Which, under the circumstances, is pretty goddamn impressive, I think. The circumstances being: the fact that I’m embarrassingly, incoherently obsessed with this girl, to the point where I don’t even know how to be fucking human about it.

I keep rolling back the tapes in my head. Her shower-flushed reflection in the dorm bathroom mirror. The soft bow of her head when she plays guitar. The way her lips pursed just before she snuffed out my dandelion. Stole my wish.

Me, shattering every glass ceiling of dumbassery. Pining so hard my stomach hurt, without even noticing why. Like being surprised by a plot twist in a book you’re rereading.

Maybe I noticed without noticing.

It’s like the coyote skidding past the edge of the cliff. Perfectly fine as long as he doesn’t realize the ground’s gone, but the second he sees it, he’s toast.

My phone starts buzzing—video chat request from Zora. I tap my screen to accept it, and she pops into frame. She’s outside on a chair, with a bunny curled up in her lap. “There you are! You guys need to answer your texts. I was starting to freak out.”

“Oh! Sorry,” I say a little too loudly. I lower my voice. “Yeah, I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

“And you found Nat? She’s not still standing by the side of the highway?”

“I’m here!” Nat says, and I flip my camera to prove it. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I meant to text you again once—”

“No, it’s fine! Cool. Good, glad you’re okay.”

I flip the camera back. “Where are you?”

“Edith’s house.” She smiles. “I met her parents.”

“What!” I gasp. “How did it go?”

“I’m still here!”

“Oh my God, go have fun! We’re good—”

“It’s fine! For real. We just finished lunch.”

“Yup,” chimes Edith, offscreen. “You heard the girl. Fuck lunch. Fuck parents—”

“No,” Zora says. “I said none of those fucks.”

“They were great fucks,” Mark contributes.

Edith gasps. “Is that Mark?”

I flip the camera again.

“Look at you!” Zora says. “Still awake. It’s a miracle.”

He gives her a halfhearted thumbs-up.

“Yeah, how are you awake, Marco Polo?” I ask, as soon as the call ends. “Did Walternator force-feed you coffee?”

“Would it still be called force-feeding if it’s a drink?” Natalie asks.

“It would if they rawdogged it with coffee beans.”

“Is that—” Natalie blinks. “Amelia, what do you think rawdog means?”

“Okay, Nattitude, it has many meanings. Rawdog contains multitudes,” I say, which makes Natalie laugh. And the sound makes my brain go swirly. Has it always been like this?

Like when she held hands with Carly Schecter at Shabbat sing-along once. I didn’t even know Nat was gay yet, and it still felt like a punch. In retrospect, me kissing Carly’s sister a week later behind a boathouse may not have been a total coincidence.

See also: Jordan Cohen entering the picture five days after Nat’s first kiss with Megan.

So, now what? What do I do with the fact that we’re practically home. Less than an hour. Am I supposed to just casually mention it?

Hello, Natalie, I’m pretty sure I want to kiss you. In fact, I’m pretty sure wanting to kiss you has been the driving force of my whole entire life.

Is that even allowed? Does it have to be a big, messy Claire-style grand gesture?

Is telling someone you like them ever not a grand gesture?

Because that’s the problem, right? Love confessions don’t come with a rewind. You don’t get to walk them back to rawdogging discourse or MILF lore. No matter which way the chips fall, we’re not the same Nat and Amelia.

Instagram (September, senior year)

@ameliaheartapplebomb Okay, wow. I just finished watching the video, and it’s seriously so important to me. I’m also bi (and Jewish, a HS senior, and I live in Westchester, but I promise I’m not stealing your life lol) and your experiences really resonated with me. Like, I actually don’t think I’ve ever had a piece of media personally attack me to this degree?? When I tell you I got actual goosebumps—especially the part about the cycles of uncertainty. It’s just really great to know someone out there in the world really truly gets it. Anyway, sorry this comment is so long! I just wanted to let you know that your video meant a lot to a random bisexual girl in Larchmont, and I’m really glad you shared it. I’m officially your fan for life.

Thirty-Nine

We cross the Hudson, and it’s a whole new tier of surreal. It’s one thing when your favorite YouTuber personally chauffeurs you down the thruway. But Mamaroneck? Downtown Larchmont? This whole time, I’ve been half-expecting this car to turn back into a pumpkin. But we’re passing Trader Joe’s and IHOP and the entrance to Jordan Cohen’s subdivision, and it’s that double exposed feeling all over again.

“Amelia, should I drop you off first?” Walter glances up at the rearview.

For the barest split second, I picture him slowing to a stop in front of my house, turning to face me as soon as he parks. My pie-in-the-sky prom. The prom that never came true. I can hardly remember what it feels like to want that.

“Just drop me off at the twins’ house. If that’s okay.”

“Sure,” Mark says, but I’m still looking at Nat. My heart’s beating so loudly, I can barely hear my own thoughts.

She smiles a little. “Sounds good.”

The rest of the ride is a blur. My brain won’t let anything stick. We’ll stop at a light, and I’ll realize we were moving. But I won’t notice we’re stopped until we start moving again. Walter makes the left into the twins’ neighborhood, and every single house looks just like we left it. Not a single new petunia in a single neighbor’s garden. But the sameness is what’s making me feel so terrifyingly different. It’s like the DeLorean. The movement’s strictly chronological. A dimensional gear shift.

Did I just accidentally become a whole new person in the span of a weekend?

“All right, promise me we’re still gonna hang,” Walter says.

Four days ago, that would have put me in the hospital, probably. My heart would have blown up like a balloon.

“We can hang right now,” Mark replies. “Stay as long as you want.”

“You sure?” Walt shoots me a hopeful smile in the rearview. Like he half expects me to tell him to fuck off. Most precious boy. Absolute clown and a half.

“The more the merrier,” I say.

Two minutes later, I’m not just eating my words—I’m choking on them.

The absolute least merry sight on this earth: Claire Zimmerman’s Subaru parked in Natalie’s driveway. I repeat: Claire’s dumbass green Subaru with its illustrated decal of heart hands smack-dab on the bumper. In Natalie’s driveway. But there’s an even bigger jump scare perched at the edge of the stoop:

Claire, wearing her prom dress. Holding a handwritten sign that reads: Can we start over?

“What,” I say softly, “the fuck.”

Natalie sucks in a sharp, quiet breath. But her expression’s so cloudy, I don’t have a clue what she’s thinking.

Walter turns to Mark. “Is that—”

“Yeah.” Mark rubs his forehead.

Like, it’s almost too fucking predictable. Claire, sweeping in at the eleventh hour for one purpose and one purpose only: to unleash destruction. And chaos. Okay, two purposes. Three, if you count fuckery.

Walter pulls to a stop near the curb, but none of us move for a moment.

I turn to Nat. “I can just—”

“No,” she says quickly. She presses my arm, like she’s locking me in. “Wait—”

“Nat, it’s fine. I’ll text my mom—she’ll come get me.”

“What? No! I’ll give you a ride,” Walter says.

I nod slowly. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“I’ll come too,” Mark says, eyes flicking quickly toward Claire.

Nat holds my gaze. “Okay, but—I’ll call you in a second, okay?”

She leaves, without grabbing her bag. Not even her guitar. Claire drops the poster, scrambling to her feet as soon as she sees her.

I swear, it feels like time’s jerking forward. By the time I give Walter my address, Natalie’s reached the foot of the stairs. And by the time he backs out of the driveway, she and Claire are hugging.

“You okay?” Mark’s voice is completely devoid of grump or snark. Not even implied grump or snark. Honestly, it’s a little concerning.

“Fine,” I say, gripping the strap of my seat belt. “Great. Absolutely fucking perfect.”

Walter laughs gently, glancing quickly at Mark. “I mean, I personally don’t think you have anything to worry about—”

“I’m not worried!”

Walter drums the steering wheel. “Okay.”

“Sorry, I just . . . really don’t like her. And I called this! I literally knew this would happen.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I bet they’re already making out.”

“Um, I doubt it,” Mark says.

I crane my neck to scope it out, but we’re too far up the street to see them.

“There was definitely a vibe,” I say darkly, and Mark shoots me a skeptical half smile. “No, for real! You just didn’t see it. It’s invisible to straight guys.”

Mark pauses. “Speaking of missing vibes.”

I replay the hug in my mind, trying to decipher their exact body language. It definitely wasn’t a back-from-war kind of hug. But it wasn’t a polite, distant colleagues hug either. Somewhere in the middle, I guess. But at least they’re not—

“Wait.” I whip my head up. “What did you say?”

Mark blushes all the way up to his ears. “About you missing vibes?”

For a moment, I just stare at him, speechless. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you think I’m saying.”

I grip both front seats, leaning forward. “Marky Mark, are you gay?”

“What? No!” He laughs sharply.

I clap a hand to my mouth. “Okay, wow. Sorry, I just completely—”

“More like bisexual. I think?”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I’m—”

“No, no. Wait. I heard you. I’m just—” I stare at him, smiling. “You’re bisexual?”

“That okay?” He flicks his gaze up.

“Markillean Freddie Markury, it’s more than okay—”

“Oh boy.” He bites back a smile.

“Not just oh boy, Markosaur. It’s oh any gender.”

Walter laughs. “Is that how it works?”

“You tell me—” I stop short. “Wait, do you realize this is an all-bisexual vehicle right now?”

“A bicycle, as it were,” Walt contributes, pulling to a stop at the light.

“Exactly. Yup. This is so—oh my God.” I punch Mark’s arm. “Man. The bisexuals cannot stop winning.”

Walter high-fives me. “Are we the three bi-sketeers?”

“No,” says Mark.

“The three bi-sketeers!” I hit Walt with a fist bump. “Alexa, play ‘Sweater Weather.’”

“Help.” Mark shoots Walter a quick sidelong glance.

Except. It isn’t a Jesus-Christ-Amelia glance.

My jaw actually drops. Honest to God. Chin’s on the floor of this car. “I’m sorry, was that a soft-eyed look?”

“What’s a soft-eyed look?”

“You know perfectly well what a soft-eyed look is, Walt Disney.”

Mark lets out a choked laugh, tipping his palms up. “I guess so?”

“Wait.” I look back and forth between them. “For real? Like, you guys—”

“Anyway, that’s what’s up with me!” Mark clears his throat, blushing. “How are you?”

“Never been better.” I smack my palms down. “Does Nat know?”

“About me being bi? Yeah.”

“But not about Walt.”

Walter tilts his head, smiling up at me in the rearview. “I mean, that part’s pretty recent.”

“Yeah, no. Obviously. Wow.” I rub my cheek. “All that time pretending to hate Walt.”

Walter laughs. “He pretended to hate me?”

“No! Ha. Not like that! I just mean—he pretended to hate your content—” I stop short, face-palming. “Not, like, as a euphemism—”

“I don’t even know what you think ‘content’ is a euphemism for,” Mark says.

Walter pulls into my driveway and parks, smiling at Mark for just a beat longer than normal. Which makes me melt a little, sure.

But there’s something hollow beneath it. A Natalie-sized hole in the ozone layer.

Forty

It’s like stepping between parentheses. Being home doesn’t feel like real life. It feels like a pause. Like a side quest.

Mom’s car is in the driveway, because of course it is. The boss fight I never asked for. Turns out, she’s in the kitchen, baking chocolate chip cookies with Audrey.

“Oh, honey, you’re back!” she says. “How was it?”

“Good. It was fine.” I set down my duffel.

“You know,” Mom says, with transparently fake nonchalance. “I’m so sorry your phone stopped working.”

“Your phone broke?” asks Audrey.

“Well, it must have! Otherwise, I’m sure your sister would have texted me back. Especially when—”

“Okay, I’m sorry!” I say. “I just—I forgot.”

The oven beeps loudly—I guess it just finished preheating. I stare at it dazedly for a second, before nudging my bag toward the wall with the tip of my sneaker.

I should have just stayed at the twins’ house. Should have ripped Claire’s stupid poster out of her hands and torn it to shreds. Blown the pieces down the street like a puff of dandelion seeds.

Mom’s scooping out cookie dough, laying it onto a baking sheet in straight, tidy rows. She sets the baking sheet aside when she’s done, pulling a second one closer. If it were me, I’d shove the first batch in the oven right now, just to keep things moving.

“I think I’ll head upstairs,” I say, a little too quickly.

Audrey raises her eyebrows. “Already?”

“I mean, I had a six-hour drive today, so.”

Mom winces. “I bet Zora’s exhausted.”

“She’s still at Blackwell.”

My mom’s face turns to stone. “I beg your pardon?”

“Coming back tomorrow,” I add quickly, cheeks warming.

Mom sets down the cookie scooper, staring me down. “Who drove you home?”

“Um. Walter.”

“The YouTuber?”

Audrey bursts out laughing. “Yeah, right.”

“You don’t have to believe—”

A sudden buzz in my pocket makes every thought in my brain fly away. I reach for my phone so quickly, it almost slips out of my hands. All I can hear is my own hammering heartbeat.

Text from Nat: hey, she’s gone. are you already home?

For a moment, I just stare at the screen, barely breathing.

Then the phone buzzes again in my hands. can you come back??

“Amelia?” Mom asks.

I look up with a start. “I need a ride.”

“Maybe you should call Walter.” Audrey’s voice is threaded with laughter.

“Shut up.” I turn to Mom. “Can I take the car?”

“Mm. Can it wait an hour? I’m dropping Audrey off at Lily’s house as soon as the cookies are out.”

“Lily B.,” Audrey says firmly. “Not Lily R.”

“No!” It seems to rip straight from my chest. “No. Sorry. It can’t wait an hour. Natalie needs—” I stop short. “I don’t know, she doesn’t need me. But she asked me to come over, and I need to go now.” My heart twists. “Okay? It’s really, really important.”

“Because you’re in love with her?” asks Audrey.

I open my mouth and then shut it. “Excuse me?”

“She has a point,” Mom says.

I almost sputter. “What the heck! We’ve never even kissed!”

“Really? Huh. Guess I owe Dad five bucks.”

“You guys bet on me?”

“I did. He bet against you.” She opens the fridge, moving a few things around to make room for the cookie sheets. Then she turns the oven off. “Okay, come on, Little Miss Grand Gesture. I’ll drive you.”

“Grand gesture? Eww, I’m not Claire!”

Mom raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“Thanks for the ride,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome,” Mom says, grabbing her purse off the counter.

The walk to the car makes me feel outside of time. All my tenses are scrambled. I step, and I stepped, and I’m stepping, have stepped, will step, out my front door. Across the front yard.

Audrey trails behind me. “You should sing like you did for Walter on Instagram,” she suggests.

I whirl around. “You never saw that.”

“Yeah I did. I was in your closet when you recorded it.”

“You were spying on me?” I turn to gape at Mom. “Are you hearing this?”

“I wasn’t spying. Just getting some stuff.”

Mom turns our front door key, looking slightly alarmed. “Audrey, what did you take?”

“Just some shoes.”

“Sweetie, those won’t fit you.”

“I know. They’re for later.”

“Okay! I don’t care,” I say loudly. “Guys, come on.” I yank the passenger door open, texting Nat the moment I’m buckled.

Mom eases the car into reverse. “So, how does this work?” she asks, like it’s just polite conversation. Normal ride. Normal day. Just a regular old drop-off at Nat’s.

“How does what work?”

“Do you know what you’re going to say? If you want to rehearse—”

“Are you joking?” I bark out a laugh. Not the polite conversational kind.

“I don’t know! It might be nice to go in prepared, right? Doesn’t have to be a speech. Maybe just an outline?”

“You could write it on notecards,” says Audrey.

“This isn’t a committee decision!”

Mom slows to a stop at a red light, turning to face me. “I just want you to make good choices—”

“She’s not great at that.” Audrey winces.

“Whoa—”

“I didn’t say you were bad! Just not great—”

“Please shut up. Please.” I twist in my seat to scowl at her.

Mom shakes her head. “Amelia, I know this is stressful, but please don’t take it out on your sister.”

“Natalie might say no,” Audrey says wisely. “That’s why she’s stressed. Look what happened with Alice and Gabe from my class.”

“Why are these eight-year-olds dating?”

“They’re not. They’re attracted to each other, but Gabe didn’t want to ruin the friendship,” Audrey explains. “That’s the whole point.”

“Okay!” I exhale, turning back around to glare out the windshield. “Why is this light taking five thousand years?”

“See? She’s nervous.” Audrey smiles at Mom in the rearview.

“Maybe because I literally don’t know what I’m walking into!” The light changes at last, but my breath still feels like it’s stuck.

Mom turns onto Natalie’s street, pulling to a stop near the curb. Then she turns to face me, smiling gently. “You’re walking into your best friend’s house,” she says, “and it’s going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that! Friendships aren’t always fine.” I stare at my knees. Look at Walter and Hayden. Look at Simon and Garfunkel!”

“Oh, you know, I just read something about those two!” Mom taps her chin. “You won’t believe this. Apparently, they finally—”

“Cool—okay, I’m out!” I leap from the car so fast I almost collide with the twins’ neighbor’s collie. I scratch his head. “Oop—hi, Cooper.”

Cooper gives me an urgent lick on the wrist.

My throat’s thick with nerves. Nat’s front door is right there. Mom’s still parked, right behind me. I know she won’t leave until I’m inside—which chokes me up even more, for some reason. This mix of sameness and newness.

I spin on my heels, rapping the passenger window. Mom opens it promptly, leaning closer. “What’s up?”

“Thanks, okay?” I blush. “For bringing me. And—yeah.”

“My pleasure,” Mom says, with finger guns worthy of Walter himself. “Now get in there and earn me five bucks.”

Forty-One

I’m standing so close to the door, Nat takes a startled step back.

“Sorry! I’m—”

“No, you’re fine.” She laughs a little, moving to let me inside. “Claire left. She went home.”

“Right.” By the time I slip my shoes off, I’ve become cotton candy. Sugar and air, a breath away from dissolving. “So it’s a no on the prom do-over?”

“Correct.” She smiles faintly.

“Well, well, well. Maybe someone shouldn’t have dumped her girlfriend at prom.”

“Maybe she didn’t,” Nat says. Something in her expression makes my breath catch.

“Wait.” I step closer. “Were you the dumper?”

“Why are you so shocked?”

“Because!” I laugh. “Oh my God, it was you! You dumped her ass! You did that. You’re the prom dumper!”

“I’m the prom dumper.” Her voice is just a little bit breathless. “Hey, do you want to go upstairs?”

A perfectly casual question. Therefore, my brain’s being extremely normal about it.

“Your parents aren’t home?” I ask.

“Still in the city. Some kind of medical conference.”

I shoot finger guns. “Yeah they are.”

By the time we reach the stairs, I’m down to roughly five percent human. The rest is just liquified dandelion in a skin suit.

Nothing about this computes. It’s the same family photos framed, gallery style, at the foot of the staircase. Same stairs I’ve been scrambling up since kindergarten. Same diamond-patterned rug stretching the length of the hallway. Same guest room, same Mark’s room. It’s all so perfectly normal.

Except it doesn’t feel normal. It feels like the pause before a song starts.

Nat shuts her bedroom door behind us, and I can’t stop drinking in the details. Even though I’ve spent half my life in this room. Natalie’s blue-painted walls, lined with photos and framed vinyl records. Blue floral comforter, with mismatched throw pillows propped up against the headboard. There’s a cardigan draped over her chair, a stack of folded laundry on her desk. It’s as familiar as her face. But it all feels strangely brand-new.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

“So,” I blurt, finally. “Why’d you dump Claire?”

She lets out a startled laugh. “What?”

“Other than the fact that she’s Claire. Obviously. But I thought you guys were—”

“You,” Natalie says. And just like that, I stop breathing.

“She wanted to dance,” Nat adds, “but I just wanted to find you. You were acting so weird—just, with Walter, and the haircut—”

“You said it was cute!”

“It was.” She reaches out to touch the ends of my hair. “It is. That was kind of the problem.”

I step closer, heart pounding. “Oh?”

“She said I’m too focused on you. Like, if you want to be with Amelia so badly, why are we even doing this?”

“And then what?”

My brain’s a trampoline. Nothing stays put. Nothing but the smell of her ChapStick.

“I broke up with her.”

“Because—”

“Because she was right.”

My mouth falls soundlessly open.

“But it’s okay if you don’t—I mean,” she adds, nonsensically. “I swear to God, I won’t make it weird—”

“Hey, Nat?” My voice breaks, just a little. “You know I think about you every minute, right?”

She opens her mouth and then shuts it.

“Every second. As soon as I wake up. Like the song. Not by Aretha Franklin. ‘I Say a Little Prayer.’ Also ‘Kathy’s Song.’ That one too. Actually, all songs. Music in general. Every single—”

She kisses me. Leans forward, plants her hands on my cheeks, and—

“Oh!” I say.

She pulls back, eyes widening. “Sorry—”

“No, it’s—wow. Yeah. It’s good. I just—wow! Okay—”

She laughs, and it tickles—makes my lips feel like they’re buzzing.

“I don’t—I don’t even know how to be around you sometimes,” she says, and her mouth is so achingly close. “When you’re sitting there talking about MILFs or narrating your fucking text messages, or whatever, and I’m there having heart palpitations over your freckles? Is that even—”

“Yup. Yeah. Me too.” I poke one of her dimples.

She laughs. “Can we—”

“Yeah.” Barely voice. Mostly breath. She tugs my hand, and we cross the room in seconds. Scoot onto the bed. Just the edge of it. But I lean back onto my elbows, peering up at her. Natalie, in her drawstring shorts and yellow-striped T-shirt. She’s right in front of me, and it’s still not enough. I want to kiss her dimples when she laughs. I want to kiss her neck when she nods.

But then she slides off the bed.

“No, come back!”

She grins back at me, crossing to the shelf near her window. Then she plucks her naked mole rat plushie off the shelf and turns him backward, facing the wall.

“Good idea! You’re so smart.” I kiss her forehead. “And pretty, and—”

She presses my shoulders and leans down to kiss me, and it’s like I swallowed a meteor shower. Heat and light streaking past my rib cage, crash-landing somewhere south of my stomach. “Fucking hell, Natalie—”

She smiles down at me, flushed. “Look who finally ran out of nicknames.”

I shake my head, tugging her closer; my hands drift down her back, crossing every stripe of her T-shirt. Past the narrow raised band of her bra. Slipping my hands beneath the hem; meeting her eyes, just to check. She nods, leaning in to kiss me again, except my hands are underneath now, palms pressed against the smooth warmth of her skin. I roam a little, up to her shoulders, under both bra straps. Then back down to the outside edge of the band, and around to the faint squishy curve of her sides. I feel so—

Awestruck. Which is a little unhinged. I’m fully aware. Maybe if we were the kind of friends who rub in sunscreen, I’d be more normal about this. But we’re not. So my hands think they’re exploring Mars. And now my brain wants to move there.

I trace down a little bit farther, finding the dip of her waist, and her eyes flutter shut. “How are you doing this,” she says, soft as a whisper.

I kiss her again. “YouTube tutorials.”

She laughs out loud. Or not out loud. It leaves her mouth and goes straight through my brain. If the laugh never hits air, which way do you count it? If I speak in the middle of kissing, am I talking? Is it thinking?

I feel moonheaded, fuzzy-brained, fully unzipped. I feel so “Kathy’s Song,” “Kodachrome,” “God Only Knows.” Every single one of them. “Something,” “A Case of You,” “Song for the Asking.”

She takes her glasses off, folds the arms in, shoves them on her nightstand without a second glance back. Our eyes meet, and I’m sure I’m unstitching. Splitting at the seams, with beams of light breaking through. I can’t even think straight, but I kiss her again, like a question. Like a wish that comes true before I’m even done asking.

Forty-Two

“Okay, wait, new theory about kissing just dropped,” I announce.

“Whoa. Just now?” Nat tilts her head toward me on the pillow.

“Right this second. Hot new theory. Actually it’s about us, specifically.”

“Us kissing,” she says.

And for a moment, it’s just—oxytocin. Repeatedly punching me in the face.

“So. My theory is—okay, I’m calling it . . . Croissantification Theory. The Croissantification Theory of Kissing.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “That sounds—wow. That’s a serious theory.”

“Oh, yeah—it’s pretty dense. And flaky. But I’ll try to break it down for us. So.” I squeeze her hand. “Croissantification Theory posits that any single instance of kissing occurring between us contains imprints of all past instances of kissing. And over time, these instances and imprints layer on top of each other with croissantlike power and force.”

“Okay, that’s . . . incredible.” She turns to me, stunned. “I mean, it does sound a tiny bit like the Croissantness of Time theory—”

“Oh, no—totally different. This one’s about—”

“Kissing.” She smiles.

I smile back. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“We’re gonna have to kiss each other. Like. A lot.”

She lets out a solemn exhale. “You’re right.”

“If we want to achieve full croissantification,” I add.

“Obviously.” She leans closer—but just as her lips graze mine, she stops short. “Wait! Permission to ask a question.”

“Permission granted.”

“What’s the policy on imaginary kisses?”

“The policy,” I say, “is that you should probably just kiss me.”

She kisses me. “Right, but retroactively speaking. What about daydream kisses?”

“Natalorica!” I pull back to look at her, beaming. “Are you trying to say you’ve had a crush on me since the moment we met?”

“We met in kindergarten.”

“My question still stands!”

She leans in, carefully tucking my hair behind my ears. Right, then left. “I’m pretty sure you already know,” she says.

“How would I know if you’re not showing the symptoms?”

“The symptoms?”

“You know, being giddy and jokey and, uh, fixated—what were the other ones?”

“Absolutely wild that you think I haven’t been.”

I sit up straight. “Oh?”

“Seriously? Amelia, I’m like—I’m literally never not staring at you.”

“Not now! I’m talking about before we were girlfriends.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Girlfriends?”

“Uh, yeah? Natalie, we’re not married yet.”

“Wow.” She laughs. “Um. Okay—”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know you are. You say a whole lot of things.” She takes my hand, threading our fingers together. “Okay, so, we’re girlfriends.”

“Yup. Yes.” I lean in to kiss her.

She shoots me a quick, flustered grin. “Just don’t dump me during Chanukah.”

“Never. I’ll double down. Mark my words, Naccabee—you’ll be spinning a four-gimel dreidel.”

“I believe you,” she says, and I’m about to reply.

But then—

A creak, followed by a faint, distant thud. Nat’s front door opening and closing.

I scramble to a seated position. “Parents?”

“We’d have heard the garage. Probably just Mark.”

“I don’t know if it’s just Mark,” I say.

Sure enough, that’s not just Mark’s voice in the hallway. And those are two distinct sets of footsteps on the stairs. Followed by: wheels squeaking over the wooden hall floor and the quiet bump of luggage outside Nat’s door. Then the door to Mark’s bedroom opens and shuts, and someone laughs faintly.

Natalie looks at me, biting back a grin, and I’m the entire dandelion life cycle. Wishes, fluff, and flower petals, on an infinite loop.

Forty-Three

We consider letting them live. We really do. It’s just—

They brought in Natalie’s guitar. Left it right outside her door. Biggest tactical mistake since the eighth-grade overnight shul-in, when Lucas Wolfram tried sneaking a vape into the sanctuary.

My hand’s on the bathroom doorknob before Nat’s done unzipping the case.

“I need to tune it,” she murmurs.

“Nope. No time. You’ve got to rawdog it.”

I sneak a glance at her profile. Level-ten dimple situation. I follow her into the bathroom.

“He’s really in there with Walter?” she whispers.

“The redhead himself.”

“Incredible. You know he’s been watching those ukulele videos since freshman year, right?”

“I’m sorry, what—”

“Shh!” She presses a finger to my lips and grins. “Yeah, how do you think he discovered ‘Cecilia’? I literally walked in on him watching the part where he’s, like, drumming on the edge of it.”

I stare at her. “He wasn’t—”

“Eww! No. God—Walter was drumming. On the edge of the ukulele, not—” She stops short, wrinkling her nose at me. “You’re messing with me.”

“Yup.” I kiss her.

She kisses me back. “He was just listening. With headphones, though,” she whispers. “I didn’t even know what song it was until a week later, when you made me watch it fifty times.”

“More like thirty-five.” I tap the edge of the frets, catching her gaze in the mirror. “Okay, maestro. Marky needs his makeout song.”

“You,” she informs me, “are a demon.”

“It’s called being a wingwoman.”

When she leans in to kiss me, it’s not a wish come true.

It’s every wish, croissantified. Layer upon feather-soft layer. When you’ve been in love for so long, it’s like breathing.

When you’re in love, present tense.

Acknowledgments

Becky Albertalli is a Grateful Author whose books are thought to rely upon the efforts and emotional labor of a multitude of specific persons. Given the extravagance of their numbers, the identities of these proud individuals are only partially disclosed at the present time. However, the gratitude of Becky extends beyond these modest listings, in accordance with this cherished bounty.

With regard to Becky’s publisher, she delights in the talents and exquisite wisdom of the organization known as HarperCollins. Her bold team is led by the fearless Megan Ilnitzki, and includes such nobility as: Taylan Salvati, Patty Rosati, Shannon Cox, Audrey Diestelkamp, Shona McCarthy, Mimi Rankin, Tom Bonnick, Ella Probert, Rachel Horowitz, Jennifer Lopez, Karina Williams, Dan Janeck, and Vincent Cusenza. It is reported that the team in question boasts a confirmed attribute of brilliance across all domains. Additionally, editorial discernment was obtained from known mastermind Donna Bray, currently representing the publisher known as Macmillan.

Becky’s profusion of everlasting support hails additionally from the agency known to all by its moniker, Root Literary. Notable practical and emotional sustenance has been obtained in particular from Holly Root, Alyssa Maltese, and Kat Miller, with exceptional collaboration from Heather Baror-Shapiro. With respect to cinema, Becky’s work is buttressed by the acumen of such champions as Mary Pender-Coplan of WME. She is further indebted to the vital energies of her publishers across a variety of worldly nations.

An essential salute is directed toward Leni Kauffman, Chris Kwon, and Jenna Stempel-Lobell, whose artistic dexterity is responsible for the renowned physicality of Amelia, If Only. Furthermore, Caitlin Kinnunen’s auditory excellence should be hailed and exalted.

An array of notable figures offered additional verified contributions across a variety of critical domains. Becky offers full celebration to these shrewd virtuosos, including: Danielle Silverstone, Janet and Larry Bell, Laura Gao, Savy Leiser, RK Gold, Jennifer Dugan, Matthew Eppard, Jenny Donovan, and Sophie Gonzales. These individuals likewise extended significant emotional patronage, alongside such comrades as: Aisha Saeed, Angie Thomas, Jasmine Warga, David Arnold, Steph Scott, Jacob Demlow, Geoff Edelstein, Jaime Hensel, Sarah Beth Brown, Amy Austin, Emily Townsend, Jaime Semensohn, Jenny Mariaschin-Rudin, Emery Lee, Diane Blumenfeld, Venessa Vida Kelley, Kelly Quindlen, Mackenzi Lee, Rachael Allen, Julian Winters, Mason Deaver, Jason June, Cale Dietrich, Sara Quaranta, Tom-Erik Fure, Eline Berkhout, Molly Tittle, Ronni Davis, Louise Willingham, Dahlia Adler, Katryn Bury, Lauren Starks, Rachel Strolle, Felix Hollifield, Leah Johnson, Matthew Hubbard, Katy-Lynn Cook, Brandie Rendon, Kate Goud, Anderson Rothwell, Becky Kilimnik, JC Lillis, Rod Pulido, Emily Carpenter, Manda Turetsky, Chris Negron, George Weinstein, Adib Khorram, Hillary and Anna-Elizabeth Shakespeare, Rose Brock, Adante Watts, Nic Di Prima, David Binswanger, Sam Rowntree, Margo Fischer, Heidi Schulz, and the Marquis de Mark O’Brien.

Recognition is also owed to the distinguished librarians, booksellers, readers, and purveyors of bookish influence whose efforts have buoyed the visibility of Becky’s stories.

Unflinching support was supplied by Becky’s family, ranging from her immediate household to members of her extended lineage. These affable figures include Caroline, Mike, and Max Reitzes, Eileen Thomas, Jimmy and Candy Goldstein, Curt and Gini Albertalli, Sam Goldstein, Leigh Shapiro, Cameron Klein, William Cotton, Jim Albertalli, Brittany Girardi, Cyris and Lulu Albertalli, Lois and Don Reitzes, Adele Thomas, and Gael Thomas. In particular, the following entities offered unparalleled forbearance: Brian, Owen, Henry, Teddy, and Willow Albertalli.

Becky is reported to be profoundly indebted to the aforementioned personages and a range of additional parties. The frequency of her disintegration into tears of gratitude remains unknown.

About the Author

BECKY ALBERTALLI is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of William C. Morris Award winner and National Book Award longlist title Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda (now a major motion picture, Love, Simon); The Upside of Unrequited; Leah on the Offbeat; the Simonverse novella Love, Creekwood; What If It’s Us and Here’s to Us (cowritten with Adam Silvera); Yes No Maybe So (cowritten with Aisha Saeed); Kate in Waiting; and Imogen, Obviously, a Stonewall Honor Book. Becky lives with her family near Atlanta. You can visit her online at beckyalbertalli.com.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Books by Becky Albertalli

Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

The Upside of Unrequited

Leah on the Offbeat

What If It’s Us (with Adam Silvera)

Yes No Maybe So (with Aisha Saeed)

Love, Creekwood

Kate in Waiting

Here’s to Us (with Adam Silvera)

Imogen, Obviously

Amelia, If Only

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Copyright

amelia, if only. Text copyright © 2025 by Becky Albertalli. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Without limiting the exclusive rights of any author, contributor or the publisher of this publication, any unauthorized use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception.

Cover art © 2025 by Leni Kauffman

Cover design by Chris Kwon

first edition

Digital Edition JUNE 2025 ISBN: 978-0-06-304594-1

Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-304592-7

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