“Y-yeah?” I manage.

  “Thanks for listening. I kind of word vomited on you.”

  “Oh. Uh, vomit away!” I say, which . . . sounded a lot better in my head.

  Gemma looks down. “I knew how mean Amberleigh could be to other people. We’ve been friends for so long, I guess I learned to make excuses for it. I didn’t do anything when she talked crap about someone else. But now I see Tate acting that way—like it’s more important to suck up to Amberleigh than stick up for me, and . . .” Gemma sighs. “What I’m saying is, I should’ve stood up to Amberleigh before, when she was treating other people the way she’s treating me now.”

  I smile ruefully. “I guess she’s said some mean stuff about me.”

  “Actually?” Gemma says. “Amberleigh’s pretty jealous of you.”

  I balk. “Me?”

  Gemma nods. “I don’t know if Cami ever told you, but Amberleigh was, like, dead set on making Cami part of our group. She invited her to the pool party the first day of sixth grade, but Cami said she already had plans with you.”

  I remember. That was the day that Cami invited me to hang out at her place after school. Cami never told me about the pool party invite, though. Or that she turned it down.

  “After that,” Gemma says, “Amberleigh would go on about how you ‘stole’ Cami from us. And you two seemed to always be having fun together. It was like you didn’t care what anyone else thought.”

  Gemma’s right: Cami and I didn’t care what other people thought. We were Relevane nerds and outsiders together. But I never would’ve believed that someone like Amberleigh was paying attention to us, much less being jealous.

  “I’ll be real,” Gemma says, picking at her thumb. “I used to wish I could be friends with you. Guess I still do.”

  Am I hearing right? Gemma does want to my friend.

  “I’d . . . like that, too,” I say. “I’ve felt that way all week.”

  Gemma’s freckles collide in another frown. “All week?”

  Whoops. I say, “I mean, we could be friends now. Eighth grade doesn’t have to suck so bad if we do it together.”

  Gemma’s wearing a strange smile, like she might not believe me. Then headlights illuminate her face. A little red car is pulling up to the curb.

  “My sister,” Gemma explains, scrambling to her feet.

  I get up, too. There’s a girl a few years older than me and Gemma behind the wheel of the car.

  “Hey,” she calls through the open window. “You all right?”

  “A little better now,” Gemma tells her, glancing at me.

  We share the tiniest smile, and then Gemma brushes past me to open the car’s back door. Her fingers skim my elbow, and like that, a thousand nerves light on fire, up and down my arm.

  “Hannah, this is Vivian,” Gemma tells her sister, gesturing toward me.

  “Hey, Vivian!” Hannah waves. “Do you want a ride?”

  Oh. I hadn’t considered that. I take a quick look at my phone and see that it’s barely past seven o’clock. Da’s not supposed to pick me up for another hour.

  “That’d be nice, actually,” I tell her. “I live on South First.”

  “Not a problem,” says Hannah. “Pile in.”

  Gemma and I slide into the back seat of the car. The leather seats are cold to the touch, because Hannah’s got the AC on full blast.

  “Address?” she calls back to me.

  I tell her, adding, “It’s a shop. Be Kind, Rewind.”

  Hannah shifts the car into gear, and we’re off. I sink into my seat, feeling suddenly exhausted, like I might as well have swum five hundred laps in Tate’s pool.

  Gemma and I don’t speak on the drive to my place. We listen to Hannah’s music—pop songs with bass notes that thump in my collarbone. The back seat feels dark and safe, like a cozy cocoon, and it smells of sugary-scented perfume.

  My chest is crammed with feelings. Anger at Amberleigh and Tate. Irritation at Neil. Massive disappointment over Alex. But so much hope about Gemma.

  Maybe this new crush—the one that’s been growing day by day—doesn’t have to stay a crush. Maybe there’s a chance that Gemma could like me back.

  Maybe I really want her to.

  Dads and Arlo know about me liking both guys and girls. Cami does, too; I told her in seventh grade, when I realized that the way I felt about Lara Sebastian during a kissing scene on TV? Yeah, it was more than me admiring her talent.

  I was worried about one thing, though: How come I hadn’t realized that I liked girls earlier? Eventually, I brought it up to Pop.

  “Did you know you liked guys when you were little?” I asked.

  “I did,” Pop said. “Guys, girls, everyone. I didn’t think it was wrong until I started hearing things from my papa and guys in school. Even when I told my friend Roger, who was gay, he told me, ‘You’re either straight or gay. You can’t straddle the fence.’” Pop threw up his hands. “Whatever that fence is. But later, I saw things differently. Liking all genders doesn’t mean you’re confused, or too much, or not enough. It simply means you’re being you.”

  “You knew all that about yourself when you were little, though, right?” I asked, still uncertain. “Like, kindergarten, basically?”

  Pop laughed. “I didn’t know all of that. And there are plenty of folks who don’t know those things when they’re young. Figuring out that you’re queer when you get older doesn’t make your queerness any less real.”

  I thought about what Pop had told me for a while. Then I decided he was right: my queerness was real. I could crush on Lara Sebastian on TV, and I could also think that Alex Fernandez was my one true love. Both of those crushes were normal, and one crush didn’t make the other one less true.

  I haven’t seen a reason to bring up who I like to kids at school. Now, though, I feel like, at some point, I could work up the courage to tell Gemma about my crush on her.

  Definitely not this point, though.

  Hannah pulls up to Be Kind, Rewind, and as I’m crawling out of the back seat, I feel pressure on my arm. It’s Gemma again—her fingertips practically sparking against my skin. I have to catch my breath as my feet hit the pavement outside the car.

  “Maybe we could eat lunch together tomorrow?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I’d like that a lot.”

  When Gemma smiles, it’s brighter than a sunrise.

  I wave goodbye as Hannah drives off down South First. Then I head around the shop, to the back entrance. I notice on my way in that Arlo’s parking spot is empty. No Civic. Just the Reserved for Our Far-Out Customers! sign. I sigh. So Arlo didn’t listen to me. Again.

  I let myself in with my latchkey and find the back room empty. The only sound is the gentle hum of the two floor fans. Sequined dresses and bell-bottom Levi’s flutter in the electric breeze. I duck beneath a houndstooth shawl as I make my way to the shop and up the stairs.

  It’s late. Not late-late, but late by Vivian’s First Day of School standards. This time yesterday, and the day before, I was finishing dinner with Dads. Any minute now, I should be getting a call from Cami to ask how my day went.

  I don’t know where to start with that question any more than I did on my first bad day.

  Today, I followed my Master Plan to the letter. I fixed my past mistakes. I finally made it to the pool party. Technically, today was pretty close to perfect.

  So how come it doesn’t feel that way?

  When I reach the top of the stairs, the answer smacks me in the face. The trouble is, my goals have changed since that first Monday night. I’ve learned stuff. I’ve had revelations. And that means my Master Plan is in need of adjusting.

  I should tell Dads that I’m home, but I figure that can wait five minutes. Right now, I’ve got a fire under my butt. I slip into my bedroom, turn on a lamp, and sit at my desk. I pull out the hyacinth journal from my backpack and open it to the first page. There, in bold letters, is goal number three:

  Make Alex Fernandez my boyfriend

  Ugh.

  It’s safe to say my crush on Alex has been . . . well, crushed.

  Vivian from a week ago would’ve been gutted over that. This version of me—Second Chance Vivian—is still super disappointed. But also? I’m kind of glad that I’ve finally seen Alex for who he is, up close.

  Without a second thought, I cross out the goal with two heavy strokes of my pen.

  That feels good.

  Then, just as quickly, I write a new goal in its place:

  Make Gemma Cohen my friend

  I stare at the words on the page and swallow hard. What I’ve written feels like a big deal.

  Just then, the Relevane theme blasts from my phone. I don’t have to look at the screen to know it’s Cami calling. But I just can’t answer. Not now. I grab the phone, muting the ringtone, and look back at my journal.

  Before, I hadn’t considered making a goal about friends in my Master Plan. Cami has been my best friend for two years solid, and me trying to get that close to someone else? I guess I would’ve felt like I was betraying her somehow.

  Now I’m thinking that through. These days, Cami and I are living 1,127 miles apart (yeah, I checked), and I haven’t been able to tell her what’s really going on in my life here in Austin. Meantime, she’s making new friends in Orlando, like Fatima and the girls on the dance team.

  Maybe I should be doing the same thing.

  And Gemma sure seems like she could be a great friend.

  I add an explanation to my goal:

  (Because I need one.)

  Writing it down like that, I know for sure that it’s true: I do need a new friend. A real friend. Someone to talk to and share secrets with, the way I have with Cami. And as for my crush on Gemma? I’ll . . . save that topic for another day. One big change at a time.

  Tomorrow—Tuesday—I won’t waste my time with Amberleigh or Alex. I’ll get to know Gemma better. I’ll start work at the Jaguar Gazette. I’ll keep on rocking my rocker chic style. Master Plan 2.0.

  I’ve got this.

  I’m finally ready for a new day.

  Muffled voices reach me from down the hall. I frown, setting down my pen. Dads are in the kitchen, talking, but something isn’t right. Da’s voice sounds strained—almost like he’s crying.

  I shut the journal and make my way down the hall. Right outside the kitchen door, I catch Arlo’s name. I stop in my tracks and listen as Da speaks:

  “It’s my fault. No, don’t try to—it is. You’ve always handled it better than me. You told me I should ease off the pressure. I thought my approach was more direct. But now . . . and the band . . . I did everything wrong.”

  I clutch the doorframe. Da is crying.

  I’m in a predicament. I don’t want to barge in, but I need to let Dads know I’m home safe. I settle on a plan: I’ll backtrack to my bedroom and shout from down the hall, like I just got home. But when I take my first step back, the ancient floorboard creaks beneath my shoe.

  Trixie gives a warning bark from the kitchen. Seconds later, Pop peeks his head out the open door.

  “Hey, Viv,” he says. His eyes are red and damp.

  “Uh . . .” I take another step back. “The party ended early, so I got a ride back with a friend.”

  I guess that’s partly true.

  Pop nods. “That was kind of them.”

  “Yep. Well, I was just heading to my room. Homework, you know!”

  I’m ready to flee the scene, but Pop stretches out a hand.

  “Why don’t you come into the kitchen?”

  I’d rather do anything else. Still, I follow Pop into the room. As I take a seat across from Da, I realize why I don’t want to be here. It’s not that I’m afraid of my dads crying; I’m afraid of what’s making them cry.

  I’ve got a queasy feeling that something bad is about to happen—like the time I freaked out on the diving board at Barton Springs Pool, and Arlo shoved me off into the freezing cold water. It’s that feeling: the moment before the shove.

  Pop sits beside me at the table. He nudges aside the salad bowl between us and tents his hands beneath his chin. I can tell he’s working up to say something, but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want the shove.

  “We just got a text from your brother. He told us that he’s left home.”

  I keep my eyes on Pop, not moving a muscle. I don’t even blink.

  “He’s with the band,” Pop says. “Apparently, they’ve been planning a Southwest tour for months. Arlo informed us that he’s been studying for the GED this summer. He claimed he had our permission and passed the test in July. Now he’s dropped out of school, all so he can play music full-time.”

  I still don’t move an inch.

  Pop sighs, running a hand through his short, dark hair. “We had no idea what Arlo’s plans were, and I can’t say that we agree with them. At the same time, he turns eighteen in November. He’ll be a legal adult, and we’re not sure it’d be helpful to go after him now. This is upsetting for me and Da, but we’ve decided to give our consent to this GED plan of Arlo’s. Get things sorted out. Let Arlo be his own person.”

  Pop is talking calmly. That doesn’t matter, though. No amount of calm can change the truth: Arlo has left home. Just left. And he didn’t even think to tell me, his only sister.

  I’m so sad I could burst into tears. So mad I could scream for an hour straight.

  But I just grit my teeth as I tell Pop, “Okay.”

  Pop looks confused. I guess he was expecting the tears or the screaming. He glances at Da and back at me. “We know this a lot to absorb, Viv. Da and I are still processing it ourselves. But if you want to talk this through, or—”

  “Nope!” I cut Pop off, throwing him my brightest fake smile. “I’m fine. Just, uh, gonna get to that homework!”

  Da looks up. “Vivian,” he starts to say, but I wave him off.

  “Love you!” I chirp, overloud.

  Then I’m off like a bullet train.

  I only let myself cry once I’m huddled in bed, under the sheets. I hug Mistmorrow so hard that his sparkly eyes nearly pop off.

  Arlo’s gone.

  It all makes sense now. There were a hundred little clues scattered across the last three days. I ignored them, but now they’re flash flooding my memory. I think of the boxes packed in the back seat of Arlo’s car. It was always a mess back there, but it was especially bad this morning. Now I know why: those boxes were packed with the stuff that Arlo’s taking on tour. I think of the off look on Arlo’s face, and how it appeared whenever I mentioned the band. I think of how he didn’t show up for dinner the past two nights. Turns out, if I’d stuck around a little longer at those dinners, I would’ve been there to see Dads get Arlo’s goodbye text.

  This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. Arlo’s been planning to leave home for—how long did Pop say?—months. All without breathing a word to me.

  I hate him.

  I hate Arlo with every bone in my body. Every freaking freckle on my skin. Yesterday, he had the nerve to tell me, “You’re my little sister,” like he actually cared. Well, what’s that good for? What’s the use of being family if he won’t tell me important stuff, like, I don’t know, that he plans on leaving home for good?

  I check my phone, but there are no notifications. I sure didn’t get a text. No goodbye. No explanations. No way am I forgiving Arlo for this.

  I dig my fingers into Mistmorrow’s matted fur. Rage courses through my veins. The way I feel now, I could yank up every floorboard in the hallway and nail them all down again till not a single one of them squeaks.

  The past three days, my head has been crowded with thoughts of Alex and Gemma and Amberleigh. I’ve been worried about my period. I’ve been trying to avoid humiliation of monumental proportions. That’s why I didn’t notice that Arlo wasn’t just late to dinner; he wasn’t coming home. By now, he’s miles away on his Southwest tour, headed to Phoenix or Las Vegas, or maybe as far out as California.

  “Who cares,” I seethe.

  Forget Arlo. If he couldn’t be bothered to tell me his plans, then I won’t be bothered to miss him. He can leave on his precious little tour. I’ve got eighth grade to worry about, and that starts tomorrow, with a brand-new day.

  Thanks for the second chances, Q. S. Murray, I think. I’ve got it from here.

  Anger roils in my gut as I bunch the pillow under my head and wish for unconsciousness.

  This day can’t be over fast enough.

  14

  “WHOA, WHOA, WHOA!”

  I wake to the sound of rain on the roof and Arlo’s voice shouting from downstairs.

  I blink blearily, wishing that Arlo would just shut up.

  Then my eyes snap open.

  Arlo.

  He’s home.

  I jolt up in bed, grabbing my phone from the nightstand and checking the screen:

  6:13 a.m.

  Monday, August 22

  Wait. What?

  “Dads. Get down here, quick!” Arlo screams from downstairs.

  No way.

  This . . . doesn’t make sense. It’s like yesterday never happened. Again.

  Panic squeezes my chest. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. Yesterday was the Monday I wanted to keep. Now? It’s like none of those moments ever happened. All my progress—erased. Worst of all, last night’s talk with Gemma is gone, too. She won’t remember all the important stuff she told me, or how we said we’d be friends. I’m back to freaking square one.

  I thought I had this figured out. I assumed that if I wanted another chance at Monday, I’d have to ask Q. S. Murray for more second-chance magic. But I didn’t ask for anything last night, so how is this happening?

  I turn to face the Relevane books lined up on my nightstand, desperately thinking through everything I’ve read about magic in the series.

  There is this part in book three, when Sage Miriel consults with the Mage of Fairwood. She’s trying to master the art of small magic, frustrated by her inability to move a simple pile of stones. That’s when the mage gives her this advice: “Magic is a force of nature. You are not conjuring it; you’re tapping into the flow. Building dams. Diverting paths. Working with a power that’s already there.”

 

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