Gemma grimaces. “Well, there’s this party tonight. Amberleigh, Tate, and I—we’ve been doing it since fifth grade. But this summer, they did something. . . . They were just . . . The thing is, I don’t even know if I want to be friends with them anymore. But if I don’t go to the party, Amberleigh will make a huge deal out of it.”

  “You mean, she won’t want to be friends?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “But . . . isn’t that what you want?”

  Gemma sighs. “I think so. But not going tonight feels permanent. It’s like I’m making a giant statement, and I can’t take it back. I don’t know if it’s better to go with the flow for now.”

  “Well, how’s that worked out so far?”

  Gemma sets down her fork. “Not so great. It’s just that eight grade—”

  “Sucks,” I finish.

  “Yeah,” Gemma agrees. “It’s not a good time to lose your only friends.”

  “Tell me about it.” I think of Cami and the miles between us. Hesitantly, I add, “It could be a good time to make friends, though.”

  Gemma looks at me, and it takes all my courage to look back. I’m thinking of what she said three nights ago, about wanting to be friends with me and Cami. Then I start feeling bad. I wish that Gemma could know about the magic. It feels wrong to know so much about her when she’s only spent one Monday with me.

  In this moment, I make a promise to myself: if I get out of this loop, and Gemma and I become friends? I will tell her this secret. I don’t think that she would laugh or treat me like I’m full of it. She’d believe me, like good friends do. And maybe, over time, we could be more than friends. Maybe Gemma would tell me a secret—that she’s crushing on me as much as I’m crushing on her.

  But that’s a whole lot of maybes, including a magical one. I refocus on the here and now.

  Gemma mentions a new baking show she’s been watching called Pastry Legend, and I promise to check it out. When I say how pumped I am for the next Relevane book, Gemma says she wants to read the first one, and I tell her I’ll lend her my copy.

  We swap numbers, and when we do, I see that it’s almost one o’clock. Gemma and I scramble to pick up our trash and sneak out of the stairwell. It feels like we’re spies on a secret mission, tiptoeing down the hallways; and once we’ve made it to the cafeteria trash bins, I tell Gemma, “That was fun.”

  “We could do it again tomorrow,” she suggests.

  “It’s a date.”

  Whoops.

  “I mean, a friend date,” I correct. “Or, like, whatever.”

  “Yeah. Like, whatever.” Gemma grins, revealing the dimple in her left cheek.

  So naturally, I can’t see straight for a full five seconds. Maybe that’s why I don’t notice Amberleigh headed our way.

  “Gemma!” she shouts. “Where have you been?”

  She strides up to us, holding a lunch tray, Alex by her side.

  “Was your mom late again, or something?” she asks, practically in our faces. Tate and Neil are a few steps behind, hauling their own trays.

  “Yeah,” Gemma says tersely, crossing her arms. “There was traffic, too.”

  Amberleigh smooths a hand over her ponytail and gives me a long once-over, taking in my mud-caked clothes. “What happened to you, Vivian?”

  I’ve gotta smile at a question like that. A lot has happened to me. Like, six Mondays’ worth of stuff. Not that Amberleigh knows that. She doesn’t remember tripping me at lunch or pushing me into Tate’s pool or any of her other scorpion stings. But even if I weren’t in a magical time loop that only I can remember, I don’t think Amberleigh would care that she’d done those terrible things. I’m realizing something big: while I’ve been taking my second chances, I’ve given Amberleigh second chances, too. And every single time, she’s ended up being plain mean.

  Well, if a magical time loop can’t change Amberleigh Allen, then I, Vivian Lantz, most certainly can’t. Ruining her shoes won’t make her better. Neither will dropping a trayful of pudding on her head. Even if I told her off in front of the whole cafeteria, it wouldn’t make a difference.

  While I’ve been stuck in this loop, I’ve learned a thing or two about time. I figured out a while back that it’s not worth my time to be Amberleigh’s friend. But now I’m seeing that it’s not worth my time to be her enemy, either. I’ve got better things to do with my Monday.

  That’s why I choose not to answer Amberleigh. I simply turn and walk off. I leave, feeling more euphoric than the Queen of Elystria on coronation day.

  “Uh, excuse me!” Amberleigh calls after me. “I’m talking to you, weirdo.”

  This weirdo keeps on walking.

  Then . . . splat.

  Something hits my back. I can feel it through my ringer tee. It’s goopy and cold, and it smells sickly sweet. Around me, the cafeteria grows quiet. Kids whisper to each other. I hear the words “fight” and “banana pudding.”

  ’Cause that’s what Amberleigh has catapulted at me from her lunch tray: a heaping spoonful of banana pudding. It drips off my shirt, hitting the floor in pale yellow globs. I turn, facing her down across the room. She smiles smugly, setting the rest of her lunch on the conveyor belt.

  “What?” she barks, when she notices Gemma glaring at her. “I was trying to get her attention.”

  Gemma isn’t the only person staring at Amberleigh. Tate looks shocked; Alex, too. Neil is snickering. But some of the kids at the tables near us look mad.

  “What the frick, Amberleigh?” calls a guy from our grade—Justin Schmidt.

  “Yeah, not cool,” mutters a seventh grader close by.

  “You okay, Vivian?” asks a voice at my back.

  I spin around. Mike Brot has jogged across the caf. He puffs out breaths, shaking his head, and says, “That was messed up. Here?”

  He holds out a napkin, like he’s asking permission. Dazedly, I nod, and he swipes some of the pudding from my back. My ears are ringing. I feel unsteady, the way I did my first fateful day in this caf. Then there’s gentle pressure on my arm. Someone’s talking to me. They’re leading me out of the cafeteria, toward the restrooms. It’s only once we’re at the sinks that I register Gemma’s reflection in the mirror.

  “I’m so, so sorry that happened,” she says, wetting a paper towel. “Amberleigh is on some next-level crap.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, still stunned.

  Then, slowly, I start to smile.

  My smile gets wider—so wide that Gemma asks, “Are you all right?”

  “Banana pudding again,” I say. “She’s so unoriginal.”

  Gemma frowns, clearly confused, and says, “I just hope she gets in trouble.”

  I kind of hope so, too, but knowing Amberleigh’s luck, she won’t. If a teacher catches wind of what happened, they’ll give her a warning at most. She won’t get sent to the principal, won’t get punished. Not Amberleigh.

  That isn’t the point, though. The point is that I stopped trying to beat Amberleigh at her game. I stopped playing the game, period.

  Gemma waits for the water to turn warm before she pats down my shirt. I stay still as she blots at the stain, feeling little electric currents running down my spine.

  After a minute, Gemma surveys her work and says, “Well. You’ve got a big water spot now, but . . . I guess it kind of goes with the mud?”

  I look at her. She looks at me. Then we crack up, and I feel warm all over.

  I’m not sure what the future holds for me and Gemma. I’m not even sure I’ll be getting out of this time loop anytime soon. But I don’t need more second chances to figure out that I want a chance with Gemma. A chance for her to get to know me, like I’ve gotten to know her.

  “So, uh, do you want to talk to a teacher?” Gemma asks, tossing the used paper towels. “I bet they’d let you go home early, if you want.”

  That’s probably true. But I’m still thinking of Arlo’s words: It’s about getting it wrong. That’s why, in the end, I shake my head.

  “Believe me,” I tell Gemma, “I’ve had worse first days.”

  Pop picks me up after school, and the rest of the afternoon I help out around Be Kind, Rewind. I clean the curio cabinets again, and, just for fun, I rearrange the creepy porcelain doll collection so that a Victorian baby doll with soulless eyes is holding an antique letter opener like a lethal weapon.

  Today, business is slow. Dads had to open late because of the leak, and even now the rain is keeping folks away. In the end, Pop locks the front door at six o’clock on the nose, and I head upstairs to help with dinner.

  The kitchen fills with the scent of olive oil and grilled red onions as Da hangs up his cell phone and says, “He still won’t answer.”

  This is the toughest part of today: knowing that Arlo is gone. Dads won’t find out until they get his text, and I don’t have the heart to tell them the truth before that. I’m half hoping that today will be different, and any minute I’ll hear the Civic pull into the parking lot.

  But Arlo’s a no-show, and eventually, after Dads delay dinner by half an hour, we eat. Tonight, I tell Dads about the list of writing programs Ms. Rose said she’d give to me. I’m trying to make them feel better, to take their minds off Arlo’s absence. In the end, though, I know that’s not my job. This is my loop, not Pop’s or Da’s. They’ll process Arlo’s Southwest tour on their own, when the time comes.

  I’m chewing the last tangerine slice from my salad when the Relevane theme song blares from my phone. Cami.

  Oh no.

  I forgot about her text this morning. For the first time ever, I didn’t reply. She has to know that I didn’t forget about her on her first day of school. In a panic, I jump from my chair.

  “Gotta get this!” I yell at Dads.

  Then I’m sprinting to my room, slamming the door, and tumbling onto my bed.

  I answer the call with an out-of-breath “Hello?”

  “Dolphin Priiide!”

  There’s so much life in Cami’s voice, it’s like I could reach into my phone and pull her out in the flesh.

  If only.

  I’d give anything for Cami to be here.

  “Hey,” I say, cutting her off. “Want to switch to video chat?”

  “Um, sure! But I’m warning you, my hair is a mess. I’m still getting used to the humidity.”

  I scoff. “I’ve got thunderstorm hair. No big.”

  We hang up, and this time I call Cami by video. Her face appears on my screen, and I almost start crying.

  “I missed talking to you,” I say, trying not to choke up.

  “Yeah, it’s been since, what . . . last Wednesday?”

  Something like that.

  “Wait.” Cami’s eyes widen. “You got bangs!”

  I blink, raising a hand to my hair. Oh yeah.

  I’ve been keeping my Master Plan a secret from Cami for so long, I’d forgotten that she didn’t even know about my hair. There is so much to fill her in on.

  “Do you like them?” I ask her uncertainly.

  “Totally! You look like . . .” Cami squints in thought. “A rocker! Yeah. Like, rocker chic.”

  I almost start crying again. Cami knows me so well. Of course she does; she’s my best friend.

  Cami tells me about her day—getting lost, meeting Fatima, and planning to try out for the dance team. She tells me new stuff, too, like how the school hallways are painted to look like the insides of submarines, and how there are outside lockers and more palm trees than she can count.

  “I saw my first alligator,” she says, looking chilled to the bone. “Mom and I were walking in a park, and it popped out of the lake. Mom said she peed herself a little.”

  That makes me laugh, but not as hard as I would if this were an ordinary day.

  Cami must notice, because she asks, “What’s up?”

  This is the moment of truth. I could do what I’ve done before and straight-up lie, telling Cami that everything’s fine and my first-day curse has been broken. But I’m finally ready to stop keeping secrets. I need my best friend tonight, more than ever. I’m ready to let it out.

  “Today was a Code Unicorn,” I announce.

  Cami just about chokes on the Takis she’s been munching. She coughs, raining bits of corn chip on the screen, and next thing, her phone’s toppling, the screen a blur of bedspread and carpet.

  “Ack!” she squawks, scooping up the phone and righting it so I can see her wide-eyed stare. “Vivian Mare, why didn’t you lead with that?”

  I shrug pathetically.

  “What kind of magic are we talking?” she practically screams. “Second sight? Thought transference? Levitation?”

  “Cami, shhhh,” I hiss. “What’s your mom gonna think?”

  Cami gives me a look. “Mama’s seen me dress up as Sage Miriel six times in three years. If you’re worried she’ll think I’m a weirdo, that ship has sailed.”

  Cami always makes good points. I’ve really missed that about her.

  This is how it happens: I tell Cami about my six Mondays and my four goals. I fess up about wanting to get in with Amberleigh’s group and plotting for her and Alex to break up. I tell Cami about my period and the Louboutins. I tell her about Arlo leaving and the day he and I spent together. Then I tell her my theory: Q. S. Murray’s MeetNGreet and her promise of magical vibes, plus last night’s unanswered wish. I tell her how I’m beginning to doubt that I understand the magic at all.

  There are things I still don’t share. The private stuff. I don’t mention what Gemma told me on Mariposa Drive or what I overheard Da and Pop say about Arlo in the kitchen. I keep to the big facts, the stories that are mine; and when I’m through, I’m out of breath, and Cami is out of dramatic gasps. She stares at me through the phone screen, mouth agape.

  “This is a big deal,” she says.

  “So . . . you believe me?”

  Cami looks affronted. “Of course. It’s a Code Unicorn.”

  Tears fill my eyes. I’ve never missed Cami more. And I’ve missed her a lot.

  “There’s something else,” I say, wincing at the icky feeling in my gut. “I . . . haven’t told you any of this until now.”

  Cami frowns, not understanding. Then light fills her eyes.

  “You mean,” she says slowly, “you didn’t tell me about the magic on any of those other Mondays. You haven’t told me until tonight.”

  I bury my head in my hands. “I didn’t even tell you about my first bad day. It just felt . . . I don’t know, too overwhelming.” I raise my head, wiping away fresh tears. “I wish I had now. I wanted to before, but . . .”

  I pause, trying to figure out what to say on the other side of that “but”:

  I was too confused?

  I didn’t want to bum you out?

  I wanted to wait until I’d lived the perfect first day?

  All of those things are true. Only, there’s something else—another reason why I’ve been ignoring Cami’s calls—and I’m just now realizing what that is. It’s got to do with the goal that I wrote in my journal three nights ago. The one about needing a new friend.

  “Cam,” I say quietly, “I feel like we’re growing apart.”

  Cami sits up straight on her bed. “What?”

  I sigh. “It’s not your fault, or mine. It’s just, things aren’t the same. Not even with FaceTime or texting. You’re not here, and your life seems so different already. I’ve never seen an alligator, and I haven’t met Fatima. We’re both going through all this new stuff, but we’re not doing it together.”

  Cami is silent for a long time.

  “I guess I’ve been feeling that, too,” she says softly. “It sucks, huh?”

  “It seriously sucks,” I agree. “And things will keep on changing. And you and Fatima will be best friends, and you’ll learn all this stuff about dancing that I don’t know, and we’ll get further apart.”

  I half expect Cami to say “No way!” She doesn’t, though. She looks as bummed out as I feel. We both know it’s true: we are going to grow apart, whether we like it or not.

  Cami meets my eyes. “You’re still my friend, though, Viv. And we’ll always have Relevane.”

  Tears trickle from my eyes, and I nod. Somehow, even though I’m crying, I feel a little better. I’ve said out loud the thing that I’ve been too scared to admit since Cami left for Orlando. And it’s true that Cami and I might drift apart, but it’s also true that we’ll always be friends in spirit. It’s true that Cami was my very best friend in sixth and seventh grade—through school and crushes and every important feeling about Torin and Sage Miriel. It’s true that she’s being a great friend now.

  “I get why you didn’t tell me before,” Cami says. “This is . . . a lot.”

  I sink my head in my hands again. “I thought I had it figured out, but I totally don’t. Why do you think my wish didn’t work last night?”

  When I look up, Cami is squinting into the camera. “Do you really think Q. S. Murray is behind this?”

  I frown. “You don’t?”

  “Well, I don’t know. It seems sort of dastardly, doesn’t it? Sending you magic without telling you how to use it, letting it mess up your life, trapping you in time? That’s pretty diabolical. Doesn’t seem like her MO.”

  “Well, her advice was kind of crappy,” I point out.

  “Maybe. But there’s a difference between crappiness and villainy.”

  “What other explanation is there?” I ask, desperate. “At least this one makes sense. Q. S. Murray writes about magic. She sent me a MeetNGreet. She knew about the curse. She said she’d send magical vibes.”

  “It lines up, I guess,” says Cami, sounding unconvinced. “Was there anything else you remember about that night? Something else you said or did? Anything remotely magic-y?”

  I concentrate, but nothing comes to me. Nothing except—

  “I was reading over my hyacinth journal,” I say. “That’s where I wrote the Master Plan.”

  Cami bugs her eyes. She raises a hand to her mouth.

  “What?” I get nervous when she doesn’t answer me. “Cami, what?”

  “Oh no,” she whispers. “I didn’t even think.”

  “Cami! What?!”

  Cami lowers her hand. “Uh. I told you about that journal, right?”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22