“Oh,” Vivian says, finally feeling bad for the guy. “Sorry, Dad.”
“It’s all right, Viv.”
Dad unfolds his napkin, placing it in his lap like it’s a burial shroud, while Vivian joins me in staring longingly at the swinging door to the kitchen. WHERE IS OUR FOOD? Seeing no hope there, Vivian turns to me.
“But in brighter news, you said things with you and Chord are going well?”
“Oh. Yeah. They are. He’s really sweet. And attractive.”
“We love to see it,” Vivian says with a smile. “And whatever you were talking about when I first got here... I mean, it’s none of my business, but I’m just saying, I’m here if you need me. I’ve known some heartbreak, know what I mean?”
It’s like Vivian is peering into my soul. Like she can see everything.
My pits are sweating. I should take off my sweater.
Later. I’ll do that later.
If I do it now, it’ll seem too much like I’m panicking and trying to hide something.
Because I am.
Panicking and trying to hide something.
From Vivian. From Dad.
Even from myself, if I’m gonna be completely honest.
The thing is, Carter Cohen did indeed heartlessly dump somebody the night before this whole horrible looping business began.
But the person he dumped was not Layla Banerjee.
No.
It was Vivian Spear.
My older sister.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. Great. Super. Thanks.”
Vivian is about to say something else when—thank the sweetlord—a feta spinach scramble touches down in front of me, followed immediately by Dad’s and Vivian’s plates dropping into place.
“Food’s here!” I shout.
“Well, aren’t we enthusiastic today,” Doreen says.
Carter
Sure let’s talk
The message is just three words long, but I can’t stop rereading it.
My desperate nudge worked.
Layla Banerjee finally wrote back.
“Dude,” Bodhi says, jabbing an elbow into my side. “The point of coming to the girls’ basketball game to take pictures for the yearbook is to take pictures of the girls’ basketball team for the yearbook.”
“Oh, yeah, totally,” I say, looking up from my phone and remembering that I’m in a packed gymnasium, cheers and hoots ricocheting off the walls, the aroma of dirty socks and Sun Chips wafting around us. We’re sitting in the first row of bleachers, Lizzy on the other side of Bodhi, and Tatiana Robinson next to her. My fancy-ass camera is on a strap around my neck.
