by Emily Lowry
Unfortunately, even the whir of the ice cream machine wasn’t enough to drown them out. I heard my name twice, but with no context. Were they proud of me? Angry at me? Waiting to disown me?
Who knew?
A familiar sense of dread creeped over me, a storm cloud on a sunny day. It felt like a bony hand was reaching inside my stomach.
To fend off the anxiety, I practiced my breathing exercises. A deep breath in through the nose, hold for a count of five, then exhale through the mouth.
“Jones. JONES.”
Ice cream slopped over the side of the metal cup.
I swore. “Sorry. I’ll clean it.”
Dylan handed me a paper towel. “All good. Happens to the best of us.”
“Does it?” Anyone with a basic level of intelligence could avoid overfilling a steel cup. I risked a glance over my shoulder. My parents were watching. My mom shook her head and sighed, disappointed. Her daughter wasn’t even cut out to work as a waitress.
I vigorously scrubbed the excess ice cream from my fingers and washed my hands in the sink while Dylan finished the shakes. He brought them out to my parents, greeting them cheerfully.
I dried my hands. The good news was that my parents would only show up at my place of employment once. It was a token gesture of support, nothing more. Only now, they saw me screw up. You could bet my mom would tell everyone that HILARIOUS story at every dinner party she had for the rest of her life.
That Jordyn is so silly. She can’t even make a milkshake. It’s lucky that her amazing brother was there to get her that job or they probably wouldn’t have hired her. How could twins be so different?
A few minutes later, Luis slid over two plates. I set them on a tray and brought them out to my parents.
Mom looked concerned. “Did the milkshake machine malfunction?”
“It got stuck,” I lied. It was better than telling her that no, the machine didn’t malfunction. The only thing that malfunctioned was her daughter’s brain.
“Oh, of course it did, sweetie.”
I forced a smile. “Enjoy. I have to get back to work.”
I returned to my place behind the counter, actively trying to find tasks that would keep me as far away from my parents as possible. Once no one was within earshot, they started arguing again, trading barbs between bites. If you didn’t know them well, you wouldn’t be able to tell. They’d mastered the art of looking like a happy couple while actually being miserable.
Maybe that was the secret my anonymous Click stalker would try to uncover. And if they did, would that even be a bad thing? If people knew how unhappy my parents were, then we could stop living this ridiculous lie.
“You need a break?” Dylan asked quietly.
“Can’t show any weakness,” I said.
“Got it.” Dylan gently put his hand on my arm. His touch made me jump. What was wrong with me?
Get your head in the game, Jordyn.
“Mom tells me they never used to argue,” I said. “She said when they met, they were just friends, and they never argued. I don’t know if I believe her not. But if she’s telling the truth, that’s just more proof that love ruins everything — especially friendships.”
“Such a cynic, Jones.”
“No,” I said, “just a realist.”
15
Dylan
Jordyn handled the dinner rush like she’d been waitressing her entire life. She ran at light-speed, her blonde ponytail bobbing behind her. She made customers laugh, knew almost everything about the menu, and bounced around to help wherever she could. Even Sofia, the golden standard for employees, was impressed. With Jordyn on our side for the summer, it felt like we might actually make things work, even without Dad.
I turned the deadbolt and flicked off the neon ‘OPEN’ sign. My feet were sore and my eyes were heavy, but we’d finished another shift.
Jordyn swept the floor, expertly maneuvering her broom to gather a handful of stray fries and sesame seeds. “So, boss, how’d I do?”
“Handled it like a pro,” I said.
“As if there were any doubts.” She finished sweeping and poured the dirt into the garbage. She adjusted her ponytail. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a party with your precious Lauren?”
“Whatever, Jones.” There was a party tonight, and I told Lauren I’d consider making an appearance. But with my energy at an all-time low, I didn’t feel like going home, showering, getting dressed, and going out again. Not when I could just go home and sleep. “Shouldn’t you be at that same party? Or wait — did Pete not invite you?”
Jordyn’s eyes narrowed.
I laughed. “So he didn’t invite you. Maybe he’s not as into you as you think he is.”
Jordyn scoffed. “Oh, Pete is SO into me. He’s way more into me than Lauren’s into you. He’s practically building shrines for me.”
“And that’s what you want? A guy who builds shrines for you? A guy who bails you out during a game of volleyball?” I smirked. When you knew someone as long as I’d known Jordyn, you knew exactly what you needed to say to get under her skin.
“EXCUSE ME? BAILED ME OUT?” Jordyn put her hand on her hip. “All he did was make me look bad. I was playing brilliantly before he got in my way. But that’s nothing compared to Lauren. Oh, please don’t let the volleyball hit me! Oh, please, I’m so scared! Oh, please, can we talk about my hair extensions?”
And now she was getting under my skin.
“Better Lauren than Pete,” I snapped.
“Hardly. Pete’s harmless. Lauren’s actively annoying.”
“Only to you.”
Jordyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so that’s the kind of girl Dylan Ramirez wants? A useless one so he can feel super strong and special?”
“Better than some wimp who worships the ground you walk on.”
“Pfft. Pete and I are a hundred times the couple you and Lauren are.”
I was pretty sure neither Pete and Jordyn nor Lauren and I were actually classified as real couples, but I would not let Jordyn think I was backing down.
I crossed my arms. “Prove it.”
We weren’t yelling at each other, but we weren’t keeping quiet either. Sofia and Luis snickered in the back office.
“And how do I prove it? Throw a poll on Click?” Jordyn asked. “Maybe I should ask my anonymous admirer what they think?”
“Like you could win a popularity contest, Jones,” I said. “Carnival’s in town this weekend. I’m sure there’s a bunch of games we can play. So why don’t we make it a double date? Play some games together? See which couple is superior?”
I sounded cocky, but guilt gnawed at my stomach as I spoke. I’d taken Lauren to two school dances, sure, but I’d never taken her on an actual date before — and here I was, suggesting our first date be at the carnival, with Pete and Jordyn.
What was I doing? What was I trying to prove?
I wasn’t sure anymore.
Jordyn threw back her head and laughed. “You realize these games will require some kind of skill, right? And you want Lauren on your side? Sure, I’ll go on your stupid double date. It’s your funeral.”
I extended my hand. “May the best couple win.”
She shook. “Don’t worry — we will.”
16
Jordyn
The scrambler spun in the night sky, a mesmerizing twister of lights, shrieks, and pumping rock music. The scent of cotton candy and deep-fried everything filled the air. It was a warm, early June evening, and it felt like everyone in Evermore was out at the annual carnival. For most of the people here, the carnival was a place of laughter and fun.
For me?
It was the backdrop for a blood-thirsty competition. Me and Pete against Dylan and Lauren. No-holds-barred, winner-takes-all. And I would win.
I dragged Pete through the crowd, lowering my shoulder and bowling through anyone who wasn’t quick enough to get out of my way.
“This is nice.” Pete started the conversation in his us
ual mundane fashion.
“Yes.” I pulled him faster. We had games to win.
“Thanks for inviting me, Jordyn.”
“Sure.”
His face was so earnest I felt a pang of guilt.
I shook it off.
Pete was nice. And I was here with Pete. On a double date. Perfectly normal. And certainly nothing to feel bad about. “Come on, we have to meet Dylan and Lauren at the midway.”
When we arrived, our opponents were already there, their hands in each other’s back pockets with what was, in my opinion, a calculated move to look like the better couple. Two could play at that game. I hurled Pete’s arm around my shoulder and put my hand around his waist. Then, wearing my most cheerful smile, I approached the couple I would soon destroy.
“Dylan, Lauren, so great that we could all get out to do this!” I said, mustering as much false cheer as possible.
I shot a beaming smile in Lauren’s direction, and she blinked back in confusion.
“Uh, sure. Dylan said you, like, arranged this for everyone.”
From Lauren’s perspective, this may have been a little random — it was definitely the first time I had voluntarily hung out with her. I changed the pace of the conversation. “Don’t you love the carnival?”
“Isn’t it, like, for kids?” Lauren said, looking around with thinly veiled horror. She was overdressed, yet again, in tight white jeans, a baby pink halter top, and stacked wedge heels. Next to her, I looked like a five-year-old in my striped shirt and denim overalls. But never mind that. Tonight wasn’t about fashion. It was about winning.
I gritted my teeth, but kept smiling. “It’s fun for all ages.”
“Ok-ayyy.”
Dylan flashed me a cocky smile. “You feeling okay, Jones? You look a little nervous. I guess Chase’s killer instinct doesn’t run in the family, huh?”
I raised my eyebrow. “Did you even play in the last game of the season, Ramirez, or were you too busy being a Band-Aid?”
Annoyance flickered on Dylan’s face.
Good.
I was in his head.
Dylan removed his hand from Lauren’s back pocket and clapped once. “So. Should we start?”
I eyed him evenly. “Let the games begin.”
“Who picks?”
“Me.”
I dragged our quartet to a classic carnival game. There were horribly painted clowns with wide-open mouths. Inside their mouths was a target. All you had to do was shoot water into the clown’s mouth until it filled a bar. Fill the bar first, the bell rings, you win.
Pete sat on one side of me, Dylan on the other.
The carnival barker stood on a platform, his red and white striped shirt hanging loosely from his skinny frame. He stroked his goatee and tugged his earring. “On your marks, get set, GO.”
I blasted my stupid clown in his stupid mouth, willing the water to go as fast as possible. It took me a breath to find the target, but once I did, I narrowed my eyes and locked on. Nothing and no one would distract me from scoring an early victory for Team Jordyn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dylan make a weird movement, but I ignored him.
There was no way I wasn’t winning.
DING DING DING!
The bell rang before my bar was half-full. The winner was…
Lauren?
How in the—
I spun.
Lauren’s bar was full, but Dylan’s was empty.
And his water gun was pointing at her clown.
He grinned. “Part of being a good couple is team—”
His sentence dissolved into sputters as I blasted him in the face with my water gun. He ducked, and before the carnival barker had the chance to cut off my water, a blast of spray soaked Lauren. Probably ruined her hair.
She shrieked.
The carnival barker yelled.
“You’re a sore loser, Jones,” Dylan sputtered.
“The games have just begun,” I said.
We wandered through the midway to the sound of Lauren incessantly complaining that she was wet, she was cold, and she didn’t feel like carrying the small stuffed animal she’d won. At one point, she vaguely suggested throwing it in the trash.
It appalled me. That stuffed turtle was the first trophy in our competition. Who would throw a trophy in the trash? I would’ve built a shrine to it. And every time Ramirez came over, I would make him look at the shrine with me. Maybe make him bow, too. Or kneel.
The growl of motors roared above the crowd. We’d made it to the end of the midway and arrived at a small Go-Kart track. It was a simple figure eight with stacks of tires for walls. It didn’t look particularly safe, but the go-karts didn’t look like they could go fast, either.
Dylan grinned wickedly. “I think we’ve found our next game.”
17
Dylan
“I don’t want to drive a stupid go-kart,” Lauren said. Her lower lip trembled.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Lauren was obsessed with the idea that we should all be mature adults, but right now, she was acting like a spoiled toddler. To her, the only proper date was a candlelight dinner at Romano’s. She’d wear a dress, I’d wear a collared shirt. We’d discuss politics or history or art. In almost every way, Lauren was the anti-Jordyn.
While Lauren was complaining about being forced to have fun, Jordyn curled her fingers around the collar of Pete’s shirt and brought his face so close to hers that their foreheads touched. They were close enough to kiss. I felt a twinge.
Probably just protectiveness.
They weren’t kissing, anyway. Instead, it looked like Jordyn was giving poor Pete very detailed instructions on how to drive a go-kart.
“Just tell him gas is on the right and get a move on,” I said.
We made our way to the front of the line. There were four go-karts on the track. Jordyn took the one on the outside, Pete and I took the ones in the middle, and Lauren took the one on the inside of the track. Rust ate through the metal frame of my go-kart. The pedals were loose, the seat belt torn in two places. How did this thing still run?
A bored-looking man stood on the tires near the start line. “Racers, start your engines.” He said the words with all the enthusiasm of someone reading the phone book. “On your marks. Get set. Go.”
The go-karts lurched forward.
Or at least, Jordyn’s did.
Pete drove to the side, smashing his kart into mine, forcing me to swerve to the left — which conveniently blocked Lauren from going anywhere. In fact, the only person to make it around the first corner of the track was Jordyn herself.
“Teamwork makes the dream work, Ramirez!” Jordyn cackled.
“Cheater!”
With one hand on the steering wheel, Jordyn cruised around the track. She pretended to look for a ref. “No flags on the play, Ramirez.”
I swore. “Pete. Move.”
“Sorry, dude.”
I gunned my engine. My tires squealed, metal shrieked, and my kart finally pulled free from Pete’s intentional traffic jam. Could I catch Jones?
SMACK.
Jordyn zoomed past, swiping me on the back of the head as she did so. Her cackle was more maniacal than a witch riding a broomstick on Halloween. “Gas is on the right, burger boy!”
Growling, I hit the gas.
Jones would pay for this.
I pulled around the first curve, willing my car to go faster.
Jordyn slowed briefly, then looked behind her, saw I was coming up quickly, squealed, and smashed the gas pedal. She was laughing so hard she was crying. No one on the planet — not even Chase — had as much fun winning as Jordyn did.
She finished her last lap, pulled to the side, and immediately leaped out of her kart — much to the protests of the carnival barker.
Pete and Lauren still hadn’t moved.
I pulled up beside Jordyn, unclicked my harness, and scrambled after her.
She was quick.
But I was quicker.
; I reached her just as she was about to climb over the wall of tires.
“Wait, Dylan, no—”
Too late, Jones.
I put my head down and tackled her. I didn’t hit her the way I would hit someone in a football game, obviously. Instead, I lowered my shoulder, wrapped my arms around her legs, and lifted her off her feet.
But I couldn’t stop going forward.
Too much momentum.
We were going to crash into the wall of tires.
I quickly rolled to the side, positioning my body between her and the tires.
BOOM.
We broke through the wall of rubber, tires tumbling over and rolling away.
Still half-tackling, half-protecting Jordyn, I stumbled and fell on my back into the dirt. Jordyn fell on top of me, her forehead thudding against my chest and knocking the wind from my lungs. I kept my arms wrapped around her, holding her close until I was sure we were safe.
18
Jordyn
Dylan’s arms wrapped around me, my hands on his chest, which was… hard? Were those MUSCLES? When did Dylan Ramirez get actual muscles? For just a split second, I forgot myself, and let my hands stay against his solid chest.
The dust settled.
I scrambled off Dylan as quickly as I could and rolled onto my back. There was dirt on my face, on my hands, in my hair. But who cared? I’d won. “And it’s all tied up.”
Pete and Lauren stood at the now broken wall of tires. Pete had the good grace to look concerned. Lauren? She looked absolutely furious. If a glare could start a fire, I’d already be ash.
I got to my feet and dusted myself off, feigning nonchalance. “Let the games continue.”
And they did.
Dylan and Lauren scored back-to-back wins with ring toss and basketball. Pete and I responded by earning three consecutive victories: target shooting, bank-a-ball, and down the clown. Dylan redeemed himself by knocking three metal milk bottles off a platform three times in a row. He also earned a giant stuffed bulldog, which he offered to Lauren.
