My phone rings as soon as Sequoia turns onto the highway. The call is from the home line, which means it’s my brother. Both my parents always call from their cells.
“Hi, Frankie,” I say into the phone.
“I eat oatmeal for breakfast every morning!” he announces like he’s kicking off a newscast.
I scrunch up my face. “Huh?”
“That’s got to be different, right? In this universe?”
I rub my forehead. My headache is the size of Texas now. “No, Frankie. That’s the same, too.”
“Hmm,” he says, sounding discouraged. Then, a second later, he blurts out, “I refuse to use hand dryers in public bathrooms!”
“Because two years ago you read an article that they suck dirt up from the floor and then blow it on your hands.”
“I don’t have a cell phone!” he practically shouts, his voice cracking.
I chuckle. “How do you think I knew it was you when you called just now? You’re the only one in the house who uses the landline.”
Silence.
Then he mumbles, “I’ll get back to you,” and hangs up.
“What was that about?” Sequoia asks as I lock my phone.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“Frankie being Frankie?” she asks with a playful smile.
I laugh, grateful for one thing I don’t have to explain today. “Exactly.”
I glance out the window and it’s only now I notice that Sequoia has completely missed the turnoff for my street.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To my house,” she says as though it’s obvious. “So we can get ready together.”
Get ready? For what?
Sequoia darts a suspicious glance at me, as if she can read my bewildered thoughts. “The school fund-raiser,” she prompts, sounding a little perturbed.
I sit up straighter in my seat. A what?
“You can’t possibly have forgotten. You practically organized the whole thing.”
I organized a school fund-raiser? On top of everything else?
Next I’m going to find out I’m swimming in the summer Olympics!
“Uh,” I say lamely, “of course I didn’t forget.” I grapple to unlock my phone and click the calendar app. Lo and behold, there it is. Right in my schedule.
7:00 p.m.—Windsor Academy Fund-Raising Gala
“What is with you today?” Sequoia asks. She’s exited the highway and is stopped at a red light, staring at me like I’m an alien invader disguised in a Kennedy Rhodes bodysuit, which coincidentally is kind of how I feel.
“Sorry,” I say, massaging my temples. “I’ve had this massive headache all day and it won’t go away.”
Sequoia studies me for a long moment, evidently trying to decide whether or not this is a good enough explanation.
“I think it’s from the fall yesterday,” I add, hoping this will persuade her.
She squints at me. “How much coffee have you had today?”
Coffee? What does that have to do with anything?
“None,” I say.
“NONE?!” she screeches. “Well, no wonder! It’s nearly five o’clock! It probably feels like a herd of rhinoceroses have been playing rugby inside your brain!”
Actually, that’s exactly how it feels.
The light turns green. “Crusher,” Sequoia admonishes, stepping on the gas. “Today is not the day to go cold turkey. This event is way too important.”
Then I’m suddenly slammed into the door as Sequoia makes a split decision and yanks hard on the steering wheel, maneuvering her BMW across three lanes of traffic and into a parking lot.
“Well, that certainly didn’t help my headache,” I say, rubbing the spot where the window crashed into my skull.
“What do you want?” she asks, and I glance up to see that we’re in line at a Starbucks drive-through. “And no tea this time. That’s how you got into this mess.”
Is she right? Am I simply having caffeine withdrawals? How much coffee do I normally drink every day?
I lean over her to study the menu, searching for the least coffee-sounding coffee drink. “A Pumpkin Spice Latte, I guess.”
Sequoia conveys my order to the little speaker and I have to work extra hard to conceal the shock when she tacks on a triple espresso shot for herself.
Triple espresso? I can’t even begin to count how many milligrams of caffeine this girl has consumed today. And she’s not that big a person. I’m surprised she hasn’t rocketed into orbit by now.
Sequoia pays the cashier and hands me my drink before shooting hers straight up and tossing the empty cup into the backseat. I take a tentative sip, fully expecting to hate it, but it’s actually not half bad. I mean, I can still taste the coffee, but with all that milk, syrup, and whipped cream it’s pretty buried.
“Better?” Sequoia asks, navigating through the parking lot.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, surprised. It’s not like my headache is instantly gone, but there’s something far less urgent about it. As if this was what my body was craving all along.
I stare down at the paper cup in my hand, reading the initials PSL scribbled onto the side. Laney once wrote a story for the paper about the nationwide pumpkin craze. She was convinced the whole thing could be traced back to this little drink. I wonder if that story still exists, even though I’m no longer editor in chief.
“Sequoia?” I say, glancing up from my cup. “Does the Windsor Academy have a school newspaper?”
She turns onto the main road, flashing me a strange look. “No. Why?”
I shake my head and take another sip from my drink. “No reason.”