“Change? To what?” I ask, my mouth running before I can stop it. “To the perfect daughter? To some cookie-cutter version of you? To someone you think is acceptable and worthy of your love? Why do I have to prove to you that I’m worthy?”

“Danielle, I only want what’s best for you—”

“No, you want what’s best for you!” I snap, my voice rising. “You never wanted me, admit it! I’m a burden. After Dad died, that’s all I was. And if you hate me for being like him, fine, but I’m the best parts of my father. He raised me to fight for what I believe in and to be a good person—and he raised me to see the best in other people!” My voice is so loud, it’s cracking. “But I let you trample over all the good things he gave me. But not today—today at the con, for the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. And that’s more than I’ve ever felt here! In my own parents’ house! The one you’re selling!”

Her eyes narrow. “Starfield isn’t real, Danielle. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”

Of course it’s not real. I know it’s not real. It’s just as fake as the Styrofoam props they use and the cardboard sets and the tinny laser sounds and the ice cream machines they try to disguise as “data cores”—I know it’s all fake. But those characters—Carmindor, Princess Amara, Euci, and even the Nox King—they were my friends when everyone in the real world passed around rumors behind my back, called me weird, shoved me into lockers, and baited me into thinking I was beautiful only to push me away just before we kissed. They never abandoned me. They were loyal, honorable, caring, and smart.

But I realize that trying to explain Starfield to Catherine is like trying to explain the sky to an anglerfish. Because she’s none of those things, and never will be.

“Now you will go upstairs and take off that ridiculous outfit,” she commands. I turn to leave, defeated, but Catherine isn’t finished.

“And,” she says, “you will give me your phone.”

I freeze.

“Danielle!”

I reach for the phone in my jacket pocket. For a brief, crazy moment, I imagine that dream I had of me and Franco. Setting off west, never looking back. I knew it was just a dream, because this house can’t move and without it I’m not sure who I would be. This was the last place I belonged, and I don’t even belong here anymore, and soon it won’t even be my home. I won’t belong anywhere.

But if I have nowhere to go, what’s the use in fighting?

Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I hand her my phone. Her manicured fingers curl around it. “Good. Now go to your room.”

Tears come back before I can stop them and I take the stairs two at a time. Catherine doesn’t come after me. I’m not worth the energy, and there’s really nothing left for her to take. In my room, I press my forehead against the door and squeeze my eyes tight.

I can’t take this anymore. I have to leave—now. But I don’t have my phone. I can’t call Sage and tell her what happened.

And Carmindor…In the end even he knew I was no one worth talking to.

When Darien called me ah’blena I almost thought it was him. That Darien Freeman was my Carmindor. But it couldn’t be. The universe can’t be that cruel. And Darien, like Carmindor, wouldn’t talk to a nobody.

I clutch my dad’s jacket and sink to the carpet, crying into the costume harder than ever. Because now the glowing constellations above me just look like fake glow-in-the-dark stars. And the coat just smells like sweat. And the house, old and creaky, is just cold. And the living room will never be waltzed in again.

That is why this universe is impossible: because all the good things are impossible to keep. The universe always takes them away.

TURNS OUT, CHARLESTON ISN’T THE EASIEST place to go hunting for a food truck.

“I think this’s it,” I say, and tap the back of Lonny’s seat. He pulls onto the side of the road. I think he’s relieved. We’ve already been to three other food trucks before someone—at a shrimp and grits truck—had an inkling about where we might find one that’s orange and yellow.

“Oh, you’re lookin’ for the Pumpkin,” the older woman had said, rubbing her greasy hands on an apron that read G.R.I.T.S.: GIRLS RAISED IN THE SOUTH. “I think that old girl’s somewhere over by the market today. That way,” she pointed in the opposite direction—Kings Street, apparently—and gave us directions.

Travel tip: if you’re visiting Charleston, know where you’re going ahead of time. There are so many one-way streets, once you go down the wrong way you’ll never want to drive in this town again. After nearly grilling a baby stroller and double tapping a marathon runner, we finally found an orange and yellow truck parked at the far side of the market toward one of the touristy piers.

Lonny flicks on the hazard lights. “I can wait,” he says. “Or come with.”

“I think I got this.”

“You sure?” he rumbles, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

“Unless you want to come,” I say. “For moral support?”

“I’m good, boss.”

“Real pal you are. I’ll call you when I need you.” I get out of the car and watch Lonny pull away before I make my way over to the Magic Pumpkin. It’s horrendously orange. You can see it a mile away, which is probably the point. Its entire body is painted to look like a pumpkin, with yellows and reds and blacks highlighting the drawn-on curves and ridges. A girl with bright teal hair leans against the counter, and my heart leaps when I recognize her—the same girl Elle drove away with.

“We’re all out of fritters today,” she says as I get close, without looking up from her magazine.

“I wasn’t coming for the fritters.”

“Well, I hope you aren’t coming for the sweet potato fries either. Because we’re out of those too.”

“I’m not coming for food at all,” I say. This girl kind of scares me.

“Huh.” She still hasn’t looked up. “So what do you want? I’m understaffed and irritated.”

“I, um.” I try to catch a peek into the back of the truck. Where’s Elle? She has to be in there somewhere, doesn’t she? I don’t remember her ever talking about a day off. “Actually, I…” I swallow hard. “I thought I could find Elle here.”

That piques her interest. She finally looks up at me. “Huh.”

I shift. “Huh what?”

She shows me her magazine. My promo shoots from after Hello, America. I wince. “You look way better Photoshopped.”

“That’s a first,” I say. “Hearing it out loud, I mean.”

“Everyone probably thinks it.” She puts down the magazine and cocks her head. “What’re you doing here?”

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re right.”

I take a deep breath and pull out Elle’s lost shoe. Her eyes widen.

“Okay. I’m interested.”

I explain everything—from the first text to someone I hoped was Robin Wittimer to the weeks talking with Elle to ExcelsiCon to the ball to the moment the truck pulled away. “I want to find her and tell her the truth. I want to apologize.”

She leans farther over the counter, debating. “Why? So you can clear your conscience? You just gonna run away again, Carmindor?”

It’s irony, we both know. Carmindor never runs away from anything. He stays and he fights and he deals with the consequences. And I think we all have the chance to be him.

I think this is my chance, now.

“No,” I reply. “I won’t run away from her again. Unless she’s chasing me with something and then I’ll probably run—but never from her.”

Teal-hair girl debates for a second, chewing on a chunk of bright pink bubblegum. “Well, Elle quit. Or her stepmother quit for her. And she’s not answering her phone and she isn’t at home. I have no way of contacting her.”

My heart begins to sink.

“But,” she holds up a finger, “I thiiiink know where she might be. If you’re interested. I can take you there.”

I hesitate. “Now? But aren’t you—”

“It’s a restaurant on wheels, Carmindor. It’s supposed to move.” She closes the serving window, climbs through the middle to the cab, and pushes open the passenger door with her foot. I climb into the seat. The entire vehicle smells like pumpkin fritters and oil and twenty-year-old leather seats.

“I’m Sage, by the way,” she says, as she cranks up the monster of a truck, “and I suggest you buckle up.”

The Magic Pumpkin roars to life with a belch and begins to rattle like it’ll come apart at the seams. I quickly heed her warning and wrap the seatbelt around me. She forces the truck into gear and slams on the gas, swirling onto a one-way street with the speed of a NASCAR driver. My eyes dart to the rearview mirror—I see Lonny has fired up the rental car and is hot on our tail. Sage tears through historic Charleston, the crowds simply peeling out of the way, and points us out of the city.