“So…where are we going?” I ask, once I’m sure I’m not going to die.

“This country club over in Isle of Palms. It’s horrible.”

“Then why is she working there?”

“Because she wasn’t supposed to go to the convention,” Sage says. The truck jostles across one of the many bridges in and out of town, their white suspension cords intertwined overhead. “Her stepmother didn’t want her to, but we took the truck—I got in major trouble for that by the way, grounded until the sun rises in the west. Like hell I am,” she adds under her breath, before going on. “But we went anyway and entered that contest. We thought we could make it home but—”

It begins to make sense now. “That’s why you left in such a hurry.”

“Bingo.” Sage grins. “And now I’d bet the Pumpkin that her stepmom’s got her chained up at the club.”

Sage turns off the bridge, following the signs to Pointe Greene Country Club. Everything suddenly grows greener, with lush grass and dense foliage. The roads improve, too. She follows the winding route up to a checkpoint and eases the truck to a stop in front of a yellow barrier arm. She leans out as the guard on duty opens his window.

“Business?” the guard asks.

“Just here to look around,” she replies. “I think I might want to become a member.”

He twitches his mustache. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you in without permission.”

“From who?”

“People who belong to the country club,” he says slowly, as though Sage is stupid or something, and gives her a lookdown, from her teal hair to her piercings to her Killer Queen halter top. “And I don’t think you’re a member.”

Her hands tighten around the steering wheel. She scowls. “I’ll show you what I’ll do to your member if you—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupt, leaning forward in my seat. I flick up my Aviators and put on my best smile. Slipping into Darien Freeman in the blink of an eye. I never thought I’d actually be happy for the mask.

The security guard narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Hi. Darien. You might know me. Starfield?”

His eyebrows dart up. Ah, bingo.

“I’ve got a friend who works here, and I’m in town for just a little while. Do you think you could, you know, let us in to see her? Please?”

He begins to nod—thank you Starfield, thank you—but then his eyebrows collapse down again. “I don’t care if you’re the prince of England,” he says. “You can tell your friend to back her pretty truck up. You ain’t getting in.”

“Well that’s rude,” I mumble.

Sage mutters something under her breath and slams the truck into reverse. The security guard sits back triumphantly and begins to close the window.

My shoulders slump. “I guess I’ll wait until she gets off work.”

“No.”

“Why not? It’s only a few hours, right?”

“Because the only way Elle can get home is with her stepmom. And if the security guard won’t let us in, what do you think Catherine’ll do?” She eases the truck to a stop and slowly slides it into gear. The engine belches black smoke.

“What else can we do?”

Sage narrows her eyes. “This day, we fight.”

She slams her foot on the gas pedal. The truck’s tires squeal, burning rubber, before they catch traction with a jerk. I grapple with my seatbelt. You’d think by now I’d be good with stunts. You think I wouldn’t want to kiss my butt goodbye.

You’d be wrong.

Sage pulls the truck to the side and we curve around the barrier, barely squeezing through. The security guard throws open the window, his face beet red, and shouts after us, but Sage just slams the PLAY button on the stereo and cranks the music as loud as it’ll go.

The Starfield theme roars from the speakers like the trumpets of war.

THE COUNTRY CLUB IS ALREADY STIFLING. This morning, Catherine yanked me out of bed at six and made me clean out the attic for good: all of my Starfield DVDs, the statue of Carmindor, the replica communicator toy that Dad got me as a kid, and a few posters and postcards and collectibles (including one hella rare Pez dispenser). Then she drove me over here, chatted up the manager, and five hours later I’m stuck at the café on the veranda in a sweat-stained green shirt and khakis, bored out of my mind. I hated this job when I had it before, and I hate it now. But I’ve given up trying to fight.

The café overlooks most of the greens at the country club. To the left is the pool, to the right is about a mile of shorn golfing hills. Most of the morning I’ve been serving middle-aged golfers with too much time and money on their hands, but they’re not the only ones here today. Chloe and her friends are sitting at a corner table, gossiping so loudly I know it’s on purpose. James sits right beside her, but unlike last year when it seemed she couldn’t be close enough (while he was pretending to fall in love with me), today she couldn’t be less aware of him. She’s too good for him now. Or something. Cal’s there too, in her usual chair, but she’s completely silent.

She had come up to me when I was cleaning this morning, when Catherine wasn’t looking, and held something out.

“Chloe and I found this with the dress in the trunk upstairs. Did…did you write this?”

The paper was yellowed with age, but I would remember it even if a hundred years had passed. Tears welled up in my eyes, even though I didn’t think I could cry anymore, and I took it, nodding.

“It’s—it’s a story. Fanfiction. I used to write them for Dad all the time.” I blink back the tears and sniff. “Where did you find this again?”

“In the trunk. There are a billion of them. He must’ve saved them all.”

“All of them?” I look down again at the piece of paper. “Thank you, Cal.”

She smiled, shyly, as if she shouldn’t. “It’s the least I can do.”

But now Cal is silent. And the sound of Chloe’s voice is blasting across the veranda like a foghorn.

“He was such a dream,” she gushes. “And so nice. And way sexier in person. Gives you a run for your money, James,” she adds, playfully patting his knee. “I wish y’all could’ve been there. Like, it was a blast.”

“How did you get tickets?” James asks.

“I bought them.”

“I didn’t know you liked that kind of stuff,” says Erin, the twins’ second-in-command. “You’re always picking on your sister about it.”

The pictures went viral overnight: two dancers at a cosplay ball, a movie star and a regular girl in a dress made from the night sky. “Darien Freeman, Prince Charming?” the headlines read. And the girl they’re calling Geekerella. I can’t say it isn’t catchy. You’d think everyone would be freaking out, seeing me with Darien Freeman, but the girl in those pictures? She’s wearing a mask. And Chloe, surprise, came down this morning with dyed-red hair—just like mine.

Her YouTube channel gained ten thousand followers literally overnight. Her views have skyrocketed. She’s gone from internet nothing to internet celebrity at warp speed. There’s even an online petition to get Darien to come meet Chloe again so they can have their “happily ever after,” which I wouldn’t be surprised if Chloe started herself. Honestly, I don’t know what’s funnier: Chloe pretending to be me, or that ExcelsiCon me is famous. Or as famous as internet celebrities go. The girl who danced with Darien Freeman.

Chloe waves her hand. “Stepsister. And it’s not my fault she’s weird. Speaking of my which—Elle!” She calls out, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Elle! Another latte!”

With a sigh, I dog-ear the page in my book. “Whip or no?” I ask, taking the milk out of the fridge under the counter.

“What do you think? And it better be soy.”

I fix up her drink and walk it over to her. She can’t be bothered to come get it herself.

“I had to escape out of there so fast, though.” Chloe takes the cup without even thanking me. “I didn’t even have time to give him my name! And now all these other girls are pretending they’re me. Look.” She holds out her phone, flicking through a bunch of hashtagged photos. “Posers.”

“I hear she lost a slipper,” I say. Chloe’s eyes narrow to slits but I shrug it off because what have I got to lose now? I’ve totally given up. “Maybe the real girl has the slipper?”

“You didn’t say she lost a slipper,” another friend, blond hair with purple tips, says. “Chloe, that’s it! You should totally—”

“I lost the other slipper,” Chloe grinds out. She sips her coffee, gags, and spits it out. “Ugh, I said nonfat, not soy!”

She shoves the mug back at me. Liquid sloshes over the rim, all over my apron and green polo shirt. Hot—scalding hot. I yelp, jumping backward. The latte splatters across the floor.

“Oops,” she sneers, whipping her head around to ignore me. “As I said, I lost the slipper, so the point’s moot.”

I grab a handful of napkins from a dispenser on another table and begin mopping up the coffee. James takes a few napkins too, gets out of his chair, and helps me. Chloe glances over. “James, you don’t have to do that. That’s why she’s working.”