I blink. “Wait, so—I do one shady tweet and get in trouble, and Ethan tweets a whole bunch of wildly rude things and—”

My mom leans forward, grabs my chin, and steps on her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek. “We’ll talk disciplining later. Sandwiches now. Go, go, go.”

For the next three hours until closing, I am barely able to come up for air. I can make any of our sandwiches with my eyes closed, and by the time eight o’clock finally rolls around, I practically am. The line only seems to get longer, and the shenanigans more absurd—there are bloggers taking pictures, a man dressed in a shirt with printed grilled cheeses on it who calls himself a “grilled cheese authority,” teens much trendier than I am taking side-by-side pictures of our Grandma’s Special with Big League Burger’s for their Instagram stories.

And more importantly, a shit ton of cash going into the register.

At the end of the day, when we finally close the door on the last customer and lock it, we all collapse in the Time-Out Booth, wheezing as though we’ve just run the New York marathon.

“I can’t feel my feet,” my mom groans.

I lay my head down on the table. “My entire body is covered in brie and honey mustard.”

I can hear the smirk in Ethan’s voice even with my arm covering my eyes. “Two girls asked for my number.”

“You already have a boyfriend,” I remind him, poking one eye out to glare.

“And I told them that.”

“But you didn’t think to mention you have an identical twin?”

“Okay, we need to strategize,” says my dad, clapping his hands together. “If the rest of the week is going to be anything like this, we need to have all hands on deck. Hannah, if you want to check on stock, I’ll start calling all the day shifters to see if anyone wants overtime. Boys, if you could scrub down and close up shop for the night—”

“Wait. That’s it?”

My dad pauses, halfway up from his seat. “What’s it?”

My face is volcanically warm. I’m not a narc. I’m really not. If I were, Ethan’s golden-child status would have been knocked down more than a few notches years ago—he’s been sneaking beer out with friends in the park and even smoking the occasional joint since we were fourteen.

But the double standard has never been more unfair than it is right now.

My mom gets it before my dad does because she is all too aware of the quiet way I keep score. She puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Your father already had a talking-to with Ethan before the huge rush of people. No more tweeting. At least, no more like the ones you sent today.”

I have to bite my cheek to stop myself from saying anything else.

“Agreed,” says my dad. He hovers at the edge of the table, for some reason fixing a look at me instead of Ethan. After a moment, he sighs. “You have my permission to tweet from the account again. But I need it reined in. Ethan, if you’re going to tweet from it, you have to run it past Jack first. Understand?”

I blink up at him, not sure I’ve heard correctly.

“Run it past Jack?” Ethan protests.

“Jack managed to keep it somewhat tone-appropriate. Besides, he’s on the Twitter account more than you and spends more time on the floor. I trust his judgment.”

Dad claps me on the back as he walks away, and Mom smirks as she gets up to follow him. I can’t help but feel a little smug about the whole thing—at least until I look up and see Ethan’s face, and the flicker of hurt on it that passes so fast, I almost miss it.

“Okay, then,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “It’s all you, bro.”

I lean back in the booth, trying to dial down my satisfaction.

“We’ll do it together,” I offer.

Ethan shakes his head. “You heard Dad. You’re the one they trust.” He says the words like they’re only the edge of something he really wants to say. But before I can press him, he says, “Just make sure to give ’em hell.”

And then, like someone dropping a hammer into my stomach, the afternoon comes rushing back. “About that.”

Ethan leans forward. “What is it?”

Ethan’s my brother and I love him and all, but we don’t have one of those psychic twin vibes. When he sprains his ankle in soccer practice, I don’t feel some phantom twinge across the field, and when one of us is upset about something, the other one usually doesn’t notice until we say something point-blank. Which is how I know my face must look like a real mess if Ethan’s asking me that.

I consider for a moment not telling him. There’s this strange tug pulling me back, some misplaced loyalty to Pepper that I guess even finding out the truth about her didn’t quite knock out of me.

But even if I wanted to keep this to myself, I couldn’t. Not with Pepper as captain of the swim team. Whether I keep doing Ethan’s captain duties or not, one of us will be dealing with her until the end of the season, and I can’t just send him in blind.

“Big League Burger—Pepper’s parents are in charge of it.”

It takes Ethan a moment to place her, and for some reason I feel a flash of annoyance. “Pepper Evans?”

I nod. “And … it looks like Pepper is running their Twitter. Or at least, it looks like she’s a big part of running it.”