The look she shoots me is patronizing. “I carry my own.”

“You what?”

She kicks herself off the wall and starts walking away.

“Get the picture sent to me by tomorrow night.”

“You can’t just casually tell someone you carry caramel sauce around and walk away like that’s a normal thing,” I call at her retreating back. “What other emergency dessert condiments do you have stashed in your bag?”

She deigns briefly to look over her shoulder at me. “Tomorrow night!”

I’m shaking my head and laughing as I head down the street in the opposite direction, still feeling the ghost of the smirk she aimed in my direction like it’s something I’ve accidentally carried with me. It’s not until the 6 train finally rolls up to collect me a few minutes later that I realize I’ve not only forgotten to restore the Girl Cheesing Twitter account back from its newly hacked glory, but that somehow my stomach has committed a crime against nature and managed to devour an entire sixteen-ounce Big League Milkshake Mash, possibly without even pausing to breathe.

I toss it into a trash can with a sigh. Twitter, I can deal with. Pepper, on the other hand, has a way of sneaking up on me I’m not so sure about.

I pull out my phone again, stricken with this not entirely unwelcome urge to text her, to keep the banter volleying back and forth in that easy rhythm it always does. But I have to remind myself that Pepper is still the enemy, insanely flavored milkshakes and memorable smirks and lingering handshakes aside.

And I’ve got a Twitter war to win.

Pepper

By Saturday, everything is back in order, and so am I. My uniform is perfectly pressed, my college admissions essay polished, my tweets queued for the weekend. Pooja’s brother’s handiwork hacking into Girl Cheesing’s Twitter has been undone. The photos of both grilled cheeses have been sent to Hub Seed, and both will be sent from their main Twitter account today at two o’clock.

Which happens to be the exact time I will be settling into my chair for my first college admissions interview with a Columbia alum named Helen.

“You look nervous, Pepperoni.”

I cut a side glance when I hear Jack approach, determined not to look at him. It’s weird enough, seeing him on a Saturday. But even in the side glance, something seems off—he’s standing up a little straighter, wearing his school uniform with a little more care. Even his usually unruly hair seems to have been tamed to some degree, looking very much like some well-meaning parent ran a comb through it. I can’t help but look him up and down because it’s uncanny how much he looks like Ethan.

He catches me looking, and I brace myself for the snarky remark that’s sure to follow. But instead, his cheeks redden like he’s more embarrassed to be looked at than I am to be caught looking.

I clear my throat, shifting my weight onto my other foot. “For a college admissions interview? Please. I could do these in my sleep.”

Jack stretches one of those wide, tall boy stretches, looking more like himself again. He loosens the tie on his school uniform and stares down the hallway at the rooms where other students are coming and going.

“Well, your resume is longer than a CVS receipt, so I don’t doubt it.”

“Did you just get out of yours?”

“Yeah. I’m all set. Headed straight for the Ivies.” His eyes cast off to the side, and there’s this edge to his voice that doesn’t match his words. Before I can ask, he blows out a breath and says, “So, who are you meeting with? Yale? Harvard?”

He says their names with a faint mockery, emphasizing it with a click of his heel. I wonder what his deal is. He goes to this school too, and he’s clearly interviewing—it’s not like he isn’t every bit a part of this.

“Columbia.”

Some of the bravado seems to leak out of Jack’s expression.

“What?” I ask, off his look.

He hesitates for a moment. “You know Columbia’s interviews are on their campus, right?”

My blood turns into ice. “What?”

And then, suddenly, it makes sense: why I don’t see Pooja or the other Columbia hopefuls here. Why there isn’t a sign-in for the Columbia rep yet. I just assumed it was because I was here absurdly early, the way I always am. It didn’t once occur to me it was because I’m an idiot.

How could I have let this happen? Instead of doing anything productive that might help the situation, my feet are rooted to the floor, my brain pressing back and back and back, into the haze of the last few weeks. The homework that barely got finished before sunup. The endless texts from Mom and Taffy. The color-coded pages of my planner looking like someone puked a rainbow onto it. And somehow, despite every precaution, I let one of the most important things fall through the cracks.

Oh my god. I’ve been so wrapped up in tweeting I might have just blown my chances at college.

Jack’s hand is on my shoulder. I don’t know how long it’s been there, because suddenly he is very close to my face.

“What time is your interview?”

“Two.”

“Okay. It’s one-thirty. You should still be able to get a taxi.”

It feels like the space between my ears is roaring. “I don’t have my wallet.” The interview was only a few blocks away from home; I didn’t think I’d need it. And now if I go back, my mom will know I screwed up, she’ll see it all over my face, and then she’ll be disappointed, and I think I’ll maybe just snap. I think I’ll maybe come completely unglued. It’s all bubbling to the surface all at once, the last few weeks of doing her Twitter bidding, the last few years of this stupid city and this stupid school and this interview for a college I don’t even know if I want to go to—