“What?” I shriek.
“Or at least get him to fall in love with you.”
I grit my teeth. “No.”
“Think about it. In every fairy tale, true love shifts the magic. So maybe if you make that last bit of the game come true, and make Penn your other half, that will end it.”
“Absolutely not. Out of the question.”
Bridget sighs. She gives me the same resigned, apologetic expression she wore when she told me she’d signed us up to perform a Shania Twain song in the fifth-grade lip-sync competition. Her hand squeezes my shoulder and her voice lowers to a whisper. “What if it’s the only way out?”
5
Disco Penn
The roller-rink restaurantof my tween dreams sits in what I remember as a nondescript brick building a couple blocks from downtown Lakeville. A massive mirror ball spins on top of the turquoise Disco Diner sign, which looks straight out of the seventies, with pink letters in a retro font. Beneath it, a marquee reads:Rollin’ with the Homies.
I laugh, confident that was Bridget’s idea.
Earlier, she told me this building went up for sale a few years ago when the previous tenant, a hardware store, went into foreclosure. At the time, I still lived in San Francisco, working as a recruiter—a job I’ve never even considered—but when I came home for the Fourth of July, I spotted the space and decided to move home so I could give my old dream a shot.
Bridget helped with my fundraising efforts, and thanks to some door-to-door soliciting starring Ryan on roller skates, we found an enthusiastic benefactor in Mac Davis, another Lakeville High alum. Both here and in reality, Mac is a pilot turnedinfluencer who goes by Skydaddy, and he must have income to spare. Or a deep passion for roller-skating.
Absurd. All of it. And yet, Bridget relayed the information with a straight face. Here, she’s used to seeing me take wild leaps and risk the consequences. But that’s notme. I’m not impulsive in reality, and I’m certainly not taking random chances in the game that could decide my fate, either.
That’s why I’m here. Armed with stubborn determination and a glitter-covered notebook I nabbed from the mansion, I’m on a mission to figure out the rules of this game world and a way out that has nothing to do with Penn Hayes.
I take a deep breath, push open the double doors, and freeze, taken aback.
The Disco Diner stretches as wide as half a football field, bright and shiny, with bubblegum-pink walls and an arched metallic ceiling covered in rows of color-changing lightbulbs. In the center of the room, above the oval skating rink, six disco balls hang in a straight line. The snack bar’s purple sign gleams in the far corner, and glowing white tables with light-up edges dot the checkerboard floor. To my right, skates are stacked along floor-to-ceiling shelves behind a glossy pink desk, and a neon wall sign reads:Let the Good Times Roll.
It’s all very low-key.
I press my hands to my ears, trying to drown out a Mandy Moore song that’s playing several decibels too loud. I can appreciate the nostalgic vibes, but it’s overwhelming—both the music and the sickly sweet smell of cotton candy, which has fully invaded my nostrils.
“Ruby!”
I turn at the jingly greeting from a roller-skating server I don’t recognize. As she glides past carrying a tray of pizza slices, I get my first glimpse of what must be the uniform: holographic shorts, pink skates, tall white socks with rainbow stripes, and a short-sleeve button-up with a disco-ball patch on the pocket. Everything white glows, including the server’s toothy grin as she sets her tray on a table circled by teenagers.
Theirs is the only occupied table, which can’t be a great sign. On a Sunday afternoon, this place should be mobbed, but only a few young kids skate around the rink. It’s a ghost town.
Bridget had hinted as much this afternoon. Following a wildly successful first year, the buzz of something new died down, she said, and so did the crowds.
Perhaps this is what needs my attention. The roller-rink restaurant exists, sure, but it’s obviously flailing. Somebody needs to step in and make changes, because there’s no way the business is turning a profit. Lucky for MASH Ruby, who’s quite possibly managed nothing but a Tamagotchi, I’m plenty equipped to solve this problem.
Save The Disco Diner, save the world. Or something.
With notebook in hand, I walk the perimeter, casually knocking against walls to see if any of them open into another dimension. Another server I don’t know asks whether the shipment of new skates has arrived yet, and I tell him I’ll report back. All the while, I scope out the space, eagle-eyed, trying to find some sort of clue.
All I see are dollar signs. The electric bill alone must cost double my rent.
I’m seated at a glow-in-the-dark table, jotting down the firstinklings of a plan, when I’m startled by a chuckle that sounds straight off a laugh track.
It’s Theo Ford.
Technically, there are two Theo Fords, because beneath his Disco Diner button-up, which he’s left entirely undone, Theo’s wearing a skintight T-shirt adorned by his own face. Half of his closet is probably filled with oldNoah and the Weekendersmerch.
“Theo!” I exclaim, and his megawatt grin expands.
