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Liz nods and pushes some lavender wig-bangs out of her face. “What I really want is to find the next Queens. The next Emi Miyoshi. Not just a blockbuster series, but a game-changing one, something that’s never been done before.”
“It’s so cool you have two things you’re so passionate about: dance and books.” Peter’s always had multiple passions too: books and music and Mark. I’ve only had one.
Well, two: Peter . . . and dance. Dance was always the afterthought, the second choice—until this year, at least. I loved the Sophie I was in that Spokane hotel room. Not even Peter knows that version of me, and I sort of like that there’s a part of me he doesn’t know, that I can be a mystery too. Peter has his band, and I have my team. It’s natural for us to be exploring new things.
Liz shrugs. “Honestly, I’ve danced for a long time, but I’m not as into it as I used to be. If Montana weren’t on the team, I’d probably have quit by now. But you . . . I’ve got a good feeling about you and the summer workshop.”
My stomach twists as I imagine checking Instagram every day for photos of Peter and Chase and #bandbffs hashtags. I remind myself I have a world he’s not part of too. Natural. This is natural.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Fingers crossed.”
“I want to hear all about it. You’ll text me, right?”
Liz . . . wants me to text her this summer? I guess I assumed our friendship or whatever it is expires in June, when we graduate.
So I blurt it out: “Why are you guys friends with me? You and Montana?” When she raises her eyebrows, I backtrack. “I mean . . . what do you get out of it?” God, I’m sweating now. Why did I ask that? I don’t need my insecurities validated, don’t need Liz to tell me it’s because they feel sorry for me. I’ve never done anything to indicate I’d be a decent friend. I don’t crack jokes; I don’t have insight to add to a conversation. I’m only like that around Peter.
Full of regret, I shrink back into my chair as Liz gapes at me.
“What do we get out of it?” Liz repeats. “We like you? We don’t have to get anything out of it. It’s not, like, a transaction.”
My voice is small. “I thought you felt sorry for me? Or you wanted someone to come with you to this signing because Montana didn’t want to?”
“Sophie!” Liz almost sounds offended. “No. You’re our friend. You’re interesting, okay? You’re fun. That conversation we had in the car on the way over, about what Nadiya’s life in exile might have been like? I’ve never been able to talk to anyone else about things like that. And what you did on the phone in the hotel? Hilarious. Montana thinks your routine is brilliant, and . . . Have I inflated your ego enough, or should I keep going?”
I laugh, not entirely used to the warmth spreading through me. I want so badly to believe her. “I—I think that’s good. It feels pretty inflated.”
She shakes my shoulder. “Seriously. I’m so glad we got to know you better this year. I couldn’t handle being alone in my Queens fandom any longer.”
And I want to be the best version of Sophie even when I’m not with Peter—someone as bright as the person he sees.
Emi Miyoshi’s talk is spoiler-free and wonderfully tantalizing; by the end of it, I’m already dying to start the latest book on audio. She’s dressed like Liz—well, like a lot of the girls and some of the guys here—in a floor-length dress, feathered cape, and purple-black lipstick. After reading a few pages from her upcoming book, the first in a new s
eries, she takes questions from the audience. Liz raises her hand but doesn’t get called on, and I can tell she’s not letting on how disappointed she is.
We make our way into the signing line, Liz lugging her tote bag and a couple new paperbacks, though she already has the hardcovers. When it’s our turn, Liz rolls up her sleeve and shows Emi the tattoo she got that represents the ruling family from the book.
Emi gasps and drags Liz’s arm closer. “This is excellent. Are you serious? I’ve never seen anyone get ink from one of my books! Can I take a picture and tweet it out?”
“Um, yes,” Liz squeals, beaming as Emi snaps a photo. They chat about some lingering questions at the end of the series, which I try to tune out since I’m not there yet, and Emi signs every one of Liz’s books with a purple pen.
When I pass my book to her, I do so with an awkward hello. Emi is the most famous person I’ve ever met, and I’m suddenly much shyer than usual.
“Who should I make it out to?” she asks.
I’m about to say Peter—I’d planned to surprise him with an autographed copy. But after my conversation with Liz, I’m not so sure.
“Sophie,” I say, and it feels right. “S-O-P-H-I-E. Thank you so much.”
Afterward, Liz and I browse the aisles, cracking up at books in the humor section and talking about how nice Emi was—“She’s so famous, she doesn’t have to be that nice, but she is”—and how amazing she looked.
“This was so fun,” Liz says as we get into her car. “Even though, you know, I didn’t get anything out of it.”
I whack her with my copy of Queens. “Oh my God, stop. I get it. You like me, for some inexplicable reason.” Liz raises her eyebrows. I roll my eyes and lay on the sarcasm: “Fine, you like me because I am a source of never-ending joy.”
She hugs me. “I do,” she says, “and you are.”
It’s past ten when I get home. The light in Peter’s room across the street was off, but my house hasn’t gone to sleep yet. Tabby and Josh are in the kitchen yelling at each other. Luna’s in her high chair, wailing, and Tabby’s still in her waitress uniform, a syrup-and-ketchup-stained apron tied around her waist.
