I have little time to be excited beyond the sharp pain of glee that makes me feel as if the world could never be this exciting again. It’s a kind of morose happiness that I squash down because Jenna has already stridden to one of the tables and is fetching our wristbands.

“Jenna Williams,” she is saying to the blue polo behind the table when I near. “And Amelia Griffin. Both VIP passes with access to the N. E. Endsley session.”

The man flips through a stapled stack of papers before giving each of us a wristband with VIP embossed along the thin rubber. I twist mine over my hand without looking, but Jenna holds hers up for examination.

“This one has a nick in it,” she says. “May I have another?”

The man seems confused for a split second too long—all I can see behind his eyes are endless file cabinets—so before Jenna can unleash her usual speech about presentation and quality, I work the band from my wrist and quickly swap it with her nicked one before she can argue.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t care.”

Jenna rolls her eyes and says, “You should,” but blessedly we walk away lecture-free and into the long rows of booths and tables stacked high with swag and books.

When the Williamses had asked us what we wanted for graduation, over dinner in late February, Jenna had barely looked up from her plate of enchiladas.

“There’s a book festival the week after graduation,” she said. “It’s only a couple of days. We could fit it in before Ireland.”

I had jerked my head toward her, surprised.

“Have you been looking at my computer again? How did you know about the festival?”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “As if you’re the only one with an internet alert out for anything related to N. E. Endsley.”

There was no doubt that she had chosen this for my benefit. Later, when she dropped me off at my house after a car ride full of my squeals about meeting N. E. Endsley, I leaned over to hug her good-bye and whispered, “You don’t like internet alerts.”

“What?” Her voice was casual.

“You don’t like internet alerts or subscription newsletters because they take up too much time and clutter your computer.”

Jenna looked out the window to hide her smile. “When did I say that?”

“You didn’t.” I grinned. “I just know. And when did you look at my computer?”

She turned to face me, indignant. “I’ve told you before you ought to lock it when you walk away from it in the library!”

“Yeah,” I deadpanned. “Wouldn’t want the riffraff seeing my search history of book festivals and—”

“And llama memes when you’re supposed to be studying?”