Dad’s phone starts to ring. He picks it up and gives me a wave as he heads out of the room.

Chop, chop, chop. Excrement, excrement, excrement. In our original plan we’re supposed to be switched till Tuesday. And if this glamour magic is related to that glitter explosion, which it has to be, that stupid riddle probably dictated how this works. It definitely said something about helping us pull off the ruse of walking in each other’s shoes, which means that Jamie probably, most likely … looks like me right now. And I know that stupid poem said four days and five nights—the line is burned into my brain because I had just proposed that addendum to Jamie’s plan not forty minutes before. And if the riddle timeline is real, then hypothetically, probably, most likely, we’re stuck looking like each other for at least four more days, and even if Jamie flew back here to make the performance, I’ll still, for all intents and purposes, be her on Saturday! And I can’t be a comedian for Timothée Chalamet!

My knife hits the bare cutting board as I run out of garlic.

43. A Girl Can Rock a Catfish

JAMIE

September 4, Friday 1:30 a.m.

New Jersey

Mara,

Your choreography work on Broadway these past two years has been outstanding and we’d love to offer you an opportunity in Las Vegas. We’re bringing Mean Girls over to a new theater with a new sense of space. It needs a flashy Vegas-worthy choreography revamp. We’re very interested in bringing you aboard.

We’re meeting with two other choreographers this Tuesday at MGM here in Vegas. If you’d be interested in throwing your hat in the ring, please let us know.

Please get back to us as soon as possible and we’ll schedule a call.

All the best,
Lara Thorpe
23 Publicity Inc.

I close the laptop and curl under Siri’s dark covers, listening as Mara’s footsteps make their way upstairs. This woman is creeping in scandalously late. I finished my catfish account and email draft ten minutes ago. I have it scheduled to send to Mara at 8 a.m.

I still haven’t heard from Siri. If she doesn’t call before I go to sleep, then fuck it, I’m just texting over my main talking points.

There’s a light knock on the bedroom door. I have to restrain myself from yelling What doth yonder want? “What?”

Mara, cheeks flushed and hair down, appears in the doorframe. “You’re still up. How are you doing?” she asks slowly. “You’re back sleeping in the bed. That’s great.”

I pull on a close-lipped smile. “Uh-huh. I’m marvelous, Mother.”

Mara sighs. “I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast?”

“You got it, dude.”

She narrows her eyes and retreats.