Life was so easy for Nick—well, give or take the bruised ribs. When we moved here, he’d fallen right into being his usual perfect Nick self—picking up friends, getting on teams, even starting a new band. And me—I had zero. Except Mom and Dad fretting about why I was in my room so much and blaming themselves for maybe making a bad choice in moving here. Which meant a high risk of them deciding to move…again. Nick swerved all their interrogations by always running off to basketball practice or urgent band rehearsals in “The Playground,” the dive of a studio by Blake’s. He was a genius like that. Which left me. That’s when I’d made the decision. Even though my last account, @NoWayNoelle, had ended in disaster, this time I was going to make one work. On my own. Show everyone I was doing okay.

So, I’d launched @OneElleOfATime, and the months of effort were already paying off. I’d told any of my old followers who’d come back that I’d been on a “creative refresh.” Which sounded a whole lot better than, “Oh, y’know, my life became a dumpster fire, and then we moved to Boringsville, USA.”

This time I needed my followers to know I wasn’t going anywhere—so I’d posted to say I was going to hit 30,000 followers by the end of the year. Even Mom and Dad seemed impressed and had finally stopped bugging me about if I was okay.

“Elly?” Oh crap. I threw my phone down and tried to look like I was deep in mathematical thought. Mom threw some empty boxes over my head. “Nick said you’d finished your work. Want to give us a hand?”

Well, this was a toughie. Mom would stress if I told her I’d still made zero progress with my assignment—so, if they needed a hand, maybe I should pretend I’d finished and do it in bed tonight on the d-low?

“Does it involve carrying large mammals?” I grinned and clapped my book shut. Evidence gone. “Because I picked up a strain in track and was specifically told to avoid carrying anything with hooves.”

Mom smiled and lifted a huge box like it didn’t weigh a ton and she wasn’t wearing three-inch heels and jeans that weren’t built for bending.

It was no wonder people sometimes asked if we were sisters—it was like the aging process had just stopped with her at twenty-five. Dad had majorly lucked out—although Mom always said that she could never turn down someone who made waffles like he did.

“Luckily for you, it’s just stringing some candy canes up the stairs. Think you can handle it?”