“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter, turning my phone upside down so that the sparkly pink-and-purple ombre case looks back up at me instead of the glaringly quiet screen. Normally I’d snap at Cara to just go to Kelsey’s stupid house, then, but she’s right—I’m being a shitty host and I did tell her we could have a sleepover the night before Books and Balls Day so she could be at her freshest instead of rolling in with the special kind of sleep deprivation that comes from sharing a room with two sisters who both snore. “Do you want more sorbet?”

“I can’t eat anything with this stuff on. How long do I have to leave it to give me perfect pores?”

I check the tube. “It says fifteen minutes, but do you want me to point out that you already have perfect pores or nah?”

“Feel free,” she says with a smug smile before turning her attention to the TV, where Vanessa Hudgens is twirling around in a tiara.

Five minutes after our masks are washed off and our pores are more perfect than a Hadid sister’s, it’s Cara’s phone that starts beeping like mad. “Is that your boyfriend?” I tease before I can think better of it.

If my stupid joke brings Robbie to mind, it doesn’t show on her face. “Just some cheer stuff,” she says.

“Uh, if it’s cheer stuff, why isn’t my phone lighting up?” I ask, holding it so she can see its dismally dark screen.

The thing about Cara is she’s never been a fast enough thinker to be a great liar, but it never stops her from trying. “It’s just Kelsey and Claire, uh, talking about how we’re all getting to the game.”

“It’s Kelsey and Claire texting you—you, a person who does not have a car—about how you’re all getting to the game. When everyone knows I drive you everywhere.”

I know she’s going to bite her lip and her cheeks will turn pink before it even happens. It’s Cara’s standard “Oh darn, I was caught in a lie” move, and she does it all the time because, again, bad but compulsive liar.

For the millionth time, I wonder how she got away with keeping Robbie a secret for so long, but that’s a question best left for another day.

“Cara.”

She huffs out a breath. “Fine. They’re talking about how funny and awkward it’s gonna be when we cheer for guys who are throwing the game. Are you happy?”

“What do you mean? Who’s throwing what game?” And then it clicks. Jack. The scout. Not even homecoming—alumni swarming the bleachers to watch the game, especially with news of Atherton’s first female quarterback—is sacred. “You mean the football team is gonna throw the homecoming game? Seriously?”