Two hours later, we’re unloading casserole dishes from the trunk of Ms. Birdie’s Corolla. Buttermilk pie, banana pudding with vanilla wafers, and a massive bowl of spinach salad with feta cheese and blueberries from last summer’s garden. Ms. Birdie has got bags and bags of them in the freezer. My mouth is watering just watching all the food coming into the house.

Camille meets us at the front door. “Hi, hello, and welcome. Now that that’s out of the way, come with me.” She grabs Julian’s elbow and pulls him down the hallway toward her room. I follow behind.

“I’ve gotten sixteen texts this afternoon, boys,” she says, closing the door behind us and whisper-shouting. She holds her pink phone in her hand. “Sixteen! All from angry football boys who want me to do something about you.” She pokes her finger into Julian’s chest.

“What are you talking about?” Julian asks.

“This prank thing! It’s out of control! They all think you’re ignoring them, and apparently they think I have some kind of control over what goes on in that empty vessel above your neck—”

“Hey, now,” Julian says, putting his hands up.

“AND,” Camille continues, ignoring him, “they’re asking for my help. So, this is me. Helping them.” She folds her arms across her chest and taps her foot. “Park it.”

Julian sits on the edge of her bed, and I take the desk chair. Camille paces the wood floor in front of her dresser, steam practically coming out of her ears. “One day! One day I didn’t see you, and you’ve gone and gotten the entire football team upset with you. Do I have to hold your hand? Is that it? Do I have to tell you exactly how to act? You’re the captain, for crying out loud! You’re sailing this ship! You’re not supposed to be pissing people off!”

Camille isn’t exactly talking to Julian. Or to me, either. She’s kind of talking to the air. I glance at Julian, and he just raises his eyebrows at me.

“Hey, calm down and let me tell you what happened,” Julian says, patting the bed next to him.

Camille considers him for a minute and ultimately sits down next to him with a great big huff. She keeps her arms folded.

Julian launches into a long explanation of the things he learned from Figg, and the reason he thinks it’s better if we just sidestep the whole prank war this year. Camille looks at me when he finishes his lengthy diatribe.

“And what do you think?” she asks.

I blink at her. “Me?”

“Um. Yes. You.”

“Well, I mean… I can see both sides of this, really.”