“Mrs. Sorenson and basically the whole cast told me to take the day off.” She angrily opened a menu. “I’m working too hard, they said. A day off would let me come back refreshed. What they meant was they’re all too lazy to do anything right, and they don’t want to be held accountable.” Diya shook her head and muttered curses under her breath.

We were both in such awful moods I was afraid Waffle Country would kick us out for bringing down its happy vibe.

“You can’t swear here,” I snapped at her again.

I expected Diya’s signature X-ray stare, but I only saw tired eyes looking back at me. I took in her long, usually shining hair, which was frizzy now and thrown up into something resembling a ponytail. She looked sad and stressed, like me.

“I mean,” I said in a gentler tone, “it’s Waffle Country. Have some respect.”

A trace of a smile flickered on her face. Then she stared down a server and ordered bananas Foster.

“So really, why aren’t you at rehearsal?” she asked when the server left.

“I’m sick,” I said, taking a huge bite of waffle and dripping Nutella down my chin. Diya narrowed her eyes, pulled a napkin from the dispenser, and handed it to me.

“I heard Jude and them talking about you before I left,” she said.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re too blunt?” I mumbled, resisting the urge to ask what they’d said.

“Yes.” Diya blinked at me, unfazed.

“Oh. Well, you are.” I turned back to my homework. Diya watched me for a few more seconds before digging a binder out of her bag. Her bananas Foster came, and we both worked silently, taking a break every now and then to stuff our faces.

After a while, I couldn’t concentrate with Diya there. My waffle haven was officially ruined, so I gathered my things to go.

“Want to come over to my house?” Diya asked, her eyes steadily on me.

“Why?”

She heaved a deep sigh. “My dad is going to ask me why I’m not at rehearsal, and I’d rather not have to explain. If I have a guest, he won’t make me.”

Huh. I definitely didn’t want to go back home yet, where I’d have to face my parents again. “Okay. I’ll follow you there?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

IF I’D HAD TO GUESS what Diya Rao’s house looked like, I would have said modern and airy, with white couches you weren’t allowed to sit on. But I would have been wrong. It was a split-level with a mix of cozy chairs and antique-looking wooden furniture. Framed photos of smiling people—old and young, some in saris, some in jeans and T-shirts—lined the walls.

As Diya took my coat in the hallway, a surprised voice called in. “Diya?”