“A party. My friends call it the Stellar Party. It’s space themed. We do it every year in a hotel room. We drink a little, sing some karaoke, stuff like that.”

“Oh, no. I don’t do karaoke.”

And also, I need to find the thief who stole my script. The Twitter account has been quiet for a long time, and I’m beginning to worry.

Besides, what if my cover got blown at this party? I’d end up on the cover of every national newspaper in the country—or at least every gossip magazine. I realize I’m not important enough for, like, the New York Times…

Am I?

“Come on,” Harper eggs, and she’s smiling in this way that makes my stomach twist. “You can stop trying to save Amara for two seconds. Take a breather. Enjoy life. You deserve it. Our princess can fend for herself for an evening.”

I hesitate.

If I don’t go to the party, there is a definite chance I’ll just be sitting around my hotel room, waiting for the next tweet. Maybe if I hang out with a bunch of Starfield geeks, I could ask around to see if anyone’s heard rumors of someone leaking the script.

Yeah, that’s a good reason.

It’s a lot better than the other one in my head: that it feels nice to talk with someone who doesn’t see me as Jessica Stone, who doesn’t want anything from me, who is nice and honest and very pretty. And I don’t even want to think about the way she puts her hands into her dress pockets, leaning back as if to get a better look at me, or how she didn’t have to come with me to herd the cat but she did anyway. And how, even though I was kinda dreadful to her in the beginning, she’s still sticking around.

It’s because to her you’re Imogen, her friend. She’s being nice to you because you aren’t Jess.

That makes my stomach twist further. I clear my throat and cross my arms over my chest. “Well, as long as you don’t make me sing.”

She crosses a pinky over her heart. “Hope to die,” she says with that same smile, and for the first time I realize why it’s so enthralling. Because there’s adventure tucked into the corner of her mouth.

The kind of adventure I want to go on.

“Okay,” I say, “count me in.”

Imogen

WE ENDED UP STEALING SANDWICHES FROM the Green Room and eating in a vacant stairwell. The tuna melts weren’t that bad, actually, and Ethan had mints to cover up our dreaded fish breath. He also had a pen in his pocket, and a small notepad, so I could practice Jessica’s signature.

“Are your pockets bigger on the inside?” I tried to joke, but he just rolled his eyes.