“Please don’t call them Darielle, it’s weird,” says her girlfriend, who’s holding the wiener dog. He looks happy in a sparkly pink tutu and spandex leotard, his tongue lolling out as he tries to taste whatever’s in her drink. “Frank, stop. You don’t want Oh No.”

“What’s wrong with Darielle, love?” the green-haired girl asks, sounding wounded.

Her girlfriend pushes her purple glasses up her nose with the hand holding the Oh No. “Stop trying to make fetch happen.”

“I’m going to make it happen.”

I agree with the girlfriend. Darielle is very weird. Almost as weird as Carminara. Why do people smoosh couples’ names together, anyway?

Harper laughs. “I think I have a few prints left—stop by tomorrow? I’ll reserve one for you. What do you want that print for anyway?”

“Because their anniversary is tomorrow,” the green-haired girl says, “and you really did my costume design justice. You have no idea how many times I pricked my finger sewing that dress together on the way here last year. Elle might be a lot of things, but a good driver she is not.”

The girl holding the dog agrees. “Elle failed her driver’s test twice.”

“How do you know Elle?” I ask.

“Oh! Sorry,” Harper says. “I forgot to introduce you.” She points to the green-haired girl. “This is Sage. She sells custom nerdy T-shirts.”

“We are right beside the huge Nox King statue this year,” Sage says, grinning. “Imogen, your parents are so cool.”

“They’re pretty rad,” Harper agrees. I just nod because I guess they are. Next, Harper stretches her hand to the blond-haired girl holding the dog. “And this is Sage’s girlfriend, Calliope. Cal is Elle’s stepsister, right?”

“Yeah, married in. I’m a twin, so I’m not the one from all the Geekerella drama last year.” She pushes her purple glasses up again, adding, “I’m the good stepsister.”

“I wouldn’t want to meet the bad one,” I say with a laugh because I’ve heard the stories from Dare.

Apparently she’s a monster—and not in the Imogen sort of way.

“Trust me, she’s sworn off cons for the rest of her life after what happened last year,” Cal assures. She lifts the fat wiener dog just enough for him to look at me with his pitiful beady black eyes. “And this sir here is Mr. Frank. He’s our model.”

Frank shakes his head, ears slapping the sides of his face, and sticks out a pink tongue. He tries to nose into Cal’s drink again, so she sighs and excuses herself, saying that he must be thirsty. “It was nice to meet you, Imogen.”

I smile and reply, “You, too.”