Each time we pass the sandwich bag back and forth, our fingers touch. When our eyes meet, Cybil smiles at me the way Evan did that night at the pool, when we first started talking, before we kissed. At least that’s how it feels. I look over at Ivy to see if she’s watching, but her eyes are closed and there’s a little drool coming out of her mouth.

“She fell asleep!” I whisper.

Cybil giggles. “She was a lot cuter when she was a baby.”

“Tell me about it.”

She leans closer to me so our arms touch. She’s warm. A funny feeling spreads down my arm. My heart starts to beat faster, and I think about that time Micah and I hid under the lilac bush, when it felt like there were hummingbirds in my chest. I take a deep breath and will the feeling to go away, and just like that, I see a pair of familiar bare feet in front of ours.

“Hi,” Micah says. “Sorry I ignored your texts.”

I put my finger to my lips and gesture to Ivy, who’s still sleeping and drooling.

“Hi, Cybil,” Micah whispers.

“Hey,” she says.

Micah drops his backpack next to us. He doesn’t look at me.

“Why aren’t you guys swimming?” he asks.

“We don’t approve of Chicken,” Cybil says.

“Uh, why?”

“It’s dumb?”

“Oh.”

Micah does not seem very impressed with Cybil, and I think the feeling is mutual. He pulls his T-shirt over his head and drops it on top of his bag. “Well, suit yourselves,” he says, then turns and runs into the water, diving under and disappearing toward the chickens.

“You guys still best friends?” Cybil asks quietly.

I look over at Ivy again to make sure she isn’t listening. “I . . . think so. We kind of got in a fight last night after the party.”

“Yeah, I heard. I’m starting to feel glad I couldn’t go. Sounds awkward.”

“You heard? Who told you? What did they say?”

“Oh, don’t worry. It was just Sam being gossipy. She said you made out with Evan and Micah got jealous.”

“Oh, my gosh. I did not make out with Evan!” I say too loudly.

Ivy stirs but seems to stay asleep.

“We kissed,” I say. “It’s different. And I didn’t even really want to.”

“Why not?”

We watch him out in the water, Sierra wriggling on top of his shoulders.

“He’s a chicken,” I say.

Cybil giggles.

“I don’t mean that in a mean way,” I say. “It’s just . . .”

“He’s not your type.”

“Right.”

“So, who is your type?”