Author/Uploaded by Becky Albertalli
Dedication For Sophie Gonzales, who made space. Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Day One: Friday: March 18 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Day Two: Saturday: March 19 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 ...
Dedication For Sophie Gonzales, who made space. Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Day One: Friday: March 18 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Day Two: Saturday: March 19 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Day Three: Sunday: March 20 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Day Four: Monday: March 21 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Day Five: Tuesday: March 22 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Day Six: Wednesday: March 23 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Day Seven: Thursday: March 24 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Day Eight: Friday: March 25 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Day Nine: Saturday: March 26 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Acknowledgments About the Author Books by Becky Albertalli Back Ad Copyright About the Publisher Day One Friday March 18 1 I haven’t quite unclicked my seat belt, but I’m getting there. Obviously. Just waiting for my brain to stop doing the thing where I’m being interviewed on a talk show in front of a vaguely hostile live studio audience. Imogen, is it true that it’s your first time visiting Lili on campus, even though she’s one of your two (2) best friends, and she’s invited you fifteen billion times, and Blackwell College is so close to your house, you literally drove by it last weekend going to Wegmans? Gretchen raises her eyebrows at me from the driver’s seat. “Want us to hang for a sec?” “Or more than a sec,” adds Edith, and I twist around to look at her. She’s buckled in, legs crossed, denim jacket spread over her lap like a blanket. Bright blue eyes and wind-ruffled curls. My hair’s two shades darker and a little straighter, but besides that, we’re almost identical. Everyone thinks so. Otávio’s back there, too, playing a game on his phone. This campus isn’t much of a novelty for him at this point—he and his parents come up here a lot, even just to take Lili and her friends out to dinner. But this time, he’s just along for the ride. I’m the only one who’s staying. For three nights. Approximately sixty-five hours. Not that I’m counting. “I’m good.” I tack on a smile. “I don’t want you getting caught in rush hour.” “I don’t give a shit about rush hour,” says Gretchen. I know she really means it, too. I didn’t tell Gretchen my parents needed both cars this weekend. She just caught me checking the Yates Transit bus schedule and swept in for the rescue. Say what you want about Gretchen Patterson, but she’s a drop-everything kind of friend, through and through. “I can’t believe you’re meeting Lili’s queer college friends.” Edith stares out the window, puffs her cheeks out, and sighs. “I want queer friends.” Gretchen blinks. “Um. Hello?” “See, but you’re more of a mentor,” says Edith. I breathe in. “Okay, texting Lili now.” “Are you sure you don’t want—” “Yup!” Edith claps. “Look at you. Lone wolf, living up to your badass reputation.” Right, so now I’m trying to picture the alternate universe where my reputation falls anywhere in the vicinity of badass. Like, let’s just put that in bold for a minute. Imogen Scott: badass. It barely even makes sense as a concept. I’m the kind of person who has a favorite adverb (obviously, obviously). Edith, on the other hand. I mean, our baby pictures tell the story. Like the one from the Yates County Fair animal barn, where I’m standing next to an all-caps sign that reads: PLEASE DO NOT PET DONKEY!!!!! Edith is in the corner of the frame, petting the donkey. Or the one of me at an easel, carefully painting a blue stripe for a sky. Edith is crouched beside me in a diaper, chest fully covered in her own tiny green handprints. And of course, there’s a whole series from my seventh birthday where Edith is literally dressed like Jason from Friday the 13th. To be fair, my birthday is Halloween. But. It was noon. And she was five. She springs out of the back seat as soon as I open the passenger door—as if Otávio Cardoso, certified teddy bear, is going to fight her for shotgun. But instead of moving up to the front, she follows me around to the trunk of Gretchen’s car. “Immy, hear me out. As your big sister—” “That’s factually inaccurate—” “Chronologically? Sure,” she says. “But spiritually? Aesthetically?” In effect, Edith’s a modern-day Amy March. Whereas I fall squarely in the category of Wants-to-Be-Jo, Is-Actually-Meg. “All I’m saying is, the whole point of college—” “According to you, a junior in high school.” “The whole point of college,” she repeats, “is that it’s a chance to break out of your comfort zone. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and—Immy, I really think you should give up flossing for the weekend.” “The point of college . . . is me not flossing.” “Exactly.” I hoist my suitcase out of Gretchen’s trunk and pull the door shut. “I’ll take it under advisement.” “Also, I think you could use a few spontaneous campus high jinks.” “Mmm.” “This is spring break! At college! With cool queer people!” “You know we have queer people in Penn Yan, right? A whole club of them?” I tilt my palms up. “You could try—I don’t know—actually going to one of the meetings sometime?” She shakes her head. “Can’t do Tuesdays.” Edith has a standing Zoom date with her girlfriend on Tuesdays. And on days that aren’t Tuesdays. But even before Zora, she