I snort at her bad imitation.

She shrugs. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“Who was he talking to on the phone?” I ask.

“No idea. Probably his latest bromance. He’s always changing friends, usually to whoever’s parents are out of town and have a house big enough for one of his legendary blowouts.”

“That’s just an act,” I argue. “He’s not really that way.”

Her face softens. “I’m sorry. I know you like him, especially after that party . . .”

I wish I’d never told her about the kiss. It feels like a weakness.

“Anyway, I guess he’s been expanding his friend list this summer. Katy even said she thought she saw him in the passenger seat of Lennon’s car a couple weeks ago.”

Wait, what? Lennon and Brett, friends? Surely that’s a sign of the apocalypse. “I seriously doubt it.”

“Maybe not. Lennon seems way out of Brett’s league, if you ask me.”

“I think you have that turned around,” I say with a snort.

“And I think whatever happened between you and Lennon is—”

“Avani,” I protest. I don’t like to talk about Lennon. Avani doesn’t know about the Great Experiment. All Avani knows is that we were supposed to meet up with her for homecoming. She doesn’t know why that never happened. No one does. Not even me, really. But I stopped trying to figure out Lennon’s motivations a long time ago.

It’s easier not to think about him at all.

“Never mind,” she says. “I’m sorry I brought it up. It’s none of my business.”

After I’m quiet for a few seconds, she elbows me. “So . . . camping. Alone in the woods. Maybe this is your chance with Brett. When is this trip?”

I texted Reagan earlier, but she only confirmed that the trip was happening and said she’d get back to me later with details. Normally, that would drive me nuts, but I was busy freaking out about hiding the photo book of my dad’s affair. Now I wish I had pressed Reagan for more information. All of these Unknowns and Possibilities are stressing me out.

“I think it’s in a couple of days?” I say. “Pretty sure she’s planning on staying a week.”

Avani’s face falls. “That’s during the meteor shower. I was kind of hoping you were going on the weekend trip with the group.”

“What group?”

“Our group. East Bay Planetary Society,” she says, brow wrinkling. “Weren’t you listening at all?”

I wasn’t.

She fills me in. “Instead of gathering here at the observatory, Dr. Viramontes is taking the club on a road trip to the dark-sky area on Condor Peak to watch the meteor shower there.”

Condor Peak State Park. They host the annual North California Star Party.

“All the other astronomy clubs in the area will be going,” Avani adds.

Apart from Death Valley, Condor Peak is the closest dark-sky preserve. That means it’s protected from artificial light pollution, which enables people to see more stars. Astronomers take amazing photos in dark-sky areas, especially during star parties—which are basically nighttime gatherings of amateur astronomers to watch celestial events. And though we’ve hosted a few minor star parties here at the observatory, I’ve never been to one this big with other astronomy clubs. That’s kind of huge.

I weigh my options. On one hand, the geek in me really wants to attend this star party. I mean, hello. The Perseid meteor shower happens only once a year. But on the other hand, Brett Seager.

Rolling a two-wheeled laptop case behind him, Dr. Viramontes ascends the aisle and stops when he sees us. I like the way his eyes crinkle in the corner when he smiles. “Ladies, are you joining us on our pilgrimage to Condor Peak? We’ll get some amazing photos. Great thing to add to your college applications, and there’ll be other astrophysics professors there, along with many important members of the Night Sky Program. And I didn’t want to say this to the group, because I’m not entirely certain, but I’ve got intel that Sandra Faber could make an appearance.”

Sandra Faber teaches astrophysics at UC Santa Cruz. She won the National Medal of Science. She’s a big deal. Meeting someone like her could help me get into Stanford, which is where I want to study astronomy after I graduate.

Avani draws in an excited breath and pokes my shoulder. “You have to come now.”

“I’m supposed to be camping with a friend in the High Sierras,” I tell the professor, suddenly filled with doubt. Why can’t anything be easy?

Dr. Viramontes shifts the long silver braid that hangs over his shoulder, bound at the tail by a beaded clasp made by someone in his local Ohlone Indian tribe. “That’s a shame. Where?”

I relay the details that my mom shared with me about the glamping compound.

Dr. Viramontes scratches his chin. “I think I know which one you’re talking about, and it’s not far from Condor Peak.” He slips a piece of paper out of the front pocket of his rolling case and hands it to me. It’s an information sheet on the trip. He points to the map and shows me the general area of the glamping compound in relation to King’s Forest and Condor Peak. “Probably a couple hours’ drive on the highway. Maybe you could stop by. We’ll be there three nights.”

“You can meet me there,” Avani says encouragingly.

“I’m not sure what the transportation situation will be like, but I’ll definitely check into it,” I tell him, folding up the paper.

“We’d love to have you. Let me know what you decide.” He raises two fingers to his forehead and gives me a loose salute before reminding us to be safe getting home tonight.

“You’re going, right?” Avani whispers excitedly as he walks away.

My mind is aflutter. So is my stomach. “God, I really want to.”

“Then come,” she says. “Meet me at Condor Peak. Promise me, Zorie.”

“I’ll try,” I say, not completely sure, but hopeful.

“Star party, here we come,” she tells me, and for a moment, it feels like old times between us.

But after we leave the auditorium and she walks me to the parking lot, I remember what awaits me at home.

I push away the dread and concentrate on enjoying the drive as I leave the hilltop observatory and descend into town. It’s a perfect summer night, and stars blanket the sky. My stars. Every winking point of white light belongs to me. They are wonderful, the town is quiet and dark, and I’m just fine.

Only I’m not.

Normally, I love driving my mom’s car, even though it’s several years old and smells faintly of patchouli. The stereo speakers are bass-heavy, and I relish taking the long way home, cruising the road between the freeway and the dark blue water, with San Francisco twinkling in the distance. Except for the occasional run to the grocery store, this is the only time I really drive. But, hey. At least my mom trusts me with her sedan, unlike my dad, who won’t let me near his vintage sports car. It’s worth too much.

But now I can’t stop thinking about that whole “one of many” line in that letter, and I wonder if my dad has driven other women around in his stupid car. Just how many others have there been? I’ve always thought my dad was a decent person, if not a little plastic and fake when he’s in full-on Diamond Dan mode, but now I’m picturing him dressed like Hugh Hefner with two curvy women on his arms.