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“Beaver fever.”

“Oh my God!” Kenzie squeals, and falls back into her chair. “The Sweet Corn princess came down with beaver fever? That’s priceless.”

“Definitely,” I agree, “but it’s not something I can use in the podcast. I’m already on thin ice with my parents.”

“Then don’t share that little tidbit with Bristal,” Kenzie advises. “She’ll probably take the microphone from you and claim it’s an STD that’s present in the entire water system.”

“Ha,” I say, glancing at my phone at the mention of Bristal. We’re supposed to meet at the historical society in fifteen minutes.

“But seriously . . . ,” Kenzie says, her voice drifting off into uncertainty. I’m used to that—being uncertain is kind of her trademark. But there’s a new note here, and I’m not quite sure what it is. I glance up to find Kenzie looking at me with something that edges on concern.

“You’re not doing these live, right?”

“No,” I tell her. “Too many variables, plus Henley doesn’t have the best internet. I’d rather have a smooth-flowing recorded show than a live, buffering stream.”

“Right, but, I mean, tech stuff aside. I wouldn’t trust Bristal not to say something that could get you into trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I reassure Kenzie. “She will be heavily edited.”

“Edited is good,” Kenzie says. “But can you just, like, put her on mute? Maybe just let her push some buttons on the laptop and say you collaborated?”

“Why?” I ask, feeling my pulse jump a bit. I don’t like being questioned, and Mom and Dad had flown their own hesitancy about Bristal last night at dinner.

“I don’t trust her,” Kenzie blurts out. “Lydia, she hits people.”

I put my hand on MacKenzie’s wrist and try not to laugh. My friend is what Henley wants to be—sweet, kind, and good. All the way down to the core.

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Bristal will add a good edge to the podcast, bring some new blood to the voice, and I seriously doubt she hits me.”

“And if she does?” Kenzie pushes.

“My dad’s a lawyer.” I shrug.

“Uh, a defense lawyer,” she points out. “That wouldn’t exactly help you in that situation.”

“It would,” I tell her. “Because if Bristal hits me, I’m hitting back. Harder.”

Kenzie gives my skinny arms a glance but doesn’t argue further. Maybe she trusts that I’ve got the situation under control . . . or maybe she knows that when I say I’d hit back, I’m not talking about muscles and knuckles.

I’ve got my own way of hitting hard, and it can bring people to their knees.

Mrs. Gurtz is manning the desk at the historical society when I walk in and doesn’t do a good job of hiding her dismay. It’s almost five, and I’m sure she is ready to go home and feed all her cats. I organized a canned-food drive through our church this past summer. Mrs. Gurtz had given us four boxes of expired tuna, along with a story about how it really should be just fine and that the dates were more of a guideline than a hard-and-fast rule . . . but she didn’t want to chance it with Mitsy, Yo-Yo, and Ranger. Instead of giving the needy families of Henley botulism, I opened and emptied each can, rinsed them out and recycled them, and then tossed the garbage bag full of rotting food into the historical society’s dumpster . . . six days before I knew it was scheduled to be emptied.

I might recycle, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do revenge.

“Lydia!” Mrs. Gurtz stands when she sees me, making a move toward the door either as a sign that she might be coming in for a hug, or to send me the message by flipping the sign over to CLOSED. I dodge the hug and ignore her when she gives me a pointed look.

“I’m searching for articles from the paper about the tornado,” I tell her. “Any chance I could take them home for the night?”

“We don’t really check out materials,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s a reference collection, not a lending one.”

“That works out great,” I say, pulling a chair out from one of the tables and plopping my backpack onto it. “Because I’m going to be referencing them in my podcast.”

I’m giving her my showstopping smile, which doubles as my you-can’t-stop-me smile, but Mrs. Gurtz is missing out on the exhibition, her eyes darting to the left, where the current editions of the newspaper is on display. She doesn’t have to worry; I’ve already seen today’s headlines.

Bus Bandit in Court Today

I’ve been walking around pretending like I have blinders on since I was in third grade, when Lindsay Pascale dumped her lunch tray over my head because Dad was defending the man who raped her older sister. I’d finished my cardboard box of milk with pear juice in my hair, stalwartly staring forward and focusing on MacKenzie’s face.