Page 145 of Talk Data To Me

Wes’s typing notification joined the chat.

Wes

How was your hot sauce competition?

Erin

Martina called, so we had to pause the clock before we summited the Scoville Scale. It’s a draw.

Wes

That’s the problem with a two-person competition. You need a third.

Erin

Not you. You got to the finals of that chili-eating contest in Beijing.

Adrian

Fine, I’ll beat you both at Christmas. Someone has to. Wes gets to pick the sauce. Da Bomb Beyond Insanity Hot Sauce, maybe? Let’s see if you can still keep up, Frizzy. Plus, trial by fire for your guy. (Also, we’re racing the Dish next time I’m in California.)

Erin

I’ll get both of you back for this!

She closed her messages and reduced her family—plus the addition of Ethan and Bunsen—to their grinning faces in Ms. Frizzle’s school bus, then fished eggshells from the sink, knotted up a biodegradable bag of compost, and stepped over to the screen door leading from the kitchen to their backyard. As she kicked into a pair of scuffs and shrugged on Ethan’s fleece vest, she warned him, “Wes and Adrian are planning a hot sauce competition for Christmas. They’re floating the idea of something with a chemical component. We’d better build up our tolerance if we want to win. And survive.”

“There’s no stopping a Monaghan with a plan, is there?” He grabbed Bunsen’s collar when the dog made a hopeful lunge for the bag.

“Never. I should let you know that if we’re ever cornered into a duty dinner with your family, I have averyinteresting plan.”

“You do.” It wasn’t a question. He followed her out onto the porch, leaning against the doorframe while she lobbed their compost on top of a pile of brown, crackly leaves in a green waste bin. “Does your plan have anything to do with this hot sauce competition?”

“Maybe.” She clomped back up the steps. “Plenty of hot sauces are red, and doesn’t Karen Meyer pride herself on her authentic Italian tomatosalsa? I’ll run interference while you adjust your mother’s seasoning.”

“Erin, that’s—God, you really are a menace.” He pulled her in and kissed her smug smile. “We’rea menace.”

“And geniuses.”

“Yes, and geniuses.”

“But: I’m faster than you are,” and she ducked away. “Do you have time for a run before frisbee?”

“I’m going to lap you around Hoover Park.”

“You can try. Where are our running shoes?”

“Bunsen!” Ethan whistled to the golden retriever. Bunsen’s tail began to thump in excitement. “Find my shoes.”

No thanks to the dog, who devolved into a blur of ecstatic barks when he saw Ethan raking Erin’s hair into a braid while she set her earbuds to Stars’ “Hold On When You Get Love And Let Go When You Give It,” they unearthed their sneakers in a box of miscellaneous hangers shoved under the dining room chair that was collecting mail by the door. Ethan clipped on Bunsen’s leash, and she sorted through their latest collection of coupons and forwarded junk from a basket under the mail slot. There was a magazine in the mix today, too.

A familiar magazine.

She tilted its technicolor cover art toward Ethan while he wrestled his shoelaces away from Bunsen. “Galacticareceived our new address. Look, they’re asking for artist–writer collaborations for the magazine’s anniversary issue.”

“Collaborations?” He straightened up.

“Which we’re doing, right?”

“Yes—and whoever makes it to the park first chooses the subject. Good luck!” He took off along Waverley Street, whooping, Bunsen galloping beside him.

“That’s not fair. I wasn’t ready!”

But she couldn’t help laughing through her own sprint down the sidewalk. Because whether or not she clinched this competition—and she was already gaining on him, would tackle him to the grass in the park in a minute, would straddle him and steal the breathless happiness from his mouth with hers—she knew:

She’d already won.