“God, was this place always so tiny?” Genevieve says to no one in particular. “Or did we all just get really big?” She laughs. “Except you, Lara Jean. You’re still itty-bitty pocket-sized.” She says it sweetly. Like sweetened condensed milk. Sweet and condescending. Poured on super thick.

I play along: I smile. I won’t let her get a rise out of me.

John rolls his eyes. “Same old Gen.” He says it dryly, with weary affection, and she smiles her cute wrinkly-nose smile at him like he’s paid her a compliment. But then he looks at me and raises one sardonic eyebrow, and I feel better about everything, just like that. In a strange way, maybe her presence here completes the circle. She can take whatever’s hers in that time capsule, and this history of ours can be done.

“Trev, throw me an ice cream sandwich,” Peter says, squeezing in between Genevieve and me. He stretches his legs out into the center of the circle, and everyone else adjusts to make room for his long legs.

I push his legs over so I can set the time capsule down in the center. “Here it is, everybody. All your greatest treasures from seventh grade.” I try to whip off the aluminum top with a flourish, but it’s really stuck. I’m struggling with it, using my nails. I look over at Peter and he’s digging into the ice cream bars, oblivious, so John gets up and helps me unscrew it. He smells like pine soap. I add this to the list of new things I’ve learned about him.

“So how are we gonna do this?” Peter asks me, his mouth full of ice cream. “Do we dump it all out?”

I’ve given this some thought. “I think we should take turns pulling something out. Let’s make it last, like opening presents on Christmas morning.”

Genevieve leans forward in anticipation. Without looking, I reach into the cylinder and pull out the first thing my fingers touch. It’s funny, I’d forgotten what I put inside, but I know what it is instantly; I don’t have to look down. It’s a friendship bracelet that Genevieve made for me when we were in our weaving phase in fifth grade. Pink, white, and light blue chevron. I made one for her too. Purple and yellow chevron. She probably doesn’t even remember it. I look over at her, and her face is blank. No recognition.

“What is it?” Trevor asks.

“It’s mine,” I say. “It’s . . . it’s a bracelet I used to wear.”

Peter touches his shoe to mine. “That piece of string was your most treasured thing?” he teases.

John is watching me. “You used to wear it all the time,” he says, and it’s sweet that he even remembers.

Once it goes on, it’s never supposed to come off, but I sacrificed it to the time capsule because I loved it so much. Maybe this is where Gen’s and my friendship went sour. The curse of the friendship bracelet. “You go next,” I say to him.

He reaches inside the box and pulls out a baseball.

“That’s mine,” Peter crows. “That’s from when I hit a home run at Claremont Park.” John throws the ball to him, and Peter catches it. Examining it, he says, “See, I signed and dated it!”

“I remember that day,” Genevieve says, tilting her head. “You came running off the field, and you kissed me in front of your mom. Remember?”

“Uh . . . not really,” Peter mumbles. He’s staring down at the baseball, turning it in his hand like he’s fascinated by it. I can’t believe him. I really can’t.

“Awk-ward,” Trevor says with a chortle.

In a soft voice, like no one else is here, she says to him, “Can I keep it?”

Peter’s ears are turning red. He looks at me, panicky. “Covey, do you want it?”

“Nope,” I say, keeping my head turned away from them. I grab the bag of Cheez Doodles and stuff a handful in my mouth. I’m so mad all I can do is eat Cheez Doodles or else I’ll scream at him.

“Okay, then I’m gonna keep it,” Peter says, putting the baseball in his coat pocket. “Owen might want it. Sorry, Gen.” He grabs the time capsule and starts rifling through it. He holds up a worn-out baseball cap. Orioles. Too loudly he says, “McClaren, look what I got here.”

A smile spreads across John’s face like a slow sunrise. He takes it from Peter and puts it on his head, adjusting the bill.

“That really was your most prized possession,” I say. He wore it deep into the fall, too. I asked my dad to buy me an Orioles T-shirt because I thought John McClaren would be impressed. I wore it twice but I don’t think he ever noticed. My smile fades when I notice Genevieve watching me. Our eyes meet; there is some knowing light in her gaze that makes me feel twitchy. She looks away; now she is the one smiling to herself.

“The Orioles suck,” Peter says, leaning against the wall. He reaches for the box of ice cream sandwiches and pulls one out.

“Pass me one of those,” Trevor says.

“Sorry, last one,” Peter says, biting into it.

John catches my eye and winks. “Same old Kavinsky,” he says, and I laugh. I know he’s thinking of our letters.

Peter grins at him. “Hey, no more stutter.”

I freeze. How could Peter bring that up so cavalierly? None of us ever talked about John’s stutter back in middle school. He was so shy about it. But now John just flashes a smile and shrugs and says, “I’ll pass that along to my eighth grade speech therapist, Elaine.” He’s so confident!

Peter blinks, and I can see that he is caught off guard. He does not know this John McClaren. It used to be that Peter was the shot caller, not John. He followed Peter’s lead. Peter might still be the same, but John has changed. Now Peter’s the one who is less sure-footed.