Chris goes next. She pulls out a ring with a tiny pearl in the center. Allie’s, a confirmation gift from her aunt. She loved that ring. I’ll have to send it to her. Trevor pulls out his own treasure—an autographed baseball card. Genevieve is the one to pull out Chris’s—an envelope with a twenty-dollar bill inside.

“Yes!” Chris screams. “I was such a little genius.” We high-five.

“What about yours, Gen?” Trevor asks.

She shrugs. “I guess I didn’t put anything in the capsule.”

“Yes you did,” I say, brushing orange Cheez dust off my fingers. “You were there that day.” I remember she went back and forth between putting in a picture of her and Peter or the rose he gave her for her birthday. I can’t remember what she decided on.

“Well, there’s nothing inside, so I guess I didn’t. Whatever.”

I look inside the time capsule just to be sure. It’s empty.

“Remember how we used to play Assassins?” Trevor says, squeezing the last bit of juice out of his Capri Sun.

Oh, how I loved that game! It was like tag: Everybody picked a name out of a hat, and you had to tag the person out. Once you got your person, you had to take out whoever they had. It involved a lot of sneaking around and hiding. A game could last for days.

“I was the Black Widow,” Genevieve says. She does a little shoulder shimmy at Peter. “I won more than anybody.”

“Please,” Peter scoffs. “I won plenty.”

“So did I,” Chris says.

Trevor points at me. “L’il J, you were the worst at it. I don’t think you won once.”

I make a face. L’il J. I’d forgotten he used to call me that. And he’s right: I never did win. Not even once. The one time I came close, Chris tagged me out at Kitty’s swim meet. I’d thought I was safe because it was late at night. I was so close to that win, I could almost taste it.

Chris’s eyes meet mine, and I know she’s remembering too. She winks at me, and I give her a sour look.

“Lara Jean just doesn’t have the killer instinct,” Genevieve says, looking at her nails.

I say, “We can’t all be black widows.”

“True,” she says, and my teeth clench.

John says to Peter, “Remember that one time I had you, and I was hiding behind your dad’s car before school, but it was your dad that came out, not you? And I scared him, and he and I both screamed?”

“Then we had to quit altogether when Trevor came to my mom’s store in his ski mask,” Peter guffaws.

Everyone laughs, except for me. I’m still smarting from Genevieve’s “killer instinct” dig.

Trevor’s laughing so hard he can barely speak. “She almost called the cops!” he manages to sputter.

Peter nudges my sneaker toe with his. “We should play again.”

He’s trying to get back in my good graces, but I’m not ready to let him, so I just shrug a chilly little shrug. I wish I weren’t mad at him, because I really do want to play again. I want to prove I’ve got the killer instinct too, that I’m not some Assassins loser.

“We should do it,” John says. “For old times’ sake.” He catches my eye. “One last shot, Lara Jean.”

I smile.

Chris raises an eyebrow. “What does the winner get?”

“Well . . . nothing,” I say. “It would just be for fun.” Trevor makes a face at this.

“There should be a prize,” Genevieve says. “Otherwise what’s the point?”

I think fast. What would be a good prize? “Movie tickets? A baked good of the winner’s choice?” I blurt out. No one says a word.

“We could all put in a twenty,” John offers. I throw him a grateful look and he smiles.

“Money’s boring,” Genevieve says, stretching like a cat.

I roll my eyes. Who asked for her two cents? I didn’t even ask for her to be here.

Trevor says, “Um, how about the winner gets breakfast in bed every day for a week? It could be pancakes on Monday, omelet on Tuesday, waffle on Wednesday, and so forth. There are six of us, so—”

Shuddering, Genevieve says, “I don’t eat breakfast.” Everyone groans.

“Why don’t you suggest something instead of shooting everybody down,” Peter says, and I hide my face behind my braid so no one sees me smile.

“Okay.” Genevieve thinks for a minute, and then a smile spreads across her face. It’s her Big Idea look, and it makes me nervous. Slowly, deliberately, she says, “The winner gets a wish.”

“From who?” Trevor asks. “Everybody?”

“From any one of us who are playing.”

“Wait a minute,” Peter interjects. “What are we signing on for here?”

Genevieve looks very pleased with herself. “One wish, and you have to grant it.” She looks like an evil queen.

Chris’s eyes gleam as she says, “Anything?”

“Within reason,” I quickly say. This isn’t at all what I had in mind, but at least people are willing to play.

“Reason is subjective,” John points out.

“Basically, Gen can’t force Peter to have sex with her one last time,” Chris says. “That’s what everyone’s thinking, right?”

I stiffen. That wasn’t what I was thinking, like at all. But now I am.