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universes,” Caitlin replies. “Dr. Mann claims it’s possible for them to—”
    “Hiii, Tyler!” Caitlin’s expression instantly turns sour. Neither of us has to look to know who the voice belongs to. Ilana Cassidy, quite possibly the least likable and most genuinely mean-spirited person on the planet. Apparently, the fact that Ilana is the devil incarnate was not enough to keep Tyler from hooking up with her at Max Levine’s annual end-of-summer party, giving Ilana the mistaken impression that she and Tyler are a couple now. Ilana is standing at the foot of the hill, hands on her bony hips, posing like she’s on the red carpet.
    “Is she expecting paparazzi?” Caitlin mutters under her breath. The only person who likes Ilana less than I do is Caitlin.
    Ilana’s eyes dart to Caitlin. In an odd twist of fate, the only person whose approval Ilana craves is Caitlin, which has everything to do with Caitlin’s runway-worthy wardrobe. Ilana sees me watching her and glowers. “What are you looking at?” I know better than to respond.
    “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” Tyler calls to Ilana. “We’re sort of in the middle of something.”
    A look of annoyance flashes across Ilana’s face, but she covers it with a plastic smile. “Yeah, okay!” she chirps. “Text me!”
    Tyler gives her a noncommittal wave, then turns back to his lunch.
    “I still can’t believe you hooked up with her,” Caitlin says to Tyler when Ilana is out of earshot, her tone harsh.
    “I don’t know why you hate her so much,” Tyler replies. “She’s not that bad.”
    “Oh, yes. She is.”
    “You know, you guys kinda look alike,” Tyler says casually, pulling the top off his yogurt. He licks blue yogurt off the little aluminum lid, then wads it up into a little ball and tosses it into the nearest trash can, pretending not to notice that Caitlin is glaring at him.
    “We do not.”
    “The blond hair, the blue eyes . . .” Tyler grins. “You two could be sisters.”
    I can’t help but laugh. It’s true that Caitlin and Ilana are both blond haired and blue eyed, but they look nothing alike. Caitlin is a replica of her mother—tall, lanky, beautiful in an I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-threw-this-on way. Ilana, on the other hand, always looks like she just spent two hours in the bathroom (and about four hours at the gym) trying to achieve Barbie-doll beauty. Her five-foot-two-inch frame has been spun and kickboxed down to kids’ department size, and her frizzy brown hair has been bleached and straightened into submission, so that it now hangs limply at her bony shoulders.
    Caitlin makes a face and punches Tyler in the shoulder. He catches her fist in his and holds it for a couple of beats longer than he has to. That’s when it happens. Something passes between them. Something I’ve never noticed before. Something so slight, it’s nearly imperceptible . . .
    Chemistry.
    The moment the thought pops into my mind, I’m certain of it. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. It’s like this intense gut feeling, an intuition so strong it almost feels like déjà vu. Is that why Tyler asked me yesterday if Caitlin had met anyone at the lab this summer? I assumed it was because he wanted to tease her about it (Tyler has no shortage of nerd jokes), but now I wonder if he had other reasons. And Caitlin has been disproportionately critical of the Ilana thing, catty when she’s normally not.
    “So you’re saying Caitlin is your type, then,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “You can’t have Caitlin, so you’re settling for Ilana.”
    Both Tyler and Caitlin look at me in surprise. We don’t joke like this. Ever. Is it me, or did Tyler’s cheeks just get rosier? It’s awkward for an instant. Then Tyler smiles, and the awkwardness evaporates.
    “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, tugging Caitlin toward him, playing into my joke. “Ilana is filling my Caitlin-shaped void.”
    “Last I checked, I wasn’t shaped like a