His waged war came to a head when he pretended to apologize for everything by gifting Kristen a brownie as a peace offering. I was home sick with strep throat that week, becauseclearlyif I had been there, I would’ve intercepted this Trojan horse. I will never forget when Kristen called me, crying in her closet, more embarrassed than scared of the fact that she was high. That was when we officiallyhatedVincent.
After we watchedThe Craftwhen we were sophomores,Kristen wanted to cast a spell to ruin Vincent’s life. Despite my Christian upbringing, I willingly dabbled in witchcraft for the sake of my best friend, for justified revenge. Now I find out that she spent the sunshine-y days of summer getting cozy and doing God knows what with the enemy!
“People change,” Kristen says, like moving on from nearly two whole years of incessant petty teasing is no big thing.
“How did that even—wait, no. I don’t want to know how it happened. I just hope, now that I’m back, you won’t need that prick anymore.”
“First of all, he’s not a prick,” she says, laughing, undoubtedly to downplay the situation. “Second, he’s myboyfriend.”
“Wehatedhim,” I remind her. I mean,Istill carry my eternally flamed torch of hatred.
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” she snaps, her blue eyes piercing me. “What was I supposed to do? Mope around all summer waiting for you to come home? Sit around on the farm while you got to swim in a lake and eat s’mores at a bonfire?”
“Of course not,” I say, holding back from telling her that my summer wasn’t like that at all. “You were supposed to have fun and make friends with anyone but the one person who made your life suck for so long.”
Kristen takes a deep breath, and for a moment I think she might be hearing me. Then, she says, “You think you know everything, but you don’t.”
Ditto.
She unloops her arm from mine, and I’m thrown back into amemory: my own scared reflection in the black of Kristen’s eyes before I left for Camp Refuge.
I refuse to lose my best friend over something as stupid as Vincent Miller.
“Kris,” I say, my heartbeat quickening when we pass over the threshold into the lunchroom.
“What?” she asks, barely looking back at me over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
She steps to the side, along the perimeter of the cafeteria, and pauses.
“I’m keeping an open mind, like I said I would. I’m just… well, I feel blindsided,” I admit.
“He really has changed,” she replies, some of her nervous energy melting away.
We weave toward one of the tables farthest from the entrance and closest to the windows. Vincent is there with his friends and saved two end seats for us. I wonder if Kristen told him that I don’t like sitting in the middle.
Kristen whispers, “Be nice,” before we reach him.
“Hey, babe,” Vincent says, his eyes glued to her.
“Hey.” She smiles, not just with her lips but with her whole face. She takes the seat next to him and looks at me. “You remember Clarity.”
“Yeah,” he says, turning his attention to me. “It’s been a minute.”
“True,” I say, wondering if we have the same memory of each other. Me hating him, him thinking I was the annoying best friend of the girl he loved to pick on.
She’s right, though. He has changed. He cut his dark brown hair so that it doesn’t hang around his face. But he now has a creepy dad stache.
“How did your thing with Mr. Fuller go?” Kristen asks him.
“It was cool. He said he’ll sponsor us and talk to some of the other teachers about letting us hang flyers in their classrooms.”
“Vincent and his friends are doing a show at the skate park in Hudson to raise money for renovations,” Kristen explains.
I wonder if his friends are the same ones who used to tell Kristen they were going to sneak onto her farm at night to look for weed. I figure asking this is probably not what Kristen had in mind when she told me to be nice.
“That’s fun,” I say, unpacking my leftovers.