“Okay…” She draws out the word. “I just—I don’t want me having a boyfriend to stop us from being able to spend time together. And obviously we will have our alone time, but I don’t want to always have to choose between you guys. You’re my two favorite people.” She looks down for a moment to hide the red hues seeping into her cheeks. “Which is why I was thinking the three of us could go to the football game next Friday?”
First bell rings and students start hustling to get to homeroom. For a moment, we’re caught up watching the chaos.
“Today, after school,” Kristen says, pulling me back in. “Meet me at the photography room, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and we both take off down the hall.
I stroll into the photography room and immediately relax. Even though I’m not artistic and therefore haven’t had any classes in the art wing since mandatory Art 1 freshman year, the photography room is a familiar haven. It’s Kristen’s woman cave, which often made it one of myhang out and wait for one of my parents to pick me up after schoolspots.
Following my morning chat with Kristen, I managed to avoid Hannah in the hallway. No awkward and seemingly obvious stares, no cornering me at my locker to talk more.
I’m still surprised that she didn’t press at all yesterday after I turned her down. I figure if we don’t talk about it again, shecan’t suddenly change her mind, which made running off to the photography room all the more appealing.
“Long time no see,” I kid, since Kristen and I were just in history together.
“Ready?” She finishes signing her name, declaring the Nikon hers until tomorrow, and we set off.
Kristen usually doesn’t tell me where we’re going for shoots, but after I became her muse freshman year, I learned to stay ready. We wind down some residential back roads and pass the mansion that looks like a barn. The landmark tells me where we’re going. Clearmeadow Park is one of our favorite places to do photoshoots because it has a stunning crape myrtle tree.
Kristen parks the car. With the afternoon sunshine cascading down through the bright pink flowers, it’s the perfect backdrop.
She sets her equipment down on a nearby picnic table, and I stand by the tree.
“You should let your hair down,” she says while adjusting the camera settings.
I pull out my twin French braids and run my fingers through my hair. The back of my neck feels warm with my curls down around my shoulders, and I can already tell the argan oil I combed through them this morning is going to glisten under the sunlight.
Kristen holds the viewfinder up to her eye, and without instruction, I start walking around the tree. She prefers the shots to be candid or to feel candid, so I move on my own, occasionally reminding myself to smile. When I reach up for a flower, I hearthe camera shutter snap rapidly, which makes me laugh.
“Since I have you in a good mood,” Kristen says, peeking out from behind the viewfinder. “Next week? Friday night football?”
“I hate football,” I groan. The shutter clicks.
“It’s not about football. The next time you attend the first Friday night football game at Ridgeway High, you won’tbea high schooler. You’ll be one of those old college kids that all the high schoolers treat like a leper because they can’t imagine why you’d want to come back here.”
“But that’s the thing,” I counter, toeing some of the fallen petals at the base of the tree. “I’m not going to come back, at least not for a football game—”
“You’re still missing the point,” Kristen sighs, cutting me off. “How about this:Iwantyouto go to the football game because I’m your best friend and youloveme and next year, when you’re off at some fancy college far, far away, I’ll bet you one hundred dollars you’re gonna wish you’d gone to this game.”
Well, how the heck am I supposed to say no to that?
“Fiiiiiiiine,” I drone, and throw in an “I hate you, by the way” for good measure.
Satisfied, Kristen goes back into full photographer mode, and we hit a pocket of strict posing and capturing. The quiet is nice.
“So,” I say, looking back at Kristen over my shoulder. “Since I have you in a good mood”—I wait for her to snap my current pose before laying it out there—“Vincent Miller.”
“Yes?”
“When did it start?”
She takes a second to check some of the shots. Without looking up from the camera, she says, “The end of July.”
I think back. The end of July is when Hannah and I were—I guess—kicking things up a notch too.
“How?” I ask, hopping up so that I’m hanging from one of the branches with my feet dangling just off the ground.
“He was at my dad’s woodworking thing.”