“He said he’s looking forward to seeing you at the skate show,” Kristen says, her tone leading.
Maurice is the reason Hannah and I can be together, and if there’s any hope of our plan actually working, I can’t avoid him forever.
“I’m excited to see him perform.” It’s not entirely untrue.
Kristen pauses, and when I look over, she’s giving me one ofher unimpressed glares. “When he said that, I said, ‘Surely you’re not waiting until the skate show to see her. That’s so far away,’ and he said thatyousaid you’re ‘busy.’?”
“What, so he’s reporting back to you about me now?” I thought the last thing I wanted was a boyfriend, but I was wrong. The last thing I want is an immature little snake.
Kristen shakes her head. “No, Clarity. I asked him what he thought about Friday. I was trying to do recon for you. And either way, you can’t bebusyuntil the skate show—”
“Kris, I didn’t say I’d be busy until the skate show. I was busy this weekend. I was working on the festival, and you know I’m teaching Sunday school now. I’m not going to be busy every day for eternity, but I ambusy.” My words gush out. What I really want to say is that if she’s going to nag me about Maurice, I’m not going to give him a chance. But unfortunately, it’s more important than ever that I make this work so that Hannah and I can be together in peace.
“I know you’re busy,” she relents. “I just know that you’re nervous about all this and I don’t want you to avoid it.”
The knot in my stomach tightens. Words bubble to the surface, but nothing is safe to share. The only reason her worry and interference are piling on the pressure is because of my relationship with Hannah. Kristen would never want me to force anything with someone I don’t like, but I can’t tell her the whole truth yet.
Instead, I just nod. “I appreciate that, Kris. Like I promised, I’m giving him a chance. I’ll figure it out,” I say, and force myself to smile.
She gives me a side smile and refocuses on the road. As my best friend, Kristen has always been able to sense when I’m off. Whether I have a crush, if something or someoneis bothering me, or even when I’m just tired from a bad night’s sleep. As much as I’d like to think I’ve perfected my poker face, it occurs to me that she just might not see those things anymore. She might not see me.
Kristen parks behind my mom’s car in the driveway. Inside the house, I call out so that we don’t accidentally scare her.
“In the kitchen!” she shouts back.
Kristen leads the way. Watching her cross my living room, careful not to step on the fancy carpet that as little kids we were trained to avoid like lava, I realize how long it’s been since she’s come over to my house.
“Kristeeeeeen,” Mom coos when we come through the kitchen doorway. She opens her arms, spreading out her butterfly-print scrubs in full glory, and Kristen folds herself into a hug.
“It’s been so long,” Kristen says.
I set my backpack on a barstool and start unloading my books onto the counter.
“I was just thinking about you, well, both of you,” Mom admits.
“Why?” I ask.
Kristen joins me at the breakfast bar and starts unpacking her homework too. On the other side of the island, Mom pulls a piece of paper from the pile of mail she had been sorting. I didn’t know Mrs. Rubio already sent out the first wave of flyers, but in large pumpkin-orange print is a request for chaperones forthe Ridgeway High School Squash the Pumpkin Festival.
“Are you girls still going this year?”
“Mrs. Jones, what kind of question is that?” Kristen asks, feigning incredulity with a gasp.
“Well, I didn’t know if being seniors meant you were too cool for this sort of thing,” Mom says, shrugging. Though I can tell from the smile on her face that she knew we were going all along.
“Of course we’re going. Clarity is planning the whole thing, soclearlyit’ll be the best one yet,” Kristen reasons, shooting me a proud glance.
Mom opens her mouth but then closes it. She looks back and forth between Kristen and me, a conspiratorial smile playing on her lips.
“What?” I ask, the silence becoming uncomfortable.
“Are you guys gonna bring dates?” she asks.
“Mom.”I nearly choke.
“What? I feel like that’s a fair question.”
“It wasn’t a fair question last year,” I remind her. There’s no reason for her to think anything has changed.