Even before the Incident, I wasn’t ready for everyone to know about us, about me. At first, I told myself it was because everything was so new and I just wanted to experience it for myself without it being a “thing.” But I also knew I was afraid. I didn’t know how liking Hannah would change things,ifit would change things. What would Kristen think? What would my parents think? We go to the same school, so there’d be plenty of opportunities for us to “run into” each other, to just see each other throughout the day. To try a secret exclusive relationship.
“You know I’m right.” Hannah interrupted my thoughts, tipping her forehead against mine. Her hair fell like a curtain, blocking the world out so that only our faces existed. She always wore her hair down at night, which made it easier for her mango shampoo to waft in my direction, no matter where we were or what we were doing.
I smelled the sweet scent on my next inhale, and when my lipsparted, it took too much effort to not close the space between us.
I shifted away, remembering that someone couldseeus.
I’m pretty sure Hannah knew that’s what I was thinking because she sighed and took a step back. I tried to ignore my own inclination to shift closer to her, that magnetic, automatic pull between us. But I couldn’t. Despite all my rational thinking, Iwantedto be close to her.
I still hadn’t said anything when she told me to think about it.
Days went by and I stayed quiet.
She didn’t come back to my window, and when I woke up on the morning we were due to go home, she’d already left Camp Refuge.
Chapter FourNOW
Dodging Hannah should be easy enough. Before this summer, we went years barely interacting and never had the same classes or the same friends. We don’t have any classes together this semester either. But seeing her in the hallway is still going to sting.
I smile and wave when I pass Kristen at her locker, and she does the same. There’s no time to chat as I bob and weave in between students on the way to Mrs. Rubio’s classroom. She’s the faculty adviser for the festival committee. We started keeping in touch via email at the end of last semester when she realized the festival committee might die out. A majority of the members graduated, leaving me and two other—not-nearly-as-committed—members to make up the entire group. That practically guaranteed me the president position, but it failed to guarantee that the committee would survive. Yet somehow, by the grace of God, we secured more members. She emailed me last week to say a student reached out with their friends to join the club. So she set a meeting for today, before homeroom, to fill me in on the details.
Every year, the festival committee plans two festivals, one forthe fall semester and one for the spring. In my opinion, the fall one is always more memorable. The Squash the Pumpkin Festival is a night filled with carving and chucking pumpkins, painting gourds, navigating hay mazes, and playing timeless—kind of disgusting—games like bobbing for apples, all while collecting money and food for Thanksgiving. Even though the high school sponsors the festival, the entire community shows up. Kristen and I have gone every year since we were little and entered the pumpkin chucking together, and we always get our faces painted—even though we end up in the company of little kids.
Needless to say, I’m more than excited to return as president of the committee and throw myself headfirst into festival planning.
“Clarity!” Mrs. Rubio beams, standing up from behind her desk.
“Hey, Mrs. Rubio. How was your summer?”
I admire her blue-and-white floral-print dress and the bikini-strap tan lines I see peeking out on her shoulders.
“Relaxing,” she admits, momentarily staring off into her memories. “Mr. Rubio and I took a late honeymoon.”
Late as in two years late. They got married when I was a sophomore. The wedding, the dress, and every other detail were something the entire female student body of Ridgeway High couldn’t stop talking about.
“How was your summer?” she asks.
I laugh, stifling the butterflies and bile creeping up my throat.
“It was… fine,” I say, hoping I don’t start nervous sweating. “Nothing exciting.”
Mrs. Rubio considers me for a moment, but then something catches her eye over my shoulder.
“Oh, great,” she says, smiling.
I turn around and—
“Hannah?”
“Hey, Clarity,” she says, a smile consuming her face.
I open my mouth even though I have no idea what to say.
“You guys know each other?” Mrs. Rubio asks, the understatement of the century. “That makes this so much better.”
“Makes what better?” shoots out of my mouth faster than I intend.
I pointedly don’t look at Hannah, nor do I notice how her honey-blond hair is up in her typical ponytail and the zit that had been bothering her all summer is gone—which means she probably took my advice and started using toner—but that’s beside the point. I don’t look at her. I don’t think she’s cute. I don’t like her perfectly proportionate, sun-kissed forehead, or how she has no tendrils when her ponytail is fresh, so nothing hides her gentle hazel eyes.