Height: 5’11’’
Your crush: unknown entity ... not computable at this time
Tattoos: 2, one on the inside of my elbow, the other over my right shoulder blade (my mom started crying when she saw the first one, you destroyed your body!!)
Right or left-handed: Right
Any surgeries: broke my wrist pretty bad and my leg once. I had to have a couple pins put in – I was only about seven and then nine.
Any piercings: no I didn’t want anyone trying to tug that shit out
Favorite sport: lacrosse. All my brothers played, and I’m not the worst at it but I probably hate it the most
First vacation: France. I was nine-months-old and can remember absolutely nothing
Currently…
What are you eating: cold slice of pizza
What are you drinking: that energy drink + vodka
What are you waiting for: a certain someone’s username
Do you want kids: I already feel bad for these kids
Marriage: if I love her enough
Career: who the fuck knows bc I don’t
What do you like…
Hugs or kisses: definitely kissing but I’d take both
Shorter or taller: girls? I don’t really have a preference
Older or younger: probably younger or same age
I’m not tagging anyone else, but if you feel like doing this, knock yourself out. It’s not as bad as it seems. And someone out there owes me a username -- see you in the morning if I haven’t already.
“Are you getting off?”
“Huh?” I peel my attention off my cellphone. A college student with a backpack is waiting in the lobby.
She motions to the elevator. “Are you getting off here?”
“Oh yeah.” I quickly step off and check the time, still five minutes early. I pocket my cell, surprised at how much information I received and then in the same breath, all the conundrums that he presented me with too.
I wonder if my questionnaire will read that way as well.
As soon as I walk outside, the September air cool, I notice a black Mustang parked on the curb. Garrison waits for me, leaning against the car with hands in his navy-blue slacks. His tie is loose around his neck, his white button-down fitting him perfectly.
In the Dalton Academy uniform, he looks more like a quintessential popular guy than the alternative black-hoodied one I’m used to seeing. He straightens up when he spots me, and I slow my pace a little.
No eggs are in his hand. I breathe easier. This is not a Never Been Kissed situation. He’s just scanning me from head to toe like I did to him.
“Hey,” he greets with a nod.
“You’re early.” I stop a couple feet away from him.
“So are you.” His aqua-blue eyes land on my skirt and they never peel away.
“What…?” I wonder if I didn’t iron the fabric enough.
“You’re not wearing that right.”
I pale. “What do you mean?” It’s just a blue skirt, a belt attached with the same stiff canvas fabric and it forms a bow in the front.
“The bow is tied differently, and it shouldn’t be lined in the middle of your body.” He combs a hand through his hair.
I try to fix it, but I’m not exactly sure what it’s supposed to look like. It’s not like Dalton Academy gave me a manual on how to tie bows. I fumble with it, unsure and nervous.
Garrison takes two steps towards me, so close that his forehead almost brushes with mine when I look up. “Can I touch you?” he asks, his hands hovering by my hips.
My whole body heats, blazing from a moment in time. I’m barely able to nod. And then he takes the waistband of my skirt and shifts it to the right, the bow now resting on my hip and the zipper on my other one. It’s not crazy to think the zipper was supposed to be in the back, is it?
He reties the bow, his knuckles brushing my waist more than once.
“Does the uniform matter a lot?” I ask.
“To most of the teachers, yeah. They’d make you stand up and retie the bow in the middle of the class.”
I imagine all the eyes on me, and I wince, glad to be saved from that. When he finishes the bow, he tucks the edge of my blouse into my skirt, the corner astray. “I think you’re good,” he says with a couple nods. “I can take that.” He gestures to my backpack.
I shake my head. “I’ll hold onto it.”
“Okay.” He checks his watch—a charcoal-tinted one that appears expensive by the plate-size and band. “We’ll make it on time.”
About a minute later, we’re in his Mustang and driving to Dalton Academy, back towards the ritzy neighborhoods and further away from Penn.
“My schedule is in the middle console if you want to compare,” he tells me.
I open the middle console, take out a folded piece of paper, and then retrieve the crumpled one from my backpack.
I notice three similarities, which is a lot more than I expected.
“And?” he asks, glancing between the road and me.
“We’re in the same British lit and Calculus class, and we have the same lunch period.” I gauge his reaction, but he never smiles much, not even now.
He asks, “Are you good at British lit?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of…” He gives me a look. “What does that mean exactly? Sort of. Is it more of a yes or more of a no for you?”
“I guess…a yes.”
He nods. “Good because I fucking suck at lit.”
“I’m bad at Calculus.”
He nearly smiles this time. “I’ll help you if you help me.”
I lean back. “You’re good at math?”
“I like numbers more than words,” he explains, “but I don’t mind reading—just not classics. I fall asleep every time I flip a page.” He fiddles with the windshield wipers as a sheet of rain suddenly falls from the sky.
“I like comic books mostly, but I pick up regular books from time to time.” I hug my backpack closer, my skirt riding up a little. I try to tug that down. “Should I be worried…?”
He glances at me again, like he’d rather focus on me than the road, but the rain really steals his attention. “About what?”
“The people at Dalton. I know Loren called the cops on your…friends, and I’m just wondering if they’re bitter towards him still.”
Garrison tries to hide his expression, but I see him cringe.
“Oh God,” I mutter, realizing it’s bad.
“It’s not just about that. Some of the guys there had brothers who went to school with Loren, and they hated him. That hate has passed down through siblings.”
“Why’d they hate him?”
Garrison shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s probably just stupid shit, back and forth vandalism. My oldest brother killed a deer after hunting with his friends, and he put the head in some guy’s pickup as a joke.” He emphasizes the last word with more distaste.
My face contorts. People actually do that? “And they know I’m Loren’s cousin?”
“Hey,” he says, “if you’re that worried, I can just tell some people you’re with me.”
I stiffen.
“Not like, with me, with me.”
“So…you’ll tell everyone that you’re my friend?”
He shakes his head. “No, I have a lot of friends…” He stops short. “Or I used to. Anyway, that won’t mean much to someone.” He glances at me again. “I can just tell everyone you’re my girl, and they’ll probably back off.”
“Your girl?” My brows jump.
He licks his lips and actually laughs into a small smile. “It’s ambiguous. Not a girlfriend, but not just a friend. I don’t own you or anything. It just lies somewhere between those two.”
My shoulders loosen a little as I contemplate this. “It reminds me of the movie.” I have to bite my tongue to keep from smiling. My Girl. A movie about best friends.
“What movie?” he asks.
“My Girl…you’ve neve
r seen it?”
He shakes his head, and then he asks, “Are you okay with this? I can try to think of something else if you’re not.”
I contemplate it a little more. “So if someone asks you about me, you’ll say to them…?”
“She’s my girl.” He says it with sincerity and threat, like don’t mess with her. He takes a hand off the steering wheel and catches my gaze once. “Yeah?”
My arms heat, liking my girl more than I thought I would. Maybe because it’s from him. “Yeah,” I say, licking my lips. I realize they’re a little cracked. “Are you sure they’ll back off if I’m affiliated with you?”
“They’ll probably just come harass me instead,” he says with a dry smile. I don’t think he’s joking.
“Garrison—”
“I don’t give a shit about any of the people at Dalton anymore, and I can take a few stupid comments and empty threats.” He changes lanes and subjects. “I never asked where you’re from.”
“Maine,” I say without thinking about my cover. Willow Hale.
“And you left your parents to be here?” He frowns.
I pick at a frayed strand on my backpack. “Yeah.”
“How come?”
“I guess…” I start, trying to wrap my head around why I did this. Why I ultimately decided to plant roots here instead of return to Caribou. “I decided that I’d do whatever it takes to be the person I want to be and not what everyone else wants me to be, even if it means hurting some people I love along the way.”
He stares far off as he drives. “Yeah…” He lets out a short breath. “I think I’m doing that too.”
I relax more. “Willow bada boom thirty-three,” I tell him.
He tilts his head at me. “Your username?”
“Yeah.”
“I like it, Willow bada boom.” He says it in The Fifth Element voice. My chest swells.
It’s not every day you meet someone that understands the things you love, but somehow I’ve crossed paths with someone who really does.
18 BACK THEN – September
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 17
“Ready?” I ask Willow.
“Ready.”
I open the door.
We step into the school, halls congested like most mornings. Instead of rushing to classrooms, friends huddle in groups by lockers or wander around, searching for a familiar face.
Willow walks in a diagonal line, almost inwards towards me. She avoids bumping into a few passing students.
“What’s your locker number?” I ask while she adjusts the strap of her backpack.
I almost set my hand on her shoulder, but instead I just let her hover close by. As soon as she unfurls her schedule, she hands the paper to me.
It’s a little damp, like her palms are sweating.
I’m not going to be a dick and mention it though.
I glance at the locker number with the code written out. “You’re over here, further down.”
She nods mechanically.
I understand the kind of nerves that just completely eviscerate you. Only I don’t feel them on the first day of school, or the second, or even the last. They hit me when I bike near my house. When I drive by. When I’m feet from the mailbox and then the front door.
When I step inside. Knowing my brothers are there.
They’re gone. They’re at college, I have to keep reminding myself.
Thank God.
“Sorry,” Willow apologizes in a whisper. I think towards me, but I realize that someone barely brushed against Willow’s arm on the way to a locker.
The girl shoots Willow a weird look, probably unsure of what she said.
We move along, out of her sight.
“So there are vending machines in the middle of each hall,” I tell her. “We can grab some waters before first period.” I’ll see her in second period, Calculus. Our first periods are different.
She’ll be okay.
She left Maine all by herself, didn’t she? Bravery exists somewhere inside of her. She just needs to remember that.
Two guys crash against my right shoulder with complete disregard. It knocks me into Willow. I catch onto her waist so we don’t both slam into the floor.
Shit.
She stiffens but holds onto me for support too. Once we’re stabilized, I take my hands off her and try to find the two assholes. I spin around.
“Really?” I snap, extending my arms at them, but as soon as they turn to face me, my arms drop immediately. One of the guys—he’s a friend-of-a-friend who I’ve fallen out with.
He flips me off. “Watch it, Abbey,” Pat Hayes snaps. Honestly, I expected worse than a shoulder-check and the middle finger.
“No thanks,” I rebut and then walk forward, away from them. Willow keeps my pace. I glance at her. You okay?
She seems a little shaken.
The universe is basically saying: Garrison Abbey, you’re the shittiest welcome committee. Take a backseat and let someone who’s actually well-liked show this sweet girl around.
I don’t want to hurt her.
Still, the thing I’ve always sucked at is leaving people when I should. I end up staying too long, too late. I’m not going to leave Willow alone, not now.
Maybe I should at least tell her I’m cursed.
I hear Pat huff angrily behind me, still enraged. He’s captain of our crew team, an adversary of Dalton’s lacrosse team. Our football team is shit, so all the country club sports are put on pedestals. Dalton’s track, swimming, tennis, crew, lacrosse and equestrian teams are all top in the state.
Pat shouts, “You ran into me, Abbey!”
Bullshit.
I say loudly without turning around, “If that’s what you think, then maybe don’t have a fireside chat in the middle of the hall.”
Pat shouts out a “fuck you” before a nearby teacher scolds him for his language. We’re too far away from one another to keep combating. Thankfully.
Willow keeps muttering “sorry” every five seconds, and by the time we make it to her locker, I feel relieved for her. She wipes her forehead with the back of her arm. A strand of her hair is still stuck to her damp cheek.
I motion to her face. “Can I…you have something…?”
She’s confused for a second and tentatively nods at me.
I pick the strand off and tuck it behind her ear.
She swallows once and stares at her feet and then her locker.
“Are you going to pass out on me?” I ask with concern, already trying to figure out the distance from her locker to the nurse’s.
I think I could carry her there, no problem.
Willow shakes her head. “I’m not good at this…I forgot to warn you.” Maybe she means that she’s not good at being the new girl in a school full of strangers. Or maybe even more general: being surrounded by a lot of people at one time.
“You’re doing alright.”
She glances at her skirt. “How’s the bow?”
My lips pull up a fraction. “Without a doubt, you have the best bow in the entire kingdom. If I were a princess, I’d even be jealous.” I pass her schedule back as she begins to smile. “Fifteen, thirty-seven, twenty-seven.”
I don’t ask if she wants me to open it. I figure spinning the lock will be a nice distraction for a second.
While she turns the dial, I’m about to ask about her last school. I assume it was public and smaller than Dalton.
Just as I open my mouth, I spot someone familiar in the corner of my eye. Carly Jefferson. She whispers to a group of three girls, about fifteen lockers down from Willow’s.
I’d like to think I’m more observant than paranoid. That this isn’t all in my head. But I have this feeling. You know the feeling—the one where everything stills around you. Just for a moment. Where every crack and flaw that frames a photo suddenly magnifies ten million times over.
It’s happening. Right now.
The hallwa
y noises deaden in my mind. Leaving excruciating silence. Their furtive glances like sharp knives. Their smiles like snarls. Carly giggles and nudges her friend’s side. A couple guys join the huddle of girls. They lean against lockers and smirk. Taking a front row seat to a show.
Wrong.
Everything is wrong.
“Willo—” I start and grab her arm to stop her from opening the locker.
The dial has already clicked, and the blue metal swings back.
It should be empty. But it’s not.
Hundreds of tampons fall out, most in their wrapper. A handful have been torn open and soaked in what I hope is red dye.
She freezes.
I don’t even know what to do. I go as still, as quiet as her.
And the hallway erupts in laughter.
Here’s the truth: I’ve never been pranked at school. I’ve never been picked on by anyone but my brothers. I used to be well-liked. Even if I hated myself half the time.
I want to say something.
Do something.
Anything.
To stand up for the quieter person. For the first time in my life.
19 BACK THEN – September
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW MOORE
Age 17
My instinct is to run, but I have nowhere to actually go. I’ve already run away from Caribou, Maine. This is the place that I’ve run to.
My ribs tighten around my lungs with a hysteric thought and my new eulogy: Willow Moore, that fool who ran away to have her locker filled with tampons and be publicly humiliated in a new school.
It’s not true. I can’t let it be.
I ran away to build a relationship with my brother.
To become me without any apologies attached. None of these: “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m not as pretty or as popular as you hoped I’d be.”
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