by Emery Lord
She snorted. “I’m fine with ‘gay.’ The ‘now’ can kiss my ass, though.”
“Ignoramus,” I muttered. “Wait. Ignor-Ames. Ha!”
“You are …” Tessa trailed off, smiling, and said, in her fondest tone of voice, “my favorite dork.”
I took notes throughout my first classes, even though the syllabus information would be online. Writing out notes in longhand felt satisfying—peaceful, even—until AP English, which should have been my easy class.
“I imagine all of you consider language your forte,” Mrs. Ramirez was saying. “If the reading list looks daunting, it’s because I’m preparing you not just for the AP test but for collegiate coursework.”
All my friends were in another period, so I had no one to share grimaces with until next-period lunch, where Kayleigh immediately asked, “English syllabus?”
“Yes!” I fell into the food line with her, hoping to grab a snack for after my senior appointment. “When am I going to read that much?”
Kayleigh clucked her tongue. “And if you’re worried about that …”
“Big news on the personal front.” Tessa joined us with a drink. She talked around the red straw. “The school has a milkshake machine now.”
“I’m sure you two will be very happy together,” Kayleigh said.
I craned my neck, hoping to spot Max cutting past for his calc class.
“Well,” I said, pocketing a protein bar. I handed a dollar to the cashier. “Senior appointment time.”
“Who’s yours with?” Tessa asked.
“I got a spot with Pepper.” At this overcrowded school, there weren’t enough counselors to meet with every senior before applications. Fortunately for me, my QuizBowl adviser and favorite teacher was an auxiliary graduation adviser.
“Lucky. I’m with Davis on Friday. I don’t even know him.”
“Good luck!” Kayleigh told me. “Hope you’re graduating!”
Behind me, I heard Tessa smack her arm. “Don’t joke about that. You know she has nightmares about missing credits.”
I liked Ms. Pepper for a lot of reasons: she was smart and funny, one of those teachers who could read the room. But also because she seemed to like her students. When kids joked with her, she gave it right back. And though she had quite a poker face, she often seemed to be masking amusement, like she enjoyed our company.
She was seated at her desk, eyes so affixed to her laptop that I didn’t knock right away. Even from here, I could see summer freckles, more pronounced than usual on her fair skin. I wondered what she did outside. Gardening? Swimming? I could only imagine her in a blazer on a lounge chair, reading a serious novel.
“Paige!” she said, spotting me. “Hey! Get in here! How’s it going?”
On my way toward her, I trailed my palm over my former desk. This musty junior classroom had become an unexpected holy ground, the place where a seat next to Max Watson changed everything.
“How was New York?”
“Amazing.” I settled into the chair nearest her desk. “Well, terrifying and overwhelming. But amazing.”
“You liked your classes? How’d you fare in workshop?”
“Oh my gosh. Ha. Not great, at first.”
“No one does,” she said. “But you thrive on constructive feedback, so I bet your work improved quite a bit.”
I smiled a little, flattered that Pepper knew me so well. “It did, yes.”
Ms. Pepper looked genuinely happy for me, as she had last year when I told her about the program. “I’m so glad you had a good experience. And Max is well? I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Max is great. He loved Italy, of course.”
“Of course. And you two are …” She pointed between me and a nearby empty seat, as if this somehow meant “in a relationship of some romantic nature.”
“Yep,” I said, trying to sound casual and not like my cheeks could explode into phoenix flames, ash out, and rise again.
She nodded, but I could tell she was resisting a smile. I had the sense that she’d been rooting for Max and me from the start. I imagined the two of us plotted like meteors, in different corners and hurtling through dark sky. Ms. Pepper saw our trajectories toward each other when we were still in different quadrants of the universe.
Before we were so together that I picked up his sci-fi lingo.
“So let’s get into this, eh?” Pepper said. The screen reflected in her glasses, but I couldn’t make out the details of what I presumed was my student file. Grades, state test scores. Anything about my first-ever boyfriend dying right before sophomore year? The guidance counselor checked in with me a lot back then, but left the heavy lifting to the therapist my parents found for me.
“Excellent grades, exemplary ACT.” She clicked the mouse, scrolling. I resisted making a crack about having no life for most of high school being a huge help to my academics. “You’ve got some activities from freshman year. QuizBowl last year.”
“And I work. At the movie theater.”
“Right. That’s good. The NYU program this summer is a great addition to your CV. Will you be asking any of your professors for college recommendations?”
“I did already.” In her letter, my favorite professor called me a workhorse of a writer—eminently teachable without surrendering my point of view. Green, of course, another professor said, but a whip-smart grinder with a great ear. I reread those words a dozen times, trying to internalize: I was good at this. Or maybe, I could be good at this.
Pepper looked impressed. “Fantastic. Will NYU be your number one choice, then?”
“I think so? USC and UCLA are huge long-shots, but on the table.” I almost added that my decision might rest on where my writing partner landed, but that was hard to explain without sounding codependent.
More than even workshop, Maeve brought out my best writing. She charged into every element with a confident opinion—a natural consequence of being a Taurus with an Aries rising, she claimed. Normally, brashness like that would shut me down to huffy silences and deferred opinions. But Maeve prodded me to defend my ideas; she listened thoughtfully and considered. Alone in my dorm room, I could stare up at the ceiling for an hour trying to solve one problem. Across from Maeve at a coffee shop, ideas whizzed between us like sparks.
“What about Indiana schools? Any options with in-state tuition?”
“IU is a given.” I’d visited with my parents and felt right at home, confident in the major offerings and how I’d fit in. It was my favorite locally, so I didn’t see the point of paying application fees for other Indiana schools.
Pepper tapped a pen against her chin. “Are there any film-related activities here at Oakhurst?”
“Um, there’s supposed to be an A/V component to my journalism elective?”
She toggled her head, unsatisfied. “What about the fall play or spring musical? Could you shadow the director, maybe? Or do stage crew?”
“Um, maybe. But I think they rehearse after school.” I cleared my throat, trying to sound grown-up. “I have a work release to get some hours in at my job.”
“Well, that’s that, then. I think you’re in fine shape. Let me know if I can glance over your application materials for you.” She made eye contact, like she knew I needed the reassurance. “You’ll be fine. And I’ll see you at Warrior Night tonight, yes?”
“Yep.” I’d been tasked with representing QuizBowl at the annual event for freshmen and slacker upperclassmen to peruse school activities. “See you. Thanks.”
On my way out the door, I told myself she meant it like “fine china” or “fine wine.”
Fine. I was fine.
That evening, I hesitated at the gym doors, indulging in a brief daydream about fleeing Warrior Night. Tables lined the high-gloss floors, already full of fellow seniors and their clubs. Kayleigh would be heading up the volleyball table somewhere around here. Morgan was manning the Empower booth, or, as she put it, womanning it.
Max, team captain of QuizBowl, had also bee
n elected president of the robotics team. They worked on projects of their own, but also visited elementary and middle schools, trying to draw kids into the wild world of engineering. All good stuff, except that Max’s robotics presidency left me speaking to strangers about academic and pop culture trivia. Luckily, our friend and third QuizBowl teammate, Malcolm, had positioned the student council table next to my station. Maybe he’d jump in if I blacked out from excess chitchat.
Max found me in the sea of people, sidestepping early-bird parents, students, and younger siblings dragged along. “There you are. It’s been weird hardly seeing you all day.”
“Yeah, I’m not into it.”
“Wait for me after?” he asked, and I nodded. “Good luck—try to lure in some solid recruits.”
“I’ll try …” I gave a wary expression and swept my hair back, mock vanity. “But last year’s rookie set a pretty high standard.”
He grinned, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I don’t expect that level of perfection.”
For the rest of the evening, I chatted gamely with anyone who approached—emphasizing that QuizBowl was a very low-pressure commitment. And fun! Once, I called it “a brainy but whimsical addition to your résumé,” which I hoped was true. During the lulls, I restacked our flyers and chatted with Malcolm.
The biggest surprise of the night was Aditi Basu. Junior class vice president, soccer goalie, and one of those rare people with genuine popularity, not status popularity. She ran the most-liked photo account at Oakhurst, colorful shots from her job at the ice cream shop and snaps of her family cooking together. But sometimes, makeup-free selfies with captions about beauty standards, posts about her migraines—and frustration with the pain, medication trials, missing days of school. She often liked my posts, rare as they were, so I felt as if I knew her, even though we’d only talked a few times.
“Hey, Paige.” She smiled the way she always did—warmly, with a hint of shyness. Maybe a fellow introvert underneath the public vulnerability.
“Hey, Aditi. How’s it going?”
“Good, good.” She gestured at the poster board. “So, QuizBowl. You guys did pretty well last year, right?”
“Yeah, we held our own.”
“I had a class with Max,” she admitted with a laugh. “He talked it up. Are there openings on the team this year?”
“Yeah! There are.”
“Cool. Could I …” She reached for a flyer. “Thanks. See you at the info meeting.”
I could almost feel people at other booths watching this exchange, QuizBowl’s social capital rising with Aditi’s mere presence.
So all in all, a good night. The last first day, over already. I walked out with Max’s arm around me, Morgan teasing me about going home to color-coordinate my syllabi into binders. Ryan and Malcolm chatting with Kayleigh about weekend plans.
“That’s a wrap, kids,” Ryan said, peeling off for his Jeep. “First day down!”
“Oh, hey,” I said, touching Malcolm’s arm. “Are you and Josiah around on Saturday?”
“I think so,” he said. “Senior Year List?”
“Yeah, we’re thinking roller rink,” I said. This was how I held on for now, how I readied myself to let it all go: enjoying every last first, savoring.
Kayleigh reached one arm up to the sunset, calling to everyone and no one, “Seniors!”
After being surprised by two sudden losses, I’d learned to be suspicious of the moments when everything felt right. As soon as I caught myself relaxing toward contentment, I winced—eyes darting for the shoe that would inevitably drop. But for now, my worries had parted enough to let everything else rush in: fresh asphalt, the August sky with clouds in full bloom. The tiny buzz of freedom, my own car, my senior year waiting like a canvas I’d constructed and was finally getting to paint. The way that when my lips touched Max’s, the parking lot fell out from around us like a flimsy wooden backdrop on a theater stage. I was fine.
CHAPTER SIX
On Saturday, a slow hour at the Cin 12 ticket counter converged with Donna’s break, and I took the opportunity to rethink my schedule. Across the ticket counter, I laid the components of my life on index cards like a storyboard: SCHOOL, HOMEWORK, WORK, COLLEGE APPLICATIONS, FRIENDS, MAX, QUIZBOWL, FAMILY, SLEEP. Which needed priority right now? Could anything be combined? The only area that had obvious wiggle room was sleep, the glue that held my sanity together. Family and homework? Maybe I could work on my history paper at the kitchen table while Cameron baked and my mom shopped online for drawer handles.
“What do we have here?” Hunter’s voice appeared nearby. His shift had started later, owing to a doctor’s appointment. “Hmm! ‘MAX’ next to ‘SLEEP.’ Interesting.”
“Oh, honestly.” I pushed the cards apart.
Hunter slid into the booth beside me, mimicking my pose, elbows on the counter. “I take it your first week of school went well.”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“So this is just …” He trailed off, motioning at the spread before us. “The inner workings of an average, chill senior?”
“I have never claimed to be chill,” I said with a sniff. “And not everyone has things figured out like you do.”
His mouth quirked up on one side, dimple arcing from cheek to chin. “Do I?”
He looked pleased that I thought so, anyway. I searched through our previous conversations in my mind, flipping through pages of dialogue. He did seem to worry a lot about losing his scholarship to injury. About balancing college ball with coursework, since he might do graduate school eventually. He was a youngest child, a surprise to his parents later in life, and he seemed regretful to leave them for school.
I peered at him. “Wait. Are you as big a mess as I am?”
“Yes, Hancock!” He laughed. “Of course. I’m also just trying to have fun sometimes. Which I notice is not one of your cards.”
“ ‘FRIENDS’ is. And I can have fun with any of these things!” I said, chin raised. “In fact, I made a list of things that my friends and I—”
Hunter cut me off, shaking both hands. “Please don’t finish that sentence. It’s very sad.”
“Oh, really?” I spun, looking smug. “Is it sad that I’m going to the roller rink tonight?”
Hunter’s eyebrows shot up. Not that I’d ever tell him so, but I’d maybe never seen such nice eyebrows on a guy—full and straight, as dark as his hair. “That place off Braemer Ave? Man, I haven’t been there in years.”
I pointed at myself with both hands. “Yeah, and it’s fun.”
“Well, Hancock,” Hunter said. “That is very wholesome. Tell the gang from Happy Days I said hi.”
“I know you’re making fun of me,” I said primly. “But I’m actually very pleased with you for that classic television reference.”
He stared down at my cards as if it were a chessboard. After a moment, he moved WORK next to HOMEWORK. “I could help you study. Be your lookout, anyway.”
I studied him in profile, the neat slope of his nose, the jut of his lips. “Are you being serious?”
“Sure. It combines something I like—sneaking things past Donna—and something you like: the full nerd lifestyle.” Before I could retort, he flashed a card between two fingers. “Does this or does this not say ‘QUIZBOWL’?”
The roller rink had been forgotten since our elementary school birthday parties, but it hadn’t changed—the Skee-Ball machine dings, the neon track lighting, the heavy clunk of wheels on sheened floors. Back then, I gawked at the high school couples, scandalized by the hand-holding and moony expressions. Now I was skating beside Max Watson, watching the tiny mirrored lights shimmy across his skin. Those couples might have felt butterflies, but I felt—I don’t know. Loops of skywriting.
“Did you come here a lot as a kid?” I asked him.
“Um, only every weekend of sixth grade. How do you think I developed these sweet moves?” He skated in a slow figure-eight pattern, nearly losing his balance.
I caught his hand.
“Easy, Tiger.”
“I wasn’t really falling,” he said, grin flashing. “Just trying to get you to hold my hand.”
“Uh-huh.”
Kayleigh waved from across the rink, where she and Morgan had their arms linked. She gestured to the table where we’d set up camp an hour ago and where Tessa now sat alone. From the looks of it, she’d purchased the snack counter’s entire menu. She looked as solemn as Jesus in The Last Supper, only with chicken tenders instead of disciples.
Max skated with me to the exit door, and I wagged a finger at him. “No fancy-skating attempts while I’m gone.”
He gave a delighted grin. “I’ll only fall for you.”
I managed to spin around, so he’d have the full view of my grudging smile.
“Hey!” he said. “Look at those moves!”
“It’s just how I roll,” I said mildly. Then, over my shoulder, “Guess you punderestimated me.”
I could hear his open-mouthed grin in the stunned silence. He called after me, “Dream girl!”
Josiah, reentering the rink, gave me an appraising look. “We’re all pulling for a spring wedding.”
We were still getting to know each other, so I liked that he’d ventured out with a joke. I swatted back. “You’re one to talk.”
As if on cue, Malcolm mimed something to him from the snack line.
“CHER-RY,” Josiah said, slow and exaggerated. Malcolm gave him a thumbs-up, and Josiah turned to me, pleased. “Double wedding, then.”
I laughed and headed toward Tessa.
“Something tells me,” I said, easing off my wheels, “that you are not having a skaterrific time.”
Outside, a mural featuring this word and a giant, anthropomorphized roller skate spanned half the parking lot. We’d posed with it on our way in.
A bite of soft pretzel bulged out Tessa’s cheek. “What gave me away?”
“We finished the first week of senior year!” I said weakly. “No? You missing Laurel?”
“No. Well, yes, obviously.” Laurel had posted a few photos from her first week—a morning latte scene and a skyscraper shot. In the former, Tessa was tagged as the coffee mug, maybe an inside joke. Or maybe Laurel was tagging where her thoughts were as she sipped her drink.