Chapter 8
8
BEVERLY, 1996
14 years old
It’s funny how time moves in waves. Some months drag on endlessly, stretching out like they never want to end, while others rush by so quickly you barely notice them.
That year, everything felt like it was in constant motion.
Blake was still distant sometimes, lost in his books or his thoughts, but I started to see the difference between him being lost in his own world and actually shutting me out.
It wasn’t the same as before, but it wasn’t worse, either.
If anything, it felt like he was holding me at arm’s length, as if silently saying, this is as close as I can let you be.
One thing I could always count on was Blake looking out for me, like the time he helped me out with the period disaster. He even helped me with math homework once—though, to be fair, he mostly just sighed dramatically every time I got something wrong until I threatened to throw my textbook at him.
Life was changing in little ways; shifts I didn’t notice until I looked back.
My own world had grown smaller in some ways, and larger in others. I spent more time in the dance studio, perfecting moves I had only dreamed of a year ago. But something had changed in me, too. My body was becoming something new—more aware, more capable. More powerful.
And somehow, the year just moved.
Winter lingered longer than usual, or maybe it just felt that way. The cold settled in, wrapping around the town in a way that made everything feel a little quieter, a little slower. I spent most of those weeks holed up inside, curled on the couch with Blake, watching movies we rented from the video store. Clueless started it, but soon it became a habit.
He always acted like he didn’t care about the movies, but I knew better. He’d sit there, arms crossed, pretending to be bored, then start dissecting the plot like he was some kind of film critic.
By February, the air smelled like wet pavement and the promise of spring. Tiffany and I sat on my bed flipping through magazines, planning outfits we didn’t have for places we wouldn’t go. My dad came home later than usual most nights, smelling like coffee and exhaustion, his uniform weighed down by the job. Blake spent more time at the library, sometimes dragging me along, forcing me to “broaden my horizons” with books that had no pictures.
I threw myself into dancing more and more. It had started as a distraction, something to do so I wouldn’t sit around waiting for Blake to magically decide to be my best friend again. But somewhere along the way, it became more than that. I wasn’t just dancing tofillmy time anymore—I actuallylovedit. The music, the movement, the way my body ached after practice but in a way that feltgood, like I hadearnedthe pain.
I had something that was mine .
The studio became my second home, the mirrors reflecting a version of myself that felt lighter, freer, every time I pushed my body beyond what I thought it could do.
The aches and soreness became familiar, even comforting.
At least this pain had a purpose.
At leastthispain wasn’t Blake.
In April, Dad finally let me go to the mall with Tiffany and the girlswithouta parent lurking around. It was a big deal.
We spent hours hopping from store to store, trying on platform sandals we could never afford, spritzing ourselves with tester perfumes that smelled like sugar-coated dreams, and playing with butterfly clips in Claire’s as if we were styling some Hollywood star. Tiffany splurged on a glittery Lip Smackers, saying it was an absolute must for her “signature look” while her sister agonized over which choker to buy.
I was holding a pack of pastel scrunchies when Blake scoffed beside me. “You already have hair ties,” he said, watching me with that familiar mix of tired amusement and exasperation. “What do you need all that junk for?”
I shot him a look, shoving the pack into my basket anyway. “Because it’s cute.”
“It’s overpriced.”
Tiffany leaned in, whispering, “Boys will never understand.”
In the in-between moments, I noticed things I hadn’t before.
I’d catch Blake staring at me sometimes—the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, the way his expression darkened whenever another boy so much as glanced my way. There was always that flicker in his eyes, the way his fists curled at his sides, the way he’d withdraw afterward, waiting. Waiting for me to show interest back.
I never did.
I didn’t care for other boys. Not the way I cared for him. But I never said that, either. Even if it meant the girls had boyfriends when I didn’t. I stayed on the sidelines, watching as the girls around me lived out the stories we used to whisper about at sleepovers. They went on their first dates, had first boyfriends, shared first kisses. They blushed over notes passed in class, stayed up late dissecting every detail of their crush’s words. I remained untouched by it all, my heart collecting dust in the quiet spaces between what I wanted and what I allowed myself to have.
I watched Blake grow that year—like, actually grow .
By summer, he was a full head taller than me, his arms and legs stretching out like he was trying to catch up with the sky. It was annoying, mostly because he started using it to his advantage, holding things over my head, walking faster so I had to practically jog to keep up. I hated it. He was so smug about it.
“I feel like a leprechaun next to you,” I grumbled one day as we sat on the hood of Dad’s truck, watching the sunset.
“Maybe youareone,” he mused. “Do you have hairy feet?”
Before I even had the chance to think of a comeback, my foot shot out, connecting with his shin. I kicked him hard enough to make him grunt, but he just laughed, rubbing his leg.
Then came the big shift: Blake started high school. It wasn’t a huge surprise—he’d been counting down the days since summer—but it was a change. I could tell because he started coming home later, his backpack heavier, his head filled with things he wouldn’t share. Then, just like that, it was fall. The air turned crisp, and the leaves started changing. The days started to feel shorter, but the nights felt longer, filled with the smell of pumpkin spice, cinnamon, and fallen leaves. With October came the excitement of Halloween. Tiffany was insistent on us dressing up as the Spice Girls—we’d been playing Wannabe nonstop since it dropped earlier in the summer.
October was also the month Blake turned sixteen.
He didn’t make a big deal of it, but we did. I noticed the way he stood a little taller that day, how he seemed to take up more space in the room. It wasn’t just his height. His entire demeanor had shifted—he wasn’t the awkward, gangly kid anymore. The lanky limbs were slowly starting to fill out, becoming more defined.
He was starting to look different, in ways I couldn’t quite put into words. There was a new, quiet confidence about him.
He was still the guy who could make me laugh when I felt like crying, still the guy who seemed to know exactly what I needed before I even said a word, but now, his shoulders were broader, his arms were stronger, and his jawline was sharper, more defined.
He had this way of walking into a room now like he owned the place. It wasn’t cocky; it was just him—just a more grown-up version of Blake.
Just after his birthday, he got his driver’s license. I thought he’d be thrilled to hit the road, but he preferred to ride his bike around town. Halloween night was spent arguing over the best horror movies (Blake said The Shining , while I defended Candyman with everything I had), and Thanksgiving meant stuffing ourselves with Jamal’s mom’s cooking until we could barely move. His mom’s food was legendary. Her turkey was always perfectly cooked, golden and juicy with just the right amount of seasoning.
December arrived before I knew it. The streets glowed with color, and there was thisfeeling in the air—like the year was winding down, but something new was just around the corner.
We spent one whole afternoon Christmas shopping, mostly making fun of everything in the mall.
“Who’s buying a crystal dolphin for sixty bucks?” Blake scoffed.
“People withtaste, obviously.”
Christmas felt magical. Not because of the gifts or the lights, but because of the small things. Blake and I walked through the neighborhood that night, just looking at all the Christmas decorations, our breath turning into fog in the cold air.
“You ever wonder if we’ll still be doing this when we’re old?”
Blake flashed a crooked smile. “Walking around in the cold?”
“No,” I said, half-laughing, half-shaking my head. “Just…being friends. Do you think we’ll still be doing this? Still hanging out even when we’re grown up and busy with our own lives?”
He was quiet for a second.
Then he said, “Yeah, Beverly. I think we will.”
And just like that, it was a new year.