Chapter Twenty-Five
Olivia from American Lit: omg I just realized someone could be writing about the same topic we are
Olivia from American Lit: not sure how that’s possible since we don’t really know what our topic is, but I’m still worried
Nova: don’t worry! There are only two Hawthorne groups in our section, and I’m pretty sure you’re writing about different stories
Nova: they should be coming to the study group tonight though if you want to double-check!
Olivia from American Lit: you are a lifesaver
When I proposed this grand scheme to save us all from failure, I was shooting from the hip, throwing my big idea into the air like I didn’t have a care in the world.
Then I set up the group calendar, and everyone started adding in their info, and I booked the biggest study room in the library for the next three Wednesday nights until midterm week, and …
It’s actually a lot of pressure.
“Why are you pacing?” I hear Hayes ask from behind me. “That’s my thing.”
Let the record state that I am not pacing. I am simply walking from one side of the room to the other in a circular fashion.
Which is fine, because pacing is an anxiety response, but walking is a form of exercise.
Hayes sits down on one of the threadbare couches facing me.
The library doesn’t have a study room big enough for all of us, so we’re in this weird space in the corner that they tried to make a casual hangout spot.
In reality, it only gets used when the basketball team is supposed to be in their mandatory study hall.
“You didn’t have to come,” I tell him, my casual walking speed shifting into something a bit more frantic. See, I’m not pacing. This is far too brisk a walk to be considered pacing.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on top of his clasped fingers.
“I’m sorry I got you in trouble yesterday.” I’m kind of making myself dizzy. “Or almost got you in trouble.”
He shakes his head. “It didn’t matter to me at all, Nova.
” Something about him is incredibly serious tonight.
Maybe it’s the way the fading sunset light streaming through the window hits his hair.
Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me, like it’s just me and him and this isn’t the weirdly public space in the middle of the library.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve only stopped pacing so I can stare at him.
I don’t know if I’m making myself dizzy, or if that’s just how I react to him now.
“I hate this fucking class.” A backpack drops to the floor, and one of the cheerleaders sits down in a too-short armchair next to Hayes’s couch.
Olivia. “I mean it,” she keeps going, like we didn’t hear her the first time.
“I hate it. And I don’t know how y’all are doing this college shit and high school shit at the same time, Nova. I couldn’t.”
Hayes and I both shrug. We don’t have a clue how we’re doing it either.
Everyone just hangs on by a fraying thread at Endeavour.
I used to think Hayes was immune to that—to being ground down like the rest of us.
But I can see the truth now: the shadows under his eyes, the way his posture is just the slightest bit slumped. He’s exhausted too.
“What’s up?” Brittany. She collapses into the armchair that matches Olivia’s.
More people start to file in, smaller groups forming larger groups.
Our study session begins in earnest, and I am, for lack of a better word, the teacher.
I walk from one cluster of people to another, asking questions, helping people find legitimate sources, trying to use my knowledge of Professor Lowry’s work to explain the kind of literary analysis she’ll be looking for.
As I go, I realize I’m fully flying by the seat of my pants.
I’m acting on instinct alone, because it’s not like I’m trained for this.
I’m just a girl who’s read too many books.
I start suggesting that certain pairs move around.
The Hawthorne people sit with the Hawthorne people.
They share sources and bounce ideas off one another.
The Poe people do the same, and I’d hang out with them if I wasn’t busy running this whole thing, because Poe is so much more interesting than anything else.
And Hayes is over there, sharing our ideas and holding court with those groups.
By the time I take a step back to breathe, we’ve been at this for over an hour.
It’s been a whirlwind of skirting the room, inserting myself in conversations, and answering questions that weren’t really asked.
I’d tried to triage and see who needed the most help, and those people are in a better place now.
Everyone at least has an idea. A place to start from, and a plan of how to get to their destination.
Hayes is looking at me. His Poe conspiracy (that’s what some people call a group of Ravens – get it?) has broken up, and he’s the only one sitting alone, his laptop resting on the arm of the couch he’s all but completely sunken into.
He’s finally fallen back from the circle we’d all been in.
He sat with the Poe people, showing them the framework for our paper.
I was so proud. Of the paper, but just as proud of him too. He smiles at me and chucks his chin.
Like a moth to a flame, I walk over there without even thinking.
I rest my hip against the arm of the couch, and I can look over his shoulder at this angle.
He has our presentation pulled up. I’d just looked at it yesterday; it was pristine.
My wild ideas presented in black serif set against a background that looked like yellowed, aged paper. Literally perfect.
“I got bored.” He flips to the next slide. “Look, I put everything in comic sans.”
The black serif has indeed been replaced by neon-pink comic sans, and that old paper background is now a solid block of highlighter yellow. It’s genuinely one of the most visually offensive things I’ve ever seen.
“Oh my God.” I lean over, scrambling to change it back. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Relax.” He laughs, and I’m kind of resting against him, so I feel it against my skin. “I made a copy just so I could fuck with you.”
I turn my head, intent on telling him what a horrible joke that was supposed to be, but then my nose brushes against his, and every ringing thought in my head goes quiet.
The project, the presentation, the people around us.
It’s all white noise. Not the kind that makes you fall asleep, the kind that takes over after a sonic boom.
The sound that lets your brain know something life-changing just happened.
His eyes drift down to my lips for the most fleeting of moments. My hand reaches for the hair at the nape of his neck. Nothing has ever been so soft. No feeling has ever been so shockingly vivid. Hayes leans forward. My eyes fall closed.
I move just enough to press my lips against his.
Like a test. An experiment. To test the hypothesis that my world will crumble around me if I so much as let a boy get near me ever again. My hypothesis that this boy in particular would be the end of me.
He kisses me back in a way that’s gentle and kind of smiley and somehow it feels like he’s winking at me with his mouth.
He tastes like that cinnamon gum he’s always chewing and the Red Bull he swears he doesn’t drink.
Should be a horrible combination, but on him, it’s not.
My lips map out that devastating smirk. Something’s happening, but I don’t think it’s the kind of world-crumbling explosion I predicted.
It is an explosion, though, a burst of sensation and adrenaline and pleasure.
It’s nothing I could’ve predicted.
I’ve never kissed anyone before. I’ve been kissed. More times than I can count, and way, way more times than I care to remember. But I’ve never done this. Struck first. Been in someone’s space and wanted to be closer. Probably because I’ve never wanted anyone or anything like this.
I feel his thumb brush the line of my jaw. His hands are always cold. It’s jarring enough to ground me. Make me realize where we are and what we’re doing. In front of everyone.
I realize I’m in a perilous position, half leaning on the arm of the couch and half falling into his lap.
His laptop is hanging on by a corner. As I pull away and breathe air that doesn’t smell like him, my thoughts start firing back up.
With my lashes lowered, my head turns, both trying to avoid eye contact and gauging if anyone saw, but everyone seems absorbed in their own conversations.
I don’t remember when the volume got so loud.
“Hey,” Hayes says, threading one finger through a belt loop at my side and tugging to get my attention. “Where’d you go?”
That smirk is gone, and his eyebrows are knitted together. I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t mean to pull so far away that he thought I was gone completely. I just needed a minute. And, I realize, I needed to know he’d let me step back.
“Nowhere,” I tell him. I swipe a stray curl off his forehead. “I’m right here.”
“Are you sure?” He closes his laptop and looks at me with those all-too-serious eyes.
“I’m here.” I nod. My fingers twine in his hair. “I’m good.”