Chapter 5
Freshman year raced by, and the summer came and went even faster.
Before I knew it, we were sophomores, one notch higher in the pecking order.
Our weeks were packed with studying and extracurriculars—math team, chemistry club, and peer tutoring.
Erin kept winning parts in plays and musicals, and although she never convinced me to audition, I found my own place behind the scenes doing stagecraft, my hands speckled with paint, the air sharp with sawdust as I shifted furniture and touched up backdrops.
Friday nights belonged to football games under the lights. Weekends were a mix of lazy afternoons with my friends and sleepovers at Erin’s, where we whispered until we lost our voices, dissecting every fragment of high school drama.
Through it all, my crush on Mick held firm.
Our friendship was solid and soothing: evenings bent over math problems, the scrape of his pencil beside mine; late-night phone calls, his voice low and drowsy in my ear.
Still, we stayed in our separate lanes—Mick at the epicenter of the popular crowd, me tucked into the world of Erin, Lucy, Anna, Sam, and Eliot.
—
The summer before our junior year, something shifted.
Mick started showing up—not just in phone calls, but in my real life.
He’d ride his bike over to my house, linger in the kitchen, talking to my parents, or toss the football with my brother in the backyard.
Occasionally, he’d even blow off his friends to hang out with my friends and me.
“You’re making progress with Mick,” Erin said one night as we lay side by side on Gus’s trampoline, staring up at the stars. “I can feel it.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, rolling over to face her, the springs creaking beneath us.
“Because he’s always here. He spends more time with our friends than his own.”
“Can you blame him? The girls in his crowd are pure drama. The other night Kristy Keller got wasted and spent two hours crying on his shoulder.”
“See? That’s proof. The hottest girl in the grade is all over him, and instead of trying to hook up with her, he tells you how annoyed he was.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” I said, not wanting to jinx it.
Still, as the canvas turned cool beneath my back, the grass sweet and damp around us, the wish sparked through me like static, sharp and impossible to ignore.
—
A few days later, Mick walked into Sugarbell with Maeve.
“Billie, this is Maeve,” he said. “Maeve, this is Billie.”
She was even cuter than I’d imagined—with a sparkly tutu, a sweet smile, and Mick’s wide blue eyes.
I came around the counter and crouched to her eye level. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Maeve.”
She beamed back at me, tugging a pigtail loose. Mick tightened the elastic without missing a beat.
“Can you tell Billie it’s nice to meet her, too?”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, her voice raspy.
“I love your tutu,” I said, thinking that she reminded me of Fancy Nancy, wearing head-to-toe pink with lots of sparkles.
“I take ballet,” she announced, grabbing two fistfuls of tulle and twirling until Mick steadied her.
“That was impressive,” I said.
Maeve beamed back at me.
“And I bet I can guess your favorite color.”
“Pink,” she whispered with a reverent expression.
“Mine too.”
“Mickey’s favorite color is green.”
I looked up at him and smiled, then handed Maeve a bag for her candy, giving my usual spiel and quick tour of the bins behind the counter.
Her first stop was a bin of pink gummy worms, not the easiest thing to scoop. Mick bent down to help, then pulled back, letting her do it on her own. We followed Maeve from bin to bin until Mick told her she had enough.
“Can you tell Billie thank you?” Mick said as he paid at the cash register.
“Thank you, Billie,” Maeve said, hugging her bag of candy.
“You’re welcome. Come back soon.”
“We will,” Mick said, holding my gaze.
The bell over the door jingled as they left. I leaned against the counter, my pulse quick and uneven.
—
That night, Erin came over for dinner. As we debriefed on the candy store visit, my phone rang. It was Mick. Erin grinned and slid closer, craning her neck to hear.
“Thanks for being so great with Maeve today,” he said.
“It was my pleasure. She’s a sweetheart.”
“She hasn’t shut up about you.”
“Me or her candy?” I asked with a laugh.
“You,” he said. “Definitely you.”
When I hung up, Erin grinned at me.
“Now tell me with a straight face that boy doesn’t like you.”
I smiled and shrugged.
“He’ll make his move soon,” she said. “I feel it in my bones.”
—
Mick never made Erin’s predicted move, but as we cruised into junior year, our friendship felt warm, steadfast, and hopeful.
Then one night, out of the blue, Mick said, “What do you think of Kristy Keller?”
I could tell that he was asking for a reason, and it wasn’t a good one.
“She seems nice,” I said, bracing myself. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m thinking of asking her to Homecoming.”
My stomach dropped.
“You should,” I said, blinking back tears. “She’s…beautiful.”
“You think she’d say yes?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out,” I said.
—
After we hung up, I buried my face in my pillow and ugly-cried.
Then I called Erin.
“Ugh, Billie!” she groaned. “Why would you encourage him?”
“What was I supposed to do? Beg him to ask me instead?”
“What if he was just testing you?”
“It wasn’t a test. And anyway—it’s too late now.”
—
Homecoming night, my friends and I walked into the gym, all of us dateless by design. I smoothed my plain black dress and told myself to play it cool.
Then I saw him, standing by the punch bowl in a teal tie that matched Kristy’s low-cut sequined dress. They looked like something out of a magazine. His hand rested on the small of her back like it belonged there.
My breath hitched. Erin’s elbow dug into my ribs.
“Stop looking,” she hissed.
I tore my gaze away, forcing myself to meet her eyes.
“We’re not doing this tonight,” she said, her voice firm. “We came to have fun.”
So we danced. We spun under the lights, shrieked when the DJ played Britney, and belted out every word of “Livin’ la Vida Loca.
” It was a good night—until the last song: Faith Hill’s “Breathe.” The lights dimmed.
Couples swayed, arms tangled, heads tipped close.
Across the floor, Mick pulled Kristy against his chest, her cheek pressed into his shoulder.
I froze, rooted to the floor, something splintering in my chest.
Without a word, Erin grabbed my hand, then our coats. She led me out into the freezing parking lot, wrapping her arm around me as we walked to her car.
“That flame will die fast,” she promised. “Lust never lasts.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But that looked like love to me.”
—
The weeks after Homecoming melted into nauseating hallway PDA. Time dulled the edges of my heartbreak, but it never went away.
Mick still called occasionally, but our conversations weren’t the same.
Erin kept repeating, “Flash in the pan. Wait it out.”
I wanted to believe her, but I no longer did.
—
That winter dragged—each school day heavy and gray. Even my weekends were blue, my heartache stretching across those months like a dark shadow.
Then, one day in early spring, just after Erin started dating Brett Bishop, she came to me with what she called exciting news.
“Paul Morgan likes you!” she said, like it was the best thing she’d ever heard. “Brett told me he wants to ask you out.”
I gave her a dubious look. Paul and Brett were close friends and cross-country teammates. It felt a bit too convenient.
“C’mon, Billie. He’s perfect for you. You’re both brainiacs—and he’s cute, don’t you think?”
I hesitated, then nodded. He wasn’t Mick cute, but there was something appealing about him in a serious, bookish way.
“Give him a chance,” Erin said. “He’s a good egg.”
I decided she was right.
So when Erin and Brett organized a double date, I went along with it. Paul was quiet and even more straitlaced than I was, but he was funny and kind.
After our second date, he walked me to my door and asked if he could kiss me. I said yes, and he leaned in, quick and nervous, for a two-second kiss.
By early summer we were officially a couple. It didn’t feel like love, but I was happy knowing that I was someone’s first choice.
The best part: I was finally off the Mick roller coaster.
—
The school year snapped into view, and suddenly, we were seniors, beginning our bittersweet year of “lasts.” Paul and I grew closer, emotionally and physically, though we’d agreed on a no-sex boundary.
Our priority was getting into a top college, and as fall slid into winter, we spent much of our time fretting over applications, essay prompts, and guidance office visits.
We found time for fun, too. Erin and I went to all the cross-country races, cheering on our boyfriends, while the guys and I attended every performance of Grease, watching Erin dazzle as Rizzo.
We went on long hikes at Devil’s Lake with Eliot and Lucy, canvassed with Sam and Anna in their mission to “get out the vote,” and spent ski days at Ausblick.
Then spring arrived. The days were still short, the wind sharp, yet beneath it all lingered a quiet anticipation. Senior year was winding down, and the world beyond high school was just within reach.
One day in March, a thick envelope arrived in my mailbox.
It was from Yale. I hesitated, afraid to open it.
My parents hovered at my side, excitement in their eyes.
I slit the envelope open with a butter knife, my fingers trembling.
I skimmed the first line, then looked up, my breath catching.
Years of late-night studying distilled into one letter.
“I got in,” I whispered, barely believing it.
“Holy cow!” my dad shouted, scooping me into a hug while my mom teared up. The cost flickered at the edges of my thoughts as Dad squeezed my shoulders and said, “We’ll find a way.”
Paul had gotten accepted to Georgetown a few days earlier and we went out for pizza to celebrate, our futures real enough to touch.
My news spread fast, and a few nights later, my phone lit up with Mick’s name.
“Congrats,” he said as soon as I answered. His voice was warm, almost reverent. “I’m so proud of you.”
The word caught me off guard. Did he really get to be proud of me anymore?
“Thanks,” I said. “Did you decide on your plans?”
“Not yet. I got into Madison, though.”
“Congratulations,” I said, genuinely happy for him.
A silence stretched.
And then—“I’m going to break up with Kristy.”
It was the last thing I expected to hear. My pulse jumped. “Why? Did something happen?”
“It was a lot of things. But the last straw? She used the R-word. As an insult.”
“Oh my God.”
“She tried to defend it—said it just slipped out.”
“Ugh. She really doesn’t get it.”
“She doesn’t get a lot.” He hesitated. “Like the fact that guys and girls can just be friends.”
I swallowed, knowing what he was getting at.
“I feel like she tried to end our friendship.”
A flash of resentment rose up. “No one can end your friendship but you.”
“I know. And I’m sorry for letting us drift apart.”
“It happens.”
“I’ve missed you, Billie.”
My breath caught. I wanted to say it back. But I thought of Paul and held my tongue.
He kept going. “I made a mistake dating her. It should have been you. I had feelings for you, but I didn’t want to mess up our friendship. I know you’re with Paul, and it’s too late, but I couldn’t not say it.”
Memories rushed in—study sessions, whispered calls, and lazy summer days. All those moments. All those chances.
And now he was saying this?
My chest squeezed with anger, sorrow, and longing.
“Well, thank you for telling me,” I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. “But you’re right. It is too late.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you all of that. It’s not fair. Can we just forget I said anything?”
“It’s forgotten,” I said.