Chapter 4 Make a Lasting First Impression—Preferably a Good One
The first thing I notice upon entering one of the dozens of cabins standing next to each other is that it’s small.
Even without the presence of any closets or desks, there’s not much room to freely move around.
All the space is taken up by two bunk beds that are almost touching.
Aside from that, there’s a little window and a door that leads to what I assume is an even smaller bathroom.
It’s not a lot, to the point where looking at it makes me feel at least a little claustrophobic, but considering the stories I’ve heard from Noah over the years, I don’t think we’ll have much spare time to spend in here.
If we’re not playing volleyball in the coming weeks, we’ll be participating in group activities.
Sierra gets to our cabin not even a minute after me, holding her luggage in her hands. I drop mine in a corner of the room and turn to my brand-new teammate.
“So,” I start, scrambling for an icebreaker. What do neurotypical people like to talk about? Eventually I settle for “The weather is going to be pretty nice this week.”
Sierra takes her backpack off her shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. Her dark brown eyes scan my face, and for a moment I think she’s looking for a way to keep this conversation from dying too quickly, but in the end all she says is “Yeah.” Then she unzips her backpack, eyes no longer on me.
Well, there goes that topic of conversation.
“I don’t think we’ve ever really talked before,” I continue, knowing it might come across as a bit pushy.
Still, I can’t help it. Something inside me desperately wants her to like me, for the corners of her mouth to curl up into a smile, even if it’s just a polite one.
“I go to Willowmoor High, too, though, and you probably do know my brother, Noah.”
She nods but doesn’t look back up at me. “Yeah, I do. And I know who you are, too, don’t worry.”
I don’t know if that’s actually meant to be reassuring, but it sure isn’t working.
“Wait,” a soft voice behind us suddenly says. It’s so quiet and hesitant that I think I must’ve imagined it, especially since I wasn’t aware there was another person here, but when I turn around, I find the girl with two auburn braids standing in the doorway to the bathroom. Sloane.
The third member of cabin 4, apparently.
“You’re Noah’s sister?” Sloane asks. She closes the bathroom door behind her, and when I nod, she smiles at me. “He, um, told me about you before. A while ago, that is. Your name is Ellie, right? I’m Sloane. One of Noah’s…friends.”
“I know,” I say like a total fool.
Okay, so maybe I don’t need to break all my rules after all. Thinking things over before saying anything might actually prove to be useful.
“Noah mentioned that he was really hoping you’d be back this year,” I explain, returning a smile.
She breaks our eye contact, looking down at her feet as her cheeks almost instantly color a bright shade of red.
Great job, Eleanore. “That was a weird thing for me to say, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry for making this—”
“No! No! You’re completely fine!” she reassures me, but even more heat is rising to her cheeks.
“I was just kind of scared to come back because I thought things would be awkward with him. And Liam and Maya,” she adds quickly.
“I guess it’s nice to know they don’t completely hate me for disappearing. ”
I think she’s about to say something else, maybe even explain why exactly she disappeared, but before any more words tumble out of her mouth, an unfamiliar voice speaks up.
“Not to interrupt this incredibly awkward conversation,” the girl says, “but can we please introduce ourselves? Because I, for one, have no idea what the fuck is going on.”
A silence falls over the three of us for a second as we look at the fourth and final member of our cabin.
There couldn’t be a bigger contrast between sweet, shy Sloane and this new girl, yet the only explanation for her being here is that she’s Veronica, the girl who might be from Liam’s school and, more importantly, Sloane’s teammate.
I take it Sierra and I aren’t the only questionable match, then.
Where Veronica’s eyes are a piercing kind of green, Sloane’s are a calming shade of brown you can’t help but immediately feel relaxed around.
Her braided auburn hair has a certain warmth to it, while Veronica has short, pitch-black hair that reminds me of a starless night.
Her pale white face is all sharp edges, while Sloane still has a soft, embarrassed blush on her cheeks, and where Veronica is wearing all black, Sloane is dressed up in pastel blues.
“Alright.” Veronica sighs when no one else dares to break the silence.
“I’ll go first, then. My name is Veronica, she/her, I live in Grovington, and I’m sixteen years old.
I play the drums and indoor volleyball, but I really wanted to give beach volleyball a try, so now I’m here.
” She nods her head toward Sierra. “Your turn.”
Sierra tightens her blond ponytail before saying, “Sure. I’m Sierra, she/her, sixteen years old as well, and I live in Willowmoor.
I’ve been playing both beach and indoor volleyball since I was little.
Outside that, I…” She pauses for a second before shaking her head and clearing her throat.
“I guess that’s about it, actually.” Then she brings her gaze to meet mine.
“What about you, Eleanore?” she asks, her expression still neutral.
I know very little about Sierra Levine. Before last year, when the rumors started spreading around school, I only vaguely knew who she was.
To me, she was that one girl who didn’t shy away from harsh truths, the one who always called people out on their bullshit, albeit not very kindly.
I didn’t know her name back then, but I know that I’d wished I had some of her bravery.
To most other people at Willowmoor High, however, this didn’t make her admirable. It made her a stuck-up bitch.
I only learned her name when it got out that she’s gay.
Nobody gave her a hard time about it to her face as far as I know—they were probably too scared to be rightfully called out on their homophobia—but that fear wasn’t enough to actually stop them from being homophobic.
There were still lots of looks, whispers, and people who said they always knew there was something “off” about her.
And the only thing I did was bite my tongue. No wonder she’s looking at me like it wouldn’t bother her if a ball hit me in the face. She has every right to feel that way.
There goes my chance to befriend my teammate, I think, but then I remember what Liam and Maya said about Sierra—that she’s not here to make friends in the first place—and I feel a little bit better.
It’s comforting, in a way. To know that I can’t mess anything up with Sierra because she genuinely couldn’t care less about what I do or say.
Still, the thought stings.
I swallow. “I’m Eleanore, she/her, but I go by Ellie,” I start.
“Right now I’m sixteen years old, and I live in Willowmoor, just like Sierra.
” I look at her and smile, despite knowing she won’t return it.
And just like that, it’s time to tell them who I really am—who I want to be—besides the basics of my name and age and hometown.
Alright, Eleanore, just be yourself. And be cool, too. No overthinking allowed.
“I spend a lot of my free time journaling or reading,” I continue. “I also love listening to music a lot while doing that, and…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.
Why did I even say and? There’s no and!
Still, to try and make it less awkward, I finish by saying the first thing about me that comes to mind. Which ends up with me exclaiming that “I’m autistic? Um, yeah, I just thought you should all know that.”
Well, that’s certainly a way to open up to people…
I look at my hands for a good few seconds before daring to make eye contact again.
Sloane is giving me a soft, reassuring smile, while Sierra and Veronica nod to themselves, taking in this information.
They don’t stare at me with open mouths, and there’s no dirty or pitying glares either, so I’ll take it as a win.
The bar really is on the floor.
I’m just about to take the attention off me and ask Sloane to introduce herself when Veronica says, “Cool. I’m not autistic, so I know it’s not the same, but if you ever want to rant about how confusing people are, just let me know.
My sister is autistic so the two of us do it all the time, and I have a lot to say about that subject.
” She looks me right in the eye then, her gaze still sharp but somehow not as intimidating as before.
And I guess this is it, the moment I’ve been waiting for.
Here, in this room, there’s finally a person inviting me to talk about this part of myself.
In an instant, there’s so much I want to discuss with her, from my fear of not being likable enough because I don’t understand social cues like other people do, to all the other messy feelings I’ve locked up inside my chest for so long.
Instead, the words that come out of my mouth are “I’ve heard there’s a trauma dump scheduled in week two, though, so maybe we can unpack some things later. We have to save the big stuff for then, you know.”
I don’t even fully intend to say it, but those are the words that fill up the room anyway.
Veronica snorts. “Fair enough,” she says, and normally I’d feel proud of myself for making somebody laugh, but right now, all I can think is that I’ve just ruined the perfect chance to really form a deeper connection with someone.
All because I’m still depending on my reflex of steering the conversation in a less vulnerable direction.
Is unlearning that reflex even possible at this point?
The question floats through my head all night.
It’s there while Sloane introduces herself, telling us she’s seventeen, used to play indoor volleyball, and lives in Belford—a town I know isn’t that far from Willowmoor.
It doesn’t go away even as we divide the beds among the four of us and I end up in one of the top bunks.
It stays with me as we turn off the lights and say good night, and even after that, it’s still there, lying awake next to me while I wait for sleep to find me.
I don’t know how much time passes as I stare at the ceiling in the darkness, thinking over every single thing I did and didn’t do today, but when I eventually roll onto my side, I swear Sierra is looking at me.
She’s in the other top bunk, on the same level as me, and though it’s hard to make out anything beyond shapes with the lights off, I can’t help but feel like her eyes are on me.
How am I supposed to do this? I want to ask her. How do I stop caring about people’s opinions of me?
But all she does is turn the other way, leaving me to figure out the answer to that on my own.