Chapter Five
Hannah’s ultimatum runs on a loop in my mind, making it nearly impossible to retain anything I hear in my first three classes.
I thought pushing her away, blocking her, would’ve surely taken our plans for a secret relationship off the table.
The fact that it hasn’t… Well, it shouldn’t change anything. I still stand to lose way too much.
After third period, Kristen bumps shoulders with me at my locker.
Since Jameson and Yasmin have both renounced me like I’m Satan himself, I can’t help but wonder if I’m willing to lose Hannah, too.
And maybe keeping everything from Kristen isn’t going to make my life easier.
How am I supposed to sort through the last twenty-four hours without my best friend’s advice?
“Hey,” Kristen says.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep myself from sighing and sounding as flustered as I really am.
“You promised, remember?”
Right, meeting mystery man.
“I did.” I grab my lunch box and close the door to my locker, thankful that I have something else to focus on for now. I can talk to Kristen after school, away from any eavesdropping ears.
We start toward the cafeteria, moving between the madness of seniors exchanging books for lunches.
“Are you going to tell me who it is?”
I notice a few girls taping a decorated poster to the locker at the end of my row. It reads Hannah Banana with hockey sticks drawn around the words. Our lockers being this close also factors perfectly into our plan, to use Hannah’s own wording.
“Ugh, maybe I should,” Kristen admits, looping her arm through mine.
I look at her, and she looks at me. The worry in her eyes is concerning.
“I mean, it’s not like it’s a teacher or anything,” I say, laughing. When her expression pinches even more I nearly trip. “Wait, Kris, please—”
“No, it’s not a freaking teacher,” she admits, a short fake laugh escaping before she snaps her mouth shut again.
“I don’t like this.” We turn the last corner, reaching the main hallway. It’s a straight shot to the cafeteria, and to the truth. “You’re acting weird and it’s making me start to judge.”
She takes a deep breath, her coral-pink nails digging into my arm.
“It’s Vincent Miller.”
Vincent. Miller. The Vincent Miller?
“The guy who started the weed rumors?” I ask, just to make sure I’m not about to break my no judgment promise in vain.
“You’re judging.” Kristen deflates.
“I’m not judging, I’m asking a question.” Hey, for all I know, there could be another Vincent Miller at our school who’s an upstanding citizen and not some douchebag liar.
She rolls her eyes, which only serves as a confirmation that I’m right.
“Kris, he told our entire class all those rumors and made you miserable. Oh, yeah, and he drugged you!”
In eighth grade, Vincent Miller got it in his little Obey snapback–capped head to start spreading rumors that Mr. Haverford—Kristen’s dad—grew weed and that the family tree farm was a front for his drug business.
At first Kristen didn’t care. But then kids started asking her for weed and made jokes about her being high in class.
Vincent and his friends started saying if she wasn’t going to share, they would sneak onto the farm at night and find the stash for themselves.
Kristen was paranoid. She lost sleep and started dozing off in class, which only added more fuel to the fire.
His waged war came to a head when he pretended to apologize for everything by gifting Kristen a brownie as a peace offering.
I was home sick with strep throat that week, because clearly if I had been there, I would’ve intercepted this Trojan horse.
I will never forget when Kristen called me, crying in her closet, more embarrassed than scared of the fact that she was high.
That was when we officially hated Vincent.
After we watched The Craft when we were sophomores, Kristen wanted to cast a spell to ruin Vincent’s life.
Despite my Christian upbringing, I willingly dabbled in witchcraft for the sake of my best friend, for justified revenge.
Now I find out that she spent the sunshine-y days of summer getting cozy and doing God knows what with the enemy!
“People change,” Kristen says, like moving on from nearly two whole years of incessant petty teasing is no big thing.
“How did that even—wait, no. I don’t want to know how it happened. I just hope, now that I’m back, you won’t need that prick anymore.”
“First of all, he’s not a prick,” she says, laughing, undoubtedly to downplay the situation. “Second, he’s my boyfriend.”
“We hated him,” I remind her. I mean, I still carry my eternally flamed torch of hatred.
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” she snaps, her blue eyes piercing me. “What was I supposed to do? Mope around all summer waiting for you to come home? Sit around on the farm while you got to swim in a lake and eat s’mores at a bonfire?”
“Of course not,” I say, holding back from telling her that my summer wasn’t like that at all. “You were supposed to have fun and make friends with anyone but the one person who made your life suck for so long.”
Kristen takes a deep breath, and for a moment I think she might be hearing me. Then, she says, “You think you know everything, but you don’t.”
Ditto.
She unloops her arm from mine, and I’m thrown back into a memory: my own scared reflection in the black of Kristen’s eyes before I left for Camp Refuge.
I refuse to lose my best friend over something as stupid as Vincent Miller.
“Kris,” I say, my heartbeat quickening when we pass over the threshold into the lunchroom.
“What?” she asks, barely looking back at me over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
She steps to the side, along the perimeter of the cafeteria, and pauses.
“I’m keeping an open mind, like I said I would. I’m just… well, I feel blindsided,” I admit.
“He really has changed,” she replies, some of her nervous energy melting away.
We weave toward one of the tables farthest from the entrance and closest to the windows. Vincent is there with his friends and saved two end seats for us. I wonder if Kristen told him that I don’t like sitting in the middle.
Kristen whispers, “Be nice,” before we reach him.
“Hey, babe,” Vincent says, his eyes glued to her.
“Hey.” She smiles, not just with her lips but with her whole face. She takes the seat next to him and looks at me. “You remember Clarity.”
“Yeah,” he says, turning his attention to me. “It’s been a minute.”
“True,” I say, wondering if we have the same memory of each other. Me hating him, him thinking I was the annoying best friend of the girl he loved to pick on.
She’s right, though. He has changed. He cut his dark brown hair so that it doesn’t hang around his face. But he now has a creepy dad stache.
“How did your thing with Mr. Fuller go?” Kristen asks him.
“It was cool. He said he’ll sponsor us and talk to some of the other teachers about letting us hang flyers in their classrooms.”
“Vincent and his friends are doing a show at the skate park in Hudson to raise money for renovations,” Kristen explains.
I wonder if his friends are the same ones who used to tell Kristen they were going to sneak onto her farm at night to look for weed. I figure asking this is probably not what Kristen had in mind when she told me to be nice.
“That’s fun,” I say, unpacking my leftovers.
I notice the way Kristen is sitting so that she’s facing Vincent more than she’s facing the table. It reminds me of how Hannah would sit with me at the camp picnic tables. I liked being the center of her attention. She made me feel seen, like we were the only two people in the world.
She could still make you feel that way.
“They’ve been teaching skate lessons too,” Kristen adds. “Mr. Fuller is going to help them publicize.”
“Neat.” Not that I care much for skating, publicity, or Vincent and his friends. But I’m conversing. I’m trying.
“You should come,” Vincent says.
We stare at each other.
“When is it?”
“First weekend of October,” he says, his smile more genuine. “It’s gonna be sick, yo.”
“Dude, good looks, inviting more girls to the show,” one of Vincent’s friends cuts in, holding up his fist for Vincent to bump.
I didn’t even know he’d been listening to our conversation, since he’s mostly had his back turned.
I recognize him from his shaggy shoulder-length hair and lip ring, but I don’t remember his name.
“Shut up, man. I invited one chick. And it ain’t even like that,” Vincent says, throwing a piece of pepperoni at his friend.
“You’re whipped, Vinny,” Chris, his friend who got suspended in eighth grade, chimes in.
“Even if I was whipped, it’s better than being single like your punk asses,” Vincent teases, laughing.
Kristen and I share a look as one of his friends leans across the table to knock his snapback off his head.
Kristen sips broth from her soup—always the one eating hot soup before the leaves change—the steam fogging her glasses.
Something in her eyes changes, and when she glances at Vincent and then back at me, I can see the wheels turning inside her head.
“I know what we should do,” she says, tapping Vincent to get his attention.
“What, babe?” he asks before picking up his pizza and taking an unnecessarily huge bite.
“We should find Clarity a boyfriend.”
“No” shoots out of my mouth without me even thinking. I feel my face getting hot.
They both look at me, surprised.
“I mean, I’m fine being single right now. It’s not a big deal,” I add, hoping I wasn’t suspicious.
“Okay, but you don’t have to be single. Plus, this is our senior year. There are Friday night football games, dances, and the Squash the Pumpkin Festival!” she explains, looking up as she imagines all these date opportunities.
“Ugh, no,” Vincent moans, covering his face with his hands.
“Whiiiiiiiipped,” Chris teases.
“Mind your business.” Vincent pretends to sound serious, pointing a finger at Chris. It’s funny and almost makes me laugh.
“Clarity, come on. This is our year. We could go on double dates,” Kristen argues.
“I don’t need a boyfriend.”
“Okay, then at least a date to the Squash the Pumpkin Festival. I can’t bear the thought of you being alone on the sidelines for our senior year,” she insists.
I almost counter by reminding her that we always go together, but then my eyes settle on her and Vincent—her boyfriend. Right. This year I will be on the sidelines during the pumpkin chucking. It’s tradition for the high school couples to do a round of chucking together.
Kristen and Vincent glance at each other. Then at me. Finding a date to the festival is so far down on my list of concerns for this semester that it is nonexistent.
Or maybe I just assumed Hannah and I would go together—
I cut that train of thought off before a montage of our imaginary relationship can kick up in my mind. Unfortunately, as I look between Kristen and Vincent, I can see how realistic they think this compromise is.
Don’t be suspicious.
“I’m sure you have at least one friend who’d be a good match for Clarity,” Kristen tells Vincent.
Vincent eyes her before glancing at me, the arch in his brow doubtful. “Um… I guess, but, I mean, what about that guy?” Vincent looks at me, as if I know who the heck he’s talking about.
“What guy?”
“That church dude.”
I open my mouth to object, but instead, all the air leaves my body. “Kris?” I manage to choke out.
“His name is Jameson,” she corrects.
“Kris!” I gasp. “That was private.” Despite the fact that Vincent knows about Jameson, I still lean forward and whisper the last part.
She pffts—actually pffts at me—and waves a hand as if she can douse my disbelief into the wind. “It’s no big deal, I just mentioned it to Vincent. Plus, Jameson doesn’t even go here.”
Then she turns to Vincent, telling him that Jameson and I didn’t happen over the summer after all.
Breathe.
I was preparing to tell her about Hannah, to come out to her. My biggest secret ever. She couldn’t keep something as simple and sacred as a crush…
Just mentioned it to Vincent. As if I think he’s trustworthy.
The room shrinks around the realization that I was a few hours away from making a catastrophic mistake.
“I’m going to get some napkins.” I stand up, part of me wishing I could leave school and never come back.
I speed walk across the cafeteria. At the condiment and cutlery station, I savor the space, inhaling a deep breath even though it stinks of overcooked pizza and lunch meat.
“You good?”
There really is no escape.
“I’m fine,” I squeak out, forcing a smile.
Hannah is unconvinced and sets her tray down on the counter.
“You don’t look fine.”
I hate that the sound of her voice is as soothing as a sip of hot tea in the bitter cold. I hate that she cares. I hate that I like that she cares.
I wish I could blurt out, Yes, I want to be in a relationship with you. But that’s part of the problem: I don’t think clearly when I’m around her.
“I’m fine, okay?” I snap, instantly regretting it. “I mean, I’m just… I am—”
“Overwhelmed?” she asks, amusement sparking in her eyes.
Her ease calms my nerves a little more.
I grab a cluster of napkins from the dispenser, resisting the urge to tear them into tiny pieces.
I could talk to her.
“Later,” I say, more for myself than her, but it works.
How am I ever going to survive senior year?