Chapter Thirty
By Monday morning, the dust has settled from my fight with Hannah, but the wreckage remains, smoldering in the back of my mind. We didn’t make up beyond Hannah accepting that the date happened, and we don’t have a time machine to change that.
The date itself was… just short of a disaster.
I showed up late and completely missed Maurice’s performance.
He spent the first ten minutes pretending I didn’t exist. Fair.
But eventually, he eased up, and we actually talked.
And talking turned… complicated. Because Maurice, the boy I’m fake dating, was looking at me like he wanted to be my real boyfriend, despite my dry texts and unavailability.
At least the plan worked exactly how Kristen said it would.
A couple girls pulled Kristen aside at the skate show to ask if Maurice and I were a thing.
Kris happily got the rumor mill up and running, which means no one will look too hard at Hannah and me.
Not when we chat by her locker, or when I walk her to practice after school, and especially not when we hang back after committee meetings to “go over some things.”
If Hannah and I hadn’t fought, the skate show would be a win.
But she’s right that keeping her a secret is different from us being in a secret relationship together.
And now, standing beside her locker, watching her rearrange books with practiced efficiency, I feel that unresolved portion of our fight like a door closing between us.
I clear my throat. “Do you have practice today?”
She glances at me, brow furrowed. “I have practice every day.”
I thrust a matcha latte at her and she takes it, eyeing me out of suspicion.
“It’s an apology latte,” I say, forcing myself to focus on her and not worry about the other students around us.
“An apology latte,” she repeats, pulling the lid off. Her shoulders fall slightly, relaxing when she sees the green foam. “Apologizing for…?”
“Making you so mad on Saturday that you drove off without getting a latte from a perfectly good Starbucks that was right in front of you,” I say with a syrupy-sweet, sarcastic voice.
“Right,” she says slowly, still not sure.
“And for the reason you got mad on Saturday. I’m really sorry.”
Obviously, I’m not going to come right out and say all the things I spent the weekend thinking about. Not here, at least.
But maybe somewhere more private—
“So, after practice, you should come over,” I say.
Her brows shoot to the ceiling, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t act so shocked.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she asks, her voice low.
“About acting shocked, yes. About you coming over, no.”
Hannah opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I mean, if you need time—”
“It’s just—I guess—I just wasn’t expecting… I mean, we’re all caught up on committee stuff, right?”
“This would be for homework. Like, you come over, we do homework, maybe eat some snacks—”
“And you’re being serious?” she asks, staring at me blankly.
“Yes.”
She continues to stare at me and I stare right back.
“Oh,” I add, “and my mom will be there.”
“Your mom.” This really gets her. I didn’t know her eyes could go any wider, but they do, and her mouth hangs open, speechless.
“Yeah, she’s picking me up today. She’ll probably make the snacks, that we will then eat during the studying…”
Hannah sets the latte on the shelf in her locker, shaking her head in disbelief before finishing unloading textbooks from her backpack.
“I mean, I understand if—”
“Excuse me,” someone says, tapping my shoulder.
I turn around, and a girl wordlessly points to the locker next to Hannah’s, the one I’m standing in front of.
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” I say, shifting out of the way. First bell rings, and I haven’t even been to my own locker yet. Before moving, I add, “Either you come, or you don’t. Just know that you can, and that I… I want you to.”
“So, what time is your friend coming over?” Mom asks from down the hall.
She emerges, having traded her scrubs for a sweater and a pair of sweatpants. Her hair is down now, out of the braids she usually wears to work. She jumps into at-home mode, lighting a pine-scented candle before opening the dishwasher to put away the clean dishes.
“After field hockey,” I say, pulling the candle closer so I can inhale its wonderful scent. “Which—based on the time—should be any minute now.”
She puts away some glasses and spins around, opening up the cabinet on the other side of the island to retrieve an oven tray. I move some of my folders and notebooks out of the way to make space as she puts on a pot of decaf coffee, then pops a frozen pasta dinner in the microwave.
“You know, you don’t really hang out with anyone else other than Kristen,” she murmurs, closing the dishwasher and washing her hands even though she was touching clean dishes.
“Yes, I do,” I say, a little incredulous.
“No, before Hannah, the last time you had someone other than Kristen over was for your birthday parties when you were younger.”
She stumps me, when I actually think about it. Instead of pointing out that she’s awfully close to calling me a friendless loser, I remind her, “The committee grew a lot this year and I’ve spent some time with the new members to get them acclimated.”
“And Hannah is a new member?” she asks, pulling her hair back into a bun while opening the freezer drawer with her foot.
“She’s the copresident,” I say, somewhat exasperated since we’ve been over this multiple times, including during the car ride home.
“Right, sorry,” she says, smiling but sighing. It’s one of her signature looks, putting on a happy mask to cover how tired she is.
“It’s fine,” I say, not wanting her to feel bad for spacing during our talk. I mean, if there’s ever a person with more important things on their mind than teenagers planning a high school–run festival, it’s a heart surgeon.
Though her sigh makes me sigh, and she catches it.
“Three cheese or pepperoni?” she asks, peering into the freezer.
“Pepperoni,” I say, but the bag of Pizza Rolls is already in her hand.
“Do you think Hannah might want three cheese?” she asks, rethinking before pouring the whole bag out onto the cookie sheet.
“I doubt it.”
My wrist vibrates and I look down to see a here text from Hannah. I excuse myself before running to the garage, not realizing that I’m not wearing shoes until I feel the cold concrete through my socks.
When Hannah sees me, she cuts the engine and gets out of her car, the familiar smile back, replacing the sad, angry look from Saturday that has been searing the back of my mind. She’s back.
“So, you’re sure about this?” she asks as we walk through the garage. “Because I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this—”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, whispering even though the door is closed and there’s a wall between us and my mom. “And you’re right. While our relationship is a secret, you are not, nor do I want you to be. I love having you in my life.”
Her uncertainty and the hint of suspicion remaining from earlier melt away, and I feel myself relax too. I know us just doing homework together isn’t everything, but hopefully, for now, it’s enough.
Inside, I return to my seat at the island and Hannah pulls out the bar seat next to me as Mom is sliding the Pizza Rolls into the oven.
“Hey, Mrs. Jones,” Hannah says, smiling at me while my mom’s back is still turned.
“You can call me Mrs. Vey if you like, Mrs. Jones is Clark’s mother,” Mom says, pulling her pasta out of the microwave.
“Is that one of our flyers?” Hannah asks, noticing the call for chaperones that Mom hung on the fridge after Kristen was over and she admitted Jameson and I were a match made in her heaven.
“It is,” Mom says, grating a small mountain of Parmesan on top of her steaming pasta.
“Are you going to chaperone?” Hannah asks.
“Oh goodness no.” Mom laughs as she puts the cheese away and grabs a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter next to the fridge. It’s a twist off, so after a quiet click, she pulls off the cap and pours a glass, then gives it a swirl. Steady surgeon hands. “I’m sure Clarity would kill me—”
“I would not.”
Mom looks over her shoulder and shrugs like she doesn’t believe me, which makes Hannah laugh.
“I’ll definitely be there,” she continues, and takes a sip. “This,” she says, tapping the glass with the tip of her nail, “is one of the things that makes getting older worth it. Of course, you won’t know that for yourselves until you’re of age.”
“Naturally,” Hannah says, flashing me a smile.
“Anyway, what was I saying? Right, yes, I’ll be at the festival. I wouldn’t miss it, especially now that two smart and incredibly qualified girls are planning it. I just don’t want to hover, since Clarity is bringing a date this year.”
“Mom,” I hiss, mortified for a multitude of reasons.
“What? I think it’s cute—”
“Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands. Maybe this is why I don’t ever invite any other friends over!
“Are you entering the pumpkin chucking? It’s a tradition—”
“Mom, Hannah knows about the tradition. She goes to my school. She’s president of the festival committee,” I remind her, ready to fall out of my chair.
Hannah giggles, giggles, eating up every second of my mom ruining my existence.
“I don’t have a date yet,” she says, still laughing.
“Have you chucked before?” Mom asks.
“I actually haven’t,” Hannah admits.
“Wait, really?” I ask, realizing this is something we never talked about—not when Hannah joined the committee and not even when we were at camp.
“Nope.”
“I really hope you do it this year,” Mom says. “Even if you don’t find a date, you can bring a friend. Clarity and her friend Kristen usually enter together. But they’re both bringing dates this year.”
“Aw, that will be cute,” Hannah coos, playing along.
“You know, when I met your father, I was set against dating. I used to wear my grandmother’s ring on my ring finger to stop guys from talking to me.”
“Really?” Hannah asks, leaning forward on her elbows, homework be damned.