Chapter 3
SPENCER
EIGHT YEARS AGO
“Stop being a creep and go talk to her.”
I look to my left at my friend T.J.
“I have no idea what you mean.” I play dumb. I haven’t told my best friend about the crush I have on the blond, though now I know I’ve been blatantly obvious about it.
He snorts, tapping the side of his pencil against our shared four-person table. The two guys across from us look like they don’t give a fuck what we’re talking about, but I’d bet my ass they’re listening to every detail.
“Don’t be dense. You’re constantly checking her out.”
“I am not,” I bite out, feeling my cheeks heat. “She looks familiar is all.”
And she does. I haven’t been able to place her yet, but she reminds me of a girl I used to know. Wow, how fucking cliché does that sound? Thank fuck I didn’t say it out loud.
T.J. rolls his eyes, blowing out an exasperated breath. “That’s Willa’s sister. You know the girl who needs the kidney or whatever.”
“Oh,” I recall her more now, but I’m still having trouble placing her. “She stopped coming to school a few years ago, right?”
“She’s homeschooled now, that’s all I know.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Sad about all that with her.” He shakes his head, sitting back in his chair. “I can’t imagine needing an organ—depending on a machine for life. Damn.”
His words sober me. It’s a scary thing to think about, one I’ve never considered before. “Yeah.” My eyes drift back to Harlow, watching as she doodles something on the edge of her notebook.
I can’t help but wonder what it’s like for her—having her sister go through something like that.
Mrs. Harrison, our hairbrained Family and Consumer Sciences teacher, has been shuffling papers on her overflowing desk for the last ten minutes. We’re always lucky if she gets class started in the first thirty minutes of the ninety-minute period.
“Aha, found it,” she mutters to herself, procuring her planner from underneath a mountain of folders.
Maybe we’ll start early today after all. Early for her, that is.
She swipes her bright purple reading glasses from her desk and puts them on, wiggling her nose.
“Let’s see here.” She peruses the planner.
“Ah, yes. We’re cooking today. I did buy the ingredients, didn’t I?
” The last part is uttered under her breath.
“I did,” she adds boldly. “I’ll be dividing you into groups of two or three since this class is small.
” There’s a collective groan in the room at not being able to team up with our friends.
“I know, I know. But I find when I let you all have kitchen days with your friends nothing productive happens.”
She’s not wrong.
“She’s crazy.” T.J. shakes his head. “She probably didn’t get the ingredients anyway.”
Colby, one of the guys across from us finally joins our conversation. “I heard some students slipped acid into her coffee a few years ago and she tripped so hard she saw butterflies and now she’s terrified of them.”
“Is that why…?” I trail off, pointing lazily toward a butterfly someone drew on the corner of the whiteboard in what I assume is black sharpie since it’s been there since the start of the year.
“Mhm,” Kyler, the other guy sharing our table hums. “Maybe we should send her some of those caterpillars you watch grow into butterflies. I think has those.”
T.J. chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “ ships bugs?”
“Dude”—Kyler sits up, grinning broadly— “they ship all kinds of things. My sister got this weird glass orb thing that’s like its own enclosed ecosystem or some shit.”
“Gentlemen.” We look over to see Mrs. Harrison glaring at us. “This isn’t free hour.”
We all shut up immediately and she begins dividing the class into groups.
When she gets to my name I perk up, crossing my fingers that by some miracle I’ll get paired with T.J. No such luck though, but I have no complaints when it’s Harlow’s name she says.
Despite my brush off to T.J. there is something about the sophomore girl that catches my attention.
Normally, I’m not one to go for underclassmen but there’s something about the girl that I’m attracted to.
She’s pretty, of course, but I think it’s her easy smile and carefree laughter I’m drawn to the most.
“Okay, that’s everyone.” She sets her roster down and claps her hands. “Into the kitchens, children.”
T.J. shakes his head. “Let’s get this over with and hope no one burns the kitchen down.”
Pushing my chair back, I get up and walk over to Harlow. She’s probably seven or so inches shorter than me and tilts her head back to look at me.
“Hi, partner.” I hold out my hand. “Name’s Spencer.”
“I know who you are.” She stares at my hand but doesn’t take it. “We’ve been in the same class all year.”
I grin. “True, but we’ve never worked together.”
I follow behind her into the workspace. There are six mini kitchen set ups and since we’re the last to enter we get stuck in the corner.
Mrs. Harrison rifles through the giant pantry at the very end, and even from back here I know she’s muttering to herself.
“Cookies!” she finally exclaims. “We’re making cookies today!” She starts pulling out ingredients for chocolate chip cookies and I leave Harlow in the kitchen so I can grab our supplies. “Let me find the recipe.” Mrs. Harrison spins in a circle, looking around. “Might have to print it off.”
She waddles away, to print it I assume, but there’s no telling with her. We might be lucky if she even comes back.
In the kitchen, I set the ingredients down and grab an apron, sliding it over my head. Harlow already has hers on, the strings wrapped around her narrow waist twice.
“You ready to do this thing?” I rub my hands together in anticipation because who doesn’t love cookies?
Harlow raises a single blond brow, her lips twisting in amusement. “You seem awfully excited.”
“It’s cookies. Who wouldn’t be excited?” They’ll certainly make this drag of a day somewhat better.
But of course, Mrs. Harrison hasn’t returned with the recipe yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t lost in her own classroom.
Harlow leans her hip against the counter. “True. Cookies are my favorite thing in the world.”
I arch a brow, lips curling in curiosity. “Really? What kind is your favorite?”
“Oatmeal.” She fiddles with the end of the chocolate chip bag.
My lips part and I stare at her in astonishment. “Oatmeal is not an acceptable flavor for a cookie.”
“Tell that to my stomach.” She laughs softly, moving a piece of hair behind her ear. She then realizes she hasn’t put it up yet and quickly gathers it into a ponytail.
“Oatmeal is so … bland. Like they’re made from cardboard.”
I realize belatedly that critiquing the cookie choice of the girl I have a crush on is probably not working in my favor.
“Well, I love them,” she argues, turning to look inside the oven.
It’s probably a good idea, her checking it and all, knowing Mrs. Harrison there could be a nest of squirrels living in there.
Closing it, she leans against the counter.
“If it makes you feel better, chocolate chip is third place—but seriously, cookies in general are my favorite dessert. I love them all, but you asked what my favorite is and it’s oatmeal.
” She adds a tiny shrug on the end as if to punctuate her love for them.
“If they’re your third favorite, what’s the second?”
“Oreos,” she answers with a tiny smile.
“Recipes! Recipes! I have the recipes!” Mrs. Harrison waves the printed sheets of paper through the air.
When we finally have ours in hand we get to it, working silently side by side for a bit.
“Add the eggs now,” Harlow directs.
“You do it.”
“No.” She rolls her eyes at me and for some reason it makes me smile. “Eggs freak me out.”
I hesitate. “They … freak you out?”
She pouts her lips. I make a note that they’re the perfect shade of pink. “That’s what I said.”
“How?” I ask, curious how an egg could possibly freak someone out.
“The egg white is so slimy and the yolk—” She gags then, not a fake gag either but the real kind that makes you question whether someone is about to puke all over you.
I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll do it, but you’re really going to have to get over that phobia.”
“Maybe one day, but today—” gag “—is not it.” She turns away when I add in the two eggs. “Get rid of the shells”—she pleads, skin paler than before— “and then stir them in please. And wash your hands!” She tacks on the end request with pure desperation.
I try not to laugh. “At least you said please.”
She grabs onto the back of my shirt, and I stiffen for a moment in surprise before I relax.
“Is there a name for fear of eggs?” I can’t help but ask.
“Ovophobia,” she replies immediately, and I feel her forehead press against my back. She can probably sense my surprise, because she adds, “I googled it one time.”
“Not an egg in sight,” I announce.
Her fingers uncurl from my shirt, and she hesitantly pokes her head around to the mixing bowl, exhaling a sigh of relief.
“I can handle scooping them onto the parchment paper.” She hip checks me out of the way, grabbing up the tiny scooper.
I don’t argue as she lines them up in tiny, neat rows. I would never be able to get them so precise.
The oven is preheated, so as soon as she’s finished, I open it up so she can stick the tray inside.
Closing the oven, she rubs her hands together with a smile. “You watch these bad boys like a hawk. Cookies are temperamental. I have to go to the restroom.”
Before I can reply she runs off to get permission from Mrs. Harrison and then the hairbrained teacher follows Harlow into the main classroom muttering to herself about, “Where did I put the bathroom pass again?”
How she makes it to school fully-clothed, and ready to teach is beyond me. I shudder at the thought of her showing up one day without pants.
“Spence, come help us man.” T.J. waves me over to where him, Kyler, and a girl named Jessa are trying to mix everything together and somehow fucking it up. “How do you already have yours in the oven?”
“Because it’s cookies. It’s idiot proof.”
“Then here.” T.J. shoves the mixing bowl into my hands.
Kyler’s busy looking at his phone and Jessa is filing her nails. Fucking gross.
Mixing it together, I pass it back to him and then hang out with him until Harlow gets back. I must be over there longer than I think, because suddenly I smell something burning. At the same moment Harlow returns from the restroom and gasps dramatically.
“You idiot! You burned the cookies!”
She rushes for the oven, and I run from T.J.’s station to meet her.
“The cookies!” she cries again. “They’re ruined!”
She’s not being dramatic either. All the cookies are blackened discs, nowhere near edible.
Shit.
I can’t believe I messed this up. I had one job to impress the girl I have a crush on.
Her hazel eyes meet mine and the horror in them makes me take a step back like she’s physically pushed me away.
“You’re dead to me.”