Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Sara
In only a few hours, Eagle Gate High School’s faculty, with the help from each grade’s student council, has completely transformed the track field into a festival wonderland.
Booths with pitched canvas awnings are lined in tidy rows with enough room for students to walk comfortably on either side.
Blue and silver pennant banners crisscross overhead, promoting our school colors, and balloon clusters are arranged beside every other booth to add flair.
Hand-painted signs are secured to the top of every booth, clearly labeled for students as they peruse the options.
There’s a waft of marinara in the air—probably from the free pizza they’re giving out—and something sweet, like fried dough.
I’ve never been an active member of a club during a festival night, so it feels extra exciting.
It’s easy to spot the Newspaper Club booth. Not because it’s fancy or done up or anything, but because Mickey Dean is yelling so enthusiastically, you’d think money had just started raining from the sky.
“Hey! Oliver! Hey, guys, over here!”
Joe had talked to me the entire walk over, sharing how excited he was to work on our first story together.
I’d flushed crimson under the moonlight, because I was equally thrilled.
Which is why I have to make sure I spend the entire night with him.
We’re friends now, aren’t we? We’ve had multiple conversations, have common interests, and are even in the same club.
I just know there’s some romantic opportunity waiting for us at the festival.
I can practically feel it in the way my skin hums with anticipation.
Joe turns to his brother, pressing back a smile. “Someone’s excited to see you.”
Oliver sighs, which is cut short when Mickey Dean tears away from the booth and bear tackles him into a hug.
Mickey Dean squeezes tighter. “Olly boy!”
Patrick leans next to my ear. “‘Olly boy’? More like Subwayboy.”
I snort. “That’s not even funny, Patrick.”
“Then why did you snort-laugh?”
Oliver glares at us as Mickey Dean releases him. Whoops. Were we that loud?
“Nice of you to finally show up,” Rose says, a bite to her tone.
Of course she looks perfect. I bet she didn’t even try that hard either. She’s wearing a gorgeous plaid peacoat in various shades of pink, which she’s paired with an expensive-looking cream turtleneck sweaterdress. Lips glossed, hair shiny as ever.
“Sorry we’re a bit late,” Joe offers, one hand nervously smoothing the back of his hair.
“It’s fine, but we should go ahead and get started.”
I’m about to ask what I can do to help when, from my periphery, I spot a familiar face. “Vicky!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around her. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”
She laughs. “Hey, Sara.”
It’s so good to see her. There’s no time to fill her in on the kiss bet, but her presence helps calm my nerves. When I let go, she grins at everyone as she adjusts the lavender scarf secured around her neck. Joe shifts closer to us, waving to her in polite greeting. She waves back.
“Okay, no time to lose, everyone,” Rose commands, all business. “Mickey Dean and Cordelia, you’re on photojournalism duty. Get good pictures. Oliver, you’ll stay at the booth and pass out pamphlets. And Joe”—I swear her eyes sparkle—“you and I will get these interviews.”
Conversation breaks out among the group. Everyone starts walking their separate ways, but I clear my throat.
“Uh, do I have a job?”
Rose looks like she just found gum at the bottom of her shoe. “Oh—Sara. Just stay and help Oliver in the booth. You’ll both be in charge of gathering new sign-ups.”
“What?” I blurt. “No!”
Oliver’s eyes snap to mine, and his lips tug down in an annoyed frown. I don’t mean to offend him, but hanging with Oliver all night isn’t part of my plan. How is Joe supposed to want to kiss me if he’s with Rose all evening? There’s no way an opportunity will come up if we’re not together.
Not only that, but how am I supposed to write my first published article if I can’t do any student interviews?
I’ve been itching to write something—to actually get my work out there and read by people.
I was excited to show my dad, even! Am I supposed to go home and tell him I passed around pamphlets all night instead of dipping my toes in real journalism?
Rose scoffs. “What, do you have a problem with Oliver?”
“Uh, no?” I shake my head. “I mean, of course not. I just thought I’d get a chance to interview students too. I even prepared questions, just like you asked.”
She heaves a dramatic sigh, like I’m the unreasonable one here. “Sara, just stay at the booth.”
But I won’t back down. Not on what’s supposed to be the most important night of my romantic life. “I don’t think the booth needs two people—”
“Can’t you do as you’re told?” Rose says, fully aggravated now. “I’m president, which means I’m the one who gives assignments. From now on, try not to fight me on my decisions.”
“Um.” Joe’s eyes skip from me to Rose, as if he’s trying to come up with a peacekeeping idea. “What if we, uh, rotate? Maybe Rose and I can do interviews for a bit, then we’ll come back and switch? That sounds fair, right, Rose?”
“Okay, sure, whatever.” Rose threads her arm through his, then leads Joe away from us. “We don’t have time for this, let’s go.”
But right before they disappear from sight, Rose tosses a conniving look over her shoulder.
One that’s directed right at Patrick. His gaze drops to his sneakers, as if he hopes no one caught that.
Unfortunately for him, I’m observant tonight.
I knew they were up to something! Those scheming schemers.
I spin on my heel, facing him. “What was that look?”
Patrick palms the back of his neck uneasily. “Uh, who knows? She’s probably in love with me or something.”
Psh, yeah right. It’s obvious Rose set all this up to have alone time with Joe. If she was actually into Patrick, she’d have his arm—well, his good one, anyway—threaded through hers right now.
Patrick can sense I’m about to prod him until he tells me the truth, so he grabs Vicky’s hand. “Let’s go check out the festival, Vicky. I’m not gonna hang out at this boring booth all night.”
“Oh, uh”—Vicky throws me an apologetic look as she’s tugged away—“sorry, Sara! I’ll come back soon, I promise.”
I step forward but Patrick’s keen on keeping a fast pace. Too bad he didn’t sprain his ankle instead. He’d be much easier to catch. “Wait! Don’t leave me alone here with—”
I stop in my tracks, my eyes jumping to Oliver, who’s already taken a seat in a folding chair behind the booth. A hand cups his jaw, and his bored stare lingers on me like he’d really love to know the end of my sentence.
“—all this work!” I improvise. “Geez, so much work at the booth.”
Without much of a choice, I head behind the booth and sit in the only empty chair beside Oliver, sighing.
I organize the twenty or so pamphlets in front of us into a neat pile, then cast my gaze into the crowd.
Students huddle together in clusters, squealing excitedly as they point where they should go next. No one comes over to chat with us.
Well, I have two options. Talk to Oliver, or get to work on gathering signatures.
I choose the lesser of two evils.
I snatch a pamphlet from my pile and wave it into the air. “Come join Newspaper Club! Learn all about the importance of journalism! Hey, you!” A freshman pretends like he didn’t just make eye contact with me and scurries away. “Don’t you want some adventure in your life?”
As it turns out, he does not. Because he only walks faster, not looking back.
I go on like this for another ten minutes, but no one comes around. Not even a polite no thanks. Was Patrick right? Does anyone really care about newspaper?
Eventually I give in, slumping back in my seat. Oliver adjusts the collar of his vintage bomber jacket, which has this cool sherpa lining, and continues ignoring me.
“What’s the point?” I grumble. “Ugh, I can’t believe I’m stuck doing this. They totally ditched us here.”
Oliver offers no response, just keeps his eyes locked on his phone screen.
“My time is running out. Worse? I can’t even enjoy the festival because I’m stuck here.” I sound whiny, like I’m on the verge of a tantrum, but I don’t care. Rose got her way, like she always does. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Faint, muffled music sounds from beside me. When I glance over, I realize why. Oliver’s wearing his earbuds. Guess he wasn’t listening to me lament. Or maybe he was and decided to tune me out, which is the more Oliver thing to do, if I’m being honest.
I glance down at his screen. Guns N’ Roses.
I tap my finger near his phone to grab his attention. “Fun choice.”
Disbelief is splayed across his face as he removes an earbud. “You listen to Guns N’ Roses?”
“You listen to Guns N’ Roses?” I fire back. “Never picked you for a classic rock kinda guy. Mozart? Sure. Chopin? Definitely. Or maybe a math podcast—”
“Who listens to math podcasts?” he says, incredulous. “Boring.”
“Right? Maybe I would, though, if I was having trouble falling asleep.”
The corners of his mouth rise, just slightly, but I catch it. Wow, did Oliver and I just agree about something? How unlike us.
“How’d you get into Guns N’ Roses, anyway?”
He looks at me sidelong. “I like music that’s guitar-forward.”
Joe told me he was saving up for a guitar.
I wonder if he already plays. Maybe he wants to start taking lessons.
Ha, what if my dad gave him guitar lessons in exchange for my calculus tutoring?
On second thought, no way. Inviting Oliver into my apartment?
Bad idea. So bad it might just give me nightmares.
“They’re fine, I guess,” I say. “My dad listens to them all the time. All those classics, really. Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Queen—he’s been trying to drill them into my head for years.”
“Do you—like it?” Oliver says cautiously, then clarifies. “That kinda music?”
“Eh, I don’t know. Some of it’s good, but generally, it’s a bit heavy for my taste.”
“It’s not all heavy.” Oliver searches for something on Spotify. “Let me show you a really good one. Here.”
He doesn’t glance up at me as he offers me his earbud dangling from the wire, just holds it out and waits for me to accept.
I hesitate. “Uh, that’s okay.”
Now his eyes meet mine. “Come on, it’s just a song.”
And before I know what’s happening, he sticks it in my ear. I have to scoot a little closer so the cord tension doesn’t stretch, and once I’m settled, he taps Play.
It’s another Guns N’ Roses song, and when I glance at his screen, I find the title: “Patience.” It doesn’t start out guns blazing—pun intended—but acoustic.
Slow and a little sad, but sweet and hopeful at the same time.
The lyrics are about missing a girl and needing patience in order to make things right.
And . . . I don’t hate it.
When it ends, I meet his eyes. “Not bad.”
Oliver smiles, a real smile with dimples appearing on both cheeks, and my heart suddenly skips like a record. It happens so fast I think I’ve imagined it.
Blinking this reaction away, I gesture to his phone. “Okay, what are your thoughts on Queen?”
Oliver’s eyes flash with excitement. “I actually really like Queen.”
“Me too. What’s your favorite song?”
As he thinks, he cups his chin in his palm. “Probably ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’”
“Oh, that’s a good one.” His phone still sits on the table between us, so I tap the screen to navigate to the search bar. “I’ll show you my favorite.”
“Don’t tell me it’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”
“Hey, nothing wrong with that, Music Snob—”
“Please don’t start calling me that. It’s bad enough you call me Subwayboy.”
“Because you are Subwayboy. But no, it’s not ‘Rhapsody.’” The opening of “Killer Queen” begins. “It’s this one.”
Oliver’s gaze clings to mine. “That’s my second favorite.”
“Sometimes I think my dad keeps his moustache because he thinks it makes him look like Freddie Mercury,” I say.
Oliver laughs—a real, genuine laugh! “I’m going to tell him he does the next time I see him in the hall.”
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he’s crossed paths with my dad, given that we live five feet from each other, but I am.
“Don’t. If you do, he will never shut up about it, and then I will have to hear about it every day of my life until I die.”
This time, Oliver’s eyes crinkle when he laughs. “I’m playing you my favorite Bowie song after this, and then you can play me yours.”
It’s strange. I don’t think I’ve seen Oliver this happy, well, ever. Even stranger? I’m sort of enjoying this.
“Okay,” I say, grinning. “Deal.”