1. Eve #2
The ring toss booth is run by Mr. Peterson, who owns the hardware store and has arms like tree trunks from lifting lumber all day. His mustache twitches when Emma inevitably sends three rings sailing past the bottles entirely.
"Better luck next time, kiddo," he says with genuine warmth, handing her a piece of saltwater taffy anyway.
"See?" Emma unwraps the candy with sticky fingers. "Told you they give treats regardless."
I'm lining up my first ring, tongue poking out in concentration, when Sarah nudges my shoulder.
"Don't look now," she whispers, "but Nash is watching you."
My head snaps up involuntarily, and sure enough, there he is.
He's positioned himself behind the dunking booth about twenty feet away, arms crossed and that same storm-cloud expression darkening his features.
When our eyes meet for a split second, something electric shoots through my stomach, but I quickly look away.
"He's so weird," Emma declares through a mouthful of taffy. "Always skulking around like some kind of brooding hero from one of my sister's romance novels."
"Emma!" Sarah hisses, glancing around to make sure no one overheard.
"What? It's true. He acts like the whole world personally offended him." Emma lowers her voice to a theatrical whisper. "My mom says his mama works double shifts at the diner and the hospital, so he basically raises himself. That's why he's so..."
"So what?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
Emma shrugs. "Angry, I guess. Like he's got all this rage just bubbling under the surface and he doesn't know what to do with it."
I toss my ring with more force than necessary. It bounces off a bottle neck and clatters to the ground. "Well, that doesn't give him the right to be mean to people."
"Course not," Sarah agrees quickly. "But Nash has always been like that. Even back in kindergarten, he was the kid who'd rather sit alone at recess than play with anyone else."
"He's not always alone," Emma adds. "I hear he's started to hang around with those older boys—Tommy Morrison and Jake Hendricks. And we know how they are…"
She trails off, nodding toward the edge of the festival where two boys who look a few years older than us are lounging against a pickup truck.
One has dark hair slicked back with too much gel and a cigarette dangling from his lips despite being nowhere near old enough to buy them legally.
The other sports a black eye that looks fresh and a sneer that suggests he earned it doing something he shouldn't have.
As if summoned by our attention, Nash starts walking in their direction. But something about his posture seems reluctant, like he's being pulled by invisible strings rather than genuine desire.
"That's Tommy and Jake," Sarah murmurs. "They're bad news. Always getting suspended for fighting or caught sneaking beer from their parents."
I watch Nash approach the older boys, noting how his shoulders hunch slightly, making him appear smaller than he actually is. Tommy says something that makes Jake laugh, but Nash just stands there with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
There's something about the scene that sits wrong in my stomach.
Nash was horrible to me, absolutely horrible, but watching him with those boys makes me think of a puppy trying to run with wolves.
He doesn't quite fit, doesn't carry himself with the same casual cruelty that radiates from Tommy and Jake like heat from a furnace.
"Earth to Eve," Emma sing-songs, waving her hand in front of my face. "You're staring."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I am not."
"You totally are," Sarah confirms with a grin. "Don't tell me you've got a crush on Nash Callahan."
"Absolutely not!" The denial comes out too loud, too forceful. "He was awful to me. He called me fake and acted like I think I'm better than everyone else."
"Do you?" Emma asks with the blunt honesty that only children possess.
The question catches me off guard. "Do I what?"
"Think you're better than us?"
I consider this seriously, rolling Mr. Peterson's ring between my palms. Do I?
I know my dress cost more than most of theirs.
I know my parents have more money than many families here.
I know that back in Boston, I was used to certain things—music lessons, museum trips, restaurants where the waiters wear bow ties.
But looking at Sarah's open smile and Emma's grass-stained knees, I realize I don't feel superior at all.
If anything, I feel envious. These girls seem so comfortable in their own skin, so unafraid of getting dirty or being loud or taking up space.
In Boston, I was always trying to be perfect, to live up to some impossible standard of goodness that seemed to matter more than actually being happy.
"No," I say finally. "I don't think I'm better. Different, maybe. But not better."
Emma nods like this is exactly the answer she expected. "Then Nash was just being a jerk for no reason. Which is pretty typical for him, honestly."
But as I line up my second ring, I can't shake the image of Nash standing awkwardly beside those older boys. There was something lost about him, something that looked almost lonely despite being surrounded by people.
"My turn!" Sarah declares, bumping my hip playfully.
I step aside, grateful for the distraction, but my eyes drift back toward the pickup truck despite my best efforts.
Nash is still there, but now Jake is talking animatedly about something, gesturing with hands that look too big for his wrists.
Tommy just looks bored, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the grass.
Nash nods along, but his attention keeps wandering. Once, his gaze sweeps across the festival crowd and lands on our little group. For a heartbeat, those blue-green eyes lock onto mine again, and I feel that same electric jolt from before.
This time, I don't look away immediately.
Instead, I study his face, searching for some clue to explain the contradiction between his earlier cruelty and the lost expression he wears now.
His jaw is set in that same hard line, but there's something fragile underneath it, like he's built himself a wall but doesn't know how to get out from behind it.
"Eve," Emma says gently, pulling me back to the present. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" I ask, though I know perfectly well.
"Staring at Nash. Like you've got a question or something."
Sarah tosses her ring and scores a perfect hit. "Maybe I do have questions for him. Nobody acts like that without a reason."
"Or maybe he's just mean," Emma counters, though her voice lacks conviction. "Some people are, you know. Mean just to be mean."
I want to agree with Emma, want to write Nash off as nothing more than a bully who gets some twisted pleasure from making new girls cry. It would be simpler that way, cleaner. I could focus on my new friendships and forget all about sandy hair and stormy eyes.
But as I watch him shift uncomfortably while Jake continues his animated story, I can't quite convince myself that "mean just to be mean" is the whole truth.