Chapter 16
Sixteen
HANNAH
I wake to Lila screaming. The kind that makes me sit straight up before my eyes are fully open.
“What happened?”
Noor stands beside her bed, staring at Lila’s phone.
Neither answers.
I reach for my glasses on the nightstand, miss them, and nearly knock over the half-empty Dr Pepper, Kane brought last night.
Lila turns the screen toward me.
A blurry courtside picture fills it.
Kane stands near the sideline, looking straight into the player guest section with a grin I now know too well.
A red circle has been drawn around me.
High bun.
Cream sweater.
Tortoiseshell glasses.
Twizzler halfway to my mouth.
The caption reads:
WHO IS KANE HAVERHILL’S MYSTERY GIRL?
Below it, someone added:
H&T? Haverhill and Tortoiseshell?
I grab the phone.
“No.”
Lila bounces on her knees.
“It’s cute.”
“It’s a skin condition.”
“It’s a couple name.”
“It sounds like an accounting firm.”
Noor takes the phone and scrolls.
“There’s a poll.”
My stomach drops.
“Why is there a poll?”
She reads it aloud.
CLASSMATE OR CRUSH?
The options are:
Study buddy?
Secret girlfriend?
Basketball genius?
Random fan who got lucky?
Basketball genius is winning.
Barely.
I pull the blanket over my head.
“I’m transferring.”
“To where?” Lila asks.
“Somewhere without cameras.”
“Wyoming?”
“Too many sports.”
“A convent?”
“I’d have to check the Wi-Fi.”
Noor sits on the edge of my bed.
“People will move on.”
“When?”
“The next time an athlete gets caught doing something stupid.”
“That could happen before lunch,” Lila says.
I shove the blanket down.
The picture is already spreading. Another account has zoomed in on Kane pointing toward me after his steal. A third uses slow motion to show me shaking my head at one of his drives.
Someone added dramatic music.
I look like an angry substitute teacher reviewing a disciplinary hearing.
“I am never wearing those glasses again.”
Noor glances at the frames on my nightstand.
“You need them.”
“I’ll go blind.”
“That seems extreme.”
“I would rather walk into a fountain than trend as Tortoiseshell.”
Lila scrolls faster.
“People like them.”
“People also like public executions when the editing is good.”
A new post appears.
This one places my courtside picture beside a photo of Krista.
HAVERHILL’S NEW TYPE? FROM TRACK STAR TO BOOKWORM…
Heat crawls up my neck.
Noor takes the phone from Lila and locks it.
“That’s enough.”
“It’ll get worse,” I say.
“Maybe.”
“Helpful.”
“But hiding won’t fix it.”
“I’m not hiding.”
I climb out of bed and head for my dresser.
I’m adapting.
* * *
My contacts go in on the second attempt.
The left one scratches, but I refuse to surrender.
I add concealer.
Foundation.
More mascara than I’ve worn since high school picture day.
Then Lila appears beside me holding a set of false lashes.
“No.”
“You said you wanted to look different.”
“I want to look less identifiable, not like I’m about to stream as an influencer.”
“They’re subtle.”
“They have their own shadow.”
Noor watches from her desk. “You’re doing too much.”
“I was labeled Tortoiseshell before breakfast.”
“The lashes won’t erase your face.”
“They might distract from it.”
Lila applies them while I keep one eye closed and try not to flinch.
When she finishes, I study my reflection.
Contacts.
Hair down and curled.
Full makeup.
Borrowed black sweater.
The lashes make my eyes look larger without the glasses, which feels counterproductive, but I’m too committed to start over.
Lila smiles behind me.
“You look amazing.”
“I look suspicious.”
“You look like the hot cousin of the girl in the picture.”
“That is the goal.”
Noor closes her laptop.
“What are you doing today?”
“Studying.”
“Outside this room?”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve checked the blinds three times.”
“I was checking the weather.”
“The blinds face a brick wall.”
I glance toward the window.
Fine.
Maybe I’m hiding a little.
Noor stands and grabs her tote bag. “We’re going to the used bookstore.”
“I have work.”
“Bring it.”
“I have practice plans.”
“Bring those too.”
“I have dignity.”
“Leave that. It’s heavy.”
Lila points toward us.
“Bookstore therapy.”
I pull on a coat.
“Fine.”
My phone vibrates on the desk.
Kane.
I stare at his name.
Noor notices.
“You going to answer?”
“No.”
I pick up the phone anyway.
Kane: Morning, Footnote.
No mention of the posts.
No apology for turning me into campus entertainment simply by looking at me too often.
Me: I’m legally changing my name and leaving the country.
His answer arrives immediately.
Kane: Saw the poll.
Me: I hope your phone explodes.
Kane: Basketball genius is winning.
Me: That does not help.
Kane: Better than random fan.
Me: I’m going blind before I wear those glasses again.
The typing bubble appears.
Kane: Don’t.
I pause.
Me: Don’t what?
Kane: Stop wearing them. I like them.
My pulse misbehaves.
Lila reads over my shoulder.
“He likes the glasses.”
I turn the phone facedown.
“I’m still burning them.”
Noor picks up her keys.
“After the bookstore.”
* * *
The shop is narrow, dusty, and perfect.
Books climb the walls from floor to ceiling. Handwritten cards stick out from the shelves with recommendations from employees who clearly have strong feelings about everything.
A sleepy orange cat occupies the front window.
No cameras.
No athletes.
No one whispering H&T.
I breathe easier the second the door closes behind us.
Lila disappears toward romance.
Noor heads for essays and criticism.
I drift into history with a basket over one arm, stopping when I find a battered book about ancient trade routes priced at four dollars.
Therapy.
I sit on the floor between two low shelves and open it.
Noor finds me several minutes later.
She lowers herself beside me, knees pulled up beneath her coat.
“You want to tell me why the poll scared you that much?”
“It’s humiliating.”
“That isn’t all.”
I turn a page without reading it.
Noor waits.
She’s good at that.
The silence keeps expanding until the truth has nowhere left to hide.
“My first boyfriend wasn’t really my boyfriend.”
Her expression changes.
“What does that mean?”
“His name was Ryan. He played for Dad’s program.”
I close the book.
“He started talking to me junior year. Asked for help in chemistry. Then he started waiting for me after school and sitting with me on the bus to Dad’s gym.”
“That sounds like dating.”
“I thought so.”
The memory arrives in pieces.
Ryan stealing my Twizzlers.
Ryan telling me I looked pretty without my hair pulled back.
Ryan asking what Dad thought about his release, whether college coaches had called, whether he might start getting more minutes.
I mistook the questions for nerves.
Maybe some were.
Not enough.
“He said he liked me because I wasn’t like the girls who followed the team around.”
Noor’s mouth tightens.
“I was the girl following the team around.”
“You had a reason.”
“He had one too.”
I pick at the frayed corner of the cover.
“He thought being close to me would make Dad invest in him. More film. More private workouts. Calls to recruiters.”
“Did it?”
“For a while.”
Dad started giving Ryan extra time because I asked. He stayed late to watch him shoot. Sent clips to two small colleges. Drove him to a showcase when Ryan’s parents couldn’t get off work.
I thought I was helping someone I loved.
Ryan thought he had found a useful entrance.
“How did you find out?” Noor asks.
I stare at the line of books across from us.
“Homecoming. I went looking for him before class.
The hallway behind the gym had been dark. Most people were already in homeroom. Ryan stood beside the equipment room with a cheerleader from our school. His real crush. Her back against the wall. His mouth on hers.
I heard them laughing before I saw them.”
Noor says nothing.
“She asked whether he felt guilty. He said I’d get over it. Then he joked that at least dating Coach Goodwin’s daughter had been good for something.”
My throat tightens despite the years between then and now.
“They laughed about me. My glasses. My clothes. The way I thought he wanted to hear about books.”
Noor reaches for my hand.
I let her take it.
“I stood there long enough to hear him say he had to keep pretending until recruiting season ended.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I walked away before they saw me.”
“Did you tell your dad?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d convinced him to help Ryan. I felt stupid.”
“You weren’t stupid.”
“I was useful.”
The word settles between us.
That is the part Kane doesn’t understand.
Attention from athletes has always come with an assignment attached.
A paper.
A test.
A call to a recruiter.
A correction no one else can find.
“He found out eventually,” I say. “Ryan stopped pretending once he had the film he wanted. Dad thought we had a normal teenage breakup.”
“And now Kane needs help with his game.”
I nod.
“He says the kiss had nothing to do with that.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I want to.”
Noor squeezes my hand.
“That’s different from being stupid.”
“He followed me to the gym.”
“Yes, which was unhinged.”
“He brought snacks.”
“Strong recovery.”
“He protected my name in the interviews.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“How do you know?”
“I watched the clip this morning. A reporter asked about me. He wouldn’t say who I was.”
“That matters.”
“I know.”
“That’s the problem?”
I lean my head against the shelf.
“Ryan wanted access to my father. Kane already has access to everything.”
“Except you.”
I look at her.
Noor’s expression stays gentle.
“He doesn’t need your name for recruiting. He doesn’t need you to get into rooms. He’s already in them.”
“He needs what I see.”
“Maybe.”
“That could be enough.”
“Or maybe what you see is why he feels understood.”
I hate how close that lands.
The shop cat wanders into the aisle and rubs against my boot. I scratch beneath its chin while considering a life in which I stay here forever and avoid every emotionally complicated man west of Chicago.
Noor leans against the shelf beside me.
“You can be careful without deciding he’s guilty before he does anything.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You start by keeping your own name.”
My phone buzzes inside my coat.
Kane again.
I take it out.
Kane: You disappeared after the game because of the cameras.