A picnic table shades itself in the observatory’s shadow, and I park myself on the bench. Castelli lacks your stereotypical social groups—we don’t even have cheerleaders—but this picnic bench is prime loner real estate. At the start of the school year, it draws a few freshmen, but after a month they peel off to sit with their new friends. I took over the bench late last year and have been eating here ever since.
Aunt Fiona packed me a sandwich, but I can’t touch it. My stomach is too twisty for food, so I push the bag aside and put on my headphones. I’m grateful to be alone, because I’m anxious and all out of sorts. We have ten measly days to come up with an extra eight grand, money we definitely don’t have. Money we need to find. Fast.
Yesterday I tried tricking Dad into telling me what happened with Jesset, but his facade never wavered. He smiled, he joked, but when he thought I wasn’t looking, worry formed in the crease between his brows.
No surprise there. Us Wilsons? We’re not the talking type.
Without Bigmouth’s there will be no reason to stay in San Francisco, no money to pay the mortgage on our house. Dad’s parents live in a retirement community in Arizona, and that’s where we’d end up. No more Pacific Ocean mornings doused in fog or dreams of vintage and FIDM. Every remaining vestige of what makes me who I am gone.
Bigmouth’s circling the drain is bad enough, but the fact that Beckett Porter is privy to our financial woes makes a crappy situation crappier. Our falling out happened last year, but I have perfectly valid reasons to avoid him and pretend like our friendship never happened.
Beckett and I originally became best friends when he sat with me during lunch in the third grade. He liked my Princess Bride lunch box. We clicked instantly; I thought it would be forever. We shared the same brand of weird and understood each other. The more time passed, the closer we became. We took advantage of the whole “friends and family bowl for free” rule at Bigmouth’s, we got lost riding BART together, we went swing dancing every Sunday at Lindy in the Park. And Beckett never found out, but I liked him. As more than a friend. He was everything to me.
Then Beckett betrayed our friendship. Not only did he tell a secret that wasn’t his to tell, but he robbed me of the thing I cherished most—my trust in my best friend. Since then I’ve done everything in my power to rid my life of Beckett Porter. I’ve sworn him off.
Until yesterday, that was going pretty damn well.
Beckett’s reappearance really threw me, and I barely slept last night. But I’m not as tired as I should be. Instead, I’m hyped up on nerves and coffee, researching tips on my phone about how to sell vintage clothes on eBay and Etsy. Because I have to do something to help Dad. Most of my finds are cheap for a reason—stained, torn, missing buttons, shrunk in the dryer—but maybe I can flip a small profit if I sell my nicer items. Something to help supplement whatever Dad’s saved.
Lunch is almost over by the time I’ve filled a page with various tips on how to drive online auctions higher, ideas on displaying items attractively, and proper listing etiquette. I doodle dress designs in the margins of my notebook, turning up my music until Frightened Rabbit sears my eardrums. My fingers tap along with “I Wish I Was Sober” as it soars, plucky and sorrowful, through my headphones.
As if I didn’t already have enough going on, tomorrow is the FIDM tour, and I haven’t canceled—yet. I scheduled the tour during spring break because I was supposed to have the week off. I could slip away without informing my dad what I was up to, but now? If I decide to go, I have to ask my dad, and considering I haven’t even told him about FIDM, I’m thinking of skipping.
Telling Dad means admitting I’m serious about fashion design. I’m better off canceling the tour and using that time to save Bigmouth’s. Because frankly, I’d rather sell cans at the recycling center than have that conversation.
A prickle of unease runs down my spine, and I glance up from the notebook. Someone is walking straight toward me; there’s nothing else in this corner of the quad. Probably a lost-soul freshman. Unusual this late into the year, but not unheard of. But as the figure draws closer, my stomach dips lower. Those messy soft brown curls, the hunched, poor posture, a wrinkled band T-shirt.
Beckett Porter.
I cannot escape the guy.
Beckett lifts his hand in a wave, and I’m trapped with an achy, confused sensation tightening my throat as he draws nearer. People talk about fight or flight, but few talk about freeze. Stuck and unable to react. Yeah, I’m in freeze mode. I’m frozen long enough for him to drop on the bench opposite me.
“Chuck?”
I pretend not to hear him when he says my name and force my attention to my journal, the lines blurring beneath my intense gaze.
Beckett repeats himself and taps me on the shoulder—a quick poke.
Since the sophomore-year betrayal, I’ve implemented a strict no-touching rule with Beckett. And it didn’t stop with him; he single-handedly increased my general personal bubble by three feet with everyone.
I take off my headphones, fighting for the proper response to this huge violation of privacy, and say, “Fancy seeing you here.” Sarcasm is a safe choice because it’s a language he understands. “I thought being a truant meant never stepping foot on campus.”
True to his nature, Beckett is unflappable. “Nah, being a truant means I’m occasionally on campus.” The way the smug smile lifts at the corners shows me he’s pleased I’ve been paying attention.
Ugh. Rookie mistake. I shouldn’t have said anything.
Embarrassment flushes my neck, and I look away, biting into my apple for something to do. If I can’t talk him away, I’ll ignore him out of existence. He might not be on campus frequently, but he hangs out with theater kids. So that begs the question: What is he doing at my loner table?
Beckett swipes my bag of potato chips and pops them open.
“Dude. Leave. This is my bench”—I lean forward to grab the chips—“and that’s my lunch.”
He forfeits the bag and then tilts his head. “Are you okay?”
“In general, or in an existential sense?” I ask, expecting sass in response.
“I’m worried about you,” he says with strange sincerity. “After the thing with your dad? I thought you’d want to talk.”
Dropping my gaze to the table, I say, “I’m fine.” Actually, I’m the opposite, but Beckett’s the last person I want to talk to. A year ago, he would’ve never taken “fine” as an acceptable answer. For a fleeting moment, I wish he’d press further, to be relentless and pry open my feelings. In that brief, heartbeat-length moment, I miss my best friend.
Thankfully, that yearning loneliness disappears, replaced by suspicion and a heaping dose of annoyance.
“And if I wanted to talk about it with anyone, it wouldn’t be you.” The words cause a flicker of pain to cross his face. I crumple up the chips and shove them into the brown lunch bag. “What’s your deal? Trying to make amends before I’m gone for good?”
“C’mon, don’t say that. You’re not leaving.”
I sigh so hard the hair sticking to my cheeks fluffs out in front of me. “I might be.”
“If that’s the case, I want to help,” he says plainly, factually. He folds his arms on the table, leaning forward. As if the table between us is an obstacle, not a shield.