Page 42 of Fall Fake-Out

The way she tied a ribbon around the tiny jars of maple butter for shower favors? Apparently life-changing, based on my mother’s reaction the other night. Meanwhile, I’m over here getting handwriting critiques.

Across from us, Landrie laughs softly while reviewing the guest list. “Mom, stop micromanaging her cursive.”

“I’m not micromanaging.” Mom seals another envelope. “I just want everything to look nice.”

My mom lives for the town's approval, and this wedding feeds that beast perfectly.

I address another envelope.

Ms. Alvina Lucinda Berkeley, Reese’s mom.

“Don’t forget the flourish on the Y,” Mom says.

I stop writing altogether. “Do you want my help or not?”

“I’m simply giving guidance.” She smiles tightly. “Though I’m surprised you even have time to help us today.”

“It’s Saturday,” I say carefully. “What else would I be doing?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes lift innocently. “I assumed you’d be spending time with Wade.”

I’ve been waiting for her to say something. Surprised she’s lasted this long.

Landrie’s lips twitch like she, too, knows where this is going.

I pause mid last name. “If you have something to say, please, by all means, say it.”

Mom folds her hands neatly on the table. “The entire town watched you climb into Wade’s lap last night at the football game. Why would I have something to say about that?”

“I did not climb into his lap.”

“There are videos, Ari.” Oh, I remember that tone from my teenage years.

“There were bees circling me. Or would you prefer I let them sting me and swell up to the point where I can’t breathe?”

“Mm-hmm.” Her tone says she absolutely does not believe the bees defense. “Well, whatever happened, people are talking.”

Heat creeps up my neck.

The videos have been everywhere since last night. TikTok edits. Instagram reels. Somebody even slowed down the moment where Wade’s hand accidentally landed on my butt and zoomed in like it was footage from a crime investigation.

“Honestly,” Mom continues, “it’s embarrassing.”

That hits hard because it is embarrassing. Not the kind of images I want my students posting of me. But exactly the kind of situation I seem to find myself in a lot.

Beside me, Landrie gently stacks completed invitations into neat piles. “I think people just got excited. It will blow over in twenty-four hours.”

“Excited?” Mom repeats. “Half the town already thinks Ari makes reckless decisions. Now she’s publicly straddling the high school principal in front of students.”

My stomach tightens.

There it is.

Not: You embarrassed yourself.

But: This is exactly who we expected you to be—the embarrassment of the family.

Landrie finally looks up. “Mom, it was obviously an accident.” I appreciate my sister’s efforts, though they’re falling on deaf ears.