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The notification from Calcul8 says English Homework. I fight a smile. It might be Kappy. But it also could be Ford.

I hope it’s Ford.

I race through loading the dishwasher and run to my room to check.

FORD

Question: Where does your church fall on secret apps that hide photos and messages from your parents?

ME

They fully support it. I can’t remember the precise quote, but it’s somewhere in the New Testament.

“For whoever posts on the Calcul8 app shall not perish but have eternal life.”

I would laugh but I’m pretty sure there’s something in the Bible that suggests you shouldn’t misquote the Bible as a joke.

Wrong. “And the Lord sayeth, thou shalt misquote the Bible freely, provided it bringeth laughter.”

I’m suddenly feeling like I’ve got to go confess a bunch of things to my parents.

You have your whole life to do that. Give yourself the next few months off.

It’s tempting. Probably the bad sort of tempting, the kind that is really Satan on your shoulder, spurring you on. But what if I just allow myself to lead a truly normal life, as much as possible, for these next few months?

At least then I won’t spend the rest of it wondering what I’ve missed.

On Wednesday, we’re back in our same spot outside when Ford shows me the Netflix-documentary-style cover he’s made for my story.

It’s the picture he took of me that night at the party—I’m surprised he kept it—with an image of the Calcul8 app in the background and this shattered glass effect, like you’d see if it was a show about a serial killer.

He’s titled it Broken Vows: The Grace Felton Story.

I choke on a laugh. And then tears are streaming from my eyes as I continue to laugh. “You can’t use that.”

“Then you’d better give me something else to talk about.”

“We can just talk about my move to Penhallow, but I’m interviewing you first,” I announce, pulling out my notes.

He grins. “You started out as such a meek little thing, too.”

“Did I?” I ask. “I seem to recall snottily telling you that we wouldn’t be in the same classes the first time we met.”

He shrugs. “I was a dick first. I had it coming.”

I’m no longer sure that’s true, but I pull out my phone, making a mental note to hide this video as soon as we’re done, and resenting my father for the fact that it’s necessary. I’m now a liar, but he’s made me what I am.

“So, what led you to start playing football and how old were you?” I ask, once the phone is propped up against my backpack.

“I played with my dad a lot, and he signed me up for peewee football,” Ford says. “After he left, I guess I just kept playing because I thought it would make him happy.”

I turn off the camera. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize your dad left you guys. How old were you?”

“Ten,” he says, and then he gives me a small smile. “And saying he left is sort of a euphemism. He went to jail.”

My brows shoot skyward—I’ve never known anyone who has gone to jail. I’ve never known anyone related to someone who went to jail. If I’d learned this when I first came to Penhallow, I’d have been even more awful and judgmental than I already was.

“Go ahead and ask,” he challenges. “You want to know what he did, right?”