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“My phone’s in my locker,” I say. “I didn’t know you sent me anything.”
“Well, I did. So, hurry up and read it. It’s important.”
“Why can’t you tell me what it is now?”
“Because it’spersonal, Scarlett.” She clasps my hand and looks into my eyes. “It’s life or death level important, and I desperately need your help.”
From her touch, I can feel her pulse racing, and for a split second, it feels like we're seven-year-old girls again, partners in crime, willing to do whatever for each other without question.
Back when we were friends…
She lets go and clears her throat. “Since you’re editor-in-chief of the senior yearbook, I expect you to name me as Most Likely to be a Supermodel. It’s only fair since that’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“Tully, I’ve told you before that’s not a real category.”
“Well, make it one.” She scoffs. “If you want people to pay for a yearbook, you need to make sure people like me are featured as much as possible. No one cares about anything else.”
Welp. At least she ruined the sister moment quicker than usual this time.
“Okay, onto the next set of voters.” She serves me and Kevin a princess wave before walking away. Her minions follow her lead to bribe more peasants.
“Okay, remind me.” Kevin sighs. “How many days do we have left until graduation?”
“Two hundred and sixty seven days and three hundred eighty four thousand, four hundred and eighty minutes,” I say. “Do you want to know the seconds?”
* * *
After fifth period,I pull my cell phone from my locker and check the text messages.
Tully
Okay sooooo when Mom & Dad go to Aunt Jane’s wedding, I’m throwing a house party. Since you’re good at decor and shit, I’ll need you to help set up so it can be amazing.
Oh, and we should consider this as our early birthday party sooo I guess you can invite your friends too! (Just a few though…)
I roll my eyes.
I should’ve known it wasn’t really life or death.
The locker on my left suddenly slams shut and a familiar, intoxicating woodsy pine scent I love surrounds me. It’s the scent that clings to all my sheets, lingers for weeks, and makes me wish it never had to leave.
Easton…
I avoid looking at him and rummage in my locker, pretending to search for something.
I can feel him staring, then glaring at me, waiting for me to acknowledge his presence, but I don’t.
“Hello, Scarlett,” he says, his voice low.
I say nothing. I flip through a chemistry book. Then, I pick up a pen and click it a few times.
“I know you hear me talking to you…”
I hum a Chopin refrain and rotate the violin case behind the clarinet.
My heart is beating so loudly that I’m convinced he can hear it.
“Scarlett…” He slips an arm around my waist and spins me around.
