BRIGHTON
1:16 p.m. ---23 hours, 44 minutes left
“Brighton! Why weren’t you at lunch?”
I freeze at the familiar voice. I’d been hoping—just this once, just today—I could make it from my locker to class without being seen, but Jordan latches on to my arm as I walk by the door of Mrs. Watson’s room.
“I had to do something for yearbook.” The “something” had been to take a moment just to breathe. The yearbook room had been a convenient place to hide out and do it.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” She tsks like I’m being silly and gives my arm a playful shake.
“Everyone was looking for you.”
Which is why I hid.
I thought I’d be fine. Until the moment this morning when we were getting ready to broadcast announcements and I glanced at the first story I was supposed to read and almost burst into tears. I don’t know what I would’ve done if Amelia hadn’t noticed and stepped in with a quick lie:
“Oh, Brighton, your mascara is smudged! Go, I’ll take your spot—” so I could run off to the bathroom, pull myself together, and lecture myself on being ridiculous. So the captain of the baseball team is named Ethan—same name as my dad. This isn’t news to me. It certainly isn’t a valid reason to cry like an idiot during a live broadcast.
Since then, I’d done a fairly decent imitation of fine during my morning classes, but skipping lunch had been necessary.
“Sorry.” I pluck off my headband, smooth my dark brown hair, then put the band back, using the motions as an excuse to extract my arm from her grip. “What did I miss? Do you need something?”
“Not really.” Jordan shrugs, leans toward me with a conspiratorial smile. “But since you weren’t there, you didn’t hear how Natalie wants to have her graduation party the same day as mine! And we both want the yacht club; so one of us will have to use the clubroom instead of the ballroom. I’m sure Natalie is going to have a fit if it’s her—which isn’t fair, why should I have to be the one to settle? Regardless, you’ll come to my party, right?”
I stare at her for a moment; she’s serious. “Why don’t you two just throw your parties together? You’ll be inviting all the same people, and that way no one has to choose.”
She squeezes my arm again. “B, you’re brilliant! This is why you need to be at lunch! I’ll go find Natalie and tell her it was your idea.”
She dashes down the hall, and I fight the urge to lean against the lockers and shut my eyes. Not just because I hadn’t slept well last night. Or any of the nights this week. Or because seniors do not need party planning advice from juniors—especially not advice that’s so obvious they should’ve thought of it themselves instead of creating drama or asking people to pick sides.
Except now I’m just being rude. I’m sure they’re already combining their guest lists and moving on to debating invitations, colors, and food—
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you—” Jordan is back, standing in front of me and trying so hard to fight a grin. I force myself to look engaged and interested in whatever the new gossip is. “Since you weren’t at lunch today, you also missed my big announcement: I got off the Brown waiting list! I’m in!”
“That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you. Congrats!” My last word gets buried in her shoulder as I pull her into a hug. For a few moments I can shake off my exhaustion and be happy for her. “Oh my gosh! How could you possibly not tell me that first thing? You’ve got to be so excited.”
“Next time come to lunch and you’ll be in the know!” She fake-pouts at me. “Seriously, I only have two weeks of school left—get underlings to do your yearbook tasks; I don’t want you missing any more lunches.”
“I promise.” And I can do that. It’s only today. Today and tomorrow. If I can just survive the next thirty-six hours, I’ll be able to breathe again. But just thinking about them deflates me, drains all the enthusiasm from my voice. “Brown! Wow. I hope Rhode Island is ready for you.”
She doesn’t even notice, just laughs and says, “Of course they’re not! Okay, gotta get to class, but I’m sure I’ll see you tonight. Later, gator.”
I call another weak “Congrats” after her and head toward my own class.
“Hey, Brighton!”
“Hi, B.”
“What’s up, Brighton?”
The hall seems so crowded. All the people passing by, throwing smiles and greetings at me—each one feels like a minor assault of friendliness. Each one makes me more aware of how many sets of eyes are watching—and how big an audience I’ll have if I let myself fall to pieces.
I twist the ring on my finger. I expected it to provide some comfort today, but mostly it just feels heavy, foreign—a constant reminder of what’s happening tomorrow.
I need to shake this off.
Dad had two favorite sayings: Everything looks better when you’re wearing a smile and Eighty percent of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.
So I’ll pull on a smile and be okay. If I can’t quite achieve okay, at least I’m 80 percent closer to it.
I can fake the rest.