Mrs. Callahan's voice cut through the auditorium like a blade. Shrill, bossy, and wrapped in that forced "I love my job" pep only a yearbook advisor could fake. I swear she treats her camera like it's the cure for cancer. She had it up to her face, that lens gleaming under the fluorescent lights like it was staring into our souls, clicking away at the soccer teams—boys, girls, all of them shoved into their brand-new uniforms that still smelled like plastic packaging.
The room was humming, loud, jittery, alive. It always is when sports are involved, but today it felt like we'd all been plugged into some electric socket. Voices carried, laughter cracked through the air, sneakers squeaked against the old auditorium floor.
And there I was, leaned up against the wall like some background character, arms folded, watching it all. Same auditorium, same uncomfortable folding chairs, but it didn't feel the same. Maybe it was because this was it—my senior year.
My last year as a cheerleader captain. My last year of all of this. And the thought of it ending made something in my chest flutter in this horrible-exciting way, like standing too close to a ledge.
And of course, my eyes went to him. They always do.
Scott St. James.
Soccer captain. Mr. Effortless. The guy who doesn't even have to try but still manages to look like he is on a Calvin Klein ad at 8 a.m. on a Monday. The boy entire lunch tables dedicate conversations to. I'm not delusional—I know half the junior class has doodled his name in the margins of their notebooks. He's that guy. And, unfortunately for me, I've had a very inconvenient, very persistent crush on him since last year.
I've never done anything about it. Because.. well, he's Scott and I'm me. And I'm not about to sign up to be "another girl who fell for him." No, thanks. I'd rather keep my dignity.
Or I can try to.
Except, tell that to my stupid heart, which did a weird little hiccup the second he leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, hair doing that messy-but-perfect thing that no human should be allowed to pull off.
"Okay, cheerleaders! Sit next to the boys! Captains in the front. Line up by height, please!"
My cue. Shoulders back, head high. I pushed off the wall and threaded my way through the chaos, pretending I wasn't scanning for him while very much scanning for him. And that's when it happened.
Scott looked up. Saw me. And patted the seat beside him.
For a second I swear my brain short-circuited. My feet just moved on autopilot, like I wasn't even in control anymore. I sat down, trying to act like this was totally casual and not the most shocking plot twist of my senior year.
I went to fix my ponytail—because obviously, now I was suddenly aware of every single thing about me, including the bow stuck at the top of my head. It felt crooked. I didn't have a mirror. I probably looked like a disaster.
And then his voice was in my ear, low and amused. "You know... your bow's a little wonky."
I froze. Did Scott St. James just... speak to me?
Before I could answer, his hand—his actual hand—lifted and brushed against my hair. He fixed it. Adjusted it like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I just sat there, every neuron in my brain firing alarms.
"There." he said softly. "Perfect."
I tried to laugh it off. I managed to spit something out. "Oh, thanks Scott. Didn't think you'd care if I looked tragic in the yearbook."
He smirked, leaned back, and teased, "Oh please. Can't have people thinking I sat next to someone with a crooked bow. My reputation's at stake."
I laughed too loudly. It just... slipped out.
And of course, that's the exact moment Mrs. Callahan yelled, "Three... two... one... SMILE!"
Flash.
My smile probably looked deranged. His didn't. His never does.
When the soccer players started filing out, Scott stood up, casual as anything. And then—he paused. Looked down at me.
"Hey, Hattie.." he said. Quiet. Just for me. "What are you doing tonight?"
If my soul left my body in that moment. "Tonight?"
He nodded. "Yeah, it's my buddy's back to school party. Just seniors. Completed chill. You in? You can bring your plus one."
My brain screamed. My mouth somehow formed a grin. "Sure. Text me—I'll send my address. You can pick me up?"
He grinned. "Deal. See you tonight!"
And then he walked off, leaving me to sit there like someone had just dropped a bomb in my lap.
I was still recovering when I felt a nudge to my knee.
"Was that Scott St. Freaking James?" Finola's voice was a grenade going off beside me.
"He invited us to a party." I whispered, still not believing it myself.
Her jaw hit the floor. "Say no more. Fashion crisis incoming. We are going to your house right after school. Emergency mode."
And just like that, it was happening.
By the time the final bell rang that day, I was floating. Like, full-on, "this can't be real life" floating. Kids rushed the halls, but I took my time, packing up slowly because my hands wouldn't stop shaking with excitement.
Finola linked her arm through mine the second I stepped outside.
"Girl, you're walking like you've just been knighted. Relax. It's just a party, not the royal wedding. We've been to plenty high school parties in our lifetime. We will probably go to a lot more in college."
Here's the thing about Finola. She's been my best friend since junior year, when we got paired up in chemistry lab and she nearly set her sleeve on fire lighting a bunsen burner. Somehow, in that exact moment, I knew. Yep, this chaotic disaster of a human is going to be mine. We started together and we are ending together.
She's loud where I'm cautious, fearless where I'm hesitant, brutally honest when I'd rather keep pretending everything's fine. Where I spiral, she grounds me. Where I hide, she pushes me forward. She's the one person who actually sees me—like, all of me—and doesn't run. Honestly, she's more like a sister than a best friend. And I don't know what I'd do without her.
Which is why, three hours later, my bedroom looked like a clothing bomb had gone off and she was sitting cross-legged on my bed like some smug little dictator, tossing outfits at me while I panicked.
"God, I hate everything I own! It's just pastel colours and collared shirts.." I moaned, staring at myself in the mirror, half-dressed and two minutes away from a breakdown. "I look like a kindergarten teacher pretending to be cool."
"Let me have a look."
After a few seconds, Finola held up a silky red top like it was the Holy Grail. "This. With that black leather skirt. Done. Chef's kiss!"
"It's very low-cut.." I protested.
"That's the point! Cleavage is currency. Put it on, cmon!"
I groaned.
"My mom and dad would literally have a stroke if they saw me in this.."
Finola just grinned like the devil. "Then thank God they won't. You'll look incredible. Show me!"
I finally put it on, and... wow. It was a lot. The neckline dipped lower than anything I'd ever worn, and the skirt barely even qualified as fabric. I tugged it down at least fifty times in the mirror, but.. for the first time, I didn't just feel "cute." I felt... very different. Like maybe, just maybe, I could walk into that party and belong?
And then the conversation turned.
Because Finola, of course, had to ask the infamous question. "What if you hook up with him tonight?"
I laughed, then panicked, then admitted it. Quietly. "Uh, I don't think I will...I'm still a virgin. He probably won't go anywhere near me."
Her eyes nearly fell out of her head. "Wait, really?! But wasn't you like, dating Alex from science?"
"Yeah." I muttered, suddenly embarrassed. "I've just never... felt that way with anyone. Not Alex, not anyone. I don't know. I didn't want to. Until maybe now. And it scares me."
She went quiet for once. Then she said, softer than I expected. "Hattie, that's fine. You don't have to prove anything. You'll know when it's right. And if Scott doesn't respect that? He's not even worth your time."
Alex was my first actual boyfriend. Sweet, polite, funny in a safe kind of way. Everyone said we were perfect together. And we were.. on paper at least. But I never felt that spark everyone talks about.
Holding his hand was nice. Kissing him was fine. But that was it—fine. And when it got to the point where things maybe could've gone further, I just.. didn't want to. Not with him. Not ever. I used to think something was wrong with me.
Some girls at school say I fall in love too quickly, that I'm naïve. They're probably right. I'm the type to mistake a smile for a sign, a joke for affection, a small kindness for something bigger. But when Scott fixed my bow earlier, when his hands brushed mine... it felt like electricity.
And then my phone buzzed.
He was here.
My heart tried to leap out of my chest.
Finola shoved me at the mirror. "Final look. You're glowing. I'm glowing. We're fucking unstoppable. You've got this. Let's go!"
Finola was already halfway down the stairs, practically sprinting toward the door. "Shotgun!" she called over her shoulder, as if this was her big moment too.
I was about to follow her when I caught sight of Aura and Jackson on the sofa in the living room, bathed in the flickering blue glow of whatever movie they were watching. Jackson was half-asleep, head tipped back, but Aura's eyes snapped to me the second she heard my heels click on the hardwood.
"Where are you going?" Aura asked, squinting at me like she could already smell trouble.
I froze, one hand on the banister. From outside, Finola's laughter carried through the open door, Scott's car engine rumbling low in the background. My pulse stuttered.
Aura shifted upright, brushing popcorn off her lap. "Mom and Dad said we're visiting Harper soon. You're coming, right?"
My throat closed. I swallowed hard. "I'm just going out with some friends. Don't wait for me. I... I'm not going."
Jackson stirred at that, mumbling, "You're skipping? That's not fair!" but Aura's gaze stayed locked on me, sharp and steady.
"Why? We always go together." she asked flatly.
I bit the inside of my cheek, nails digging into my palms. The answer slipped out before I could stop it, soft but brutal.
"Because Harper probably doesn't want to see me anyway."
Aura's face flickered—confusion, then hurt—but I couldn't deal with it, not right then.
Here's the truth. Harper and I don't get along. That's putting it nicely. Ever since she was old enough to talk back, she's had this... concrete wall. With me, especially. She hates me.
She thinks I'm too bossy, too perfect, fake even. Maybe she's not wrong. But she doesn't see the pressure, she doesn't see what it's like being the one who has to hold everything together while Mom and Dad disappear into their work everyday. To her, I'm just the older sister who tells her what to do, who gets the spotlight and who doesn't understand.
So no, I'm not going tonight. Harper doesn't need me there. She probably doesn't want me there. And honestly? Some part of me thinks she'd prefer if I just stayed out of her life entirely.
"Have fun with Mom and Dad, give Harper kisses from me." I muttered, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
Aura tilted her head, frowning like she wanted to ask more, but I couldn't stand there another second. Finola's voice was calling my name from outside, impatient and bright, like a lifeline.
"Come on Hattie!" she laughed, the loud music blasted from Scott's car and I could feel the vibrations from here.
So I turned, grabbed my bag tighter, and walked out the door—straight into the headlights waiting for me at the curb.And as we both stepped outside and saw his car waiting at the curb, headlights glowing in the darkening Hampton streets, I felt that terrifying, exhilarating mix of fear and hope.