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Library of Congress Cataloging‑in‑Publication Data is available.

ISBN: 978‑0‑ 8234 ‑ 6122‑6 (hardcover)

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1 SECRET LIFE

November 24

If there was one thing I was good at, it was putting books where they belonged. Not to brag, but after two months volunteering at the local library, I was basically a professional.

“Last cart, Virginia.” Mrs. Kauffman motioned to Ostrich (the cart’s name; it wasn’t explicitly stated in the rules, but actual ostriches weren’t allowed in the public library). Ostrich was filled with returns: mostly chapter books, picture books, and graphic novels. “You can leave as soon as you’re done, since you have that review with ‘Four Takes’ today.”

“Thanks.” Usually, my reviews with “Four Takes” were scheduled for Sunday afternoons, when I wasn’t at the library, but Mary Heather had been busy yesterday so we’d moved it to today. That was annoying, but I didn’t want to complain and start a fight. “I’m sorry to cut things short.”

Mrs. Kauffman shrugged. “Hey, it’s not like I’m paying you. You’re shelving books for free.”

“That’s true.” I really liked organizing things, though. And books.

I wheeled Ostrich to the kids’ section. Shelving wasn’t my only task here. I also kept an eye on the stacks, since people sometimes put books back in weird places, and I helped out with programming, like reading to the little kids, crafts, and other activities. Sure, the small local library wasn’t where my friends wanted to hang out (it wasn’t cool enough), but I enjoyed coming here twice a week. It felt like my own private world, even though the public library was— by definition—public. Plus, Mrs. Kauffman was nice.

And then there was the other reason I liked coming here: Grayson Jennings also frequented the Deer Hill branch. He was a boy in my grade, and I’d spoken exactly fifteen words to him. Those words were “Do you need help finding something?” and “Okay cool,” and “Yeah, I’m Virginia Vaughn,” and “Okay, see you.”

In the two months I’d been volunteering here, that was my one and only exchange with him. (You can probably fill in his side. Trust me, it was equally thrilling.)

Currently, he was writing in a notebook at the big table, his cheek resting on his fist. A pile of books sat beside him, but edge on, so I couldn’t see the titles. He was really cute— tall and tanned, with curly brown hair and a smile that had caused quite a few girls (present company included) to develop massive crushes. He’d been super popular all through sixth and seventh grade, but this year, he’d abruptly quit the football team.

Which led to his (ex) teammates saying he couldn’t hang out with them anymore.

Which led to a sudden drop down the social ladder.

No more team lunch table. No more crushing girls. No more anything.

Now he was basically in the underworld. To speak his name was to court death.

As for what had caused him to quit? I couldn’t say. But he spent most of his time at the library now, which worked for me. The better to pine over him.

From afar. Obviously. I had my own reputation to consider.

I sighed and finished unloading Ostrich, fixed a few books that were clearly out of place, and returned to the desk, where Mrs. Kauffman was talking on the phone. She lifted a finger, signaling me to wait.

I dug through my bag in my cubby and pulled out my mirror to touch up my tinted lip gloss, sneaking a peek at Grayson through the glass.

He’d closed his notebook and moved on to reading. Completely oblivious to my stealth gazing.

I sighed and imagined him noticing me noticing him. I imagined him smiling (at me!). And I imagined him sitting with me in class.

Or something. That was where my imagination broke down. For one, I wasn’t entirely sure how boyfriend/girlfriend things worked. For two, how did we get over the problem of him being as

un popular as he used to be popular? Could he be raised back up into respectability? Would our popularities average out somehow? And for three, maybe most significantly, I didn’t actually know much about him (besides the gossip), so I didn’t know how we’d hang out if we were, ahem, a couple.

Maybe we’d read? We both liked reading.

I pulled out my phone and checked the time: 4:21 p.m. I was meeting Mary Heather, Kat, and Jess at Seasonal Sweets in nine minutes. The shop was only a block away, so I had plenty of time.

Still, I shifted from hip to hip. I didn’t like being late. If anyone was going to be late, it was usually Kat. No one ever said anything to her, of course, but if I arrived even a nanosecond after the appointed time—well, it was the end of the world.

“Sorry about that.” Mrs. Kauffman hung up the phone and signed me out. “One thing before you go. The Deer Hill Winter Jolly‑ Days Festival is coming up, and as you know, the library always has a booth.”

Oh, I knew. In the past, they’d given away books and crafting supplies, and, of course, they’d signed people up for library cards. It was a big deal in town. There were tons of other booths, too, perfect for holiday shopping, plus live music (mostly from the school bands). My family went every year.

“This year’s festival is scheduled for the twentieth and twenty‑first, and I want you to help set up the library booth,” Mrs. Kauffman went on. “We start decorating it next week.”

“Great! I was hoping to help.” The booths were always so

beautiful. There was even a most‑beautiful‑booth contest. A contest that I would now be participating in.

And I wanted to win. I wanted to win a lot.

Sure, volunteering at the library wasn’t the coolest thing I could be doing with my free time— a fact that my friends reminded me about every day but it made me happy. The books needed me. And so did this booth.

Speaking of my friends, my phone buzzed with an alarm, reminding me to go. “I’ll think about how to decorate it.”

“Sounds good.” She waved me out the door. “See you Wednesday!”

Feeling good about literally everything concerning my immediate future, I grabbed my backpack, coat, and scarf from my cubby. Then, with one last look over my shoulder at Grayson (who was still reading in that dreamy way), I headed out the door into the brisk November chill.

Mary Heather changing our review day was annoying because it cut out half an hour of my library time, but at least this small change to my schedule wasn’t going to upset the delicate balance of my entire life.

Except . . . that was exactly what happened. I just didn’t know it yet.

2 SEASONAL SWEETS

November

Seasonal Sweets was named Seasonal Sweets because the menu changed when the weather did. In the summer, they served ice cream, like sensible people. In the fall, they transformed the store into a hot chocolate shop. Personally, I thought November was the best time to visit Seasonal Sweets, because there were so many options, especially for the drinks. From classic to peppermint to peanut butter, the hot chocolate flavors were endless. My favorite was the salted caramel. Sweet and savory. I always ordered it. But today, for the sake of our official review, I ordered orange.

“Are you sure?” Miss Joy asked. She knew about my deep and unshakable love.

“I’m sure,” I said with my mouth, even as my heart said SALTED CARAMEL.

While she got to work making our drinks, Jess snapped a handful of photos of the store. Kat, Mary Heather, and I squeezed out of the way so our clothes and bags didn’t mess up the shots. Once we

had our cups, the four of us headed outside and crowded around one of the tiny street‑ side tables— and as close to the patio heater as we could get.

“Let’s do a photo of our hands around the cups,” I suggested.

Kat groaned, but Mary Heather nodded. “That’s actually a great idea.”

“I do have those sometimes.” I sniffed.

“Take off the cup sleeves for the picture,” Mary Heather ordered, already removing hers.

“Get into position and I’ll set the timer.” Jessica clipped her phone to a small stand, and then the four of us were squished side by side, our fingers curled around the slightly scalding sleeveless paper cups.

The camera went off and Jessica checked the photo. She sighed. “Kat, you’re covering the logo.”

“They shouldn’t have put their logo where my fingers go,” Kat pointed out.

“Ugh, hurry. I’m dying of cold.” Mary Heather shivered dramatically.

Jess forcibly rearranged Kat’s hands. “All right.” She went back to her phone to readjust focus and exposure. “Timer’s set.” She came back into frame and took hold of her cup. “This is going to be the shot.”

The phone clicked. Before Jess finished inspecting the photo, Kat, Mary Heather, and I were all in our seats and leaning toward the heater.

“I’m so glad our ancient ancestors discovered fire.” I took a sip of my cocoa. It was blisteringly hot. Sweet. Just the right amount of orange tang. “And this. Definitely one of humanity’s better discoveries.”

Mary Heather pulled out her notebook and fancy fountain pen. “So, you like it?”

“It tastes like chocolate sunshine,” I declared.

Mary Heather wrote that down. “Kat? Jess?”

Kat took a gulp of hers and groaned. She’d ordered a terrifying blend of cocoa, cinnamon, cayenne, and chili. “It tastes like fire. I’m becoming a dragon.”

“Vivid,” Mary Heather said, still taking notes. “Mine is good. Red velvet. You can’t go wrong with that.”

“It looks like blood,” Kat observed.

I peered over. The cups didn’t have lids; Seasonal Sweets was reducing their plastic use, so lids were request‑ only. “It does look like blood,” I agreed.

Mary Heather rolled her eyes. “It looks like the holiday spirit, you ghouls.”

“Jess?” I nudged my glasses back up the bridge of my nose.

“How’s the gingerbread?”

Jessica was hunched over her phone, tapping through her editing app. “Not enough gingerbread,” she said without looking up. “I should have gotten the classic. It’s what most people will be looking for anyway.”

“Hmph.” Mary Heather wrote that down, too. “Can you think of something nice to say?”

“Jess can always think of something nice to say,” Kat grumbled. “It’s what makes her so annoying.”

“You should try being more like Jess,” I said. “You might have more friends than just us.”

Kat made a noise that suggested she hated everyone else.

Jess went on, as if we hadn’t spoken: “Good presentation. Doesn’t look like blood. Doesn’t turn me into a dragon.” She slid her cup across the table. “Do you want to try, Virginia?”

“I’ll ask Miss Joy for water first.” I stood up and slipped back inside to ask for four small cups of tap water.

“Well?” asked Miss Joy as she filled the paper cups. “Are we getting a good review on Deer Hill’s favorite scroll?”

Our scroll (an individual page on an app called Scrollr) was where we posted our reviews. It had started as a group project for our seventh‑ grade computer science class. Everyone was supposed to build a custom scroll using HTML—it could be about whatever we wanted— and keep it running for the semester. Every week, we posted, pulled analytics, and talked about responsibly using social media and protecting our privacy. (Honestly, it had been a fun class.)

The four of us were in eighth grade now, and our scroll— called “Four Takes on Downtown Deer Hill”—was still going. Over the summer, there’d been a little write‑up about us in the local paper,

and since then, pretty much everyone in town followed us. The community actually liked our reviews. Shops sometimes gave us discounts if we posted about them on “Four Takes,” especially since we generally gave positive reviews. There’d only been one time we’d said something negative about a store— the owner had casually called Kat a name I’ll never repeat— and we’d mentioned that in our review, after discussing the problem with our teacher, Mr. Duncan. Deer Hill had responded by taking their business elsewhere. When the owner finally apologized to Kat, we updated our review and that was that. The store was still in business, as far as I knew, but they’d lost a lot of trust.

Thankfully, the rest of Deer Hill was generally great.

I smiled at Miss Joy. “I can’t release that information yet. But between you and me, if your hot chocolate asked me to marry it, I’d say yes.”

She beamed and set the waters on the counter. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

I took the cups—hugging half of them against my chest— and pushed the door open with my back to return to the freezing November evening.

Mary Heather jumped up to take two cups. “Took you long enough.”

We sat again and passed the drinks around, everyone taking a sip of the different hot chocolates.

“Okay, let’s hear it.” Mary Heather sat with her pen nib poised over her notebook. “Thoughts on the orange?”

For the next several minutes, we discussed the flavors while Mary Heather took notes and Jess edited photos. Those two were the driving force behind our scroll. Mary Heather Haber was a natural leader— our queen bee. She knew how to get people motivated and working together, even if she had to scare them into it. Mary Heather was, and always had been, extremely popular.

Jessica Johanson was the creative genius. She took the photos, designed the scroll’s theme, and edited our reviews to sound more professional and interesting. I always got the feeling she was in our group because she was talented (and really pretty), not because popularity was necessarily important to her. She just was. And so of course Mary Heather wanted her with us.

That left Kat and me. Katherine Conrad was the rebel, the one who made outlandish suggestions and rude jokes that kept everyone both entertained and a little terrified. She pushed us to take creative risks— and she didn’t have to push very hard, because no one wanted to get on her bad side.

And me? I was the Cat Person. Ask anyone. Ask the fine layer of fur that covered all my clothes.

Abundance of cat fur aside, my role was to proofread our reviews. I wanted a better role. But, like . . . what? All the good ones were taken: the ringleader, the artist, the mean girl with a heart of gold. Sometimes I worried my friends only kept me out of habit.

So, like the viceroy butterfly mimics the monarch’s bright orange and black colors, I did my best to imitate the cooler girls around me. Without them, I didn’t think I would be un popular,

but . . . there was a real sense of survival of the fittest here, and I worried that if I didn’t contribute beyond proofreading, they’d replace me with someone better. Prettier. More confident.

“Okay, look at these photos.” Jess slid her phone to the center of the table. “What do you think?”

The first shot was of the front of the building: fawn brick with a forest- green awning over a yellow door. To the left of the door was the patio—where we sat now—fenced in wrought iron. And to the right was a rosebush, wrapped in hundreds of tiny golden lights. Jessica had made it look cozy, warm, and aesthetically grainy.

“It’s perfect!” I zoomed in on the bush; you could see the individual lights and twigs. “Honestly, it’s stunning.”

Mary Heather agreed. “Pretty.”

“This shop is so beige.” Kat curled her lip. “But your picture is good.”

I rolled my eyes. The shop was cute, and everyone knew it.

The next shot showed the interior: a long counter on the right, a couple of tiny tables on the left. The background was all shelves, chalkboard signs, and more twinkling lights. Jess had worked the same magic with her edits, capturing the welcoming cheer perfectly. You could practically smell the chocolate.

And finally, the picture of our hands around the cups. The Seasonal Sweets logo was clear, along with our hands, but our bodies behind the cups were blurred, and our faces weren’t visible at all. (Mr. Duncan had stressed the importance of privacy a lot in his class. No selfies allowed on our scrolls! Even now that I was in

eighth grade, my parents insisted on me keeping my face off socials. Ugh.) But even without our grins, the photo screamed best friends forever.

What would it be like, I wondered, to see the world like Jess did? To be able to capture these places, these moments?

I wished I could do something special like that.

“These are the best pictures you’ve ever taken,” Mary Heather declared. “I need a print of that last one. Honestly.”

“You’re pro level,” Kat agreed.

Jessica blushed as she leaned back, pulling her phone with her. “Thanks. I’m proud of them.”

A second later, my phone vibrated. Mary Heather’s watch buzzed. And Kat’s phone dinged with the sound of our group text. It was Jess’s photos.

“Okay, I think we’re all in agreement.” Mary Heather drew a little heart in her review notebook. “We like the presentation, the product, and the owner. We’d recommend Seasonal Sweets to .” She raised an eyebrow.

“Sugar fiends,” Kat offered. “Obviously.”

“People who like good vibes and a cozy aesthetic,” I said. “And people who don’t want the planet to become a plastic wasteland.”

“Ooh, good ones,” Mary Heather said, writing faster. Sparkly pink ink shimmered across the paper.

“And also people who want to slow down and enjoy a moment with their friends,” I concluded.

“That’s sappy,” Kat said.

“Very sappy, but our readers will love it.” Mary Heather capped her pen and looked around at us. “All right, I’ll get all this typed up. Can everyone look at it tonight?”

There was a round of “yeah” and “yes.” By then we were all done with our drinks. I collected the reusable sleeves and dropped them into the return basket while Jess tossed the cups. Then we headed down the street, toward the parking lot where Mary Heather’s mom was supposed to meet us.

Deer Hill was beautiful this time of year. I mean, it was beautiful most times of year. But with the bare trees, golden-hour sunlight made the surrounding mountains glow orange and peach and salmon. Nestled in the valley, Deer Hill was alive with cheery storefronts, families walking down the street, and . . . a boy’s canvas tote bag bursting open. Half a dozen books erupted from the rip.

“I was just thinking,” Kat said slowly, “that anyone who filled a tote bag that full deserved whatever they got.”

“You made that happen?” Mary Heather breathed. “With your mind?”

“Yeah, probably,” Kat said.

“Brutal.” That was Jess.

I didn’t say a word. I was busy being possessed by the strangest impulse.

Maybe it was something about the angle of light? Or the way the lines of the sidewalk led straight to him? Or maybe it was the sudden gap in the crowd as people lurched away from the book‑ splosion, framing him perfectly?

I opened my phone’s camera, tapped on the boy, and took the photo just as a nearby mom (she had a baby strapped to her) bent to help him gather the books. His face was red with embarrassment.

“Isn’t that Grayson Jennings?” Jessica asked.

“I think so?” I said, like I didn’t absolutely one hundred percent know it was Grayson on his way home from the library.

“Oh wow,” Jess said. “I almost forgot he existed. Hey, whatever happened to him, seriously? Did we ever get an answer?”

“I think his family got in trouble with the Mafia,” Kat said dryly.

“That seems unlikely,” Jess said. “Actually, I think I heard his parents are getting a divorce?”

“No, his parents decided they liked his older brothers better,” Kat continued, “and they’re sending ol’ Grayson to live in the stables at some rich girl’s house.” She shot Mary Heather a look. “Have you seen Grayson Jennings lurking around your house?”

“You have the weirdest conspiracy theories,” Mary Heather said. “We don’t have stables.”

I shoved my phone into my pocket.

“Hey, why were you taking his picture?” Kat nudged me. “Are you obsessed with stable boys now? A little straw in the hair? Poop on the shoes? That’s your thing?”

“What? No. Ew.” Heat rose in my face.

“Or maybe you’re trying to be a photographer?” Mary Heather bumped my other side. “Does Jess need to watch her back?”

“No, I—”

“Don’t steal Jess’s thing, you little thief !” Kat poked my arm. “Find your own thing if you’re so desperate. You must be good at something.”

Thankfully, we reached the parking lot, where Mary Heather’s mom was waiting in her car, a fancy sports utility thing that could haul seven kids, a horse, and maybe a small mountain. Even though Mary Heather was an only child and they didn’t own a horse. (Or a mountain, as far as I was aware.) The inside was buttery leather, with two screens for the back seats and consoles stocked full of snacks. In spite of the food, the interior was immaculate, probably vacuumed daily, if not hourly. I always felt a little guilty climbing in, as if I might have absorbed a ton of dirt and now that I was in a clean space, the Law of Filth Equalization would take over and I’d leave a huge streak on the leather.

It was just . . . too fancy.

Like, my parents were doing fine. So were Jess’s and Kat’s. But Mary Heather’s parents were doing next-level fine—name ‑the ‑ gymnasium‑ after ‑them fine. It was intimidating sometimes.

A minute later, the four of us were packed inside the car, heater blasting as Mrs. Haber pulled onto the street. “Don’t you girls know that boy?” she asked, nodding toward Grayson.

By now, he’d picked up all his books and had them stacked in his arms, the broken bag dangling from his wrist. He was plodding along the sidewalk, shoulders hunched.

“Girls?” Mrs. Haber repeated.

Kat and Jess were in the very back seat, both on their phones;

Kat had the volume up while she watched a video on Scrollr. Mary Heather was in the passenger seat doing something on her watch.

“He’s one of the Jennings boys, right?” Mrs. Haber tried again.

“Yeah.” Mary Heather didn’t look up. “Grayson’s in our grade.”

“Should we give him a ride?” Mrs. Haber asked. “It’s cold. And he has all those books.”

Mary Heather wrinkled her nose. “Mom, he’s a loser. Let’s just go.”

“That’s not nice. Try to be a little more thoughtful.” Mrs. Haber stopped the car in the middle of the street and lowered her window. “Hey, Grayson. Do you need a ride? There’s room in the middle row.”

In the back, Kat and Jess whispered to each other— something I couldn’t hear.

Grayson started to shake his head, but then his eyes met mine through the tinted window. Something in my chest fluttered.

He. Was. Looking. At. Me.

I tried to be calm.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Thank you.”

A minute later, he climbed into the car. I scooted over to give him room, but I wasn’t fast enough.

His knee brushed mine.

The fluttering something in my chest felt like it was about to explode.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, adjusting his books on his lap.

A whole word! Spoken to me.

I tried to breathe.

“Do you still live on Cottonwood Drive, Grayson?” Mrs. Haber asked from the driver’s seat.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Great. That’s on the way to Virginia’s.” She sighed. “I miss seeing your mother. Tell her I’ll call soon.” Then she put the car into gear and we were off.

The drive was awkward. Primarily because I was experiencing an intense crisis due to my unpopular crush being in the same car as my very popular friends. My library world and my friend world weren’t supposed to exist in the same space!

And now what? The girls were all on their phones, which meant I couldn’t talk to them. And I couldn’t talk to Grayson because it didn’t seem physically possible to form words. I kept thinking about the picture I’d taken. And the fact that I could feel his body heat. And the memory of his leg brushing mine.

After literal months of stealthily gazing at him from across the library, he was in the same car as me, breathing the same air as me.

I nudged my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, looking at him from the corner of my eye.

He had his face down, toward his books and the broken tote bag with some tech company’s logo on it, but it seemed like (keeping in mind the world beyond the edge of my glasses was a little blurry) he was looking back at me, too.

I tried not to freak out. Did he think I was cute? Or maybe

I smelled funny. I’d put on deodorant this morning, but that was hours ago. And the hot chocolate! I should have touched up my lip gloss on the way to the car.

“What did you check out?” I couldn’t stand the silence anymore. And books were safe. Books made sense. Of course I’d ask him about books.

The count on words I’d spoken to him ticked up to twenty.

He gave me a sideways look, like he wasn’t sure if I was going to say something mean, but when I didn’t, he showed me the covers one by one. A couple of volumes in a fantasy series, a mystery, and a few bestsellers that were being turned into TV shows. “I like to read the books first,” he said, like he needed an excuse.

“Me too. How’s that series?” I pointed at the fantasy books— one was called The Shadows Rise, and the other was The Night Deepens. I’d seen the series in the library and kept meaning to pick it up. “I assume you read the first one already.”

This time, he smiled for real. And once again, I was having trouble catching my breath. “It’s really good. I read it in three days.”

I twisted the fringe of my scarf between my fingers. “Maybe—”

“Here we are!” Mrs. Haber pulled up to a single ‑ story house with tan siding and navy shutters. It was similar to all the other houses around it, except that this one had a bunch of rosebushes in the front and a few solar panels on the roof. There were no cars parked in the driveway, which meant his parents and older brothers were all out. “You have a key?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grayson opened the door and slid out of the car.

“Thank you!”

“See you,” I said. Like this was normal, like I wasn’t cataloging his every word and micro ‑ expression.

He flashed another smile at me as he closed the door. Then he was striding up the walk, his books tucked under one arm.

Mrs. Haber waited just long enough to make sure he got inside before she pulled away.

I tried to remember how to function normally.

“Get any good book recommendations?” Kat teased from the back seat. “Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be recommending books? I’m surprised you didn’t ask to take his picture again. A cute selfie of the two of you, maybe?”

“Shut up. I was being nice.”

Kat snorted. “Oh, you know I’m not letting this go.”

That was true. Kat never let anything go. It was a promise . . . and a threat.