Chapter Ten

“Did you seriously turn down dinner so you could make the most irrational spreadsheet known to humankind?”

It’s the first thing Marisol says to me when I arrive in the courtyard the next morning. I wouldn’t call the spreadsheet irrational; to me, it’s immaculate, a beautiful outline containing each committee member’s assignments, as well as all tasks, subtasks, and sub - subtasks; budget items; and due dates. In my quest for serotonin last night, I emailed it to the committee to review before our next meeting.

I roll my eyes. “Good morning to you, too, Sol.”

“Did you, though?” Sophie asks, eyes big. “We thought you had a date with Aiden!”

“He ghosted,” I admit.

Sophie frowns. “Oh, Whit. I’m so sorry.”

But Marisol looks annoyed. I expect her to call Aiden a slew of names, but instead, her annoyance is aimed at me. “Why didn’t you text us?”

“I guess I wanted to wallow in my shame alone?”

“Well, that’s stupid,” she snaps. “Let us be there for you.”

“Okay, I will,” I say. “It’s just that I don’t know what I was expecting from him. Like, of course he’s not going to bother replying to my texts. He didn’t even want to write back to me when I was trying to sext. Shout- out to being abandoned.” I try to make a joke, but just end up frowning. “You guys aren’t going to abandon me now, too, are you?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Marisol demands.

“Well, you’re friends with Aiden’s friends,” I explain. “I don’t want to put you in a weird position.”

“First of all, Ari barely even likes Aiden. She pretty much just hung out with him because he was part of what we have here.” Marisol motions between the three of us. “Second of all, if you keep talking like a dumbass, then I will abandon you.”

Sophie pats Marisol on the arm. To me, she says, “Don’t mind her. She has a lot of love to give and she gets offended when you reject it.”

Marisol grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me, letting out a frustrated laugh. “Let. Me. Love. You!”

Which makes me laugh, too. “Okay, okay! I accept your love!”

“Are we interrupting something, mi luz del sol?” Ari asks with a grin. She uses the nickname she’s given to Marisol— mi lu z del sol, my sun light— and I swoon inside a little. With her short, curly dark hair, big almost-black eyes, and the most eclectic collection of but ton-ups I’ve ever seen, Ari brings big masc-fem me energy. Sof t- spoken, thoughtful, yet a total badass on the rugby field, she’s perfectly matched to Marisol. It’s adorable, and I’m totally jealous.

“Kinda seems like we’re interrupting something,” Noah agrees. Speaking of couples that are disgustingly in love: Noah leans down to give Sophie a kiss, his floppy blond hair falling into his soft blue eyes. I always tell Sophie that in another life he is totally in a boy band. “Hi, babe.”

“Hi, bubs,” Sophie coos back.

“All you’re interrupting is your girlfriend trying to kill me,” I explain to Ari, “for being unwilling to accept her love.”

Ari nods, running a hand over Marisol’s curly hair affectionately. “She does love pretty hard. I get it.”

“You all adore this about me,” Marisol says, pouting. “But honestly, Whit was out of pocket, saying she was worried Soph and

I were going to abandon her now she’s having issues with Aiden. He blew her off last night.”

“Yes, please announce my pathetic love life to everyone,” I say sarcastically.

Noah claps a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry to hear that. Dude’s an idiot.”

It makes me laugh a little. “Thanks, Noah.”

“We’ve got your back,” Ari adds. “No question.”

The unexpected support makes my heart swell. Apparently letting people in can be a good thing.

What’s not a good thing: the spreadsheet I sent out to the Fall Fest committee. As it turns out, I may have overstepped, which I swiftly find out later in the week when Ms. Bennett pulls me aside before our next Fall Fest meeting.

“Whit, you know I adore you and your commitment to things,” she begins.

“It’s part of my charm, right?” I ask.

Ms. Bennett nods. “It really is. But that spreadsheet may have been a little much. Reminder: this is your senior year. You should be having fun!”

“Spreadsheets are fun,” I insist.

“Yes, but we haven’t even had any brainstorming sessions as a group yet.”

My shoulders slump. “Oh. That’s true.”

“Listen, your spreadsheet had some amazing ideas. I mean that. Let’s start small, though. How about you spend the next meeting introducing yourself as the group leader?”

“Okay. I can do that.”

Ms. Bennett gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Great. In that case, the floor is yours.”

We reenter the classroom and she slips into a seat at the back while I walk toward the front, feeling more nervous than I thought I would. I’ll admit that having my favorite teacher tell me my meticulous planning is all for naught has sucked the wind out of my sails. How could it not?

The group quiets as I stand at the front of the room, and I plaster on my brightest smile.

“Hey, everyone,” I begin. “I wanted to start by thanking you all for allowing me to be your Fall Fest president. I am definitely someone with a strong vision, as you may have guessed from my intense spreadsheet.”

There are a few polite chuckles, and I laugh, too, feeling the tension in my body ease a little.

“But I hope that serves as a testament to my enthusiasm, excitement, and organizational skills. I really want this year’s Fall Fest to be great. I think we all do, so I also want to make sure everyone feels like their ideas are heard. So don’t be shy about speaking up.” ( Just not over me, and definitely not with any ideas that suck, please.)

“If there are no questions . . .” I pause to give my classmates a minute to raise their hands. When none rise, I continue. “Maybe we can kick things off by sharing some thoughts about the Fall Fest as it stands, so we can figure out where we want to go with it?”

Marisol’s arm shoots up. “Honestly, I hate how tacky everything was in years prior. Construction-paper leaves in the school colors do nothing for me. This isn’t elementary school.”

I grab one of the whiteboard markers and draw a line down the center with LIKES written on one side and DISLIKES on the other.

“Fair enough,” I say as I write the word tacky under DISLIKES . I add con struction- paper crafts.

Marisol’s frankness seems to open the floodgates, and soon we have a whiteboard full of thoughts related to the Fall Fest— mostly that it’s perceived as an outdated, dorky tradition that needs some serious updating. Unfortunately, our group hasn’t listed many things under the LIKES column, meaning we have a lot of work to do.

As I stare at the list we’ve made, my brain starts buzzing with ways we might improve this perception of Fall Fest—when I suddenly hear something rolling down the hallway, like a teacher wheeling around a projector or one of those backpacks with the wheels.

A deep, husky voice says, “Sorry I’m late.”

I turn toward the door and no.

B ecause there, in the doorframe, is Isaiah, skateboard in hand, easy grin on that beautiful but supremely annoying face of his.

What is he doing here? In my Fall Fest committee meeting?!

“You’re late,” Ms. Bennett says, hand on her hip. “Very, very late.”

He pushes his locs from his face. “Yeah, I know, Ms. B. My bad!” Isaiah comes into the class and puts his board on an empty desk. “I got caught up in chemistry class and stayed late.”

“I need you to take this seriously,” she reminds him. “We all do.”

He holds his hands up in defeat. “I know, I know. I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again. I swear.”

Ms. Bennett straightens. “It better not,” she says, as if Isaiah is planning to make repeat appearances at this meeting. I’m gonna barf.

“No, ma’am.” He slides into an empty desk, neatly tucking the skateboard into the wire cubby attached to the bottom. “Please continue.”

Ms. Bennett clears her throat. “I apologize for the interruption. Isaiah, as you can see by the whiteboard, we’ve been brainstorming possibilities for this year’s festival.”

Isaiah studies the board, grabbing a pen from behind his left ear and taking a few notes in a small Moleskine notebook that he pulls from his back pocket. How can he travel so lightly? I carry, like, four bags every day!

“And, team, I know we’ve already selected our class officers and president,” Ms. Bennett continues, “but that vacant senior officer position needs to be filled.”

Her eyes fall to me as she’s saying this.

My heart starts pounding.

Because no.

No way.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I promised you I’d find someone to fill that role so you’d have the help you deserved, and I’m really excited to share that Isaiah has volunteered!” Ms. Bennett explains in a far-too - cheerful voice. “He will make a great number two.”

I can feel my eyes go big without my permission. I’m embarrassingly bad at hiding my feelings, especially when I’m caught off guard. There might as well be a giant sign next to me that says WOW, I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS!!!

To make matters worse, Isaiah has the audacity to playfully waggle a few fingers at me in a wave.

“You’re joking,” I deadpan.

Isaiah pretends he’s wounded. “Ouch, Whit. That hurts.”

“Whitney!” Ms. Bennett says, surprised.

“I’m sorry! It’s just that I thought I was going to be leading this thing.”

“And you are,” she confirms. “Isaiah is here to help with the execution of the ideas that you and your fellow officers decide on. I think it will be a really meaningful opportunity for both of you.”

“Considering I’m usually more of a number one in most situations, I feel like this is actually a decent concession on my part,” Isaiah teases.

I might dive across the table and start strangling him if not for Ms. Bennett and the hopeful— but ster n—way she’s looking at me.

“We can make this work, Whit? Right?” she asks.

But I’m not sure I can. I’ve been so focused on becoming the president of this committee, with late-nig ht visions of me in this solo role, making the Fall Fest mine-all-mine, shaping it into the perfect homage to autumn I’ve always envisioned, that having to share with anyone else nearly cracks me right in half.

I made vision boards about this . . . on ly for ISAIAH ORTIZ to be my reality?! It doesn’t seem right.

“Whit.” The sound of my name in a hushed tone brings me back to earth. I glance toward the voice— Marisol— and t ake in a breath.

“Right. I’m good with that,” I manage to say. But really, all I can think is: HOW ABSOLUTELY DARE YOU RUIN THIS FOR ME, ISAIAH ORTIZ?

The group resumes its brainstorming, though I can barely pay attention. Instead, I shoot eye daggers at the side of Isaiah’s face.

When Ms. Bennett dismisses our meeting, she asks me and Isaiah to hang back. I give a dramatic wave to Marisol and Sophie using both of my hands, because RIP me.

Ms. Bennett perches on the edge of the desk at the front of the classroom in that I’m-a- cool-teacher- I - swear kind of way and gives us both a warm smile. I mean, fine, she is cool, but I’m really mad at her right now.

“Okay, so. I know this felt a little abrupt,” she says, “but I’m grateful that you’re both willing to work together on this. Whit, you bring immense organizational knowledge, big ideas, and the most heart that the Fall Fest has ever seen. Isaiah, you’re smart and creative, too, and I’m counting on you to be pragmatic, dedicated, and helpful. I think the two of you, together, will balance each other out well.”

Why doesn’t she just come out and say that Isaiah is essentially here to throw cold water over whatever big, gorgeous dreams I have for this event?

“Okay,” I say, unable to help the sigh that escapes my mouth. “We can do that.”

“We’ll make you proud, Ms. B,” Isaiah promises.

“I know you will,” she agrees. “You’ll both do a great job. Think you can get together sometime before our next meeting to start working through the list we made today?”

My gaze meets Isaiah’s; he’s standing there looking entirely too amused by my pain. The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smirk.

I grit my teeth and say again, “We can do that.”

Ms. Bennett claps her hands together. “Great! Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Off to goat yoga.” She grabs her tote bag and purse and gives us a wave before disappearing through the classroom door.

A look of disgust comes over Isaiah’s face. “Goat yoga? White people are so weird sometimes.”

I cross my arms. “Can we just set a time to meet up, please?”

“Sorry, didn’t realize your time was so precious.”

“Why’d you even volunteer for this, anyway?”

“You’re not the only one who cares about things like college applications, you know,” he scoffs.

“Fine. Can you meet Monday after school?”

He reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone, tapping a few times. “I don’t have to be at work till six, so looks like it.” Isaiah looks up at me. “Where should we meet?”

“Here,” I say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. When he looks irritated at my unrelenting attitude, I soften. “Or . . . maybe out in the courtyard? It’s supposed to be nice on Monday.”

Isaiah tucks his phone away in his pocket once more and reaches for his skateboard. “Fine.” He heads for the door, but turns back to add, “And, for what it’s worth, I think this could be kinda fun. If we don’t kill each other first.”

I give him a thi n-lipped smile. “Let’s not bet on it.”