Conversation breaks out among the group. Everyone starts walking their separate ways, but I clear my throat.
“Uh, do I have a job?”
Rose looks like she just found gum at the bottom of her shoe. “Oh—Sara. Just stay and help Oliver in the booth. You’ll both be in charge of gathering new sign-ups.”
“What?” I blurt. “No!”
Oliver’s eyes snap to mine, and his lips tug down in an annoyed frown. I don’t mean to offend him, but hanging with Oliver all night isn’t part of my plan. How is Joe supposed to want to kiss me if he’s with Rose all evening? There’s no way an opportunity will come up if we’re not together.
Not only that, but how am I supposed to write my first published article if I can’t do any student interviews? I’ve been itching to write something—to actually get my work out there and read by people. I was excited to show my dad, even! Am I supposed to go home and tell him I passed around pamphlets all night instead of dipping my toes in real journalism?
Rose scoffs. “What, do you have a problem with Oliver?”
“Uh, no?” I shake my head. “I mean, of course not. I just thought I’d get a chance to interview students too. I even prepared questions, just like you asked.”
She heaves a dramatic sigh, like I’m the unreasonable one here. “Sara, just stay at the booth.”
But I won’t back down. Not on what’s supposed to be the most important night of my romantic life. “I don’t think the booth needs two people—”
“Can’t you do as you’re told?” Rose says, fully aggravated now. “I’m president, which means I’m the one who gives assignments. From now on, try not to fight me on my decisions.”
“Um.” Joe’s eyes skip from me to Rose, as if he’s trying to come up with a peacekeeping idea. “What if we, uh, rotate? Maybe Rose and I can do interviews for a bit, then we’ll come back and switch? That sounds fair, right, Rose?”
“Okay, sure, whatever.” Rose threads her arm through his, then leads Joe away from us. “We don’t have time for this, let’s go.”
But right before they disappear from sight, Rose tosses a conniving look over her shoulder. One that’s directed right at Patrick. His gaze drops to his sneakers, as if he hopes no one caught that. Unfortunately for him, I’m observant tonight. Iknewthey were up to something! Those scheming schemers.
I spin on my heel, facing him. “What was that look?”
Patrick palms the back of his neck uneasily. “Uh, who knows? She’s probably in love with me or something.”
Psh, yeah right. It’s obvious Rose set all this up to have alone time with Joe. If she wasactuallyinto Patrick, she’d have his arm—well, his good one, anyway—threaded through hers right now.
Patrick can sense I’m about to prod him until he tells me the truth, so he grabs Vicky’s hand. “Let’s go check out the festival, Vicky. I’m not gonna hang out at this boring booth all night.”
“Oh, uh”—Vicky throws me an apologetic look as she’s tugged away—“sorry, Sara! I’ll come back soon, I promise.”
I step forward but Patrick’s keen on keeping a fast pace. Too bad he didn’t sprain his ankle instead. He’d be much easier to catch. “Wait! Don’t leave me alone here with—”
I stop in my tracks, my eyes jumping to Oliver, who’s already taken a seat in a folding chair behind the booth. A hand cups his jaw, and his bored stare lingers on me like he’d really love to know the end of my sentence.
“—all this work!” I improvise. “Geez, so muchworkat the booth.”
Without much of a choice, I head behind the booth and sit in the only empty chair beside Oliver, sighing. I organize the twenty or so pamphlets in front of us into a neat pile, then cast my gaze into the crowd. Students huddle together in clusters, squealing excitedly as they point where they should go next. No one comes over to chat with us.
Well, I have two options. Talk to Oliver, or get to work on gathering signatures.
I choose the lesser of two evils.
I snatch a pamphlet from my pile and wave it into the air. “Come join Newspaper Club! Learn all about the importance of journalism! Hey, you!” A freshman pretends like he didn’t just make eye contact with me and scurries away. “Don’t you want some adventure in your life?”
As it turns out, he does not. Because he only walks faster, not looking back.
I go on like this for another ten minutes, but no one comes around. Not even a polite no thanks. Was Patrick right? Does anyone really care about newspaper?
Eventually I give in, slumping back in my seat. Oliver adjusts the collar of his vintage bomber jacket, which has this cool sherpa lining, and continues ignoring me.
“What’s the point?” I grumble. “Ugh, I can’t believe I’m stuck doing this. They totally ditched us here.”
