“Relax, Penelope.” Paris drops his Portal on the seat between us and all but leaps out of the car. “I’m starving.”
“Now there’s a shock,” I mutter, pushing my car door open and climbing out…right into a giant mud puddle.
It splashes all over my brand-new white checkerboard Vans.
Panic races through me. I spent hours deciding on the perfect outfit for today—the perfect light blue blouse, the perfectly pressed white shorts, even the perfect blue socks with little owls on them. I picked every single thing I’m wearing so that everyone who meets me will know immediately what residence hall I belong in.
And now all that preparation is ruined by some random roadside stop for a snack I don’t even want. How am I ever supposed to face Athena, let alone my new classmates, with shoes that look like this?
It’s beyond embarrassing.
“Come on, Penelope! Hurry up!” My mother’s voice floats back through the fog.
I grab a couple of paper towels from my mother’s stash in the car—Athena girls grow up to be Athena women, perfectly prepared for every situation—and scrape as much mud off my shoes as I can manage. It’s thick and disgusting and super hard to get off, and I’m so mad I could cry.
But I’m not about to do that. The only thing worse than showing up for my first day with mud-spattered shoes is showing up with a blotchy, tearstained face. One of the manycurses of being a redhead: I’m a splotchy, puffy-eyed crier—and that is sonotgoing to happen today.
Once I’ve rubbed off all the mud I can, I shove the dirty paper towels in one of the small trash bags my mom has in her car—more of her perfect preparation—then head in the same direction my family went.
The fog is so thick now that I can’t see them, but I can hear them talking to someone with a very deep voice. As I get closer, the fog finally seems to lift a little bit, and I get my first clear view of my family standing next to a small, wooden farm stand.
It’s painted white, with a slanting blue aluminum roof that has a fancy, embellished sign tacked to it that reads PT’s Donuts.
Donuts? Please tell me we’re not risking being late for a bunch ofroadside donutswhen my mother has been gluten-free for years?
Someone, please, make it make sense.
The flame I saw earlier is coming from a lantern resting precariously on the farm stand’s worn counter, right next to a sign that reads:
Cinnamon Donut Holes: 50 cents each/12 for $5
Cinnamon Donuts: $1 each/12 for $10
Apple Cider, hot or cold: $2 a cup
Okay—not gonna lie. A cup of hot apple cider does sound nice, especially since the wind has kicked up…as long as we can get itfast.
I shiver a little as I turn my gaze to what’s next to the sign…or should I say who? He’s super tall—and dressed in a pair of denim overalls covered in red paint splatters and a pair of black Crocs with red and yellow flames on them.
His long brown hair—currently piled into a messy bun at the crown of his head—is peppered with gray, and so is his well-trimmed goatee. But what really grabs my attention is the thick gold chain he’s wearing around his neck. It’s got a charm dangling from it that readsCOEXIST, and somehow both the charm and the chain it’s attached to manage to look both brand new and also like they’ve been around forever.
“Apple cider?” the man asks, his bright blue eyes cutting through the gloom as they shift to me.
My brother, who has a small pink bakery box in one hand, holds out an empty cup with the other. “I’ll take some more.”
As Paris leans forward, the box gets entirely too close to the lantern flame for my peace of mind. I eye him warily, but no one else seems concerned, so I don’t say anything. The last thing I want to do is cost us more minutes that we can’t afford. When I turn back to the man, it’s to find him looking straight at me, even as he pours my brother another full glass of the cold cider. “How about you, Penelope? Do you want some cider?”
“How do you know my name?” I ask, taking the mug he holds out. Unlike Paris’s, it’s steaming hot and smells like cinnamon, just the way I wanted it.
“Your parents mentioned you were lagging a little behind.” He glances down at my Vans. “Nice shoes.”
My cheeks flame with embarrassment. “They weren’t always so dirty,” I mumble.
“And they won’t be again.”
I have no idea what he means by that, considering the mud has soaked into the fabric on all sides, staining the bottom half of my shoes an ugly poop-colored brown.
Before I can ask what he’s getting at, the man nods to my cup of cider. “Drink up.”
