I wanted more of that feeling.
As I pulled on leggings and an oversized T-shirt, I heard a van door slam.
Belle.
Of course.
Her van was unmistakable, the slightly dented purple one with a GRIM REAPERS sticker peeling off the back window and a pink pair of skates hanging from the rearview like a disco charm.
I’d made my decision upstairs in the quiet of a house that didn’t quite feel like home anymore.
I’m trying out.
I wanted to tell Belle.
I wanted someone to know, someone who would be proud of me, not scold me or belittle the idea.
I padded downstairs, towel-damp hair clinging to my neck, and found Belle in the kitchen, elbow-deep in the pantry, pulling out ingredients with reckless optimism.
She was startled when she noticed me.
“Oh!” she said with a grin. “I was just seeing if your mom stocked the ingredients for brownies.”
She stopped and took me in fully.
“Hey,” she said, softening. “You okay? You look . . . glowy.”
I felt my cheeks heat. “Well. I, uh . . . yesterday.”
“Oooh,” she said, eyes widening with mischief. “Yesterday.Was it a Prince-flavored outing?”
“Belle!”
“What? I’m gathering data.”
I hid my face. “It’s not about that."
“Oh.” Her face fell dramatically. “Tragic.”
I laughed again, and then the words came out before fear could shut them down.
“I want to try out,” I said.
Belle blinked. “Try out?”
I swallowed. “For the Reapers. Or — whatever the beginning level is.”
For a second, Belle just stared.
Then she squealed.
Actually squealed.
She launched toward me so fast I didn’t have time to brace before she wrapped me in a hug that smelled like berry lotion and confidence.
“Oh my GOD, El! YES!” she shouted right into my ear. “Yes, yes, YES. This is HUGE!”
I laughed into her shoulder. “I’m not even good yet.”
