“Pretty sure you’re eighteen,” I said. “Not a child.”
He clapped a hand to his chest. “Don’t strip my identity from me. I’m emotionally fragile.”
“You’re something,” Diego said, appearing behind him with a box of school supplies balanced on his hip. Sweat darkened his collar. “Jax, you’re late. Hannah’s on the warpath. I barely escaped with my life.”
“She throw a spoon at you again?” I asked.
“A spatula this time,” he said solemnly. “Upgraded model. More surface area for pain.”
“Would y’all shut up,” Mac said as he stepped out behind them, a clipboard in hand. He looked annoyingly put-together for this time of day. Hair neat, T-shirt clean, expression somewhere between exasperated and fond. “We’ve got tables to set up, banners to hang, and my dad’s already chewing gravel because somebody”—he looked at Dalton—“forgot to order enough hot dog buns.”
Dalton threw his hands up. “We live in the South; who the hell buys out Walmart’s hot dog buns in one night?”
“Literally everyone with a grill,” I said. “You gonna stand here debating bread economics or hand me something to do?”
Mac snorted. “Garage needs sweeping. Kids will be in and out all afternoon. Can’t have them tripping over your mess.”
“My mess?” I repeated, offended. “Pretty sure the oil spill over there has your bike’s name all over it.”
“Argue later,” Diego cut in. “Hannah hears y’all slacking, she’s gonna put us to work peeling potatoes with our teeth.”
We got moving. Banners went up. Tables unfolded, legs squeaking on the concrete. We hauled cases of notebooks, boxesof crayons, backpacks lined with cartoon characters and sports logos. Sweat dripped down my back. Somebody turned up the radio in the corner, classic rock bleeding into the summer heat.
Inside the garage, boxes of crayons, glue sticks, and folders were stacked in uneven towers. August wanted this year’s school supply drive bigger than ever. Said the kids in Redwood needed it. He wasn’t wrong. Redwood was…Redwood. A lot of us lived in places like mine. Too many. Most parents did their best. Some didn’t. I grabbed a box of backpacks and hauled it to the main table. Mac worked next to me, organizing things like he was alphabetizing his soul.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I lied.
He didn’t push. Just nodded once, the way he did when he saw a play building on the field before anyone else. Then the side door cracked open again and Dalton headed for the table. “We need more zip ties,” he announced. “Mom said if we don’t have the banners hung straight, she’ll personally rearrange our spines.”
“Sounds right,” I said.
Diego leaned over. “Hey, Jackson, you hear Redwood might get a new girl this year?”
My stomach dropped before I could stop it.
Dalton smirked. “Hazel eyes. Blonde hair. Voice sharp enough to slice deli meat?”
“Don’t start,” I warned.
“Princess,” Diego sang under his breath.
“Oh my God,” I snapped. “It was one parking lot argument. Months ago.”
“And yet,” Dalton said, “the legend remains.”
I threw a crayon box at him. He dodged. Barely.
“She’s probably going to Brendwylle or Saint Catherine’s or whatever school the rich kids get custom uniforms from,” I added.
Dalton shrugged. “Dad has been talking to her dad. He’s some big shot over at the hospital, and Mom wants his wallet for the charities and shit. You never know, she may show up at Redwood. Then you can continue your star-crossed lovers arc. Like Romeo and Juliet, if Romeo had a busted trailer and Juliet had one of those twelve-step skincare routines you see on TV.”
“I hate you,” I said.
He slung an arm around my shoulder. “Yeah, but I make your life interesting.”
“Interesting is overrated.”
