Is he already pulling out of the formal he invited himself to? Truth be told, the whole idea of going with Oliver absolutelythrills me. But it’s also terrifying. Drew seems safe—around Oliver I feel like I’m likely to lose control and myentire mind.
“I’m thinking of doing some astrophotography on Saturday night,” Drew says, and I realize I didn’t answer his question. “Maybe you could come?”
Join a boy from the notorious St. Dom’s in the dark, on my own, five seconds after we’ve met?
“Sorry,” he says. “Of course it would be weird …”
It actually wouldn’t be all that weird—I used to tag along when Dad would do astro in Newcastle. I’d talk his ear off, pointing out constellations, wishing on shooting stars. Sometimes he’d even let me press the shutter, but this was before I cared much about photography. I just wanted to spend time with him. I miss it.
“I was thinking of taking my mum,” Drew says. “She loves stargazing.” His face reddens, probably remembering that horrible comment in the classroom. “Evie, about her—”
“Sounds like fun,” I cut in, wanting to save him from having to explain. “If your mum doesn’t mind.”
He smiles. A genuine smile that transforms his face instantly and prompts me to pick up my camera, drawn into the moment.
“You said to practice,” I argue, when he puts his hand over the lens and pushes it out of his face. “Come on. Smile, or I’ll uninvite you to my formal.”
“I’ll uninvite you to stargazing.”
“What are you going to do? Ban me from the sky? Smile, Kennedy …”
The corners of his mouth curl and it’s the first time I’ve caught light in his eyes.
“That wasn’t so hard,” I say. “Was it?”
18
Drew
I lift the camera out of Evie’s hands and zoom in on the photo she took. The person staring out of the image, smiling, feels unrecognizable. It’s a lightness I haven’t seen or felt since … I can’t remember when.
But instantly it’s chased by a warning.Don’t get attached.
I have a shaky relationship with permanence. My father has never been on the scene, except on the other end of the tuition invoice. I’ve lost count of the hours I’ve wasted poring over the school’s old annual magazines, searching for someone who looks even a little bit like me. And I’m in constant fear of losing Mum, who was pretty much cut off by her parents after she got pregnant with me. My whole life I’ve felt thislongingfor a family. So starting a friendship with a girl who makes me smile likethatis dangerous.
When Evie takes the camera back and asks for my phone number, blue eyes sparkling, curly hair backlit by the sunset through the archway, everything tells me not to let her take a single step closer.
“I’ll text you the photo when I upload it later,” she says. She then chases this with an easy smile—the first she’s properlybestowed upon me—and the plan not to get attached to her is already imploding.
I pass her my phone to input her details, secretly glad there’ll be an excuse to message her later, cursing myself for my total lack of willpower.
The whole time we’re talking, Oliver is watching us across the quad—a juggernaut about to mess with her world. He’s looking at her as if the deal is already done, like bright, shiny Evie Hudson is his latest prey.
“Can I help you with the exhibition?” she asks. “Maybe we could be codirectors?”
I’d planned to get through this Photography Club commitment with as little interaction with other people as possible. But now she’s standing here looking at me expectantly, with five times as much enthusiasm as I’m likely to be able to muster, and she’ll probably do a much better job.
“Sure,” I say, shrugging in a way that I hope downplays the flash of exhilaration I feel at the idea of us working together.
Oliver starts prowling toward us, floppy blond hair catching the dying rays of the sun against the ivy-covered red bricks on the walls behind him. I can practically feel the sparks flaring off Evie’s body at the sight.
“A few of us are heading to that new café on the corner after this,” he announces when he reaches us. “You want to come?”
This is directed pointedly at Evie and delivered with certainty about her positive response. He adds belatedly, “You too, Kennedy.” I can think of nothing I want to do less.
“I can’t,” I say, then look back at her. “See you Saturday night?”
I can’t pretend there’s not a part of me that sees it as a minor triumph over Oliver when she smiles and says she’d love to.
