CHAPTER ONE
Do you ever wonder what happened to the girl who peaked in high school?
I think the answer depends on which version of her you’re talking about. And in my theory, there are two versions:
The All-American Girl
The It Girl
I will elaborate on the difference.
The All-American Girl was a cheerleader. The All-American Girl was a good student. She was a goodperson,too, and everybody knew it. Charismatic and lovely and darling. Remember her? Or a version of her? Let’s call her Annabelle.
In our archetypical example, Annabelle had a magnetic smile and cute freckles on her shoulders. She dated the quarterback, hosted the prom after-party on her family farm, organized bakesales, became the subject of several songs. After she got married, Annabelle got involved in a multilevel marketing scheme. You’re pretty sure she’s still doing that, but honestly, you had to unfollow her on principle a few years back. Even though you really, genuinely wish Annabelle and her entire downline the best.
You have nothing against Annabelle, and you never did.
The point is—
The point. Is.
You probably don’t everwonderabout Annabelle.
But I think a lot of people wonder about the other girl who peaked in high school. The brief, time-capsule It Girl. She was your high school’s female Icarus, a flawed teenager who flew too close to the sun and got burned, then fell from a great height and never recovered her hometown reputation. Archetypically.
Rememberher?
Let’s call her Josephine.
Josephine had hazel eyes with green specks you could only ever see in the sunlight. Long lashes, long legs, long everything. She was known for her fashion sense and her aloof personality—and, of course, her three-years-older boyfriend.
Nobody from high school remembers Josephine as tough, or thick-skinned, or smart, or kind, or impressionable. But everyone remembers the way she appeared to them. Andeveryoneremembers how her It Girl era ended.
I do think people wonder where Josephine is now. What she’s doing with her life. How she’s been.
Ihopethey wonder if they were wrong about her all along.
Anyway. Completely unrelated, but she—I—just hit a cyclist with her car.
(Not on purpose!)
(And technically,heran intome.)
A tiny squeak spills past my lips right as I feel the collision, mybody rocking forward as I stomp on the brakes. I grip the worn leather of my steering wheel, panting, and crane my neck to peer in my rearview mirror. There’s a small portion of the back window visible—about two useful inches—between the boxes piled in my trunk.
All I can see is a sliver of blue sky and a line of cars behind me.
I shift into park and unbuckle my seat belt. Outside, a driver honks, but I ignore it and move to the opposite back corner of my car—where I could’veswornI spotted a cyclist in my rearview about five seconds before I felt the bump.
Sure enough, a man in a clean-cut black suit and a backpack still strapped between his shoulder blades is rolling onto his knees, groaning as he palms the concrete. Beside him, his bike looks equally pummeled.
It’s the Giant Escape 3, I note absently, one of the best commuter bikes out there. I know because I almost bought one.
“Are you okay?” I ask, crouching low beside his tabletop position.
I’m apprised only of this man’s hunched-over profile at the moment, but even like this, I can tell he’s made up of lean, trained muscle, broad shoulders, a rippling back. It’s when he turns his head at the sound of my voice that I catch sight of his face full-on.
My stomach buckles when Irecognizehim.
