The small library has a welcoming vanilla scent emanating from the tall stacks of wooden bookshelves that have been here longer thanwe’ve been alive. The new carpeting’s initial chemical odor has finally faded. There are a couple students here doing homework at the long rectangular tables near the new YA display.
What I want to show Ellie is on a ledge along the wall. The windows above don’t have an amazing view—it’s just the parking lot—but they let in plenty of light to help four little planters of marigolds grow inside this otherwise dim place.
“I know it’s not the outdoors,” I say to Ellie as we both lean against the counter, “but you can smell some flowers here.”
Smell some flowers here?I’m being so cringe it hurts.
Ellie is sweet about it, though. “This is nice,” she says sincerely, looking from the marigolds to the sky outside. The sun shines across her freckled cheeks and lights up her eyes.
“I should’ve started the tour here.” Unaware of the time, I’m caught off guard when the bell rings. “Wow, the period is over.”
“Already?” she asks.
We wasted so much of the time wandering around the hallways that this stop flew by in a flash. I reluctantly lead us out of the library and back into the hall. “Well, I think we’ve established you know your way to your classes. What do you have next?”
“AP English. Are you headed that way?”
“Yes,” I say, so relieved she was the one to ask that I fall into step with her before remembering that my calc class is on the other side of the building. “Maybe tomorrow we—”
I reach my hand out and catch a locker door that someone threw open before it hits Ellie in the face, since she’d been reading my lips rather than watching where she was going.
“Ope, sorry!” the student calls out as we speed past him.
“Good catch,” Ellie says, grateful. A few paces later, we come to a stop at the English room. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, I’ll, um, see you later.”
As soon as she enters her classroom, I haul across the school, moving as fast as I can without running, and slide into my desk with only a second to spare.
The following week, I’m helping in the student government office because it’s all hands on deck during free periods to gear up for elections. There are ballots to print, the voting box to assemble, and candidate speeches to schedule. I’ll never run myself, since I prefer to stay behind the scenes.
With all those activities and my course load getting heavy and afterschool soccer workouts, I’ve been swamped. By the time I’m home every day, I need to crash for a nap before I can manage homework. Then I end up lying awake in bed the rest of the night, only to repeat it all the next day.
Which means it’s not until next Friday after school, while I’m waiting for my EasyRide in the parking lot, that I run into Ellie again. I’m staring at the phone screen when she taps my shoulder gingerly.
“Are you avoiding me?” she asks, with the confidence to know that’s not the case. I don’t think anything could faze her. Her hair is styled differently today, wrapped into a braided bun, though some strands have broken free after a long day of classes. She’s getting more settled in here, hopefully feeling more at ease now than during her difficult start at AHS.
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.” Knowing that could be construed as an excuse, I add, “Really.”
“I know, I saw you sitting at that voting table today during lunch with those student government kids.”
She noticed me? “I don’t remember seeing you.”
Ellie squints in the afternoon sun. “Maybe I should’ve stopped by to say hi.”
“Yes, that or, you know, to vote in averyimportant election that’s not at all a high school popularity contest,” I joke. I understand that, starting at a new school senior year, she has very little incentive to care about Amber High student government.
“Does that make me a terrible person if I didn’t?” she says playfully. “Don’t worry; I intend to cast my ballot for non–Amber High elections, I promise. I care about the world, just not the theme for a prom I won’t go to.”
“You don’t think you’ll go to prom?” I ask before I can stop myself.
I know it can’t just be me feeling this. Is she picking up on the vibes? Because I already have a hunch who I might want to ask in the spring. Ellie looks away, a faint blush on her cheeks. I’m not imagining this, right?
Staring out into the parking lot, she asks, “Are you going somewhere now?”
“Just home.”
She glances at my phone, which I’m holding out, keeping track of the driver on the map. “Why are you taking an EasyRide?”
