She giggles and then launches into a conversation about the boys in our class and who’s the best in bed. Celia is much more experienced than Paige or me. She’s slept with three guys so far, two of them in our class, one of them a guy she met when she went to visit her friend at college. A state school. That’s what’s considered slumming it in our group—having sex with a guy you met at a state school. It’s actually really snobby and awful when you think about it.
I do my best to tune out their R-rated conversation until we get to the airport. As soon as I’m off the bus, I instantly start to feel better. The fresh air calms my heart and soothes my nerves.
Celia immediately grabs me and Paige by the hand and pulls us around the corner of the building, giggling the whole time. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out the carefully rolled joint she showed us on the bus. “Come on,” she says, waving it in front of my face. “You’ll feel better after you take a hit. You seem really wound up. More than usual, even.”
“You know I don’t smoke,” I say as she lights the joint and hands it to Paige. I watch as they pass it back and forth.
I wonder what will happen if we get caught. We’ll probably be arrested. We definitely won’t be able to go on the trip. They’ll make us wait in the security office until our parents can come and bail us out. I imagine my mom, getting a call that I’ve been arrested for possession of marijuana. Actually, is marijuana even illegal anymore? I think it’s legal if you have less than a certain amount.
But still.
We’re underage.
At an airport.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone so I can read the email from Genevieve at Stanford again. Maybe I read it wrong. Maybe she didn’t say I wasn’t getting in, like for sure. Maybe she said I was going to be wait-listed. I could have hallucinated it. The brain is a very mysterious thing, especially when it comes to major life events like this.
But the email is exactly the same as I remember it.
“I’m so glad we did this,” Paige is saying. She giggles. “We can’t be getting on the plane without, like, some kind of relaxation.”
“Oh, totally,” Celia says.
“You guys are going to get caught,” I say as my phone buzzes with another email. Another email! Maybe it’s from the Stanford people. Maybe there was some kind of mix-up and they realized they want me after all. Maybe they’ll have to give me a scholarship or some kind of special treatment for what they’ve done to me. Undue mental stress and all that.
“We’re not going to get caught.” Paige takes the last hit off the joint, then stabs it out on the pavement with her shoe.
“Eww,” Celia says. “You need to pick that up.”
Paige does as she’s told.
Oh. The email isn’t from the Stanford people after all. It’s from myself. To myself. That same email again. My hand hovers over the button, ready to delete it and send it right to the trash. But for some reason I don’t. I open it and read it again.
Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.
I think about that day four years ago—Lyla, Aven, and me all sending emails to ourselves, scheduling them to repeat throughout the day so we’d make sure to take them seriously. We didn’t want our future selves to think the emails were stupid because we sent them when we were only freshmen. If you’d told me that by the time the emails showed up, Lyla, Aven, and I wouldn’t be friends anymore—that we wouldn’t even be speaking to each other—I wouldn’t have believed it. The thought makes me incredibly sad.
“You’re being really spacey today, Quinn,” Celia says. “Seriously, it’s starting to worry me.” She takes a bottle of Visine out of her bag and carefully squeezes a couple of drops into her eyes. She blinks and then gives me a smile. She looks so all-American it’s kind of scary. Like, if this is what the youth of America is doing, we’re all in trouble.
“I’m not being spacey,” I say, even though I totally am.
“Girls!” a voice calls. Our class adviser, Mr. Beals, peeks around the side of the building.
“Yes, Mr. Beals?” Celia asks, like she’s really interested in what he wants and wasn’t just smoking pot a second ago.
“Come on, we all need to get inside,” Mr. Beals says. He’s already looking pretty harried, and the trip hasn’t even started yet. It must be really awful to be a class adviser—you have tons of responsibility and you don’t even get paid that much more. I googled it. Teachers’ salaries are public record.
“Okay,” I say. “We’re coming.”
As I pass by her, Celia pushes something into my hand. I look down. One of her Xanax, the ones she got from her doctor because she claimed to be having anxiety over her challenging course load and extracurricular activities. I shake my head at her, but she rolls her eyes.
Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.
I look down at the tiny pill in my hand.
Then I drop it onto the sidewalk, making sure to crush it into the pavement as I walk by. I’m pretty sure fourteen-year-old me wasn’t talking about sharing Celia’s Xanax prescription.
Once we’re on the plane, Celia immediately starts in on me about Nathan.
“You need to let him know you’re interested,” she says.
“But why?” The thought makes my stomach turn. I don’t want to have to let Nathan know I’m interested. Whatever happened to playing hard to get? Plus, I don’t know how to let a guy know I’m interested. I don’t know how to flirt. I’m horrible at it.
Celia gapes at me, her blue eyes turning into saucers. “Are you hearing this?” she asks Paige.
“No,” Paige says. “What did she say?” She’s trying to shove a bag that’s way too big into the overhead compartment. A businessman who somehow got stuck on the flight with us sighs and pushes by her.
“She wants to know why she should flirt with Nathan and let him know she’s interested.”
“Um, because he’s hot?” Paige asks, like that’s the only thing that matters in this world.
“No, not because he’s hot!” Celia says. She shakes her head and looks exasperated. “Seriously, you two, how are the three of us even friends?”
My thoughts exactly.
“You have to let him know you’re into him because men have very fragile egos. They’re not going to try to hook up with you if they think there’s a chance they’re going to be rejected.”
I really doubt Nathan’s worried about being rejected. But what do I know? I’ve only hooked up with one guy in my life. Richard Perkins, sophomore year. I spent so much time wondering whether I should hook up with him that by the time I did, he was pretty much over it. So maybe I should listen to Celia. Maybe she knows what she’s talking about. “Okay,” I say slowly. I kind of want to ask her how I’m supposed to let Nathan know I’m interested without looking like a total fool, but I don’t want her to think I’m that clueless.
“Thank you,” Celia says, like it’s settled. “What are you going to do next year when you’re at Stanford without me? I might have to Skype with you every night to make sure you don’t become a social pariah.”
“Ha-ha,” I laugh, wondering what she would think if she knew I hadn’t gotten into Stanford, if she knew I might be joining her at Yale next year after all. Probably she’d be pissed. It’s rare for two people from one school to even get into Yale, and Celia likes having people think she was the only one.
I’ve hardly told anyone at school I got accepted to Yale, because I’m not going there. Well, wasn’t going there. God, if I have to go to Yale, my parents are going to freak out. They have this really weird competitive thing going with their friends the Spurlocks. The Spurlocks went to Yale, and my parents loved telling them that even though I got into Yale, I wasn’t going there. It was, like, the highlight of their lives. They’d probably rather ship me off for a year of backpacking through Europe than have to tell the Spurlocks that I’m going to Yale.
“No, seriously,” Celia says. She loo
ks me up and down. “Quinn, this is your chance. Nathan likes you.”
“How do you know?” I ask. I’ve heard this story a billion times, but it never gets old. I mean, Nathan is really hot. And I’m only human, after all.
“Because he told me! I’ve told you this story, like, eleventy million times. You don’t listen to me.”
“You don’t,” Paige agrees, finally finishing with her bag and sitting down in the row ahead of us. She leans over the back of her seat so she can hear what we’re saying, just like she did on the bus. Sometimes I wonder if Paige even has her own thoughts. Like, on some level I know she must, because she’s really smart. But then I see how she just parrots back everything Celia says, and I can’t understand if she really means what she’s saying, or if she’s just saying it because she wants to stay on Celia’s good side.
“I did listen,” I say. It’s true—I did listen to her story about Nathan. But what’s the harm in hearing it again? Plus, I’m still a little wary. Celia tends to exaggerate, and how do I know she’s not doing that now?
“We were in the library,” Celia says. “And he came up to me and was like, ‘What’s the deal with Quinn, is she hanging out with anyone?’ and I almost laughed, because it was like, ‘Um, no’—no offense, Quinn—and then he was like, ‘Cool,’ and he got this wicked glint in his eye and was like, ‘I hope I get to hang out with her on the trip.’”
“That doesn’t mean he likes me,” I say. I stretch my legs out into the aisle. I’m tall, and I have long legs, and they always get cramped up during plane rides. Beckett Cross goes walking by, bumping his bag right into me. God. What a jerk. “Watch it,” I say irritably.
“Sorry,” he says, and grins.
As he passes, I catch a glimpse of the tag on the bag he’s holding. Lyla McAfee, it says in pink script. What the hell is Beckett Cross doing with Lyla’s bag? Lyla’s been dating this guy Derrick for, like, ever. Did they break up? I turn to watch Beckett as he carries the bag to the back of the plane, but before I can see where he’s going, the pilot comes over the speaker and tells everyone to get ready for takeoff.
I lean back and buckle my seat belt. I hate the taking-off part of the flight. Most crashes take place during the takeoff or the landing, so I can never really relax until we’re in the air. Of course, even then I can’t completely relax, because there’s still the landing part to deal with.
“It does mean that he likes you,” Celia says. “It means that he loves you and he wants to have, like, five million babies with you.” She giggles. “Or at least make out with you on the beach.”
“I’m not sure if I want to make out with him,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure I do. I clutch the armrests as hard as I can as the plane starts off down the runway.
“Yes, you do,” Celia says.
“You definitely do,” Paige calls over the back of her seat.
Celia looks at the way I’m clutching the seat. “Actually, I don’t think you have any idea what you want. You should have taken the Xanax I offered you. You’re a mess.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“You’re welcome.”
Celia takes out her headphones. Once the plane is safely in the air, I push my seat back a little and close my eyes. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, the plane is coming in for a bumpy landing. I sit up and look around wildly, my heart pounding.
“Hey, hey, hey,” someone says. “You’re fine. Just relax.”
The voice is coming from next to me, but it’s not Celia’s or Paige’s voice.
It’s a male voice. A deep male voice.
Nathan Duncan is sitting next to me.
I look down.
He’s holding my hand.
Nathan Duncan. Is. Holding. My. Hand.
THREE
THE THING ABOUT WAKING UP ON A PLANE with one of the most popular guys in school holding your hand is that if you’re me, it doesn’t happen. And I’m not saying that in an “Oh my god, I don’t know how cute I am” Jennifer Lawrence kind of way. It seriously just does not happen. It’s the kind of thing that would happen to Celia, or Paige, or probably a million other girls. But not me.
I’m completely out of my element. So of course I do something completely stupid. I pull my hand away. Which is really rude. And not the kind of thing you do when you wake up holding the hand of a superhot guy. And besides, he has a really nice hand. Very comforting.
“Oh, sorry,” Nathan says, “I probably shouldn’t have done that. You just seemed a little disoriented. I guess it was instinct. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He grins at me, and my heart melts. He doesn’t seem like he’s insecure or has a fragile ego, or whatever it is Celia said about men. In fact, if he’s hurt that I’ve taken my hand away, he doesn’t show it. He’s probably not used to being rejected, so it, like, doesn’t even register to him. Not that I was rejecting him. Was I rejecting him? I’m not . . . I don’t . . . I feel hot and confused. This whole trip is just starting off way too weird.
I wonder if I’m in a dream. A dream where I haven’t gotten into Stanford and where I wake up holding Nathan Duncan’s hand. Although that would be very weird—to have a dream where you wake up.
“Um, that’s okay,” I say.
“I asked Celia if we could trade seats. Sorry I freaked you out.” He has really long legs—even longer than mine—and his knees are pushed up against the back of the seat. “Are you okay?” His light-blue eyes are looking at me with concern. “You were mumbling and getting really tense.”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” I say. Mumbling and getting tense? What was I mumbling? And what does that mean, exactly, getting tense? Like, my body was getting tense? An image of my back getting stiff and my torso convulsing like the exorcist runs through my mind. How humiliating. I reach up and smooth my hair, then run the back of my hand over my chin. Sometimes I drool when I sleep, and the last thing I want is for Nathan to see that.
The plane bounces and skitters down the runway before slowing to a stop. I just sit there, not really sure what to do now. Should I get up and let him by? Or is this where I’m supposed to let him know that I’m interested?
“Where’s Celia now?” I ask.
“A few rows up.” He leans down so that his head is touching the back of the seat ahead of us. “I didn’t know you were sleeping. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked to switch with her.”
“Oh.” I swallow and try to think of something else to say to him. Now that I’m coming out of my fog, I realize that the flight is over. Yay for not crashing! Of course, the odds of dying in a plane crash are something like one in eleven million, and your odds of dying in a car crash are one in four thousand. And yet I get in a car all the time. The brain really does work in mysterious ways.
I try to focus it on coming up with something flirty to say to Nathan. Am I ruining my chance? My chance is passing me by! People on the plane are starting to get up and grab their stuff. Someone almost hits me in the head with their suitcase. I can’t think of anything to say! I’m just sitting here like an idiot!
Finally I take a big deep breath and then stand up, because honestly, what else am I supposed to do? I can’t just sit here forever.
“Is this your bag?” Nathan asks, standing up next to me and grabbing the one in the overhead compartment.
“Yes,” I say, and he hands it to me. Standing here next to him, I realize how tall he is. He towers over me. He smiles at me again. Say something, Quinn! But I’m blank. I’ve got nothing.
From the front of the plane, one of Nathan’s friends calls his name. “I should go,” he says. “But maybe I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.” I try to emphasize the last part, so he knows I’m definitely interested. But he doesn’t seem to really catch on.
He takes a step toward the front of the plane, and then he’s gone.
My phone buzzes.
That stupid email again.
Before graduation,
I promise to . . . do something crazy.
It’s a sign! I should have asked him to hang out. I should have done something.
But then I shake my head. That’s the last thing I need to do.
My future is completely in jeopardy. I haven’t gotten into Stanford. And doing something crazy isn’t going to help me. At all.
By the time I walk into the lobby of our hotel, I’m actually starting to feel a lot better. About everything. Yes, that performance with Nathan wasn’t stellar, but it’s not like I did anything horrible. And he did say he wanted to hang out with me later. So I’ll have a chance to redeem myself.
And as for the Stanford thing, yes, it’s a problem, but really all I need is a plan. I’m sure there’s someone else I can talk to, or an appeals process I can go through. I’ll probably just have to go in for an extra interview or something. Maybe I can even make charts and graphs, the kind that will prove I’m way more qualified than some of the other people they let in. I’ll do a PowerPoint and knock their socks off with how science-minded I am.
“Ugh,” Celia says, sitting down next to me in one of the hotel conference rooms. Our whole class is meeting here so Mr. Beals can go over the rules with us. “This trip is already ridiculous.”
“Where have you been?” I demand.
After I got off the plane, I caught a glimpse of Celia at the airport, but then we got separated in the crowd.
“Just around,” she says breezily. “I tried to find you on the airport shuttle bus, but I think we got on two different ones.” She lets out a big sigh, like she can’t believe how hard her life is. “Did you hear that Paige and I got stuck rooming with Katie Wells? Like, how annoying is that? She’s the worst. All she wants to talk about is herself and her horses. Her horses, Quinn. The girl is seventeen years old and she still rides horses. I mean, we’re not in middle school anymore. Get a new hobby.”
She reaches up and fiddles with her fake eyelashes, making sure they’re still connected to her real ones. Celia gets eyelash extensions put on, but she didn’t have time to get them refilled before we left for Florida, so she’s wearing falsies. I hope they’re waterproof.