Bright Before Sunrise(4)

And she’s back to normal. Smiling. Done with me and turning toward her fan club: a preppy blond girl walking by with another preppy blond girl. She’s absorbed back into the flow of the hallway, surrounded by people who want those smiles and live and die by her advice.

I pull out my phone so I can text the girl whose smiles I want: Carly.

R we still on 4 tonite? Can’t wait.





4

Brighton

1:19 P.M.


23 HOURS, 41 MINUTES LEFT


“Leave me alone” is way worse than “No.” It’s more of an “I can’t stand you” than an “I’m not interested.” The raw annoyance in his brown eyes and deep voice add intensity to his rejection. I feel it from the curl of my toes to the fire in my cheeks. It hurts—as much as the places my new sandals have rubbed my feet raw, or the pulse point behind my ear that’s pinched by my headband. But I can’t let it show on my face.

I won’t.

Sarah’s interruption is a welcome distraction. I could hug her and Miranda for buying me a moment to pull myself together.

“Thanks. Your shirt is too. Both of yours. Really cute.”

They chime, “See you later,” and keep walking.

My gaze snags on the hallway clock, and I bite my lip. The clock is not my friend today. It keeps moving forward, carving minutes out of the day and cruelly pushing me toward tomorrow.

And I’m not ready.

Each click of the second hand feels like a catch in my breath, each bell that announces another class is over heaps more pounds of pressure on my shoulders.

There’s only a fragile strip of time between me and Mom.

I don’t know if I can do it.

Eighty percent of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.

I take a deep breath and spin back around. Because I should say something, right? Apologize, or let Jonah know that I got his message. Something.

The space in front of his locker is empty. Craning my neck and standing on tiptoe, I catch sight of the top of his head, his disheveled light brown hair passing the entrance to the courtyard. He’s too far away for me to catch up and I doubt he’d appreciate me chasing him. What would I even say?

“Brighton!”

“Hey! Brighton!”

The two voices each call out again. Louder. From opposite ends of the hall. I feel like I’m being tugged in both directions, like I should fracture myself into pieces. Whoever I pick, I’m letting the other person down.

“B!”

Amelia’s nearly at my elbow. Maggie’s farther away, but louder, and much less patient. She’s waving her hand to get my attention. I smile in Amelia’s direction and call “Hi” toward Maggie.

Amelia reaches me first. “Is it the weekend yet?”

“Not quite.” I want to lean my head on her shoulder and confess—if not the harder stuff, at least I could tell her how I just made a fool of myself with Jonah.

She does a little dance. “I’m so impatient! And you should see Peter! He said the cutest thing—”

“Hey, Brighton! Hi, Amelia.” Maggie skids to a stop on my other side. “Sorry to butt in, but this is important!”

Amelia responds with an unenthusiastic, “Hey.”

I focus on the word “important” and rally some enthusiasm. “What’s up?”

Maggie waves her phone in my face. “I just got the proofs for my senior pictures! I’ve been looking for you all day, Brighton. Why weren’t you at lunch? So tell me, which one do you like?”

Important? We must have different definitions of the word. But then again, on any other day I would see this as important too. It’s not her fault.

“Let me see.”

“I’ve just got to pull up the link.” Maggie’s fingers fly over the screen of her phone, then she pauses. “Oh, since you’re here, you can help too, Amelia. My mom likes the one where I’m leaning against the tree—is she crazy or what? My nose looks deformed, and I practically have a double chin.”

She holds her phone toward us: scrolling through photos with the words “Emerick Studios” watermarked across them. I try to concentrate on the screen, on pictures of her cute round face and brown hair, but she gestures as she speaks; the freckles on her photographed nose blur with the motion.

“You’re so prepared. I can’t believe you’ve taken senior photos already—I can’t believe we’re almost seniors.” I tip my head to match the angle she’s holding the screen.

“I wanted time in case I needed retakes. And I didn’t want to—”

“Here, give me that.” Amelia snatches the phone and holds it steady between us. A moment’s scrutiny later, she taps a picture. “Not the tree. This one.” She hands it to me.

“That one? Really? How can you like that one? It’s awful. My ears look totally crooked. Don’t they, Brighton?”

She steps in front of Amelia to look over my shoulder. Amelia scowls and feigns claws behind Maggie’s back. I fight a smile and sidestep to make room for her. “I think your ears look fine. Amelia’s got a great eye for this sort of stuff. I’d go with her pick.”

“But which do you like?” she insists, pushing my hand away when I try to return her phone. “I’ve got a favorite, and I’m trying to figure out if it’s really the best one, or if I’m fooling myself into thinking it’s good.”