Willow Moore from Maine.
You may not be such a fool after all.
14
garrison abbey
“Shit.” I check over my shoulder, noticing Hannah’s mom and her little five-year-old brother at Loren Hale’s neighborhood Halloween party. Located in his overly decorated backyard. Before Mrs. Nash sees me, I pull my hood over my head.
I’m not in costume. Just my usual hoodie and dark jeans.
“What?” Willow asks, both of us loitering near the long snack table. She’s filling her paper pumpkin-shaped plate with only a few kernels of caramel popcorn and two tiny bite-sized pretzels—you know the kind that people put in Chex Mix? Not like a giant soft pretzel at a movie theater.
“Just someone I know, or their mom, I mean. Not actually them.” I shake my head like I’m being stupid about this. She won’t talk to me. Would she? I wave Willow on. “It’s whatever. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
“I’m done. So…” She pushes up her black-framed glasses. Even though they don’t go with her Vega costume, I like that she wanted to be comfortable and keep them on. She tries grabbing the strap of her backpack. It’s not there, by the way. So she catches air.
Willow notices me staring for a long or quick second—I’m not really sure which. “What…is it?” Her hand shakes, the paper plate rattling, and she clutches it with both to steady the thing. I spot her anxiety more than she’d probably like me to, but all I want to do is lessen it for her. I’m just not fucking sure how.
“You look pretty,” I tell her the truth, “but you look pretty all days, so there’s not really a difference here.”
Willow pales. She does that instead of blush. “Um, thanks? You look pretty too.” She winces. “I mean, you look handsome?”
I try to make this exchange as easy as possible. “Me? Nah. My dad says I need a haircut, and my eyes can’t decide what color they want to be.”
Her shoulders relax, and she peers close at my eyes. “I always just thought they were blue-green, which is aquamarine?”
“Maybe. I’ve never looked it up, which kinda shows the lack of interest I have in myself.” I nod at her plate. “You really done?” I pick up my own plate. The food spread is intense. The tower of orange-frosted cupcakes alone could feed my entire lacrosse team.
“I don’t have a big appetite when I’m nervous.” She shrugs but stares off at the growing party, more and more teenagers, kids and parents arriving. Apples drift along the pool, water glowing orange from the lights. Torches illuminate the backyard as the sun descends.
I don’t ask what she’s nervous about when I’m positive it’s just this. The party in general. The people. The mingling. I don’t like it much either, but it doesn’t bring me anxiety like her. I remember how her Tumblr questionnaire said she doesn’t like large crowds.
She meant it.
I load my plate with the only thing that looks good to me. Cookies. Sugar, oatmeal—not a big fan of chocolate fudge—but I find the peanut butter ones, my favorite, and stack them high.
“I’m not really sure where to go,” Willow mumbles, kind of to herself.
I stick a cookie in my mouth and point at an unoccupied haybale near the fence. “This way.”
She walks beside me, passing the apple bobbing thing and a couple other games, and when we make it to the haybale she lets out a deep breath like I made it.
I’m not going to lie.
I want to hug her right now.
Instead though, I just sit next to Willow and chew my peanut butter cookie. I set a couple sugar cookies on her plate. “In case you’re not as nervous later.”
“Thanks.” She starts to smile.
My lips rise too. I set a foot on the haybale and my arm on my knee. “If you could be doing anything in the world, what’d you be doing?” I ask her.
“Like a career?”
“No, just on any day, any time.”
She nudges her popcorn around her plate. “I’d hang out in my room. Maybe watch a movie, read some comics, and surf the internet, nothing crazy. I know it sounds boring, but it’s fun to me.”
“It doesn’t sound boring. Just laidback.” I wonder how many people gave her shit for it—because my brothers give me shit for playing “girly” games like Mario Party. Which, honestly, is as much for girls as it is for boys. It’s Nintendo.
“So I finished the fifth season of Supernatural last night…” she trails off as a blonde woman approaches us, a five-year-old clinging to her side. She’s not really “in costume” like her Buzz Lightyear son. She just wears dangling ghost earrings and a tacky sweater.
“Shit,” I mutter, too late to angle my body out of sight. I can’t even force a fake smile.
Mrs. Nash greets me first. “Hi, Garrison.”