Chapter Seven

I channel my disappointment into working on my bid for the Fall Fest presidency throughout the weekend.

I jot down bullet points for a short speech, which I’ll deliver during today’s committee voting. I come up with a slogan. I even enlist Lily’s help in filming a campaign video in the comfort of my room. She’s excellent at video editing and graphic design, so she helps me piece it all together, ending with the slogan “Fall for Whit.” I am ready for this meeting.

If all of this sounds like a little much, that’s okay. I am a little much. Who would ever want to be less?

It helps to sort of distract me from thinking of Aiden and the nerve he had to follow up his Nice text with a text about football. Foot. Ball.

Those two texts back-to -back push away any visions I had of Aiden doing some kind of grand, romantic proposal for Fall Fest. At this point, I’d be lucky if he even drove down to be my date.

I push those depressing thoughts away as I drive Lily and myself to school on Monday. Once I’ve walked Lily to her locker, I pop in my headphones, put on a Spotify playlist of powerful female anthems, and march down the hall toward the courtyard, PSL in hand. I’m mentally reviewing my speech for the Fall Fest meeting later this afternoon.

“There is nothing I love more than fall and planning,” I whisper to myself. “Pumpkin spice is in my bloodline, and I dream of spreadsheets.”

I’m glancing down at my phone to check my notes for the next part of my speech when a voice yells, “Heads up!”

But it’s too late. Suddenly someone is crashing into me, hard, knocking me, my belongings, and my coffee ever ywhere— including all over my favorite marigold- colored cardigan patterned with adorable mushrooms.

“Ugh!” I shout, landing on the floor with a thud.

“Oof !” the other voice says, sounding muffled over the loud music pulsating in my ears.

My wrist aches from where it caught most of my weight, I’m soaking wet, and my phone went flying. I look over to see who clotheslined me.

It’s none other than Isaiah Ort iz— the ex I was ogling just days prior.

His skateboard is lying belly-up with the wheels still moving, the likely culprit for our collision.

If we were in one of the cheesy Hallmark movies Sophie is totally obsessed with, this might be a meet- cute—you k now, a sweet little first encounter between two characters who eventually fall in love.

But this is Isaiah Ortiz, the bane of my existence and the reason my meticulously selected outfit is completely ruined. If he weren’t my sworn enemy before, he definitely would be now.

I rip my earbuds out. “Can you watch where you’re going, Isaiah?!”

“Can you?” he shoots back, dusting off his pants, speckled with grime from the dingy linoleum floor.

As he rises to his feet, I take him in: tall, dark- skin ned, locs falling past his broad shoulders, long eyelashes, full lips, and a cool, casual, I - don’t - care- but- so mehow - I - look- great sense of style.

I swallow. Just because he’s cute doesn’t mean he’s not still my enemy.

“Ex-cuse me?! I was minding my business,” I huff, ignoring Isaiah’s outstretched hand adorned with silver rings. I stand without his help, hastily gathering my belongings. “You’re the one who was riding a skateboard in school!”

A smooth, easy grin spreads across Isaiah’s face. His smile used to be my favorite feature, but right now, the sight of it makes me want to mop up what’s left of my drink and put it back in my cup just so I can toss it in his face.

“Yeah. I totally was,” he admits, running his hand through his dark locs. “But you weren’t even looking where you were going. You were looking at your phone and whispering to yourself. What the hell was that about?”

My neck prickles. “It’s none of your business.”

Isaiah shrugs. “It was a mutual crash.”

“That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.” I snatch my phone from the floor and breathe a sigh of relief when the screen is intact. The protector is scuffed, though.

“Is it good?” Isaiah asks.

“It’s fine. Just a little scratched from these disgusting floors.” I frown down at my phone and then at my now cof fee- drenched clothes. “And I’m sopping.”

“Shit, yeah. Sorry.” Isaiah reaches to the back of his collar and starts to shrug off his oversize hoodie.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

He freezes, arms midair. “Letting you borrow this?”

My spine stiffens. Why on earth would I want to wear Isaiah’s hoodie? I doubt it would even fit. “I’m good.”

“So you’re just going to walk around in a soa king-wet sweater all day?” Before I can come up with some kind of retort, he’s pulled off his hoodie, revealing a dark gray T- shir t underneath. He tosses the sweatshirt to me. “Go on. I’ll start cleaning up.”

I take a peek at the tag and note that it’s a men’s XL, so where it was oversize on Isaiah, for me, it’ll just fit. But my other choice is to walk around with a giant, ugly stain on the front of my sweater. Not cute.

“Fine,” I say, as if he hasn’t already moved on to picking up my spilled lid and cup. I duck into the nearby bathroom and start to blot myself clean. The stain only worsens, so I give up and slip into the stall, pulling off my cardigan.

Then I stare down at Isaiah’s hoodie in my hand— sof t, black, with a small teddy bear embroidered in the upper right cor ner— and laugh out loud. I woke up this morning with lots of thoughts, but not once did I picture myself standing in the girls’ bathroom stall about to wear my middle school ex’s hoodie to the most anticipated meeting of my high school career.

But it’s fine.

It’s cool.

When I emerge from the stall, I fluff my curls in the mirror, grateful I opted for a rust- colored corduroy skirt and some black tights, neither of which looks terrible with this top.

I hear voices as I push open the bathroom door and let myself back into the hal l— Isa iah’s husky one I expected, but there’s someone else with him, laughing.

It’s Death Glare Denise, the school’s gruff janitor, who I have never even seen crack a smile, let alone laugh. She and Isaiah are squatting down mopping up the coffee with some of those thin brown paper towels every school seems to have.

Denise is notorious for reporting students for their hijinks. I don’t blame her. She works hard to keep our school clean and for what? I can’t imagine having to pick up after reckless teens day in and day out, some of whom are super privileged and purposely throw things on the ground and make remarks like “I’m keeping Denise employed.” It’s no wonder she’s prickly.

Yet here she is. With Isaiah. Practically giggling.

“So, these wheels might be working a little too good,” Isaiah is saying, shaking his head.

Denise grins. “I tried to warn you!”

“I mean, what should I have expected from a set called Wildebeest? ”

Another chuckle, then Denise stands and reaches for her mop. “Well, that’s what you get for skating in school. You know linoleum gives the worst traction.”

Isaiah stuffs the dirty paper towels into an oversize trash can. “Hey, now. I think ice might be slightly worse.”

“Just barely.”

“Well, consider it a lesson learned, D,” Isaiah says, and my eyebrows go up. Did that crash . . . push me into another dimension . . . or something? What else might explain Isaiah and Denise bonding over skateboards? And did he call Death Glare Denise . . . D? “The wheels are sick, though. Thanks for the recommendation. And, seriously, thanks for helping me with this mess.”

I clear my throat a little, and they both look my way. “Hi. Just wanted to say sorry about the coffee. And thank you both.”

Denise points at Isaiah. “No worries. This clown told me it was all him.”

“Ay, so now I’m a clown?”

“Always were,” she teases. “Get going now, will you? I’m good here.”

Isaiah nods at her, then turns to me with a sly smile. “Nice hoodie.”

The way his eyes fix on me sends a ripple of excitement through me. I clear my throat and pull at the hem, looking for something to do with my hands. “I’ll, um, wash it and get it back to you tomorrow.”

He waves a hand at me. “Whenever. I did crash into you and ruin your cof fee— let’s be honest. I owe ya one. Okay?” Isaiah walks over to his skateboard and scoops it up from the floor. His brows furrow in concern as he surveys the damage.

“Is it okay?” I ask.

He nods. “Looks like it’ll be just fine. Thanks.”

I gather my things from the floor where I left them, pulling my bag over my shoulder. Other students have started joining us in the halls now. “Okay. Well. Thanks for the hoodie.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Without another word, Isaiah hops onto his skateboard and starts weaving down the hall, leaving Denise shaking her head, and me bewildered at our first interaction in six years.

From homeroom, I sneakily send the same text to my group chat with Marisol and Sophie and to Aiden.

Me: Guess who I ran into this morning? LITERALLY.

Soph responds immediately.

Sophie: Who?

Marisol: Is that why you ditched us in the courtyard AGAIN? We’ve been looking for you!

Me: I’m sorry! But ISAIAH ORTIZ skateboarded right into me!

Sophie: WHAT!!! Are you okay?

Marisol: Wait, THE???

Me: THE ONE AND ONLY.

Me: I’m fine. Mostly just a bruised ego, but SO glad no one was here to see the aftermath. Books, notebook, coffee EVERYWHERE.

Marisol: Noooo! That sucks!

Me: And now I’m wearing his hoodie?

Marisol: Um?

Sophie: ???

I send them a selfie, which they both heart.

Sophie: Your makeup looks so good!

Me: Thanks, boo!

Marisol: We’re talking about your ex, right? Tall? Long locs? Super hot? And , , ?

Me: How. Dare. You.

Sophie: So you’re wearing your ex’s hoodie . why?

Me: Did you not hear the part about coffee everywhere?

Marisol: He just stripped down in the middle of school for you, hmm? And you’re not trying to admit that was lowkey sexy?

Sophie: Does it smell good?

Me: YOU. GUYS. Do we not all have partners? Why are we talking about Isaiah Ortiz’s and what he smells like!!!!

Marisol: It’s unrealistic not to acknowledge attraction!

Me: This conversation is over. Love you. Byeeeee. But just before the bell rings, I consider Sophie’s text about whether the hoodie smells good.

I turn my head to the side and subtly press my nose to my shoulder, breathing in.

Isaiah’s sweatshirt smells a little like some kind of cologne, mixed with firewood and adobo— just like I remember.