There’s a trick to writing a good history essay.
Most people assume that you start with the contention. You read the prompt and instantly form your stance on something, like whether the
sansculottes in the French Revolution ought to be considered a mob, and then you search through your memory for evidence to back yourself up:
quotes from famous historians, dates, statistics. But I always start with the evidence first. I go through the information I already have, the facts I find the most compelling, that will most likely stand out to an examiner. Only after that do I pick my argument. Otherwise it’s a futile practice, a waste of precious writing time; it doesn’t matter what you believe in, or want to
believe in, if you’re not supported by the data.
I know this. I should know this.
Yet after I hang up, I can’t help hoping that Abigail’s right. That maybe, miraculously, Julius could feel something for me other than bitterness or annoyance. And even though it’s not the logical thing to do, I find myself abandoning all my tried-and-tested study techniques and scrabbling for
evidence to prove it.
Evidence like: He ran the race for me when I felt like I was dying. Like: He stayed behind with me after the party, and he’s never shown any particular interest in sweeping floors before, so there must have been another reason. Like: Max said so when he came into the bakery after school, and didn’t his brother say that he’d been searching for our bakery? Like: There was a very brief moment four and a half weeks ago when he gazed over at me so tenderly I felt my breath catch.
It probably isn’t substantial enough to convince any examiner, but it’s enough for me to convince myself by the end of the night. I’m going to do
it, I decide. I’m going to tell him, and I’m going to pray he won’t reject me on the spot.
• • •
“I’m going to be sick,” I inform Abigail when I slide into the bus seat the next morning.
She’s sipping a drink that’s more whipped cream than actual liquid, her bag crammed into the space between us, her denim jacket draped over her lap like a pillow. Never one to let herself sit in discomfort, even if it’s just for a one-hour bus ride into the woods. “You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night,” she says, studying my face.
I grimace. “I didn’t. I was busy strategizing my next move.”
She almost spits out her drink with laughter. “My darling, you’re not planning to go to war here—you’re just telling a boy you like him—”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss, scanning the bus. There are still
students shuffling their way down the aisle, others standing up to search for their friends or shove their luggage under the seats. “Someone will hear
you.”
“Nobody could possibly guess who we’re talking about. Like, I barely believed you when you told me. And he’s not even here yet,” she says lightly. “Also, if we’re really focusing on strategy, I feel like you should kind of ease into it. You know, considering your . . . history and all. You don’t want to startle him by launching into an impassioned speech straightaway.”
“Huh?” I’m still craning my neck, checking every face that passes. I feel physically nauseous, and it’s only partially because I skipped breakfast altogether this morning. I feel almost as sick as I did before my school captain speech, before our end‑of‑year exams, even. Is this what liking
someone should be? Because contrary to common description, there’s nothing warm or gentle about it at all. This is a violent intrusion, my own
body revolting against me. There are no butterflies in my stomach, only scorpions.
“Maybe just act friendly first. Or at least like you don’t absolutely
loathe the guy,” Abigail advises. “Plus—” “Oh my god, he’s coming.”
After wasting so much time thinking about him since yesterday, it’s a surreal experience to see him just standing a few feet away. There, right there. The sun streaming in through the bus windows and hitting his face.
But if I look like I didn’t sleep last night, he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Tired, blue-gray circles are smudged around his eyes, and his hair is rumpled for once, messy strands falling free over his forehead. Then he
catches me staring and stares back.
The scorpions inside my stomach crawl up to my throat. “Remember: Be friendly,” Abigail hisses under her breath.
This is entirely counterintuitive to everything I’ve learned over the past ten years. As natural as jumping backward, or sticking your hand into a boiling pot, or running headfirst into a flaming building. But I force the
muscles in my face to relax. The corners of my lips to lift. A high-pitched, strangled sound escapes my mouth.
His brows furrow. “Sorry?”
“I was just—saying hi,” I say brightly. “In greeting. Hello.”
He shoots me a weird look and walks right past me without another word.
And I’ve decided I would like to stop existing.
“Okay, to be fair, that could have gone a lot worse,” Abigail says once he’s settled into the back of the bus. The doors slide closed, and the teachers do a final head count before we start reversing out of the school parking lot. “It’s not like you completely fumbled the birdie.”
I’m hitting my head very slowly against the window. “Maybe stop doing that,” she tells me.
“Don’t worry, I’m not doing it hard enough to risk impairing my cognitive functions.”
“No, I’m worried because Ms. Hedge might see and force us to watch that seventy-minute video about the importance of self-love again. And also because Julius is currently looking in your direction.”
I freeze. Feel all the heat in my body refocus in my cheeks. “Are you sure?”
“Quite,” she confirms somberly. “But I’ll handle it.” Before I can even ask, she speaks up in a loud voice, so loud it drowns out the rumbling engines. “It’s great to see that the windows are so sturdy, Sadie. Thank you so much for testing that out for me. I’m now inclined to believe that the
news article I read about that twenty-year-old who crashed headfirst through the bus window and left a human-shaped hole in the glass was most likely fake.”
I don’t know whether to burst into tears or laughter. “Is he still looking?” I whisper.
“Nope. All safe now.”
I heave a sigh and slump back in my seat. “God, I detest this.”
“You still have the whole trip,” she says, popping in an earphone and offering the other up to me. “Just wait until we get there.”
We don’t talk much for the rest of the ride, except to change the music every few songs (our tastes are starkly different; Abigail listens to what she refers to as sad music for hot girls, or music you can wail to, while I prefer music you can study to). It’s one of the many reasons I love being around Abigail. We can talk on the phone for five hours straight in the evenings, stopping only to grab our phone chargers or a glass of water, but we can also just sit together and watch the changing scenery through the window.
Soon the roads narrow into a single winding lane, and the rising sun
glimmers through the trees on both sides. The malls and gas stations and busy cafés disappear. Everything disappears, until we’re venturing deep into the mountains, and all the colors are some variation of gold and blue and green.
And then we’re not the only ones silent, drinking in the view. The other students quiet down too. Even the athletes have stopped their competition
of who-can-throw-their-empty-sports-drinks-higher-without-accidentally- hitting‑a‑teacher, which is pointless anyway, because there are no clear
rules or rewards.
“Wow, it’s pretty,” Abigail murmurs, and I agree.
Lake Averlore looks exactly the way it does in photos.
From the handcrafted cabins at the base of the mountain to the wisteria and lace wildflowers to the great elm trees fringing the lake bank. We round the corner, and the lake itself comes into full view, vast and beautiful, the emerald water so clear it glows in the daylight, reflecting the scattered
clouds in the sky. The place feels like its own secluded world, a retreat in the true sense of the word. It’s almost enough to help me forget about
Julius, about the emails, about everything that’s happened these past couple of months.
But then the bus jolts to a stop, and I’m yanked back to reality. Or maybe some weird, alternate version of it. Because as everyone starts
unbuckling their seat belts and reaching for their things, Ray Suzuki stands up from his seat and turns to me. “Hey,” he calls. “Did you choose this
spot?”
I straighten Abigail’s earphones and hand them back to her. Look up warily. “Yeah?”
“It’s not as bad as I expected,” he grumbles.
I’d think I had hallucinated it if Abigail wasn’t wearing a similar expression of disbelief.
“Oh. Um, I’m glad,” I say, still waiting for the catch. Maybe the follow‑up sentence is: It’s still a lot worse than I’d hoped. Or, I was imagining a literal pit in the flames of hell to match the inside of your soul.
But it doesn’t come. He just nods, clears his throat, and joins the other students crowded down the bus aisle.
“So you’re blushing and stuttering over Julius Gong, while Ray Suzuki is being sincerely appreciative of you,” Abigail remarks, her brows raised. “Bizarre. Truly, absolutely bizarre. Next thing you know, Ms. Hedge is
going to start advocating for underage drinking and Rosie is going to declare that her lifelong dream is to become a nun.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, laughing, but I can’t help feeling like she has a point.
• • •
We’re given half an hour to settle into the cabins.
It’s very nearly perfect. The interior is designed like something from a fairy tale, with vintage couches and stacked bookshelves and a blazing fireplace. The local staff have laid out tables of homemade scones with fresh whipped cream and strawberry jam to welcome us; within minutes,
they’re all gone, not even a crumb left on the porcelain plates. The teachers are given raw salmon appetizers and mocktails that smell suspiciously like cocktails, and I’ve never seen Ms. Hedge look so happy. The bunk beds are comfortably wide too, the sheets fragrant with the scent of flowers from outside.
The only problem is—
“Naked clowns,” Abigail says, her voice a mixture of horror and pure disgust.
All the other girls gather around her, staring up at the paintings on the wall. As in, paintings, plural. Because for whatever cursed reason, there are multiple paintings of naked clowns hung up in every room, right on open display for everyone to see. Above the beds, next to the mirrors, over the doors. Perhaps it would be better if they were done in some sort of abstract art style, but they’re unforgivably realistic, the tiny brushstrokes capturing every detail.
“This shouldn’t be allowed,” Georgina Wilkins says, shaking her head. “That’s just—what’s the word? Diametrical? Diagonal?”
“Diabolical,” I correct her automatically, then wince. I know from experience that this is one of my less popular traits.
But Georgina just throws me a grateful look and says, “Right. Exactly.” Which proves how bad the paintings must be.
Abigail drags a hand over her face. “My eyes feel like they’re being physically attacked. To be more specific, like they’re being kicked by a kangaroo and then dragged through cut glass and then set on fire.”
“God, I’m sorry,” I tell everyone. “I swear this wasn’t included in any of the photos on the website when we were picking out locations . . .”
And maybe it’s true what they say, about unlikely alliances forming from common enemies—even if the enemy is a two-dimensional clown who should be arrested for public indecency—because Rosie comes to stand next to me. “What are you apologizing for?” she asks, flicking her hair over her shoulders. “It’s not as if you put the paintings up there
yourself.”
I open my mouth. Then close it again. I’m so used to taking responsibility for everything, to apologizing to her and everyone else, that it feels wrong not to say sorry.
“You’re so strange sometimes, Sadie,” Rosie continues, though she doesn’t sound like she’s being unkind. “You know most people rush to push blame away instead of taking all of it themselves, right?”
I blink. Try to find my bearings again. “I— Right. Well . . . it might not be my fault, but I do know how we can fix this. Temporarily, at least.”
“Please,” Abigail says. “Anything.”
I rummage through my bag and pull out the spare jacket I packed, then drape it over the painting frame so it covers the clown completely. “There,” I say. The others quickly join in, grabbing loose dresses and oversized sweaters, and soon we’re running from room to room, giggling, lending one another our clothes to block every single painting from view. The hysteria
fizzes on my tongue like alcohol, and when I turn around at one point, I catch Rosie’s eye. There’s no malice in her expression. We’re both doubled over, laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation, and for the first time in a while, I don’t feel like the year level’s number one villain. I don’t feel like the perfect student either; I’m just one of them.
We’re still laughing when we stumble outside onto the lakeshore, into the sunlight.
The first activity for the day is canoeing. Two canoes have already been set down over the pebbles, the green lake water shimmering behind them. A tanned, buff guy with beaded bracelets around his wrists and ankles
introduces himself to us as David, But You Can Call Me Dave. Then he dives in right away, showing us how to hold the canoe paddle and adjust
your body position while Ms. Hedge sips her cocktail-mocktail and watches from under the trees.
“We’ll split you off into two teams,” Dave says, rubbing his hands together. “And then, just to make things interesting, we’ll do a little race. The first person to the other side of the lake wins. Got it?”
Most of us nod. Abigail slaps a mosquito on her thigh and mutters into my ear, “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to do any physical exercise. When can we do a race to see who falls asleep the fastest? I bet I’d win that without even—”
“You,” Dave says, pointing at her.
Abigail jerks her head up. Smiles without any shame. “Yeah?”
“Since you’re feeling so chatty, you can lead the first team. And . . .” He looks around, sizing each of us up before his eyes land on Julius. “You look like leader material.”
“Well, he is school captain,” someone volunteers. “Oh, is that right?” Dave asks.
Julius nods with barely concealed smugness, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Perfect. You can lead the other team, then,” Dave decides. “Both of you choose your members.”
“I would pick you,” Abigail whispers to me, nudging my ribs, “but I’m going to be generous and let you join his side.”
“That’s if he picks me,” I whisper back.
“Of course he will. Based on athletic ability alone, he should.”
I shake my head and smile like the idea couldn’t be further from my mind, but secretly, humiliatingly, I am waiting for Julius to turn to me. To at least consider me, if not choose me. I’m waiting for him to take his time, to meet my eyes. My stomach flutters from the sheer anticipation, and my heart—my heart is beating unbearably fast, the suspense of the moment so disproportionate to the stakes I want to laugh at myself.
And then I want to slap myself. Because he doesn’t hesitate, or even glance once in my direction. Instead, he waves Rosie forward.
“Oh my god, yes,” she says, grinning wide and making her way down the shore like a pageant queen. “We’ll make the perfect team.”
Julius grins back at her. My nails dig into the soft flesh of my palms, my hurt hardening into rage. It’s not Rosie I’m angry at though. It’s him. It’s
always him.
He doesn’t choose me next either. He chooses Ray and Adam and Georgina, who gets out of swimming lessons every year by claiming she’s allergic to chlorine. It’s like I don’t even exist to him. Like last night never even happened. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe I’ve been spinning it into something it’s not.
By the end, I’m one of the last two people left. Me, and that boy in our year level who talks to nobody.
Julius’s eyes flicker between us. His expression is passive, careless, when he nods once at the boy. He doesn’t even appear sorry. It’s not as if I was ever certain I could be his first choice. But knowing that I’m his last choice—it’s a twist of a knife in the gut.
Humiliation stings my throat. I’m no longer planning to confess to him; I’m planning to choke him. But for the sake of my own dignity, I act like it doesn’t matter. I move over to Abigail’s side, my head held high, my fists clenched to stop them from shaking.
“Great. Now, who wants to race first?” Dave asks. “I will,” Julius offers, rolling up his sleeves.
Dave’s sunburned face splits into a beam. “And who thinks they can take him in a one‑on‑one—”
“I’ll go,” I say loudly, marching forward, not even caring when the freezing lake water sloshes over my shoes. “I’ll beat him.”
There’s a beat of surprised silence. Dave blinks at me. “Oh! Oh, okay. Really loving the confidence here. Now, the paddle might be a little heavy for you—”
I pick up the paddle easily, tightening my grip around the rough wood. “Just teach me how to row this thing.”
• • •
I’ve always been a fast learner.
It takes me only a few minutes to push the canoe into the lake, strap on my life jacket, and get used to steering with the paddle. Then I start paddling.
Wild geese startle and soar over my head, their white wings flapping as the canoe makes its way through the water, foam forming from the ends of the paddle. The earthy scent of the air fills my nostrils, coats my tongue.
The lake itself is serene, tall grass rising over the opposite shores, the sun’s reflection rippling outward. I can make out the trees in the distance, their smooth, pale bark gleaming, their golden-green foliage swaying with the breeze.
If I wasn’t competing against Julius, I would probably admire the view more. Let myself sit in the rare silence and watch the light playing over the water, the wilted flowers floating across the surface.
But all I can focus on is his canoe in my peripheral vision.
I lean forward, dig my paddle deeper into the water, my muscles burning from the effort. It’s still not enough; he’s pulling ahead. I dig as hard as I can, but I apply too much force on one side and the canoe lurches unsteadily. Cold sprays my face, soaks through my clothes.
“Slow down,” Julius calls from beside me. He sounds irritated. “You’re going to fall into the water like that.”
“You slow down,” I snap at him.
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He clenches his jaw and pushes his canoe onward with renewed vigor. Without looking at me, he asks, “What are you getting so angry for?”
I choke out a harsh laugh, the sound only half-audible over our splashing paddles. “Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“I’m not angry,” I say coldly. My arms are starting to weaken, and I can feel the wood rubbing open the skin on my palms, but I ignore the sting. “Why would I—” A sudden gust of wind tears through my hair, creating
waves in the water, one bigger than the next. The canoe wobbles again, this time more violently. “—be angry?” I grip the edge of the canoe for support, grit my teeth against the emotions fighting for room inside my chest. “It’s not like we owe each other anything.”
He makes a soft, frustrated noise. “See, you’re saying that, but your tone strongly suggests otherwise.”
“And since when did my tone matter to you? Last time I checked, you didn’t even want to look my way.”
“Are you kidding? I—” His sentence dissolves into a muffled curse as my canoe slams against his, the sudden impact jolting both of us out of our seats. “Seriously, Sadie, watch out—”
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” I interject, pushing myself upright with a huff. “Maybe if you gave me more space—”
“I can’t control the speed of this,” he says. A shameless lie. He just doesn’t want to risk losing to me.
“Well, then, neither can I,” I say, paddling faster. I’m winning, I think. We’re more than halfway there, the opposite shore close enough for me to see the shine of damp on the stones, the grass tall enough to reach my
knees. I’ll make it before him. But then my paddle gets caught on something in the water. A weed, maybe, or a net. I try to yank it free, but I lose control, and it’s like everything unfolds in slow motion. I can only stare in horror as my paddle swings out sideways—as Julius attempts to duck, but leans too
far backward, and crashes into the water, sending a great wave rushing toward me—
And my stomach drops, gravity slipping out from under my body as my canoe flips upside down.
