Whimpering, really. He’s standing in the middle of the hall in his polka- dot pajamas and clutching his arm, and he looks so alarmed, so horrified, that my first reaction is to search for blood. His clothes are damp and plastered to his skin, but there’s no trace of red. It’s only water.
“The roof is leaking,” he gasps. “I was doing my skincare routine and I felt a splash of freezing water on my arm.”
“Since when did you have a skincare routine?” Jonathan Sok grumbles behind me.
Unsurprisingly, his screams have drawn everyone out of their rooms; one quick glance around and it’s clear half my classmates are in their
pajamas too. Georgina even appears to have come running straight out of the shower. There are still shampoo bubbles in her hair.
Ray narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with it? You’re just jealous you don’t have beautiful, shiny skin like me.”
“Hey,” Jonathan protests. “My skin is already very shiny—” “Yeah, well—”
But Ray’s voice is drowned out by the violent rush of rain outside.
Within seconds, water starts trickling through the ceiling and pooling over the floors.
“See?” Ray yelps, lurching back. “It’s everywhere.”
“Oh perfect! It’s exactly what I need.” Georgina steps forward until her shampooed hair is positioned right underneath one of the leaks. “This is what you call being resourceful.”
I have to admire her outlook on life. “What do we do?” someone asks.
More voices chime in, all of them speaking over one another, over the pouring rain:
“My clothes are going to be wet. This blazer is dry-clean only—” “The water’s freezing—”
“I can’t sleep like this—”
“Someone take me home right now—”
“Where are the teachers when you need them?” “I heard they all have food poisoning—”
“This is exactly how all horror movies start—”
There’s an ache building in the back of my skull. I want to join them. I want to yell and complain and wait for someone else to clean up the mess. But the water is spreading rapidly, and I know the rot will set in if we don’t do something fast. There was a storm just like this a few years ago, and our bakery barely survived it.
I force myself to clench my fingers and unfurl them again. Deep breaths.
One. Two. Three.
“Someone go get Dave,” I speak up, my voice ringing out in the room.
Everyone falls quiet. “Does anyone know where he is?”
“I, uh, think he’s asleep,” someone offers. “Pretty sure I heard him snoring on my way over here.”
“Go wake him up,” I instruct. “There should be mops in the cleaning cabinet, but only he’ll have the keys. In the meantime, everyone go grab buckets or containers from the kitchen or anything you can find to collect the water—”
An audible snort cuts through my sentence.
I swivel around and my stomach turns. Danny is hovering in the back corner, his arms crossed over his chest. I can see those awful words again, as if written in burning red: Sadie Wen is a bitch. “Seriously?” he asks. “Even when we leave the school, you’re bossing us around?”
Ice crawls through my veins. “I’m not—”
“What, just because you’re the captain? Or because you’re a good student or whatever?” He rolls his eyes. “You think you’re so important, but honestly, we’re all sick of you, Sadie. We don’t have to do anything you say.”
I can hear my heart pounding, detonating inside my chest. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in this room could hear it too.
“This really, really isn’t the time,” I manage. “I know you hate me, and that’s fine, but the cabin is literally leaking as we speak—”
“Don’t change the topic.”
“You’re the one changing the topic,” I say, incredulous. “I’m just saying that there’s a much more pressing issue at hand. If you have a solution, I’m always happy to hear it, but if not, you could at least cooperate—”
“Stop acting like you’re better than us,” Danny snaps. “You’re the type to write shady emails about people behind their backs.”
“And you’re the type to write Sadie Wen is a bitch on a bike shed,” I shoot back.
There’s a collective, sharp inhalation from the crowd. “Damn,” somebody mutters.
I can’t even believe the words coming out of my own mouth, but it feels good. I’m so tired of playing nice, of smiling as people walk over me. What I’m realizing is that if you’re quiet about the things that hurt you, people are only going to mistake your tolerance for permission. And they’re going to hurt you again and again. “Yeah, I know it was you,” I say coldly, folding my arms across my chest.
Danny stares at me. “You know? So you were the one who sent Julius to punch me?”
The whole room screeches to a stop. The world freezes on its axis. Now it’s my turn to stare. “Julius punched you?”
“Julius punched him?” someone else whispers in the background. “But I thought he and Sadie hated each other.”
“But they kissed each other,” someone says. “At that party, remember?”
“Wait, Julius and Sadie kissed each other?” someone asks. “Why am I so behind on the gossip? How did I miss this?”
“Yeah, well, seeing as she sent him a bunch of emails—” “Technically, Abigail sent it.”
“Abigail sent it? Sadie’s best friend, Abigail?”
“Sorry, I was walking past their dorm room and kind of overheard a bit of their conversation—I left just as Julius showed up to her room though. So I’m guessing he likes her.”
“Whose room?” “Abigail’s room.”
“Wait, Julius likes Abigail?”
“No, Julius likes Sadie. They just share the same room.” “Him and Sadie?”
“No— Oh my god, this is why you’re so behind on gossip.”
I’m breathing against the knot in my chest and scanning the room, but I can’t find Julius anywhere. I have no idea where he is or what this means or why I’m doing exactly what I’d accused Danny of doing earlier: forgetting the issue at hand. It’s so bizarre how our brains work, how our priorities are organized by emotions instead of actual significance. This cabin could be
flooded soon and still we’d be standing around gossiping, too fixated on our own petty grievances and grudges and crushes to notice the sky falling.
“Just. Stop,” I say to nobody in particular. “Stop. If you disagree with me, I can’t force you to do much. But if you do agree, then please, listen to me.”
I don’t expect anything.
For a long time, it seems that I’m right not to. Nothing happens.
Nobody moves.
But then Rosie nods and flashes me her best smile. “Okay, I got you. Buckets coming right up.” It’s like magic. For the first time, I think I truly understand the term influencer. Because with a few simple words,
everybody has been influenced. Her friends leap into action right away, and someone whips out tape to stop the smaller leaks. The water has already
progressed through most of the room, but we manage to stop it from flowing into the corridor.
Just when I think the worst of it is over, the bulb above me suddenly flickers. There’s a loud buzzing sound, like an insect caught in a trap.
And the power goes out.
• • •
The corridor is pitch-black.
I fumble my way alone through the darkness, away from the others, feeling the hard, cool plaster of the walls for support. Outside, the rain is pounding harder than ever. Water slams against the roof and churns through the old pipes. The wind shrieks through the trees, and it sounds eerily like
the wail of a child.
The bare skin on my arms turns into gooseflesh. I’m sharply aware of every hiss through the cracks in the window, every tremble in the floorboards. I swallow, rub my hands together to warm them, but the wind picks up again, louder. The back of my neck prickles.
Stop it, I command myself, cursing Julius for telling that horrible story.
It’s completely made up. He just enjoys scaring people.
I take another careful step forward— And a cold hand wraps around my wrist.
I let out a hoarse shriek. All rational thought abandons me. My fight‑or‑flight instincts kick in, and because there’s nowhere to run, I can only fight. I jerk back, squirm and punch and kick out like a wild, cornered animal. Oh my god, I think hysterically as my fist connects with something hard. I’m about to be murdered by a ghost girl in a cabin in the middle of
nowhere. The school isn’t even going to take responsibility because they made us sign that form—
“Sadie. Stop it—ow, stop—”
It doesn’t sound like a vengeance-seeking ghost girl. The familiar voice registers a beat too late. Julius. My body doesn’t understand even though
my mind does; I’m still thrashing, swinging my fists around. Then the long fingers around my wrist tighten. He grabs my other wrist. Locks both of them together with one hand, pins them to the wall behind me, high above my head.
“Hold. Still.”
I go still, but my heart continues hammering so hard I can hear the blood rushing through my veins. For more reasons than one. Because soon my eyes have adjusted enough to make out Julius’s face, bare inches from mine. He’s breathing hard, the muscles in his arms tensed from holding me in place. One step closer and our lips would touch.
Everything floods through my brain at once. The look on his face when he stood in my doorway. The idea that he’d punched Danny for me. The fact that he heard me state very clearly that I like him so much it feels like a sickness—
Shut up, I tell my brain.
“Why did you have to sneak up on me?” I don’t know why I’m whispering. “I thought you were Scar—” I stop myself, but he’s already heard.
“Scarlett?” His smile is sharp in the darkness, like the gleam of a knife. “I’m flattered you found my storytelling skills so convincing. If you’re afraid, you can tell me.”
“I’m not.” I am. Scared breathless. Terrified. But I can hardly admit that it’s him I’m scared of now. Being alone with him. Being in this position. I try to wriggle free, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“Promise me you won’t hit me again,” he says. “Julius—oh my god, just let me—”
“Promise,” he insists, his voice pressed close to my ear, the heat of his breath fanning my skin. Goose bumps spread over my body.
I manage a nod, and he releases me at once but doesn’t step back. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
My pulse skips. Hope. Foolish, irrational hope takes root inside me. But I wipe my voice clean of it, because there are countless directions this
conversation could go. He could be here to talk to me about the math test next week. About weather patterns. About how pretty Rosie is. About how they’ve run out of buckets. If it’s not what I so desperately want it to be, at
least I can save myself the embarrassment of anticipating anything. “Why?” He huffs out a laugh. “You’re too smart to act this slow. You know why.
We both do.”
“What, are you going to accuse me of pitying you? Of being too nice?” I ask. It’s a challenge. This is what we do, I realize. We talk in circles. We give each other riddles, confounding clues, half answers. Everything and anything but the truth.
“No— No, I’m sorry for that,” he says quickly. Swallows. He’s never sounded so nervous, so unsure of himself, and I find my anger bleeding out of me. “I didn’t mean to say those things. I shouldn’t have assumed . . .
There were only two possible explanations for why you were acting the way you were, and the other seemed too unlikely. And I was—scared.”
“Scared?” The last of my frustration vanishes like smoke in a breeze. It’s almost funny; nobody else infuriates me like he does, but nobody else makes it this difficult to stay mad. “Of what?”
“Losing,” he whispers. I stare.
“You have to understand . . . If you knew the effect you had on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you . . . I wouldn’t stand a chance against you ever again. You would have taken everything from me,” he goes on in a rush, like the words are burning him from within, like he
has to get it out before the pain becomes overwhelming. “Not just a debating championship or some points for a test or a fancy award or a spot in a competition—but my whole heart. My pride. God, my sanity. It would be all over. You would annihilate me.”
I keep staring. I’m afraid to so much as blink, to breathe, afraid it’ll shatter whatever wild fantasy or lucid dream this is. He can’t possibly be saying these things to me. About me.
“I mean, nothing has even really happened between us,” he says hoarsely, “and already it’s hard for me to concentrate whenever you’re around. My brother was right, in a sense, about you being a distraction, except you’re so much more than that. I can’t pretend to care about the
things that once interested me. I can’t fall asleep. I play through every look you’ve ever cast in my direction. I read through your emails over and over until they’re carved into my memory. You did this to me,” he says, and there’s a rough, bitter edge to his voice now, nearly an accusation.
My knees buckle. It’s too much to absorb. I feel myself slide down against the wall, sink onto the floor.
“You had to write those awful emails,” he continues, lowering himself down next to me. Except he’s kneeling, and he’s still too close. I’m convinced he can hear my heart thrumming. “You had to kiss me, then kick me, then fill my head with your voice. You made it clear—so terribly clear
—how much you hate me. That I’m the last person in the world you would ever consider. But I kept looking for signs that would suggest otherwise. I kept wondering if it was still possible. Because I’m willing to lose
everything,” he says, his eyes blacker than the surrounding darkness, than the sky outside, “so long as I don’t lose you.”
I’m stunned.
It can’t be a fantasy—I’m certain of that now. My own imagination couldn’t conjure something like this.
“Of course, if you . . . if you don’t want to,” he says into the silence, sliding his gaze away from me, “I can accept that. I won’t bring it up again. I know I’m not . . . I know what I’m like. That I’m infuriating. And selfish. And cruel. I know I’m not perfect the way my brother is, and I manage to disappoint my parents every time. It’s okay if you don’t choose me, really— I never expected to be the first choice. I wouldn’t blame you—”
“I do choose you.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me at first. He’s still talking, rambling really, the words flowing out like rainwater. “I can’t always say pretty things, and sometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and—
Wait.” He stops. Even his breath freezes in his throat. “What . . . did you just say? Say it again.”
“I choose you,” I say quietly, glad for the shadows concealing my flushed cheeks. For the support of the wall behind me. “You’ll always be my first choice, Julius Gong.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
His eyes widen, and he leans in, lips parted, his fingers trembling like moth wings over my cheeks. It’s clear what he wants, and I almost let him. But I’m not going to make it that easy.
I twist my head away. “I recall you saying you would rather die than kiss me again.”
He lets out a soft, half-stifled groan, and the sound shoots straight through my bloodstream. Makes my pulse quicken. “God, you really know how to hold a grudge.”
“They’re your words, not mine,” I tell him, refusing to sway.
“You’re killing me now,” he murmurs against my neck. His lips graze my skin, and his other hand slides up, tangles in my hair, his nails lightly scraping my scalp. Despite myself, I feel my resolve buckle. “Isn’t that
enough?”
“No.” I try to ignore it. The heat in my veins. The crisp scent of him, peppermint and rain. For once I have all the power, and I’d be a fool to let it go without putting up a good fight—no matter how badly I want him to just kiss me.
“Fine, then.” His breath warms the shell of my ear. Tickles my cheek. “Please.”
I can feel my heart pounding. “What?” “Please, Sadie. I’m begging.”
A triumphant grin splits over my face. “All right. I suppose, in that case
—”
He doesn’t even give me a chance to finish my sentence. His mouth is
on mine in an instant, desperate, urgent. And I cave in. I hate surrendering,
but maybe it’s different when you’re both surrendering to the same thing,
because this doesn’t feel awful. The opposite, actually. My brain is buzzing, but all my thoughts are floating, nonsensical fragments as he deepens the kiss, wraps a hand around my waist, forces me farther back until my spine
is pressed flat to the wall. Thoughts like:
If you told me this would happen a year ago, my head would explode— I swear to god if anybody hears us—
Maybe the emails weren’t such a disaster after all— His lips are so soft—
His hands— Julius— Julius.
“Julius,” I gasp.
I feel him smile against my lips. His voice is raw silk. “Yes?” “N‑nothing. I just—” It’s hard to focus. I squeeze my eyes shut. “It just
doesn’t feel real.”
He shifts back, and the sudden absence almost feels like physical pain— until he kisses the curve of my neck. Murmurs, “I know. Even when I was imagining it—”
“You imagined this?”
He pauses, which feels like unfair punishment. Then he brings his lips firmly up to mine again. “Do you always pay such close attention to everything people say?” he demands between short, uneven breaths.
“No. Only what you say.”
A sharp intake of air. “You have to stop doing that, Sadie.” His hand tightens around my waist. “I won’t survive it.”
I’m not sure how I’ll survive this, this overwhelming jumble of sensation, the want blazing through my body like wildfire, the need for more overriding all impulse control—
He kisses me harder, and I can barely get out my next words. “Wait— Julius, wait—”
With what seems like immense difficulty, he pulls away by just an inch, his eyes black and heavy lidded. He looks nearly intoxicated, delirious. I touch the base of his neck, feel the pulse striking his veins. The way it picks up beneath my fingertips. “What is it?”
“What if we’re bad at this?” I ask in a small voice.
In response, he only moves close to me, wonderfully, terrifyingly close, his mouth traveling over my jaw, and everything is spinning, spinning out of control, my heartbeat racing ahead of me. I almost forget how to speak. How to breathe. “Does this feel bad to you?”
“No, I don’t mean—” I tilt my head back without thinking. “I mean, you and me. We’ve hated each other for ten years, made each other’s lives difficult—how do you know—” I will myself to stay focused as he brushes a thumb over my lower lip. “What if we’re bad at—liking each other? What if we don’t know how to be—civil—or nice—”
“I’m not planning on being particularly nice,” he whispers. “And I don’t expect you to be either.”
“But—”
“It’s us, Sadie,” he says, like that’s answer enough. “When have we been bad at anything?”
He has a point. A very good one. And in either case, I don’t have the strength to argue any further, because he’s kissing me again, and it’s everything. It’s so satisfyingly perfect. It’s as if I’ve been suffocating in
silence for days, months, years, and now I can finally inhale. Nothing has ever made as much sense as his hands on my waist, his heart hammering against my rib cage, the involuntary sound he makes when I adjust my posture, slide my hand farther down his neck to the hollow of his collarbones. He says my name, whispers it like it’s sacred. And just when I’m wondering how we could ever stop this, how I could ever do anything except listen to his sharp intakes of breath, let him kiss me until my head goes fuzzy—
The lights come back on.
I blink, half-blinded, and jerk away from him. It takes a second before my eyes stop watering and my vision clears. An immediate flush races up my neck when I see Julius. His lips are swollen, his black hair rumpled from where I ran my fingers through it.
It feels like that surreal moment in the cinemas, when the credits start rolling and the doors open and the strangers around you rise from their seats, gathering their popcorn buckets and switching on their phones. And part of you is still reeling, still immersed in another world, your heart caught in your throat, struggling to tell which part is real life.
Then I find Julius watching me nervously. Like he’s waiting for me to tell him. To take it all back, now that the cover of darkness is gone and I can see him clearly for the first time.
My heart throbs.
I want him to know he looks more beautiful than ever in the light, up close. I want to kiss him again, until all his doubts dissipate to nothing. I want to take away everything that’s ever hurt him. But for now, I simply
smile at him. Hold out my hand. “Come on. Let’s see how bad the damage is.”
