I was mystified by this one silly fact. Everyone would see my secret, yes, but I would see everyone else’s.

I wrote my secret. Sam and Melissa watched as I did. And then it was Melissa’s turn. When she was done, she passed the book on and said, “You saw that, huh?”

I nodded.

“I guess it’s not a secret anymore,” she said.

“It is,” I told her. “It’s a secret I’ll keep forever.”

It takes me almost a week to pull off my plan. The key was to only make a handful of copies every time I was in the front office. The green copy paper is the kind of thing my mom would notice if suddenly a big chunk of it went missing. But it has to be green. I thought about maybe skimming a little off the top of every color in the copy room, but the green paper is something I feel adamant about.

Millie has noticed I’ve been up to something, too. Yesterday at work, she got a peek at the thick stack of green paper in my backpack.

“Oooo!” she said. “Is that a craft project I smell?”

I shook my head. “Are your crafty spidey senses tingling?”

She pursed her lips and pretended to be suspicious, shaking her pointer finger at me. “You can’t hide a crafting habit from me. If you’re a secret crafter, mark my words, Callie Reyes, I’ll find out!”

I laughed. “Trust me,” I said. “None of my secrets have a damn thing to do with crafting.”

Millie

Twenty-One

I have a deep, abiding love for routines. Or maybe routine isn’t the right word? Plans! I love plans. I love opening my day planner and knowing just what to expect. Which is why I am delighted to be sitting at the front desk of the gym, doodling in the square for next Saturday.

Slumber Party Numero Three @ Amanda’s ☺

Callie plops down on the stool beside me after putting some towels in the dryer. “That is one intense calendar,” she says.

“Slumber party at Amanda’s,” I tell her. “Next Saturday! You have to go.”

She groans and lays her head down on the glass.

I lay my head down, too, so we’re at eye level. “Is that a yes?”

“That’s a I’m-a-moody-flake-and-will-let-you-know-at-the-last-minute.”

I pick up my head. “I’ll take that as a probably.”

Callie groans again.

“Is everything okay?” I ask. Callie is a generally fussy person. But today it feels like there’s just something weighing on her.

She props her chin up on her knuckles. “What does that even mean?” She doesn’t say it in a rude way, though. “I shouldn’t complain about this to you.”

“Sure you should,” I say. “Try me.”

She pulls her phone from her back pocket and silently looks something up before holding it out for me to see.

“Girls in bikinis washing cars?” I ask.

“It’s not just that,” she says, and scrolls to another photo.

A few pretty girls sit behind a fold-out table with a bake-sale sign taped to the front. “A bake sale in the school courtyard?”

She shoves her phone back in her pocket. “The state dance competition is next week. And as of last night, they raised enough to cover the deficit from the gym’s sponsorship. And . . .”

“You’re not going,” I finish for her. I can’t help but think it’s partly my doing.

She lays her head down on the glass counter again and shrugs. “I’m gonna have to clean this thing for the billionth time. Might as well get my face print on it.”

I laugh. “You remind me so much of Inga.”

“What? No! Don’t say that.”

“She is my aunt, you know.”

Callie sits up. “That doesn’t mean the woman isn’t totally bananas.”

“I’m sorry you’re gonna miss the dance competition,” I say.

“Normally I would say they don’t stand a chance without me. Usually that’d make me feel better even if it weren’t true. But . . .” She shakes her head. “I know they’ll be just fine, and that somehow sucks even harder.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” I tell her.

“It’s not just that,” she says before lowering her voice a few octaves. “I didn’t act alone. You know what I mean?”

I nod.

“The whole team is going way far out of their way to make sure it looks like that, though. I mean, I heard two sophomores say they heard I was high on pain pills or something and that’s why I did it.”

“Pills?” She doesn’t respond. “Why did you do it?”

Her gaze drifts like she’s looking past me. Through me. “It was stupid. I thought it was stupid to begin with. But we were so pissed. It was supposed to be a harmless prank with toilet paper and eggs, but . . . anyway, it’s done.”

“I’m sorry about that.” I know her punishment is earned, but I still hate to see her miss out on something she worked so hard for.

She shrugs. “Not your fault,” she says. “Right?”

I can feel my face getting red as I remember the exact moment I identified her to Sheriff Bell. That gosh-darn C necklace. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Then Mitch comes out from the locker rooms and I slink back a little so that maybe he and Callie will talk. It might brighten her day. Who knows? I remember he and Will sort of had something going on for a little while, and of course I’m happy to see her with Bo. But there’s just something about Mitch that makes me want to see him get a happily ever after, too. And what if Mitch’s happily ever after just so happens to be Callie?

“Where are you going?” whispers Callie.

I can hear the nerves in her voice and it almost makes me squeal. Oh my goodness! They’d just be the cutest.

“I’ll be right back,” I call in a singsong voice.

She turns and nearly spits at me. “You literally have nowhere else to be right now.”

I hold up my hand and wave with my fingers as I slip into the office. I watch through the blinds on the door as she hands Mitch back his membership card. The two of them maybe exchange all of three words before he leaves, and that’s it. The perfect moment I delivered to her on a silver platter is wasted.

She storms back to the office, and I swing the door open to meet her.

“What the hell was that about?” she asks.

“I thought I’d give you two a moment,” I say.

“A moment for what?”

“To, ya know, connect.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just because that slumber party wasn’t a total shit show doesn’t give you license to meddle in every crevice of my life, okay? And Mitch? Totally not my type.”

Not her type. I know exactly what that means. But I still want to hear her say it out loud. “Not your type?” I ask. “And what exactly is your type?”

Her lips spread into a thin, tight line. “Not Mitch.”

“Okay,” I say, choosing to let it go.

We finish up our closing duties in silence, and as I’m locking the door behind us, her phone pings. Callie checks her phone and groans. Again.

She mumbles something that I can’t quite make out.

“What was that?” I ask.

“My mom is wondering if you can give me a ride home.”

I grin. “I’d be happy to.”

Once we’re in the minivan, I turn on the ignition, buckle my seat belt, and check my mirrors. I look to Callie.

“What?” she asks.

“Seat belts save lives,” I say.

She sighs loudly and reaches across her shoulder to click her seat belt.

“Let’s motor!” I check both ways before pulling out onto the road.

She gasps. “Wait!”

I slam on the brakes and look both ways feverishly. “Was it a cat?” I swear, I live in fear of the day I accidentally hit an animal with my van.

“No, no,” she says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just realized I forgot some stuff at school. Could you swing me by there for a few minutes?”

I glance at the clock on the dash. “Sure thing,” I say.