Chapter 1
Norah
It was my mother who pointed it out.
We were in line for a roller coaster, spring break of tenth grade, and Gabe had been driving me absolutely crazy for the past few days. We only hung out because our parents are friends. Which was fine, we were actually friends, but only spent time together when we were forced to. Or we did, until we kind of started spending time together on our own, with Ben, who was currently eating a giant, faced-sized donut.
It was during an episode that involved that donut and me barging off to hang with my mom, who I really just wanted to complain to about how stupid and immature and offensive Gabe was for the millionth time, when she said, “You know he’s basically your best friend, right?”
Mind. Blown.
Of course, because I was fifteen and refused to give my mother credit for anything, I denied it. But at the same time what she said struck a chord, because in his own stupid way, I was well aware that Gabe Foster was my best friend. And along with Ben Rowan, that made our circle complete.
Except even then, I had a secret.
I had a crush—a super, duper, insanely inappropriate, never-gonna-happen-crush—on Gabe Foster.
My best friend.
* * *
“The shop closes in five minutes,” I say, not looking up from the computer. There’s always that one last customer that tries to sneak in right before closing. I know I should be more gracious, I mean, in theory they’re here to spend money but, it’s a book store—a comic book store—it’s all about browsing. There’s not enough time to browse in five minutes.
A figure hovers in front of the counter and I glance up from the website I’m updating. It’s a woman. Stylish hair. Fancy accent necklace. Not our standard customer. She gives me a tight smile.
“Hi. I know you’re about to close, but I’m desperately looking for issue number one of the Photobooth Society. I think it’s by a guy named…uh, Gabe Roster? Foster? Signed, preferably. I heard you may have one in stock.”
“You want a signed copy of the hottest-selling graphic novel right now? That’s a tall order.”
“I know. My son’s birthday is tomorrow, and he tells me tonight over dinner that this is the only present he wants.” She sighs in defeat. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
On closer inspection, past the hair and makeup, her eyes are kind—a little desperate. There’s a stain on her expensive blouse. She looks like the kind of woman that needs a win today. Lucky for her, I have contacts.
“Let me go check the back. I may be able to find something.”
“Really?” Her face relaxes. “Thank you.”
I walk through the divider separating the counter from the rest of the shop, past the dozens of bins holding single-issue comics and the shelves with the larger graphic bundles. I pull a copy off the shelf and round the corner to the little sitting area filled with comfortable couches and chairs. The coffee table is piled with books, a pizza box, and a mega-sized soda. A body lounges on the red couch; knees bent, one arm angled behind a pillow, propping up a stocking cap-covered head, pencil in hand.
Green eyes peek over the sketchbook in his lap. “I wondered how long you were going to torture that woman.”
“Just long enough to make her realize how special this gift really is.”
I hand him the book and a black pen from my pocket. He takes them from me and scribbles his name, adding a little symbol next to it.
“Be nice,” he says, handing it back.
“I’m always nice,” I say, but we both know that isn’t exactly true. I am nice in public, to adults and customers. My real friends know the truth. I’m snarky, impatient, and complain constantly.
I don’t hesitate, because if I give him the chance, he’ll go talk to this woman, keep me from closing the shop and probably end up going to this kid’s birthday party, because Gabe’s mother instilled all these polite southern values in him because she was raised in Georgia.
“You’re in luck,” I say, walking back to the front of the store. “I found a copy—signed.”
She breaks into a smile. “You’re a lifesaver! He’s going to be thrilled.”
I ring her up and slide the book into a Bazinga! Comic Shop bag and usher her to the door. I lock it behind her, pull the shade, and turn off the lights.
I’m cashing out the register when Gabe emerges from the back, bag slung over his shoulder.
“One day all your fans are going to realize you’re hiding out back there all night.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t have fans.”
“Sure, you don’t.” I close my lap top and slide it into my bag. “I’ll finish the website updates before school tomorrow.”
“First day of our senior year,” he says, tugging at his cap. Underneath is a mop of brown curly hair that he refuses to cut despite repeated pleas from his mother. “You ready?”
“For the SATs, non-stop studying, cliques, and crappy, short lunches?”
“What about the good stuff?”
“What good stuff?” I grab the keys to lock up.
“You know, all the senior stuff we’ve been looking forward to. The back-to-school bonfire, the fall festival, talent night and all that stuff.” He takes the keys from me and pulls the door tight, twisting the lock.
“I wasn’t aware we were looking forward to those things.”
“It’s our last year. We’ve got to make the most of everything.”
“Why are you always so enthusiastic?”
He tosses his arm around my shoulder. “Why are you so pessimistic?”
We walk to my car, a beat-up, baby blue Volvo that’d seen its best days in the 1970s, before my dad bought it used. The back is covered in stickers, mostly from places we’ve traveled or bands we like. I get in the driver’s side, tossing my bag in the back, trying not to think about everything Gabe had just said.
He’s right. It’s our last year together and it’s not just that we’re graduating. Gabe’s future is incredibly bright, while mine looks destined to the same five square miles I’ve lived my whole life.
I’m not ready for the first day of school because it’s one day closer to me losing my best friend.
“You really want to do all that stuff this year? The dances and parties and school-spirit things?”
His eyes soften. “Yeah, I do—but only if you’re doing them with me.”
I grimace. “Fine. But I’m only doing this for you, got it?”
The smile spreading across his face is worth the sacrifice. I shake my head and crank the engine.
The things I do for this boy.
* * *
The next day of school proves my point that Gabe Foster does have fans. Most of them girls. It’d been like this since the summer after tenth grade.
The summer Gabe transformed from skinny nerd to hot, hipstery artist.
You know that scene in every teen movie where the nerdy guy or girl sheds their former image and morphs into a different person? Yeah, that’s what happened to Gabe.
It was a major adjustment since Gabe and Ben had always been pretty geeky. Our families did a lot of things together, dinners and traveling, which meant we hung out in the basement and I was dragged through all their obsessions; Dr. Who, horror movies, war movies, and, of course, video games. Through it all, it was pretty clear that Gabe’s artistic talents weren’t just a passing phase and there was no doubt he would apply to Ocean Grove School of the Arts in eighth grade. I had no real talent but applied anyway under a dual major of creative writing and media. The day the two of us got in was like a dream come true. Ben had zero artistic ability but it was okay, he went to the “normal” part of the school. Which meant we still got to see him—just not in our core classes.
Back then, things were strange. I hadn’t had my epiphany yet. The three of us were still in the place where we felt like we had to be friends. Suddenly, in the ninth grade, Ben decided that we weren’t cool enough to hang out with him. Which was ironic because Ben is, to put it lightly, a spaz.
Gabe and I took it in stride, and I think that’s where our shift into being friends kind of came into play. With Ben out of the picture and refusing to hang out with us, family events ended up being just me, Gabe, and our younger siblings. I think that’s also when my crush really started to develop.
That’s how it was until that fateful spring break trip, when I realized Gabe was my best friend. Four months later, I got a glimpse of him down at the beach in his swim trunks and it was like being hit by a slow-moving truck. Gabe, although nerdy, had always been a strong swimmer and surfer. He and his dad went out a couple times a week. At some point, his body shifted from wiry kid to muscular teen.
I wasn’t the only one that noticed, either. I had to watch him and his first real girlfriend, Casey, have a PDA-filled summer fling.
The funny thing was, I knew better than to admit to my crush, because if I did, I knew good and well things would change forever. And not just between me and Gabe, but with how our families treated us. The freedom we had to be alone. We’d had always been allowed to hang out together unsupervised, watching movies in the basement or walk down to the beach, or the Creamery for a treat. I knew that if we ever dated or showed any interest in one another, our mothers would shut that down quick.
Oh, and then there was Ben to worry about. He’d finally started coming around again and there’s no way he wouldn’t be devastated.
“Dude,” Ben says, walking up to us, “did you see Monica? She went from like a B to a D over the summer.”
Gabe’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Ben replies.
“Don’t be disgusting,” I say, holding back my annoyance. This is the bad part about having two guys as your closest friends. Having to listen to them talk about girls.
“I’m not being disgusting, Nor,” Ben replies, squeezing between me and Gabe. “I saw her down at the beach the other day and I couldn’t help but notice the difference.”
“You can notice things without saying them out loud,” I reply. “That is an option, you know.”
“Please, like you didn’t notice Jeffrey Melton developed a six-pack over the summer.”
I narrow my eyes. “He walks around with his shirt off all the time. How am I supposed to not notice? And,” I say, putting my hands on my hips, “my commenting wasn’t a compliment. I said it seemed desperate. If you really want to sit here and objectify all the girls in the school, then you need to do it elsewhere.”
They both stop walking, stare at me for a moment, and then turn and go the other direction.
“Real mature,” I shout, watching their heads tilt together as they discuss every girl they pass.
It’s not like I want them to talk about me that way, but honestly, it hurts a little that don’t even seem to notice that I’m a girl, too.
Chapter 2
Gabe
Even as a senior, there’s still that moment of insecurity walking into the cafeteria alone. I scan the room, avoiding making eye contact with a few girls I know. Especially Casey. Yikes. That was a bad move.
I mean, in general most of the girls are nice enough and their attention is flattering, but they’re not exactly who I want to hang out with during my free time. Luckily, I spot the back of Norah’s head across the room at the vending machine. She’s in some kind of struggle, stabbing the buttons and then kicking the bottom of the machine. I weave through the tables and tray-carrying students.
“Fighting with inanimate objects again?”
She scowls. “You know this machine is evil. It’s always trying to take my money.”
“Then why do you always put your money in there? You could always bring something from home.”
She shoots me a glare. “You know why.”
I do. She’s a candy-a-holic and her mother maintains a strict no-sweets kind of house.
I hold out my hand. “Let me see your dollar.”
She hands over the crinkled bill and I smooth it out on the side of the machine. “Maybe if you didn’t smush your money in your pocket, this wouldn’t happen.”
“Maybe if the machine wasn’t twenty-five years old and took debit cards, I wouldn’t have to scrounge around for actual cash.” She watches as I slide the weathered bill in the slot. It takes a moment but the machine accepts the money, giving her the green light to pick her snack.
“Yessss!” She jabs the numbers to get her a candy bar. Norah is a complete candy junkie—like, if there’s candy anywhere nearby, she’ll sniff it out. We watch as the bar falls to the holding area and I reach down and fish it out for her. She eyes it like a salivating dog.
“Tell me you brought more than this for lunch.”
She wrinkles her nose. I sigh, but it’s false. She knows my mom will pack extra and I will give her at least half my sandwich.
“Come on,” she says, linking her arm with mine. “It’s nice. Let’s go sit outside.”
On the patio, in the fresh air, I get hit with a waft of Norah’s shampoo. It smells good. Just like her arm feels good next to mine.
“Sometimes it stinks that we go to the school of the arts and there’s no table dancing like in Fame,” she declares.
“You would freak out if people started dancing on the tables.”
“No,” she says, leaning into me, giving me another blast of shampoo, “I would record it and put it on ChattySnap making it go viral—then I’d push all those new followers to your website.”
I look down at her and smile. She’s really good at this social media stuff—I never would have gotten the attention of Blue Star Comics if she hadn’t built up my profile. “Always scheming, aren’t you?”
She shrugs and glances across the quad. “There’s Delaney and Tyler.” Ben doesn’t have our same lunch. She extracts herself from me and slides next to Tyler on the picnic table bench.
“Hey,” Tyler says, looking at the two of us. I sit next to Delaney and drop my lunch bag on the table. “How’s the first day going?”
“I got Mrs. Hull for Spanish four,” Norah says, slowly opening her candy bar wrapper. There’s a process. “You know she hates me.”
The table nods. Mrs. Hull isn’t a fan of Norah’s. Mostly due to an unfortunate event on International Night where Norah gave half the school food poisoning.
“I have some good news,” Delaney says, peeling apart her string cheese. “They’ve announced that we’re doing Addams Family for the play this year. I’m definitely trying out for Morticia.”
Tyler reaches across the table and tugs at her long braids. “You’d make a better Wednesday.”
I split my lunch in two, sliding half across the table. She gives me a small smile of thanks and picks up her phone, scrolling through her accounts.
Norah is a genius when it comes to social media. She just has a natural instinct for understanding what people want to see, sharing content, and building an audience. She’s the reason my graphic novel is so successful. The whole time I was creating it, she was developing this little community—sharing videos and special content. Creating a brand for the Photobooth Society. That caught the attention of Blue Star Comics and they gave me three-book publishing deal. It never would have happened without her.
There is one drawback, I think, looking across the table. She has a hard time turning it off. She’s always checking accounts, sharing, liking, tweeting, chatting. I get it. I feel like I’m one foot inside my created world also, but sometimes it would be nice if it was just the two of us and not us and a million followers.
“Guys…”
I look up. Norah is staring at her phone, jaw dropped, eyes bulging.
“What?” Delaney asks. Tyler raises his eyebrows.
Her hands start to shake. She turns the phone around and shoves it in my face. It’s the sneak peek we’d shared a few days before. A clue to the plot of the next book. In a low voice she says, “Look at the account.”
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