Page 1 of Catching Feelings

1. SABRINA

Countdown to the start of school: ten days.

Days since I’ve been back from South Carolina: one.

Weeks to the biggest pep rally I’ve ever organized: three.

Months to homecoming, the most important event of the fall: less than two.

Number of fires to put out before then: approximately seventy billion.

“I want these T-shirts to be, like, collector’s items.” I frown at the list in my Notes app, chewing on the end of my straw while the gossipy chatter of the Lakeside Diner roars around me. “I’m thinking bedazzled. Ooh, what if they light up? Can we hide a battery pack in the neck somewhere? Make them flash in coordinated patterns, like at a concert?”

Kara Garcia looks at me with concern over her plate of cooling onion rings. “Sabrina, you know I love your big ideas,” she says. “But there is this thing called a budget.”

“And you still need to pay me my commission,” Harper Braedon chimes in. “Those bracelets won’t make themselves.”

I flutter my hand dismissively. “Of course we’ll pay you. We compensate artists for their work around here.”

Harper and Kara exchange a look. “There won’t be a budget to pay her from if we’re turning T-shirts into light sticks,” Kara says.

“Introducing you two was a mistake,” I grumble. But even their typical reminders of practicality can’t erase the smile stamped on my face. Harper has fit more seamlessly into the Spirit Committee group than I ever expected, given her gripes about school spirit in the past. She and Kara even listen to the same podcasts.

At the other end of the booth, Naomi Jones and Priya Ahmed are sharing a BLT. Priya’s a vegetarian, so she’s always more than happy to give Naomi the bacon off her half of the sandwich. The two of them couldn’t be more different or more inseparable—Naomi’s blond hair is sun bleached and she wears a blue gingham dress, while Priya’s in practical cargo pants, her thick, dark hair in a braid. Even though Priya could monologue for hours about the manipulative nature of social media apps, she’s obediently peering over Naomi’s shoulder while she scrolls through videos of other schools’ pep rallies for inspiration.

“We don’t need a lot of money to put together a more creative routine than Washington.” Naomi never takes her eyes from her phone. “Totally stale. If we can’t beat them on budget, we’ll win when it comes to originality.”

“Good. Because it has to be perfect,” I say. “This is—”

“Senior year,” they chorus. But they don’t have the requisite amount of joy in their tone—in fact, one might call it something closer to exhaustion.

Times I’ve reminded them it’s our senior year in this meeting so far: Four? Five?

“Sorry,” I say. “I just want this year to be the best yet. It’s our last chance to celebrate this place together, you know? Before everyone goes who-knows-where next year.”

Kara’s gaze softens. We’ve been friends since middle school, and she’s always been willing to navigate if I’ll drive; I made sure her boyfriend, Will, knew how to waltz for her quince, and for my sweet sixteen, she convinced him and the entire football team to sing “Happy Birthday” in three-part harmony during a school assembly; she taught me how to get my eyeliner wings even and I taught her about color theory; she’s been dreaming of going to California for college for four years, and I’ve been hoping she won’t actually leave me for three years and three hundred and sixty-four days.

And she knows exactly how much I’m keeping bottled inside this year, since she had to step in to cover for me when I fell apart last spring.

I’ve lived in two equally lonely worlds since then. My mom’s house, quiet when I get home from school until I go to bed, notes left on the kitchen table in the middle of the night. My dad’s summer place in South Carolina, small and weatherworn but steps from the beach, which made it easy to lie in the sun all day, letting its rays bake my skin and bleach all the urgency from my thoughts. It’s not like Dad knew how to talk to me after the divorce—and I needed the break from walking on eggshells, forcing a smile and always saying just the right thing to keep tensions from flaring again.

And now I’m back: gliding down the sidewalks of Hamilton Lakes, to-do list in hand, smiling for everyone. Even if it’s sometimes a lot of effort… at least with my friends, I’m not lonely.

“This year will be perfect.” Kara bumps my shoulder gently with hers. “What else do you have planned?”

I recognize a life preserver when it’s thrown, and I don’t need a second invitation to grab on. “Well, of course we have to fundraise for homecoming. I want to do another Spirit Committee flash mob at lunch in September—maybe a few, if more of the dance team is willing to choreograph? And I’ve been dreaming up a program for new students. We can show them around on the first day of school, point out the shortcuts to the science wing, give tips about teachers—that sort of thing.”

I lean down to slurp triumphantly on my strawberry milkshake, but the straw only gurgles its death rattle against the bottom of my empty glass.

Priya pounds her fist on the table. “Hear, hear! Let’s get this girl another milkshake. Gotta keep her strength up.”

I laugh, and Harper’s already sliding out of the booth with a grin, heading for the kitchen. It pays to have someone on the inside at the Lakeside, and ever since Harper and I connected last winter, she’s been an unfailingly loyal addition to the group.

For a moment, I feel lighter. This year will be great, full of memories with my friends and bonding for our school and plenty to keep me busy and distracted. It will be normal, but normal-plus. Normal with glitter.

Then my phone dings, and my stomach drops. I’m starting to have a Pavlovian reaction to that tone—and not a good one.

There could be a lot of people texting me, but lately it’s been one particular person. His name is turning into my least favorite four-letter word.