After a certain point, I need a break from the costume designs and a moment to disconnect from Conner. Something in me has turned in a strange, sick way. I’m having a hard time grasping what I’m feeling.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Conner says, quietly.

I head out of the room and toward the bathroom. My heart is beating in a new way—strained, irregular. It shouldn’t feel like this.

I turn the corner of the hallway and almost run straight into Angelica.

“I knew it,” she says. 

“What?” I say, sirens blaring in my brain. “Knew what?”

“You and Conner are friends,” she says. “He’s always so dodgy about you at lunch. But he’s up there, isn’t he? I saw you lead him through the hall an hour ago. I could recognize the shape of that mummy anywhere.”

Oh god. What is she here to do?

“I think you’re confused about our relationship—”

“Whatever, it’s not important,” she says. “Conner obviously has questionable-to-terrible taste, based on the fact that he even has the time of day to say hi to a theater kid like you, but there are other qualities of his that I find...interesting. So I want you to do something for me.”

“You really sold your pitch. What do you want?”

She flashes a huge smile, then pulls her hair forward.

“Don’t you think Conner and I would be perfect together?” she says, curling her hair with her fingers.

#

The next week, the only thing I can think about is Angelica’s request. My stomach is in all kinds of knots—impossible ones to unravel without cutting them with scissors.

Now, I’m juggling two secret meetings. Every morning, Angelica corners me outside and asks if I’ve talked to Conner yet.

“Just mention how cool I am,” she says, “and pretty, and how you think we’d kinda be the perfect match. Because, I mean, it’s true. I’m trying to hint at things when we’re together, but he’s always so focused on other things. I know he’s new in town, but I don’t hold that against him. He’s lucky that someone as popular as me is giving him the time of day.”

“I’m going to talk to him,” I always say. “I promise. I’m waiting for the right opportunity.”

“Well, figure it out!”

Every hour, my mind goes somewhere different. Of course I’m not going to tell Conner—Angelica is a bitch! Conner may be derailing my life, but he doesn’t deserve that. 

But I should tell Conner…he deserves to know that she has her eyes on him. He probably won’t be interested and move on.

But what if he is interested? I can’t tell him. He’ll fall in love and realize that this whole guy phase was just that, a stupid phase, and leave me in the dust.

But what kind of person am I if I don’t tell him?

So I stall. I stall and stall. The idea of Angelica pursuing Conner makes my body hurt in a way I didn’t realize it could.

It’s even worse, because I can’t focus on this shit. My application for the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York is due at the end of the week, and I need my piece to be in perfect shape. There is still so much work to be done—I’m not happy with the combination of materials and need something unpretentious and industrial to pull it all together. That’s where my mind needs to be—not stressing about some still-imaginary love triangle between me, Conner, and fucking Angelica.

God. I did not expect senior year to be so complicated. 

“Why do you always arrive in this hall so tense?” Colleen asks. She, Bridget, and Felix seem to have noticed something is up.

“No reason,” I say. “It’s just this application.”

The beginning of November here in town is always brittle, dry, and cold. On Thursday—the day before my application is due—an expanse of clouds moves over us, charging the air with a wicked, icy, almost-electrical snap. When I get off the bus after school, a few snowflakes land on the hairs of my arm. I look up to the sky, blink away a few more flakes, and wonder how hard we’re about to be hit.

My mom isn’t home when I get there. The house is filled with that grey, wintery light. Everything feels a little murky. All the shadows seem to fall in the slightly wrong place.

I try to shake off this moody feeling and head to the sewing room. When I pull out my full outfit, I almost despair. It looks so ugly and pedestrian—worthless rags. I take a deep breath and try to rediscover the joy I had in the beginning. That spark seems to be dead, or maybe hibernating for the winter.

A pity party won’t save me. I move aside all my misgivings and get to work. I get some more materials and start on the right pant leg, which is still unfinished.

I don’t notice that an hour has passed until the front door opens then slams shut. My mom comes racing into the room, her coat wet, her hair full of snowflakes.

“You okay, Mom?” I say, noticing her concerned look.

“The news announced a winter storm warning,” she says, breathless. “It looks like it’s going to be bad. It’s already snowing like crazy out there. Look at the sky.”

I pull back the sheer curtain covering the window, and see how dark it is out. Snow is coming down in huge thickets.

“I was helping Ben after school when I saw the warning,” she says. “All we had time to do was grab Conner and drive here. We’re closer than their house, and the roads are already horrible.”

“Ben and Conner are here?” I say. That last thing I need for the night.

“Downstairs,” my mom stays. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them to stay out of your hair. It’s not safe for them to head out in these conditions.”

“Seriously?” I say. “God. Okay, okay. I just can’t get distracted.”

My mom gives me a quick kiss on the head, then leaves. I look out the window again, noting with worry the huge drifts of snow. It’s blowing sideways now, with a building wind rattling the glass of the window. I shudder and go back to work.

But when I sit down, I notice something is wrong.

I look at the plaid fabric I have and see that it’s not enough to finish the leg. I go to the drawers, my heart gradually beating faster and faster, and search for more of the fabric. There’s the pink tulle, there’s the burlap, the lines—but where’s the plaid?

I’m growing more and more panicked. Outside, the sounds of the winter storm are seeping, ferocious and all-consuming. I don’t know what to do. I pull open drawers, slam them shut, turn the whole room upside-down looking for the right fabric. But it’s nowhere.

Then I remember: I was supposed to get more material two days ago. After working on costume designs, I was going to swing by the fabric store. Conner and his stupid charm completely side-tracked me.

I stumble back and try to breathe normally. It’s no use. I’m hyper-hyper-ventilating. I can feel tears forming. I am so close to losing it. How am I supposed to finish this outfit?

The door opens, and it’s Conner.

“Hey,” he says. “I heard slamming sounds. I know I’m not supposed to distract you, but…”

“I can’t finish it,” I blurt out. “I don’t have enough materials. I can’t--”

“Whoa, whoa, calm down. It’s okay. You can get your fabric tomorrow, or whenever this storm dies down, right?”

“No!” I say. “I can’t. This is for fashion school. The application is due tomorrow.”

“Oh my god,” Conner says. “But that’s your dream.”

I feel myself on the verge of a breakdown. I grab at the side of my head, pulling at the ends of my hair. Everything is spinning.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say.

Conner looks at me, wide-eyed. Filled with worry.

“It’s your dream,” he says. “You have to finish it.” He touches my shoulder gently, turning me toward him. “Lucky for you, my Jeep is all-terrain.”