Chapter 9: [Noah – Friday, September 7th | Crestwood High | 8:42 a.m.]
The main office still smelled like printer toner and anxiety.
Noah Harding leaned against the wall outside Principal Guerra's door, scrolling through the shared Fall Festival planning doc on his phone. Isabelle Chen's fingerprints were everywhere — color-coded headers, neatly stacked bullet points, hyperlinks to vendor quotes, and a bright red label titled:
Pending Harding Input.
He wasn't sure if that was passive-aggressive or just aggressively efficient.
They'd messaged a few times the night before — cordial, professional, even weirdly… easy. They'd reached a tentative working rhythm. She'd handle logistics and scheduling. He'd handle outreach and events. Divide and conquer. Minimal bloodshed. Reasonable.
Still, something about their dynamic lingered.
He caught himself rereading one of her messages, smirking at the way she'd worded "please confirm you're not planning to blow the entire budget on lighting effects."
It wasn't just the work. He liked talking to her. That was new.
"Harding?" said Mrs. Lemont, peeking her head out from the office door. "Principal Guerra's ready for you."
Noah straightened, pocketed his phone, and stepped inside.
Principal Guerra's office was a curious mix of intimidating and oddly personal. One wall was lined with framed student photos and club banners — Model UN, Robotics, Soccer. The opposite wall was bare except for a large dry-erase calendar, meticulously filled in color-coded markers. His desk, a heavy mahogany slab, had two neat stacks of paperwork and a ceramic mug that read: "Dad Mode: Activated."
Guerra himself looked like he belonged more on a basketball court than behind a desk. Broad-shouldered, early forties, sleeves rolled to the elbow, buzzed haircut just starting to gray at the sides. Noah had always thought he looked more like a military strategist than a school administrator firm handshake, sharp eyes, never raised his voice unless he meant it.
Principal Guerra sat behind his desk with the air of someone who managed disasters before his first cup of coffee. "Sit. This won't take long."
Ten minutes later, Noah had the full rundown: the Fall Festival would take place during school hours on Friday, October 12th. Over forty booths. Student-run, parent-attended, fully sanctioned. Insurance waivers signed. Admin on board. Even the fire marshal had given a wary thumbs-up.
"Your job," Guerra said, "is to make sure no one sets anything on fire. Literally or metaphorically. I expect weekly status reports starting Monday."
"Yes, sir."
"And try not to turn the committee into a battleground between you and Chen."
Noah blinked. "We're... fine."
Guerra arched an eyebrow. "Sure you are."
On the way out, Noah almost collided with a lanky junior in a robotics hoodie.
"Oh! Sorry," the kid said, glasses slipping down his nose. "I'm here to talk about the tech booth for the festival? I emailed, like, six times."
"You're Jayden, right? Robotics Club captain?"
"Yeah! I've got blueprints for a laser maze and a VR obstacle course."
Noah stared. "That sounds awesome. And like a lawsuit waiting to happen."
Jayden grinned. "So... that's a maybe?"
"Meet me Monday after school. We'll figure it out."
…
[Isabelle – 11:36 p.m. | Crestwood Cafeteria]
The window table was warm in the sun. Isabelle Chen liked the way the light made the edges of her planner glow. Everything about this part of her day was controlled, centered.
Across from her, Mei stabbed a carrot into her hummus like it had insulted her GPA.
"So," Mei said, crunching, "have you heard the latest rumor?"
"I hear many. Most of them are idiotic."
"This one's good. Apparently, someone's trying to get a student band to headline the festival concert."
Isabelle didn't look up. "Who's 'someone'?"
"Emma Reyes. Maybe Zay Malik. Possibly your co-chair with the mysteriously well-coiffed hair."
Isabelle's eyes flicked up. "Noah?"
"Allegedly."
She shut her planner with precision. "If they want live music, it needs power routing, a noise variance check, crowd control logistics, and probably a backup generator."
"They're pitching it Monday."
"Then I expect a real proposal, not teenage chaos disguised as creativity."
Mei sipped her drink. "You're really fun at parties."
"I don't go to parties."
"Exactly."
Across the cafeteria, Isabelle spotted a girl sketching in a tattered notebook close-cropped hair, silver rings, and two piercings in one eyebrow.
Morgan Smith. Art Club. Junior. If the rumors were true, she had an eye for layout and detail that could redesign the festival map better than any committee adult.
Isabelle made a mental note to find her Monday.
Her phone buzzed.
Noah Harding:
• principal gave the green light. Full day. Booths + performances approved.
Also, we're apparently not allowed to cause any fires.
She didn't smile. Not outwardly. But she did type back.
• Noted. You're in charge of fire prevention, then. I'll handle everything else.
A pause.
• Don't forget the committee pitches start Monday. They'll expect answers.
His reply came quickly.
• Bring your spreadsheets. I'll bring snacks.
…
[Noah – 2:04 p.m. | Crestwood Gymnasium Hallway]
"Are you sure you want the dunk tank?" Noah asked, ducking as a stray volleyball ricocheted off a backboard.
Sasha Bell, sophomore cheer co-captain and one-woman hype machine, was already halfway through describing her dream booth lineup. "Absolutely. No dunk tank, no festival. Simple math."
"We're trying to avoid water-related lawsuits this year," Noah said carefully.
Sasha rolled her eyes. "Ugh. You're so Chen right now."
"I'm trying to live to see graduation."
Sasha flipped her curls over one shoulder. "Fine. But we still want a dance-off. And if you let us host it, I'll make sure the senior class promo gets record participation."
He made a note. "You're presenting
Monday?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
…..
[Isabelle – 3:01 p.m. | Home | Bedroom Window Open]
Late afternoon sunlight spilled across her desk. Isabelle sat cross-legged on her bed, journal open, pen hovering.
The Fall Festival binder lay beside her, bursting with color-coded maps, booth requests, and backup schedules.
The structure calmed her.
But underneath it all… there was a quiet hum. A sense of something else building beneath the spreadsheets. A shape forming in the silence.
She and Noah had always been rivals. Always pushing. Always outpacing.
But when they worked together. When they chose to work together, it clicked. Like two gears finally locking into place.
She hated how right it felt.
She loved how right it felt.
She turned to a clean journal page. Wrote a single line:
It's easier to plan an event than predict a person.
Then she folded the notebook shut.
The countdown had begun.
And for once, she wasn't entirely dreading it.