The morning sun was a little too smug for someone who didn't sleep much.
Noah Harding adjusted the strap of his backpack and shoved a hand through his hair, blinking as the rays bounced off the dew-slick sidewalk. The second day of senior year had none of Monday's novelty and none of Friday's promise. Just that weird middle ground where everything still felt like a prologue.
He and Zay walked the usual route down Crestwood Boulevard, past the corner deli, past the dog park where someone's golden retriever always barked like it was announcing royalty. The sidewalk crackled beneath their sneakers, and Zay looked about three seconds away from falling asleep mid-step.
"Swear to God, if you yawn one more time, I'm leaving you behind," Noah muttered.
Zay Malik, hoodie half-zipped and coffee clutched like a lifeline, ignored him with the ease of someone who'd survived three years of Noah's type-A mornings. "Just reminding you how human I am," he said mid-yawn. "Unlike you, oh golden child of GPAs and miracle hair volume."
"I didn't sleep," Noah said.
"Yeah, I figured when you didn't answer my texts at one a.m."
"I was busy."
"Right," Zay said. "Brooding over your Fall Festival co-chair, no doubt."
Noah didn't answer. Mostly because he wasn't entirely sure Zay was wrong.
Zay kicked a pebble down the sidewalk, yawning like it was an Olympic sport. "Okay, but explain to me again why we're walking. You have a car. A nice one. A clean one."
Noah sighed and adjusted his bag. "Because my sister decided she needed it more than I did this morning."
Zay snorted. "Again? That's like… the third time this month."
"Fourth," Noah muttered. "She said something about 'running errands,' which probably means she's getting her nails done and then stalling in a drive-thru because she forgot how to reverse."
"She's a menace behind the wheel," Zay said, cackling. "But like, a glamorous menace. She always looks like she's stepping out of a music video, even if she's five minutes from totaling your bumper."
"She's the queen of last-minute chaos," Noah agreed. "And guilt-trips."
The truth was, Tess Harding five years older, full-time headache had perfected the art of charming catastrophe. A college dropout turned part-time photographer, full-time dramatic lead in her own life story, Tess had totaled her car in a serious highway accident back in April. She'd swerved to avoid a texting driver, and while the collision hadn't been her fault, it had been enough to scare the crap out of everyone and leave her car a twisted mess of metal and insurance paperwork.
Since then, Noah's keys had started mysteriously disappearing from the hook in the living room every other morning.
She always left a note.
Or worse: a voice memo.
This morning's offering had been a sticky note on the fridge that read, in pink highlighter:
• You're young. You have legs. Use them. Love, your favorite sister ~ Tess.
He rolled his eyes just thinking about it.
"I swear," Noah muttered, "if she doesn't fill the tank this time—"
"Sibling tax," Zay cut in. "You're not getting that gas money back."
"Tragic but true."
The two of them reached the corner near Main Street just as Emma Reyes rounded the bend, her dark ponytail swinging with purpose, earbuds looped around her neck like armor. She clutched her planner to her chest like it held the secret to life.
"You two are worse than an old married couple," she said without breaking stride.
"And you're ten minutes early," Zay replied. "Again."
"Principal Guerra wants the Fall Festival outline by Friday," she said, already flipping to a color-coded page. "Tentative budget, booth ideas, proposed map, volunteer assignments."
"It's Tuesday," Noah said, frowning.
"Exactly," Emma replied, a grim smile curving her lips. "I already blocked out time during next week's advisory periods for committee work. But you and Isabelle will have to coordinate breakout groups. Monday after school's the first meeting."
"Can't wait," Zay muttered. "Love watching my friends slowly descend into mutual academic destruction."
As they crested the hill near Crestwood's front gates, the school's brick exterior glowed like something out of a brochure. A colorful banner stretched between the columns:
CRESTWOOD FALL FESTIVAL – OCTOBER 12TH
Food. Games. Music. Community. Make it unforgettable.
Noah paused beneath it.
The Fall Festival wasn't just a school event it was the school event. A day-long fundraiser-slash-carnival-slash-panic attack that took over the entire campus. Last year there were food trucks, a petting zoo, booths run by every club, and even a fire dancer who may or may not have lit his own pants on fire.
Parents came. Teachers supervised with varying degrees of horror. Alumni floated in like royalty.
This year, it was his to help lead.
Well his and Isabelle Chen's.
That thought made something twist in his stomach. Not a bad twist. But not entirely comfortable either.
"You good?" Emma asked.
"Yeah," he said automatically. "Just thinking."
Zay made a face. "Someone call the authorities. Noah Harding, deep in thought before the first bell? Must be serious."
Noah managed a grin and followed them through the foyer, slipping back into the rhythm of lockers clanging open, hallways buzzing with too-loud greetings, the smell of lemon floor cleaner and burnt coffee from the teacher's lounge.
But his mind wasn't fully in it.
Not when it kept returning to yesterday. To that culinary room. To the quiet that had settled when Isabelle didn't mock him, didn't challenge him just looked at him. And stayed.
Even now, the memory glowed like a secret.
The rest of the morning passed in snapshots. AP Lit. Bio. Calc. He hit all the right notes answered questions, nodded at jokes, played the part but everything felt slightly out of sync, like he was running a beat behind.
By lunch, he was starving. Not just for food. For something normal.
He met Emma and Zay at their usual corner table, the one near the windows. Emma already had a napkin sketch of the festival layout spread out between them. Zay was two bites into a mystery burrito.
"No dunk tank this year," Emma said. "Guerra said last year's incident was an insurance nightmare."
"I wanted to dunk Mr. Cho," Zay groaned. "He promised."
"Try the pie-eating contest instead," Emma replied.
Noah slid into his seat and scanned the map. "This is solid."
"Thanks. But it's your show now. You and Chen."
Zay raised an eyebrow. "Golden Duo."
"Don't start that," Noah warned.
"She's probably got a spreadsheet for every hour of the festival already," Emma noted.
"She probably does," Noah said, almost fondly.
And weirdly, that reassured him. Because if there was anyone who could match his energy, it was Isabelle.
She'd have the spreadsheets, the vision, the drive. She'd make sure nothing fell apart.
All he had to do was not make it weird.
"I'll reach out," he said. "Set up a game plan before Monday."
"Don't let the rivalry tank the budget," Emma warned.
"Or plot twist—fall in love and tank everything else," Zay added with a grin.
Noah didn't answer.
Because across the cafeteria, Isabelle Chen was sitting near the windows, earbuds in, her book open, and that familiar furrow in her brow the one she got when she was thinking too hard about something that probably didn't need to be thought about that hard.
She didn't look over.
She never did.
And yet somehow, Noah felt like she knew exactly when he was looking.
He blinked and turned back to his lunch.
But the moment settled into his chest like something that might start to matter.
And he wasn't sure what to do with that.