by the end of the shoot he’s adjusting the placement of a light for each scene without me even needing to ask. Nash is stupidly charismatic on camera even with just two lines, and I’m grateful Autumn is the one with the camera in her hand, controlling the shots.
Three hours later, Autumn says, “That’s a wrap!”
In my head, the final shot of Look Down, Swipe Right zooms out on Lil and Monique through the bakery window and everything slowly fades to black.
* * *
Less than twenty-four hours later, Le Crew is back at Maple Street Sweets after hours—this time, though, we’re off camera, eating takeout pizza and studying for the SATs. Except no one besides me is actually, you know, studying. The exam is being administered next weekend and all seniors are taking an in-class practice test tomorrow. I pretty much need to accept my 600 math section fate, but I’m stubborn. So more practice tests it is.
“… I mean, it’s easy money and I’m building a portfolio so, like, win-win,” Nash says.
I’m scoring practice test number three, but my focus shifts from the College Board to Nash and Molly’s conversation. It’s everything Kels already knows—Nash is turning his art skills into a business. Still, it’s cool hearing Nash talk about Outside the Lines out loud.
“At this rate, I’ll have enough in no time,” he says.
Molly sighs loudly and it’s extra.
“For your applications?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Have you heard of BookCon?”
I almost choke on pizza crust.
“BookCon?” I ask.
“It’s, like, this giant epic conference for YA fandom. Every major publisher is there, there are tons of author signings, and you’re allowed to fill suitcases with books. It’s basically the Holy Land.”
“He’s not going for fandom,” Molly says.
“He’s going for a girl,” Sawyer adds.
Nash throws popcorn at them. “Shut up.” He looks at me and hesitates, like he can’t believe he’s about to tell me whatever he’s going to tell me. “You know my cupcake bookstagrammer friend? We met online—”
“Kels,” Autumn interrupts. “Her name is Kels.”
“It’s not weird, I swear,” Nash says. “We like each other’s blogs, and we’ve been best friends for years, but we haven’t met yet. Well, we applied for this blogger panel. It’s a long shot for me, but not for Kels. She’s pretty popular. I’m, um, kind of hoping we meet there. Either way.”
I process Nash’s words. Either way.
It’s not like I forgot about BookCon. It’s just—clearly, I haven’t been thinking about it as much as Nash has.
“It’s not weird, I swear,” Nash repeats.
“It’s a little weird,” Molly says. “I mean, no one even knows who Kels really is.”
Nash looks at Molly like this is a constant point of tension in their friendship; like he’s so tired of having this conversation. “I do, though. In the ways that matter, at least.”
Autumn grades our practice exams.
Molly rolls her eyes.
Sawyer gags.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” I say quietly.
“Thanks,” Nash says. His ears are tinted pink with embarrassment, but his smile is sincere. The subject changes, thank God, and I’m just sitting here in silence, still pretending to work on another stupid practice test while I try to process what this means.
“… You should! Please, Halle.”
My attention snaps up from my test to Molly, who is making puppy dog eyes at me.
I have no clue why, but I pity Sawyer because it’s an extremely hard face to resist.
“Okay?” I answer.
“Oh my God, seriously?” Molly pumps her fists and yells, “Victory!”
“Um.” What did I agree to?
Autumn smirks. “You just got her out of the Kung Fu Panda marathon she’s been putting off since Rosh Hashanah.”
Nash shakes his head. “Now I have to watch five hours of Kung Fu Panda.”
Molly is doing a victory dance around the bakery.
“Molly bet that she’d get you to come bowling with us before Nash could,” Sawyer says.
“Oh,” I say, a bit blindsided. I really wish they’d stop making bets about me.
“It’s cool,” Nash says. “I’m just glad you’re coming.”
Molly, high on her victory, sets a timer and insists that we settle in for an actual practice round. Pencils scratch against paper and calculators crunch answers around me but I can’t even comprehend question one. Occasionally, my eyes shift to Nash, watching him answer questions with scrunched eyebrows through my peripheral vision.
I should cross my fingers behind my back and hope I don’t get the panel.
But I can’t. I want BookCon to want me so bad.
Even if it’s a complication, I can’t pretend I’d pass up this opportunity. I won’t.