The shrine of Tate swallows the wall above my bed. I definitely cannot let Chloe in my bedroom. She can’t see all the posters or how I’ve drawn hearts around Tate in his best photos. She’ll think I’m on Emery’s level, and bless that child – she’s adorable but she’s crazed. I can’t look crazed.
I run a brush through my hair, swipe some chapstick over my lips, and remind myself to exhale. It’s just Chloe Branson. It’s not like Tate Kingsley is coming for dinner. That would be the time to rip all of the posters down from my walls, hide my magazines downstairs, and duct tape my little brother’s mouth shut. Oh crap. The magazines.
I race back down the stairs as Mom takes her homemade lasagna from the oven. Any other time, I’d stop and breathe in the scent of Ragu sauce and mozzarella cheese, but there’s no time. I grab the stack of Seventeen Forever magazines and hide them under Dad’s latest issue of Shaka Magazine.
My latest copy of Seventeen Forever stares up at me from the coffee table. The guys of Spaceships Around Saturn smile from the cover, and I cringe when I see my heart-in-black-Sharpie around Tate’s face. I reach for the magazine, and the doorbell rings. That’s her. On my front porch. Pressing my doorbell.