Brandy Colbert - Pointe

THE ASHLAND HILLS HIGH SCHOOL FALL FESTIVAL IS A NECESSARY evil.

It’s not mandatory to participate, but it’s easy extra credit and as long as you don’t get stuck manning a super-lame booth, like the pumpkin ring toss, it’s somewhat bearable.

The festival is held on the athletic field and is basically a giant clusterfuck of students and parents and young siblings nobody wants to be seen with. Student council organizes the whole thing, so I have an in. Bryn Davenport is the junior class president and being on her good side means I get to work the popcorn stand. Sara-Kate is working the face-painting stand and Phil is, unhappily, manning the football throw booth with Joey Thompson. Sports are not on Phil’s radar—he thinks they’re either barbaric or nonsensical—and he’s been grumbling all week about the troglodytic nature of a football toss. (“I mean, why not have the guys choose a girl to club over the head as their prize? Pathetic,” he scoffed when we got our assignments.)

But when I walk into the little brick concessions building at the edge of the field to start my hour-long shift, I think Bryn Davenport must hate me, because she’s paired me with Klein Anderson.

The back of his dark head is facing me when I arrive. He’s straddling a stool, fiddling with a radio that sits on a low shelf. He turns when the side door opens, and grins.

“About time you got here, Legs. Thought I was gonna have to run this thing myself.”

I set down my bag on the back counter. “Since when are you about Fall Festival?”

“Eh.” Klein turns the dial on the radio until he finds the punk station and stops. “I’m failing Earth Science.”

“I thought you could talk your way out of any F,” I say, moving to the service window to slide it open. The room smells like stale peanuts, but it’s tidy, with containers of popcorn kernels, salt, and condiments aligned on a row of shelves along the back, and a whole cabinet full of paper cups, paper plates, and plasticware.

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t really work like it did at my old school.” He slides off the stool, closing some of the gap between us. “But everything happens for a reason, right? You, me, this little room.”

“Do you know how to work that thing?” I ask, ignoring him as I gesture to the popcorn machine sitting in the corner.

“Yeah, McCarty came by to put in the oil and kernels. Something about liability. We just turn it on and make sure not to touch that metal thingie inside.”

“One of us should bag and the other one should hand it out and take the tickets.” I decide, because it’s probably best if I take charge.

“I’ll bag,” he says with a shrug.

“Thanks.” I’ll have to talk to people if I’m manning the window but at least I won’t have to touch the popcorn. I can’t believe I used to eat it every single time I went to the movies. And then, for a long time, I didn’t let myself think about how amazing it smells, because all that butter and salt isn’t worth it.

“All the better for me to stare at your ass for the next hour, Legs,” he says, his eyes sparkling like stolen emeralds as he winks at me.

I wrinkle my nose like I’ve smelled something bad, but he just laughs and flips the switch on the popcorn machine. And when I turn around I smile a little, too, because Klein is so fucking foul but he knows it and for some inexplicable reason, that’s always been part of the small charm he possesses.

Luckily, our first customer arrives and I’m able to forget about Klein for the next thirty minutes. Klein is as lazy as they come, but he may have found his calling with this popcorn thing. He’s fast and efficient and manages to keep most of it off the floor. Plus, we don’t have to worry about using the soda fountain since another booth is handling drink sales.

The little kids show up first, their parents standing off to the side while they proudly hold out their tickets as if being at the Fall Festival means they belong here with all the older kids. Then come the freshmen and sophomores who showed up too early and need something to do while they stand around and decide which booths are acceptable to be seen at.

A few people stop by to say hey. David Tulip crams handfuls of popcorn in his mouth while he banters with Klein about the football game they watched last Sunday. Eddie Corteen walks up a few minutes later, his friends in tow, sweet and seeming a little unsure of whether he should be standing here. And of course Lark Pearson sidles up to the window, completely ignoring me as she bats her thickly lined eyes at Klein and asks if he’ll give her a “sample.”

There’s a lull halfway through our shift and after a while I get tired of wondering if Klein really has been staring at my ass the whole time, so I turn around. He’s messing with the radio again and it reminds me of the first night we made out. He’d taken over the music at the house where we were partying, and when he saw me watching he’d grinned and motioned me over. Our arms and legs were touching as we’d scrolled through songs to add to the playlist and as soon as I sat down next to him I knew I would kiss him later.

“What?” he says now, and I tune back in to find him staring at me because I was already staring at him.

“Nothing. I’m going to grab something to drink. You want anything?”

He stretches, his long arms reaching for the ceiling as his mouth opens in a yawn. “Will it have rum in it?”

“Like you don’t carry your own,” I say, reaching into my bag for my red leather wallet.

“Touché, Legs. Just seeing if you were paying attention.”

“I’ll be back,” I say, and then I’m out the side door again.

There’s a set of vending machines adjacent to the concessions building, housed in a compact, fenced-in square of concrete. The fence is always locked, unless we’re having a game or an event on the field. I assume it will be closed off tonight, since the school is promoting its booth of Fall Festival drinks, but the gate is slightly ajar.

I slip through and I don’t hear anyone walk up behind me, but right away, I know he’s there. The wind carries the heady scent of cloves and when I turn around he’s looking at me.

“Hey,” he says almost shyly, his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. He must be freezing, walking around without a jacket. I’m already cold and I’ve been outside for less than a minute.

His cheeks are chapped from the cold, but it looks cute on him. Sweet, almost. Little pink circles on such a serious face.

“You’re working here tonight?” I ask, rubbing my arms for warmth.

“Not for the school.” Hosea nods toward the concessions building. “But you are?”

“Popcorn duty.” I wrinkle my nose.

“Ah, that would explain the butter smell.”

“Fake butter.”

“The best kind,” he says with a smile that’s lightning fast but manages to melt my insides anyway.

Fake butter makes me think of the movie theater, which makes me think of dates. Which makes me wonder if Hosea and Ellie ever go to the movies. Or if they go on dates at all. They show up at all the parties together and they eat lunch together and I’ve seen her getting out of his car in the student parking lot, but do they go out like a real boyfriend and girlfriend?

I’ve never been on a date. Chris and I could never go anywhere for fear of what people would say if they saw us together, and Klein and I couldn’t drive at the time, so we met up at parties and made out in empty bedrooms. The closest we came to an actual date was winter formal freshman year, but we went in a group, so it didn’t feel like one.

“Who’s in there with you?” Hosea asks, leaning against the fence.

“Klein.” My hands are starting to sweat, despite the cold. I tuck my wallet under my arm.