Page 32 of Fall is Brewing

Relief slides through me.

Honeycrisp.

Not just sweet… structured sweet. Confident sweet.

I don’t hesitate as I reach out to feel around for the small whiteboard and dry erase marker that was beside me. I scribble my answer down, the marker squeaking in the quiet cocoon of darkness.

“Okay, blindfolds off and reveal!” Marcy calls.

I push the cloth up onto my forehead from my eyes and the room rushes back in all at once: colors, faces, raised phones, the entire town leaning forward like we’re about to announce election results.

I blink against the sudden brightness.

Beside me, Brooks pulls his blindfold down slowly, no hurry, like he’s savoring the reveal. His hair is slightly rumpled from the blindfold, and for one absurd second I notice the faint crease the fabric left across his cheekbone.

Focus Willa.

He gives me a little smirk. “Reveal on the count of three?” he asks.

I nod and don’t wait for him to start counting. “One…”

“Two…” he joins in.

“Three!”

We both flip our whiteboards at the same time.

Honeycrisp.

Of course it’s Honeycrisp.

The crowd all starts clapping.

Grandpa pumps a fist. Someone whistles. Marcy beams like we’ve just performed a magic trick instead of identifying an apple most third graders could name.

I lower my board, pulse steady but humming.

Beside me, Brooks shifts in his chair, the faint whisper of denim against metal, then glances sideways at me—not triumphant. Not smug. Just assessing. As if he’s cataloging more than my answer.

“Starting off safe,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that it brushes my ear more than it reaches the crowd.

“Or starting off obvious,” I reply, refusing to let him have that edge.

He lets out a quiet huff of amusement and just as he opens his mouth to say something else, Marcy waves her arms dramatically. “Blindfolds back on! Round two!”

I tug my cloth into place again, plunging the world back into darkness. “Hands out!” Marcy says and I oblige, placing my hand out, palm up.

The next slice lands in my hand, cooler than the first. It feels more firm than the first apple and as I bite down, I immediately feel the sharper resistance. The acidity punches forward before the sweetness can catch up. It makes the corners of my jaw tighten, the nerves below my ears tingle.

Bright. Tart, but dancing on the line of almost sour. A nearly impatient flavor. The sharpness dances along the sides of my tongue, unmistakable. I grab the whiteboard and write it without flourish.

Granny Smith.

“Blindfolds up!” Marcy says.

This time, there’s less fanfare. Less adjusting as Brooks and I tug our blindfolds off. With a single nod at me, we both turn our whiteboards around.

“Granny Smith is correct!” Marcy cries out.