Page 120 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Yes. She wants an early walkthrough of the community dinner space while she’s in town for a school thing.”

I glance toward Eleanor, who is speaking with Junie by the tasting room. “Your mother didn’t mention that.”

“My mother doesn’t mention things. She releases them into the environment and hopes we adapt.”

Helena lifts a hand. “That is our family crest.”

Daisy checks her notebook. “Principal Whitcomb, Coach Harris, someone from the booster board, and possibly a student committee rep.”

“Student committee rep?” I repeat.

She looks up. “Is that bad?”

“No.”

It isn’t.

It just feels like the beginning of a room where I’ll be inspected by adults and kids at the same time, which seems like a new level of public humiliation. Efficient, maybe. Winterberry loves efficiency when it can be disguised as hospitality.

Daisy studies me. “You’re doing the jaw thing again.”

“I’m fine.”

“No one who says fine in that tone is fine.”

“You say fine every day.”

“Exactly. I’m an expert.”

Helena’s gaze moves between us. “This is exhausting.”

“Thank you,” Daisy says. “We’ve been practicing.”

“We haven’t,” I say.

Daisy turns her notebook against her chest. “That’s the tragedy. This is our natural rhythm.”

Helena points her floral snips toward the vineyard path. “Your principal is here.”

Principal Whitcomb arrives in boots too clean for a working vineyard, accompanied by a middle-aged man in a ballcap and another with thinning hair, a booster vest, and the strained smile of someone who knows every conversation eventually becomes fundraising.

Beside them is a teenage boy in a Winterberry Cove High hoodie, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders lifted toward his ears.

Daisy’s face changes.

She sees the kid before she sees the adults.

I do too.

He’s tall but and thin, with dark curls damp from the morning mist and the look of a kid trying to take up less space than he has. His shoes are worn thin near one toe. The cuff of his hoodie is frayed. He keeps looking at the gravel like eye contact costs money.

I know that look.

I’ve seen it in locker rooms.

I’ve seen it in mirrors.

Principal Whitcomb spots us and smiles. “Forrest. Daisy. Good morning.”