Page 1 of Fall Fake-Out

Ari

There are a surprising number of songs about going home.

Missing home.

Returning home.

Can’t wait to get back home.

Yet, here I stand in front of Autumn Ridge High, disappointed that my life has taken me back to the small town in Vermont where I grew up.

It’s a setback for sure.

Who am I kidding? At this point, my entire life is a setback.

I’ve waved the white flag, admitted defeat, and moved back in with my parents.

Humbling prospect at twenty-seven years old, to say the least.

My gaze sweeps across the two-story, red-brick building that felt like a prison when I was seventeen. Nine years later, I’m interviewing to spend my days here.

What a plot twist.

I run my fingers through my long, brown hair, fluffing it over both shoulders before heading inside the high school. Nostalgia smacks me in the face. Maroon lockers. A gold-and-maroon eagle mascot painted in the middle of the floor. Wooden cases with thirty-plus years of trophies and team pictures. My mind flashes to a younger version of me in a cheer uniform, running down the hall to the gymnasium. Everything’s the same as when I walked out of here on graduation day nine years ago. Even Mrs. Albany, the school secretary, is still here, like a relic from the nineties.

She looks up at me with a stern slant to her lips. “Can I help you?”

“Ari Langford.” I smile, thinking she might remember me, but as her eyes grow narrower, I decide Mrs. Albany’s kindness retired years ago. That, or she does remember me and all the trouble I got into. I clear my throat. “I’m here for the job interview for the English teacher position.”

“You can wait in Mr. Stevenson’s office.” If I hadn’t been sent to the principal’s office a few times as a student, I might’ve asked for more directions than just her head nod toward the hallway.

I stop in front of the door, expecting the old, chipped plaque reading Mr. Stevenson but see they’ve at least updated that. I peek into his office—same melamine desk and brown leather chairs. I guess new furniture isn’t in the school district’s budget.

Instead of taking a seat, I walk to his back shelf, admiring the trinkets, books, and school accolades that make up the office decor. My gaze lands on a familiar picture of the Stevenson family on the shelf. Mr. Stevenson, his wife, Gina, and their three children. In tenth grade, Liv and Reese dared me to sneak into his office and steal this very picture. I agreed because one: I don’t back down from a dare from friends. And two: the picture is at the beach, so teenage Ryan and Wade Stevenson are shirtless—the gift that keeps on giving. Unfortunately, I was caught red-handed and endured a fifteen-minute lecture from Mr. Stevenson on the importance of good character, trust, and honesty.

Let’s pray that moment doesn’t weigh into his decision to hire me today—or any of my other youthful indiscretions.

But for old time’s sake, I pick up the photo and study it. Good grief, those Stevenson boys were attractive. There wasn’t a girl at Autumn Ridge High who would’ve disagreed. Ryan had that classic attractiveness with dark hair and dimples, but Wade’s good looks came with a heavy dose of charm and charisma—my weakness. I was always more drawn to him.

I wonder what happened to Wade. I mean, I know he still lives in Autumn Ridge, but that’s where my knowledge ends. Despite growing up as good friends, we lost touch. And even though he wrote Call me! in my yearbook with his phone number, we haven’t talked since we were eighteen. What a shame to lose touch like that.

A male voice down the hall startles me, and I quickly place the picture back on the shelf before I get caught with it once again. But the frame is old, and the easel flap on the back doesn’t stay open. Before I can stop it, the picture tips over, falling off the edge of the shelf in the most dramatic slo-mo of my life. Tiny shards of glass burst across the carpet as the frame crashes.

Most people would be, like, “Oh, sorry. I accidentally broke your frame. Let me replace that for you.”

Not me.

I drop to my knees in sheer panic and begin crawling around the desk in my tight pencil skirt, haphazardly picking up broken pieces of glass as if my skin is made out of leather. You’d be surprised by how far those shards went. I had to push his chair back and really get in there.

I hear—not see, because I’m currently under the desk—Mr. Stevenson enter his office but stop at the door.

My eyes grow wide.

Me under his desk is a bad look.

A crazy look.

“Mrs. Albany, I thought you said Ari was here,” the voice calls down the hall.