The Riverside High library is a study in contradictions: soaring ceilings and fluorescent lights, first-edition classics gathering dust while students huddle over TikTok videos on their phones. Hannah sits at her usual table—the one with the wobbly leg that no one else wants—and watches Morris struggle with the concept of pre-war alliances like they''re written in hieroglyphics.
The library smells like old books and expensive perfume, the latter courtesy of a group of girls who''ve claimed the prime study spot by the window. Their designer bags rest on chairs like sleeping pets, price tags higher than Hannah''s monthly babysitting earnings. She tries to focus on Morris instead of the way their jewelry catches the afternoon light.
Morris hasn''t changed much since fourth grade, when they shared colored pencils in art class. Still has that round face that makes him look perpetually surprised, brown hair that never quite decides if it wants to be straight or wavy. The only difference is the letterman jacket that marks him as part of Riverside''s athletic aristocracy—the golden leg that sends footballs sailing between goalposts with surgical precision. From pudding cups to field goals, Morris''s trajectory through Riverside''s social hierarchy has been as neat as his kicks.
"So Hitler—" Morris starts, chewing on the end of a pen.
"Wrong war," she interrupts, gentler than the history they''re discussing. "That''s World War Two. We''re talking about World War One. Think earlier—1914, not 1939."
Morris''s face scrunches up like he''s trying to solve a particularly complex math problem. "Right, right. The one with the sandwich guy?"
"The assassination," Hannah corrects, but she can''t help smiling. There''s something endearing about Morris''s determination to understand, even as historical facts slip through his fingers like water. He''s trying harder than most of Jake''s crew would—they''d probably just buy their way to a passing grade.
"Man," Morris laughs, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. "I''m really bad at this, aren''t I? Like, epically bad. My brain just sees dates and goes ''nope, we don''t do that here.''" He gestures dramatically with his pen, nearly knocking over his untouched water bottle.
"You''re trying," Hannah offers, rescuing the water bottle. "That''s more than most people do. Besides, you got the assassination part right. Sort of. If you squint and tilt your head sideways."
"Yeah, but sandwich guy? Really?" Morris shakes his head at his own confusion. "My mom would kill me if she knew how bad I am at this. She''s got this whole thing about knowing our history, you know? Says those who don''t learn from it are doomed to—" He pauses, frowning. "Something about repeating stuff."
The library doors swing open with the kind of dramatic timing usually reserved for movie entrances. Hannah''s stomach drops as Amber glides in, flanked by Susan and—Hannah''s heart clenches—Lisa Chen. They move like a coordinated dance team, their presence immediately commanding attention from everyone in the room.
Lisa looks different now. Gone are the Hello Kitty hair clips and the nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ears. This Lisa walks with practiced confidence, her glossy black hair falling in perfect waves. She''s wearing the uniform of Amber''s court: a cashmere sweater, plaid skirt, and ballet flats, fitting in seamlessly with her new social circle.
Hannah''s mind races back to the conversation she overheard. The calculated cruelty in Amber''s voice, the casual way she''d planned to destroy Lisa for daring to get close to her boyfriend. Because that''s what Nate was - Amber''s boyfriend, the other half of Riverside High''s golden couple. The screenshots Amber had mentioned, whatever scheme she was planning for Friday''s party... Should Hannah warn Lisa? The weight of the secret sits heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs like a physical thing. But getting between Amber Rosenberg and Nate Brooks seemed like a particularly creative form of social suicide.
But then she remembers eighth grade, when Lisa stopped sitting with her at lunch. The gradual fade from best friends to strangers, punctuated by unanswered texts and declined invitations. How Lisa''s eyes would slide past her in the hallway, like Hannah had become invisible overnight.
"So Franz whatever gets killed," Morris continues, oblivious to Hannah''s internal turmoil. His pen taps against the textbook in an irregular rhythm. "And then Austria just goes nuts and declares war on Serbia?"
"Austria-Hungary," Hannah corrects automatically, her voice softer than intended. "It was an empire then, not just Austria."
"Right, right." Morris nods enthusiastically. "The empire with the fancy mustache guys."
The library doors swing open again, and Hannah''s heart performs its usual gymnastics routine. Because there''s Nate Brooks, wearing his letterman jacket like it was made for him, that wavy brown hair falling perfectly across his forehead. His presence changes the air pressure in the room—or maybe that''s just Hannah''s imagination playing tricks on her.
Jake Woodland follows close behind, golden boy quarterback to Nate''s star receiver. They''re mirror images in different coloring—Jake all California sunshine with his blonde hair and blue eyes, Nate darker and more intense. But they move with the same athletic grace, share the same easy confidence that comes from knowing exactly where you belong in the world.
"Morris Vanderbaan in a library?" Nate''s voice carries that hint of amusement that makes everything sound like an inside joke. "Did you lose a bet?"
"Ha ha," Morris rolls his eyes, but he''s grinning. "Some of us actually study sometimes, Brooks."
Jake drops into the chair next to Morris, spinning it around with casual grace. "Yeah, right. Next you''ll tell us you''re joining the debate team."
Nate grabs a chair, turning it backward and straddling it in one fluid motion. His eyes find Hannah''s, and that smile—the one that still holds traces of shared fruit roll-ups and secret handshakes—curves his lips. "Hey, Marshall."
"Hi," Hannah manages, proud that her voice doesn''t crack. She focuses on breathing normally, on not thinking about how close he is, about how he still smells like autumn air and something uniquely him.
"Marshall?" Jake''s eyebrows lift with interest. "As in Marshall Construction?"
Hannah feels her cheeks heat. "No, um, my dad works in insurance."This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"Hannah and I went to elementary school together," Nate explains, and something in his voice makes Hannah''s heart skip. Like maybe those memories mean something to him too, like maybe they''re not just artifacts from a different life.
Jake snatches Morris''s textbook with the casual entitlement of someone who''s never been told no. "World War Two, right? Hitler and all that shit?"
"World War One, Woodland." Nate''s voice is easy, relaxed, and Hannah tries not to notice how his fingers drum a gentle rhythm against the back of his chair.
Jake''s expression shifts—subtle, but Hannah catches it. Three years of observing from the social sidelines has made her fluent in Riverside High''s unspoken language. "Oh yeah? And what do you know about it, Brooks?"
The smirk that spreads across Nate''s face shouldn''t make Hannah''s stomach flip, but it does. He leans forward slightly, and she catches a hint of his cologne—something expensive and subtle that makes her think of autumn bonfires and star-filled skies.
"June 28, 1914. Archduke Franz Ferdinand gets assassinated in Sarajevo." His voice takes on a professor-like quality that Hannah''s never heard before. "Austria-Hungary blames Serbia, Russia backs Serbia, Germany backs Austria-Hungary. Everyone''s got alliances, everyone''s got pride, and before you know it—" he waves his hand through the air "—the whole world''s at war. Four years, seventeen million dead, and Europe''s map gets redrawn like a kid''s coloring book."
Hannah stares at him, heat creeping up her neck. Because of course. Of course Nate Brooks isn''t just unfairly attractive and genuinely kind. Of course he also knows more about World War One than most of her AP History class combined. The universe, clearly, has a twisted sense of humor.
"How do you know all that?" Morris asks, voicing Hannah''s thoughts.
Jake''s laugh echoes through the library, earning a sharp look from Mrs. Bucher at the desk. He throws an arm around Nate''s shoulders. "Because Richard Rosenberg wants his future son-in-law Stanford-ready. Isn''t that right, Brooks?"
Nate''s eyebrows lift in that way that means yes without having to say it. Hannah''s chest tightens. Right. Because he''s not just Nate Brooks, star receiver. He''s Nate Brooks, Amber Rosenberg''s boyfriend. Future Stanford student. Future everything that has nothing to do with girls who babysit for gas money.
"So what brings you to our humble house of learning?" Morris asks, attempting and failing to sound sophisticated.
That smile again. Hannah wishes she was immune to it.
"Looking for someone," Nate says, glancing around the library with practiced casualness.
"We''re here for Park Jin-ho," Jake cuts in. "Guy''s got a direct line to AP Physics answers that would make Einstein jealous."
The words tumble out before Hannah can stop them: "You''re buying homework?"
"Not me," Nate holds up his hands, and his eyes meet hers for a split second. "I actually like physics."
"Some of us," Jake says with practiced nonchalance, "prefer to outsource our academic achievements to more qualified individuals."
Hannah doesn''t mean to say it. But the words slip out before she can stop them: "So you''re getting an early start on your Wall Street career? Paying other people to do the work while you take the credit?"
The joke lands better than she expected. Jake throws his head back laughing, Morris nearly chokes on his water, and even Nate''s trying to hide his grin behind his hand. For a moment—just a moment—it feels like the social walls of Riverside High have developed a crack.
"Damn, Marshall''s got jokes," Jake grins, and there''s something in his voice that makes Hannah want to retreat back to her wobbly table and the safety of historical dates. "You should definitely come on Friday."
"Come where?"
"My Halloween party." Jake says it like he''s offering her a seat at the cool kids'' table—which, Hannah realizes, he kind of is. "My parents are gone for some charity thing. House is gonna be empty. Everyone''s going all out with costumes this year."
Hannah''s mind races. Jake Woodland''s parties are legendary—the kind of event that gets whispered about in hallways for weeks after. The kind of party she''s never been invited to, because girls who babysit the Rosenberg kids don''t get invited to parties thrown by guys who drive Range Rovers to school.
"I don''t know..." Hannah fidgets with her pen, trying to ignore the way her heart''s doing backflips.
"It would be cool if you came." Nate''s voice is soft, almost private, and when she looks up, he''s wearing that smile again. Perfect white teeth, genuine warmth, and three years'' worth of what-ifs wrapped in a letterman jacket.
Then Amber''s voice echoes in her head—sharp and cruel and calculating—and reality comes crashing back. The screenshots, the party, the carefully laid trap. Her stomach twists.
"You''re welcome to come, Hannah." Morris cuts through her spiral of thoughts. "Do whatever feels right."
"So what are you really doing here, Brooks?" Morris continues, squinting at Nate. "If you''re not buying homework like our morally flexible friend here?"
Hannah finds herself leaning forward slightly, genuinely curious. Because yeah, what is Nate Brooks doing in the library if not participating in Jake''s academic outsourcing program?
Jake''s grin turns wicked. "Oh, you didn''t hear? Poor little puppy called Nate Brooks lost his owner Amber Rosenberg. Been wandering the halls ever since, hoping she''ll come find him."
"You''re dead, Woodland!" Nate launches himself at Jake, catching him in a headlock. They wrestle like puppies, all contained strength and brotherly affection, knocking into a nearby chair.
"Gentlemen!" Mrs. Bucher''s voice cuts through the library like a steel blade. "This is not the football field!"
"Sorry, Mrs. B!" They break apart, matching grins on their faces, not looking sorry at all. Hannah tries not to notice how Nate''s hair has gotten slightly messed up, how it makes him look younger, more like the boy who used to share his snacks with her.
"Let''s bounce." Jake straightens his shirt. "See you around, Vandenbaan."
Nate claps Morris on the shoulder, then turns to Hannah. "See you at the party, Marshall." He throws her a wink that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states, then follows Jake into the library.
Morris returns to his textbook, but Hannah can''t focus anymore. The invitation to Jake''s party sits in her mind like a lit fuse, sparking all kinds of possibilities.
She shouldn''t go. That''s the smart play. Jake Woodland''s Halloween parties are legendary for all kinds of reasons, not all of them good. And getting anywhere near Nate Brooks while Amber Rosenberg is plotting vengeance against Lisa? That''s the kind of bad decision that could turn senior year into a social minefield.
But God, that smile. The way he said her name, like he was tasting it. Like maybe he remembers third grade too, remembers how they used to be friends before money and status and last names started mattering. Before Amber Rosenberg claimed him like a crown jewel in her perfectly curated life.
Then there''s Lisa. Sweet, ambitious Lisa, who doesn''t know she''s walking into a trap. Lisa, who might have abandoned their friendship for a shot at the cool kids'' table, but who still deserves better than whatever Amber''s planning.
Hannah closes her history book, her mind racing. It''s senior year. Their last chance at everything—last football games, last parties, last opportunities to be brave or stupid or both. After this, they''ll all scatter to different colleges, different lives, different social circles where high school hierarchies won''t matter anymore.
Maybe that''s exactly why she should go. Maybe she should go because she''s tired of watching life from the sidelines, tired of playing it safe.
Or maybe she''s just tired of playing it safe. Tired of being the girl who tutors from the wobbly library table, who watches life happen from the edges.
The bell rings, sharp and final, like it''s making the decision for her. Hannah gathers her books, her mind made up. She''s going to that party.
After all, what''s the worst that could happen?