Page 1 of Bonfire with Beckett
ONE
WILLA
The high school gym smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and nerves.
Mostly mine.
I clutch the stack of index cards in my hands tighter. I won’t need them. I have my speech memorized. All the facts are neatly laid out with just enough nostalgia and humor woven in to tug at people’s heartstrings and, hopefully, bring them around to my plan.
But right now, the cards are my anchor. They’re keeping me focused on what I came here to do instead of becoming distracted. Even as the voices of townspeople buzz around me and echo off the impossibly high ceilings as they find their seats for the monthly Maple Ridge Town Meeting.
Craning my neck, I glance toward the makeshift podium and catch Mrs. Foster’s eye. My old art teacher offers a sympathetic smile and presses a palm to her chest.
It’s a look I’ve become all too used to seeing since I moved back over the summer to be closer to my dad. After mom died unexpectedly.
My throat thickens, and a wave of grief flows through me. It’s every bit as heavy, every bit as fresh, as the day Dad called to give me the news.
But right now, I can’t give into the temptation to let it drag me down.
Clearing my throat, I give a polite nod. Blinking back tears, I turn my attention somewhere—anywhere—else.
I can’t cry. Not now.
The gym hasn’t changed much in the decade since I was last here. The day I walked across that podium in my cap and gown while my parents beamed in the bleachers. It has the same fading championship banners hanging from the rafters. The same orange and black mascot painted on the floor. Even the same creaky folding chairs.
It’s the same, but—somehow—it feels smaller.
Everything feels smaller after spending ten years living in Nashville.
I tap my foot restlessly on the polished floor. “I’m surprised they can fit this many chairs in here.”
Dad lowers his newspaper and cocks an eyebrow. “What was that?”
“Oh, nothing.” I give a thin smile. “I just… don’t remember this many people coming to the town meetings in the past.”
There’s a bigger crowd than I expected. That means more people to convince. More people to judge the girl who left them all behind only to come back when her world crumbled.
And now that girl wants to ask them all for a favor. As ifIhave any right.
“You don’t need to worry,” Dad says, turning back to his paper. “You’ve always been an ace at public speaking.”
He’s not wrong. There’s a Debate Team plaque with my name on it in one of the school’s trophy cases.
“I’m not worried,” I say.
He clucks his tongue lightly. That says more than any words could. He doesn’t believe me.
“I’m not.” I pull back my shoulders and straighten my spine. “I’m just, surprised.”
Dad just flips the paper over as if to say, “Sure, Willa.”
Whatever. He can think I’m nervous. But I’m not. Most definitely.
Right?
As the mayor steps up to the podium? My pulse quickens. There’s no denying it.
Okay. I am. A little nervous. But that’s only because this means so much to him. To me. To us. I don’t want to blow it. I can’t.
