Chapter Seven Willa

Chapter Seven

Willa

Now: Friday, 5:00 p.m.

Bustling around the kitchen with Liam is so domestic, I can't help my heart speeding in my chest. We dance around the pots and pans, from the refrigerator to the counter and back, Liam sensing me like it's second nature. He smiles when he tastes my impromptu Alfredo, licking his lips with an exaggerated "Mmmmmm, delizioso, mia bella!"

I smack him with a tea towel. "Cool it, Chef Boyardee."

"It's like a nineties sitcom out here," Eden says, emerging from the pantry with a table runner it took her five minutes to find.

"You don't like my Italian?" Liam pretends to be offended, then switches to Korean. I don't know what he says, but how he says it, complete with doe eyes and a voice laced with flirtation, makes clear it's a romantic overture.

Eden softens with a half-hearted eye roll. "You are such a dork. You're lucky Del puts up with you."

I plop my spoon back into the Alfredo. My eyes are drawn to the expanse of windows, with their view onto the patio and the landscape beyond. The sky's turned a murky gray, obscuring any hope of a picturesque sunset. Looks like it might storm.

Eden appears over my right shoulder. "Oh my god, no cream-based sauces! I'm lactose-intolerant! Are you trying to poison me?"

"I—I didn't know," I stammer. "But don't worry. It's buffet-style. There will be a tomato sauce, too."

Eden looks down her perfectly upturned nose at me. "How could you not know? I did a whole PSA about it on my Insta last year. Everyone said it was, like, very brave to be so public aboutit."

"Pasta's done!" Liam announces, saving me from admitting I do not hang on Eden's every social-media utterance. "Eden, can you set the table while we finish up?"

She does so with a huff.

"Thanks." I smile appreciatively at Liam.

"Don't mention it."

In short order, we get a heaping pile of spaghetti, the sauces, some cheese, and a basket of garlic bread onto the dining table and call everyone down.

We gather on either side of the dark wood trestle table, with Silva at the head like a matriarch.

"This table setting is…interesting." Silva purses her lips in reserved assessment. Eden put down bowls instead of plates, with spoons and knives laid inside, no forks. Napkins are also missing.

"Thank you," Eden says, oblivious to the backhanded comment. "Do you want a drink? I know we can't have any, but I did find a bottle of pinot noir in the pantry if you'd like some."

Silva hesitates a second, the debate clear on her face. But she must decide we're old enough—seniors, after all—and it's only a glass of wine. I imagine if we were on the excursion to Paris there'd be no question that everyone would drink wine. When in Rome…or in Paris, more like.

"That would be lovely, Ms. Laskin," Silva replies, reaching for a slice of garlic bread, starting things off.

Eden's up like a shot, her one evening task done without complaint. While she makes a show of uncorking the bottle and decanting the wine into a fancy glass figure-eight thing, Liam makes a quick dash for a handful of forks.

"Thank you," Piper says as he hands her one. "Who eats pasta with a spoon?"

She gets a dirty look from Declan and Camille, who stop mid-pasta twirl, their newly acquired forks poised against said spoons.

"I hope today's cross-country ski helped get you out of your heads a bit," Silva begins while intricately swirling her pasta. Silva can't even let a dinner pass by without speechifying. "That's the aim of this weekend. To connect with yourself and with others without the distraction of devices and the outside world. I want each of you to ask yourselves: Do I like the person I am?" She takes a long draw of her wine.

Across from me, Delaney rolls her eyes. "You sound like my mother."

"I'd rather connect with your mother," Declan points out. "She's hot."

Eden smacks him on the shoulder so hard he knocks into me, and I nearly fall off the bench.

"Anything would be better than this. I didn't even sign up for this trip," Wyatt moans. His thumbs tap against the edge of the table in stops and starts, like he's playing an imaginary game, searching for the console. His eyes find me like a beacon. I look away, quick as I can. Why can't he leave me alone?

Silva clears her throat. "Appropriate dinner-table talk only, please." Though her heart doesn't really seem in it. I imagine that lecturing us all day has taken its toll. "I'd be happy to discuss your college applications, for example."

My stomach clenches at the idea, and I hope no one takes her up on it. The last thing I want is everyone comparing notes on who's stressing over regular decision apps, which are due in less than two weeks.

"Why can't we talk about it?" Camille challenges. "About being here, I mean. We were all supposed to be on other trips. My mom confirmed with Ms. Waters in the front office. At the last minute, someone's parent pulled strings to get us all reassigned. Who was it?"

Silva waves off the question. "I'm not privy to that information. I go where the administration tells me."

"You mean it was one of us who did this?" Declan brings a fist down on the table.

"One of our parents, more like," Camille corrects. "Maybe someone who couldn't afford their child's first choice."

The comment is pointed, and Camille's gaze never leaves Piper as she says it. I squirm, knowing I fit the bill as well. My parents definitely stressed over the cost of the Senior Excursion, but we made a deal that I'd pay half from my babysitting income and they'd consider the rest my Christmas present. That was for my Gothic English castle adventure, though, not this. My fingers fly to my necklace, as if to will away the bad vibes.

Piper is quick to defend herself. "Or maybe it was someone with a psycho helicopter mom whose daughter is going to a notorious party school in the fall."

"That's stupid." Camille scoffs. "Like my mom wanted me randomly offline for a week eight months before I leave for school? And at least I'm going to a D1 college, unlike some people."

Camille and Piper glare across the table at each other.

"Well, maybe be glad you're going to college at all. Some of us aren't so lucky and don't have parents willing to invest in their businesses, either," Declan explodes, before shoving a mound of pasta into his mouth. Red sauce flecks onto his white polo shirt. I marvel that apparently even his nouveau riche parents are done with Declan's malarkey.

"Senior Excursion was it for me, man," he continues, still chewing. "I was going to get killer footage in Alaska to rebrand myself with adventure travel, monetize it, and pitch a new show, but now…" He curses under his breath. "I'm on this stupid fucking mountain with no phone, no footage, no future. Who did this?"

It's bizarre hearing Declan so earnest and hurt, especially over something like resuscitating his long-dead TikTok career. It's weird enough that one of our classmates ever was a viral TikTok personality.

Even more surreal: our guidance counselor giggles. Straight up laughs at a student, pouring his heart out.

"It's going to be a looong weekend," she says, inhaling another sip.

Awkward laughter ripples across the table. Our chaperone is losing it, and someone here is responsible for us being on this trip.

We're a miserable coalition, eating in uncomfortable silence for several minutes. No one wants to pick up where we left off. It hits me that the last time all eight of us were together outside school was that awful night.

I catch Wyatt staring at me again, and I almost scream.

But then Delaney's voice rings out. "Ms. Silva, are you okay?"

I look back to the guidance counselor. Ms. Silva's eyelids droop; her chin lolls toward her chest.

Then she collapses to the floor.