My eyes snap open and find everything wrong.

The sun's been snuffed out by a blanket of darkness, leaving the air frigid against my bare arms. A sprinkling of stars acts as the only source of light, weak, flickering in and out like a short circuit. Searching the clearing, nothing surrounds me but trees that stretch on into oblivion. I try to keep my breaths even, reminding myself that I know where I am.

I'm ok. I'm ok.

Maybe if I say it enough, I'll believe it.

There's a clock — at least the sound of one. Gears grinding against rusted metal. It grates against my nerves until they're frayed, leaving me numb with fear. There's nothing but the constant tick of its hands.

Tick.

Tick.

"Figure it out!"

A voice booms through the silence, shattering my eardrums and making me scream. I want to run — holy shit, I wanna run — but the roots from the log grow over my limbs, twisting and pulling until it feels like I'm being swallowed whole.

I attempt a scream, but I'm falling too fast, the log consuming me—

"Amber!"

Mark's voice and a strong shove to the shoulder snaps me awake. I nearly go tumbling off the log, catching myself at the last second on a nearby branch. Wrenching myself upright again, I find him watching me from under his brown hair. He's let it grow out too long over the summer, but I'm tired of reminding him to get it cut.

"If I were you, I'd stop sleeping through my tutoring sessions. Looks like that study guide I gave you went to waste, huh?" Mark refocuses on my math section in his lap. From this end of the log, I can see it's covered in red marks.

I lean back against the uprooted base of the tree, trying to slow my heartbeat. It isn't just the rude awakening that has my nerves shot. Something about the nap lingers, itching at the back of my neck and making the hairs stand on end. But just as vague details of a dream start coming back to me, Mark kicks my foot.

"Are you still asleep or something?" he jokes, shaking my practice test for emphasis. "Do you wanna know the score or not?"

It's no use. Any remaining details melt away, leaving behind a feeling of heavy apprehension. Eager to shake it off, I chalk up my sudden anxiety to first day jitters. Guess senior year is weighing on me more than I thought.

"Well, based on your scolding about the study guide, I can assume it's not great." I reach across the log and snatch his bag of jerky before he can react. "Just tell me how bad."

I tear his snack open without hesitation and pop a few pieces in my mouth. It waters as soon as the brine hits my tongue, and I commend myself once again for opting out of traditional SAT prep. Nothing beats knock off SAT prep with a best friend. In professional classes, I get stale candy; in Mark's class, I get weed and jerky.

It's a no brainer.

He clicks his tongue. "I mean, it's not awful..."

"But it doesn't scream 'acceptance letter' either." I fill in the blank for him.

"Who knows with the college boards. Maybe they'll be short on mediocre scores this year and give you a pity acceptance?"

"A girl can only dream," I sigh, tilting my head up to watch the clouds drifting above us. Their edges are saturated with pinkish hues, the tails wispy like cotton candy. We won't have much longer out here; the idea of staying past nightfall sends my paranoia spiking again.

Which isn't how I normally feel about the log; Mark has to drag me out of here at the end of most days. Located in a clearing just behind our high school, the log has been our escape since we discovered it freshman year. I've spent many a skipped classes here, as well as afternoons when I can't stand to be home. Nothing like the smell of earth and weed to clear a girl's mind.

Speaking of weed. "Hey, wait, where's the joint?"

Mark gestures to the wet mulch at my feet. "I killed the last of it. That's what you get for falling asleep."

"Great," I mumble, pushing off the log to collect my stuff. "You know, I think I'm gonna call it quits on the whole 'life' thing. I'm beginning to realize I suck at it, and it's not like I asked for this crap, anyway. Instead, I'll spend my days secluded under a grimey old bridge, demanding penance to cross and thinking back on what once was. Tell Ben he can have my old Pokemon card collection, and tell my dad that I was the one that broke his recliner. He deserves to know the truth."

Mark nods, jotting my fake request down on the back of my test. "Anything for your mom?"

I pretend to think it over. "Tell her I've lived up to her lowest expectations."

We pack our bags quickly, but I make sure the jerky ends up in mine instead of his. Shrugging them onto our shoulders, we amble down the path that leads back towards school.

"Did you do the summer readings?" I ask, matching Mark's steps as I follow behind him.

"Barely finished them last night. They're shit books this year, just a heads up."

"You'll have to fill me in. We both know I'm not gonna read them. Did you get all your chores done at home?"

Mark pushes a low hanging branch out of the way, holding it back until I pass underneath. "Completed just before I picked you up."

"And do you have work tonight?"

Mark laughs, taking his spot back in front of me. "Yes, I have a late shift. I also took my daily shit earlier. Wanna check my ass and make sure I wiped?"

I scrunch up my nose. "Hard pass. Haven't seen that ass since we were eight, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Then what's with the twenty questions?" His steps are less awkward now that the underbrush is clearing up. It's not much further to the back lot nearest the soccer field.

"Just trying to guess which excuse you'll use to not hang out tonight. I feel like I haven't seen you much over the summer."

He snorts. "We've hung out every week since May."

"Yeah, like, once a week. Since when is it not once a day?"

"For normal people, that's excessive," he points out, taking the last few steps out of the woods.

"I've been called a lot of things in my life, Mark Anderson, but I can't say normal is one of them. Seriously though, what gives—"

I run into his back when he stops short at the path's entrance. Peering around him, I find the source of his hesitation: a red pickup truck near the middle of the lot. Its driver leans against the passenger side, his focus on the phone in his hands. Strands of blonde hair stick to his forehead with sweat, while his practice jersey clings to the muscles in his torso. His body language exudes confidence, which isn't at all surprising. If there's one thing Carter Hayes doesn't lack, it's confidence.

I resist the urge to groan. Him being here can only mean one thing: he's waiting to drive me home. Simultaneously, I'm hit with a feeling of dread and excitement; dread because I have to spend a car ride with him— excitement for reasons I don't let myself think about anymore.

Begrudgingly, I move around Mark and tug him along until he falls in line beside me. All the easy-going energy leaves his body as we come up to the car. What's left is a stoic exterior.

"How'd they find out?" I ask Carter as soon as we reach the truck. I don't bother explaining further; he knows who I'm talking about.

His face is unreadable when he glances up at me, snapping his phone shut. "They were getting the mail at the same time. Your mom let it slip you were here. Just got the text from mine."

"Whoever told parents about cell phones should be shot," I mutter out the side of my mouth.

"Yeah, well, I'm exhausted and need a shower, so your assassination plans are gonna have to wait. Let's go." Carter shifts his gaze back to his phone, then the ground, then his truck. Anything but Mark standing next to me.

He hasn't said a word since we walked up to the car, and his presence weighs heavily on the interaction. Just as I move to follow Carter, Mark catches me by the elbow.

"I can drive you instead if you want," he offers, his clear blue eyes scanning my face.

Carter huffs behind us. "C'mon man, her mom—"

"I wasn't talking to you." Mark's head snaps around so fast I'm worried he's given himself whiplash. He glares steadily towards Carter, who matches it with one of his own. Though they're standing feet apart, the tension between them is thick. If they were any closer, I'd be preparing to break up a fight.

Thankfully, neither of them move. Carter eventually drags his attention away and pins it on me. "Do what you want, Amber."

He slides into the front seat and turns the ignition, but doesn't pull away. The car sits in park, and through the passenger window, I can see him staring straight ahead to avoid looking at either of us.

Mark isn't done pushing. "Seriously, I'll take you."

"He's right, Marky Mark. I don't feel like hearing her mouth if I blow him off. Besides, you'd be late for your shift."

"Your house isn't that far out the way."

"It's not out the way for him at all," I counter, fully aware it's the reason Carter drives me. Carpooling is easiest when two people live close by; it doesn't get any closer than next door neighbors.

I can see the gears turning in Mark's head as he struggles to come up with an argument. In the end, he simply sighs. "Fine. Just don't let him get to you, alright? He's never worth it."

"Truer words have never been spoken, my friend." I embrace him around the middle and lay my head against his chest. "Call me when you get home, no matter how late, okay?"

Mark's chuckle rumbles against my ear. "Will do, Mom."

He pulls away first, then shuffles off to the other side of the lot without a glance back. I watch him duck into his old station wagon until a honk makes me jump out of my skin.

"Did you miss the common decency class that teaches you honking at people is rude?" I ask as I hop into Carter's truck. The worn leather seat sinks beneath me, giving away its age.

He doesn't say anything. Before my door is closed, he peels out of the lot and turns onto the main road without slowing.

I reach back for my seatbelt. "Jeez, are you sure you got that license of yours legally? Give me the name of your test examiner. I'd like to confirm it myself."

"Go ahead. While you're at it, make an appointment for your own test so I don't have to drive you at all," he shoots back, keeping his eyes forward.

I roll mine and ignore the jab, choosing to address a more pressing matter. "You weren't kidding about needing a shower. Put your window down, I'm dying over here."

I don't bother trying my own. The truck is about a hundred years old, and the only window that works is his. It's a point of contention every time he drives me; I always want it down and he always makes me ask. Part of me suspects he keeps the passenger one broken just to annoy me.

"Gladly. It's not like you smell great, either. Ever consider bringing perfume when you blaze up behind the school?" He gives me a knowing look before turning his attention back to the road. Still, he cranks his window all the way down, letting fresh air filter through the truck.

"Blaze up? You sound like a total narc whenever you talk about drugs. Have you ever even seen a marijuana, Carter?" I throw my feet up on the dash, knowing it'll piss him off. Sure enough, he reaches over and pushes them down forcefully.

He deflects my question with one of his own. "Why are you here, anyway? You're hardly one to get a head start on the school year."

"Apparently the SAT needs prep beforehand — go figure. Mark decided to help me out, and who am I to turn down a free service." I sweep my hands around the cabin of the truck for emphasis. "Besides, I could ask you the same thing."

"Preseason," he says shortly. "Would've thought you figured that out from the uniform."

Figure it out.

The words slam against my temple, sending a blinding migraine shooting through my head. Something glimmers in the corner of my vision, but the pain is too strong to look closer. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the door handle to help keep consciousness. It's overwhelming, this sudden panic sweeping over me like a wave. I have no idea what the hell is going on, I'm just desperate for it to stop.

Breathe, I tell myself, falling back into an old routine. It's been years since the night terrors, but the mantra comes back like muscle memory. You're okay. Just breathe.

My panic spikes again when something brushes my skin. I flinch away before I realize it's Carter, his fingers hovering just above where my arm was.

"You alright?" he asks, glancing between me and the road. Concern is etched across his face, something I didn't think he could feel for me anymore.

Blinking hard, I find the headache gone. If it weren't for my heart beating rapidly against my chest, I wouldn't believe anything happened at all. Lost for words and confused as hell, I scooch closer to my window and do what Carter does best — shut people out.

"I'm fine." My tone makes it clear that I'm also done talking.

He gets the message. Sighing heavily, Carter leans against his own window and refocuses on driving.

We spend the rest of the ride in silence. My mind is still all over the place, so I use the side mirror to try and ground myself. It's hard to see my face in the reflection; I've sweated out most of my hair, leaving the curls frizzy and all over the place. I roll my eyes, their reddish-brown hue standing out against bronzed skin, the result of a summer spent working by the poolside. Anyone who says Black girls don't tan is an idiot — and probably racist.

I can just make out Carter in the corner of the mirror. Once certain he can't see me, I let myself linger. His hand is draped easily over the wheel, the other hanging out the window. Wind whips the hair around his face, drying it in the process. To someone who doesn't know him, he seems at ease, but I catch the hint of tension in his mouth. It's frustrating how I still notice the little things about him, even after all these years.

We pass Mark's street — only three over from ours — and I regret not taking him up on his offer. The ride has become increasingly uncomfortable as neither of us says a word. The radio cuts in and out from bad service, adding a nice soundtrack to an already tragic car ride. When Carter takes the turn for our street, I swing my bag onto my shoulder. I like to make quick getaways from his carpool services. My house comes before his, making me the first stop. As he idles up to the curb, I reach for the door handle, ready to escape.

"Amber, wait." Carter once again puts a hand on my arm. It burns hot where his skin meets mine, and I'm thankful for the tan that disguises my flushed cheeks. He's breaking our routine. At most, we'll mutter goodbye as I hop out, but usually no more than that.

"Let me guess, you want to carry on the fascinating conversation we've been having the whole ride over. I'm not sure I'm up for it." When he doesn't quip back or move his hand, my heart beats a little faster. "What's the matter?"

For the first time in a very long time, I meet Carter's eyes. They're the only thing that hasn't changed about him in the last eight years. Hazel, filled with different shades of greens and golds. When we were kids, I always thought they were the most mesmerizing thing about him. It's why I usually avert them now.

Carter holds me a second longer, opens his mouth, then shuts it firmly. He lets me go and stares out the windshield, and I feel the wall come down. Any moment we were having is gone.

"You owe me $7.50 for gas this week," he says finally.

I hesitate to see if he'll add anything else, but he stays quiet. With a loud huff, I throw my door open and jump down to the sidewalk. "Call my accountant. Don't be surprised if it goes straight to voicemail."

I slam the door before he has time to respond.