“Who wants Carolyn Potter’s famous apple pie?” Jess asks, waving the piece of paper over his head. Whatever is printed on it seems to have Willow in a state of thrill, joy, or frenzy. It’s hard to tell amid the dancing and jumping she’s doing as she takes the paper from Jess’s hands.

“Holy shit! It’s back!” she says, pounding on the hood of Elise’s car as she pulls into the lot next to our cars.

“What the hell, Will? Let me put it in park before you start going all morning-person on me,” Elise says, dragging her heavy backpack and flute case from the back seat and finally shutting the door behind her. “Okay, what’s got you all…this way?” Elise waves her hand in Willow’s direction, her face twisted with an annoyance I can truly appreciate. Willow is shot out of a cannon in the mornings, but Elise is more my speed—slow to wake, in need of caffeine, and not much for public happy-dancing at six in the morning.

“I think this will change your mind,” Willow says, handing the flyer to Elise. I watch her eyes graze over the words, and the more she reads, the more her lips curve until she’s smiling so big she’s actually showing teeth.

“No. Way!” she says, shoving the paper into my hands. “We’re going, right? We’re all totally going. Oh my god, this week cannot end fast enough!”

I straighten the heavy pack on my back and read over the flyer now in my possession.

WILSON ORCHARD APPLE FEST

“Is this that thing? That story you guys told me about?” I ask, my focus solely on the part of that story that had to do with Owen—and how this one event changed his life forever. This festival is like the moment he told me my dad was spending time with another woman, and I can’t imagine reliving that moment again—ever!

I wonder if Owen’s seen a flyer like this one?

“Yes! That’s it! Oh my god, Kens. You have to come with us,” Willow says, looping her arm in mine as we trek up the hill to the music room. She’s only focusing on the festive part, completely missing my point.

“I don’t know. I’m not really into carnival games and things like that,” I say, still thinking about Owen. I want to find him before he finds out, to take him away until the festival is over and done—so he can never know it came back again in the first place.

“It’s not just the games and the rides. Kens, oh my god, the freaking apple pies! You have to come, just for a little while. At least go and eat with us?” Willow is actually making a pouty face, her bottom lip jutted out, and her eyes practically watering with sadness.

“It is a lot of fun,” Elise adds, nudging me with her arm as we walk through the band-room door. She starts to walk backward to face me. “Ryan will want to go, so we’ll all be there. And he never likes to stay at things long, so we can totally take you home early if you want to leave. Come with us?”

Elise isn’t full-on begging; that’s not her style. But I can tell she really wants me to join them, and I get the sense this is a meaningful thing for my new group of friends—a part of their past they want to share with me. I need friends, good friends that don’t lie to me. So I nod yes, and Willow practically squeals in my ear with excitement.

Mr. Brody makes a few attempts to play through some of our songs, but band rehearsals are ultimately cut short, the entire class seemingly abuzz with news that the apple fest is back. And when Mr. Brody announces that the band will actually be playing in a mini parade down the orchard road to open the festival on Saturday morning, you would think we were invited to star in the half-time show for the Super Bowl. Everyone was so excited.

With the band performing, I no longer have an excuse to miss—at least not the opening of the festival—so I resolve myself to the fact that I’m going to at least get a really good slice of pie out of this deal, and then I hold my breath and wait for my next class. I pray somehow word of the festival hasn’t made it to him yet.

I’m not sure whether it’s good news or bad news that Owen missed our morning classes. I’m hoping it was because of work, or something else non-festival related. When I see him climb up to sit on top of one of the outside tables at lunch, I feel the weight rise from my chest.

I position myself so I can glance at him from my periphery out the window while we eat lunch, and my body flushes the few times I catch his gaze on me. Every time I look his direction, he seems to be smiling. I also notice that, unlike other days during the lunch hour, there doesn’t seem to be a girl in his arms, no one entertaining his lips, grinding on his lap, or kissing at his neck. And that makes me happy, too.