Daydream: A Novel (The Maple Hills Series Book 3)
Chapter 4

I FEEL LIKE I’M AT a One Direction concert and not in a good way.

My stepsister has a whole host of talents: gymnastics, bringing back a plant from the brink of death, and weirdly, being able to hustle anyone out of their money during a game of pool, but I can confidently say singing is not one of them. The smooth vocals of Zayn are being replaced by the out-of-tune and out-of-time screeching emitting from my laptop speaker. “Gigi,” I say with a groan, turning down the volume.

She can’t hear me over the sound of “What Makes You Beautiful” being brutally murdered, or more likely, she’s ignoring me. “Gi!” I repeat, louder this time as my eyes scan the same line for the third time. “Gianna Scott! Could you please shut the hell up?”

The music stops abruptly, and I watch as she focuses back on our video call. “Did you say something?”

“I can’t concentrate on your essay when you sound like Joy when she’s hungry.” I don’t even think she’s old enough to remember One Direction being a band, but Mom found all my old CDs while cleaning out the garage, and now they’re Gigi’s latest fixation.

“What if I wanted to be a singer? What if you just crushed my dreams and became my villain origin story?” She sits up in her desk chair to fold her arms across her chest, a symbol of defiance, I guess. Her thick brown curls are secured in braids down each side of her face, tied with pink ribbons that sit right above the logo on her swea—

“Oh my God, that’s my sweatshirt! What did I say about going through my things when I’m at college? It isn’t even your size!”

“How’s my essay?” she asks, deflecting entirely the way only a fifteen-year-old with no fear can.

“I haven’t finished it yet because I can’t focus through your performance. Just be quiet for five minutes and then I’ll be done, and you can get back to your concert.” Gigi pinches her thumb and forefinger together, sliding them across her lips like a zipper, and I get back to reading about Orwell’s 1984. “Thank you.”

I get two lines in before her fingers drum against the desk as she hums what sounds like the tune of “Best Song Ever.”

Sighing dramatically so she knows how annoying she is, I mute her.

Getting Gigi to listen to the audiobook this summer was practically a full-time job, so I’m quietly proud of her for finishing her essay on time. I’ve been helping her with her schoolwork since our parents got married when she was five. I was the one who originally suspected she was dyslexic and had ADHD, and the one who worked with her for hours practicing dictation until she mastered it.

Now I’m her unqualified tutor because, according to my mom and Paul, her dad, I’m the only person Gigi listens to. Which, as I unmute her and immediately hear her blasting “Midnight Memories,” I can confirm is a lie.

They claim she needs academic reassurance. As well as all the assurances I give when they call me begging for me to “talk some sense into her.” Paul has full-time custody of Gigi because Lucia, Gigi’s mom, gets posted overseas often and it isn’t guaranteed Gigi would get the academic support she needs if she moved to different schools. As nice as he is, Paul has no idea how to handle a teenage girl and my mom wants an easy life, which teen-me gave her, so it’s easier for her to send Gigi in my direction. Maisie, our shared half sister, is too quiet to be any kind of threat to Mom’s peace. Grayson was a nightmare teenager, always fighting and getting into trouble, but my mom looks back on it with rose-tinted glasses because he’s her golden boy.

“It’s great, Gi. Good job! Gianna.” Of all the things I need to do in a week, getting through this video call with a child who clearly is less interested in it than I am is the most stressful. “Gianna, for God’s sake!”

The music stops again. “You’re very stressy today, Hallebear. What ever happened to gentle parenting?”

“Well, I’m not your parent, for starters, and you may replace this surprising, but reading about how Orwell’s vision of a dystopian future written in 1949 stands against the reality of today is not my idea of a fun Wednesday night.”

“Why?” she asks, spinning around on her desk chair. “What other options do you have? I saw Will pregaming a party on his story, so I know he’s not with you.”

The casual mentioning of my ex knocks me for a moment, and it’s a sad reminder that I haven’t had the courage to tell my family we broke up yet. I love my sister, and ordinarily I’d share my life with her, but I know as soon as she needs to divert my mom’s attention she’ll throw my breakup to her like throwing a dog a bone.

It might seem foolish to assume any parent of a college-age child would be that invested in their love life, or loveless life in my case, but my mom sends me pictures of wedding dresses for fun.

In the theme of keeping secrets, I also haven’t told Gigi about the writing competition. That’s less about her snitching to my mom, though, and more about the fact I have no freaking clue where to start. All I’ve ever wanted to be is an author, and I can’t even decide on what story to write for the competition. I have so many ideas that I genuinely thought it would be easy, but nothing feels right. It doesn’t exactly fill me full of hope about my chances of winning a place in that course. Every single resource I’ve looked at says write what you know, and, as it turns out, I happen to know very little.

“I was invited to a party.” I don’t know why it sounds like I’m lying when I’m not, but there’s a hint of I can’t quite believe it in my voice. It’s enough to stop Gigi’s incessant chair spinning and for her to dramatically plant her hands on her desk, and drop her jaw in shock. “And I think I’m going to go.”

“Since when do you go to parties without Will?” She picks up her laptop and carries it with her as she drops onto her bed, tilting it onto its side as she lies against her pillows. “Who are you going with? Where are you going? Is it a book club thing?”

“Cami—the girl I work with—invited me. It isn’t a book club thing; I think it’s the basketball team or something. I can’t remember.” Can’t remember being code for the fact Cami said the name of the guy who’s throwing the party and I have no idea who it is, so I’m guessing from the basketball emoji she sent. “So, yeah. More interesting than high school English homework.”

Her surprise isn’t even that insulting because it’s very un-me. “What are you going to wear?”

This is the thing I love about Gigi—she doesn’t dwell on things. Once she’s processed it, she rushes on to the next thing. The next thing being telling me I can’t wear what I wanted to wear because it makes me look like an elementary school teacher.

“Maybe I want to look like an elementary school teacher.” I do not.

“And maybe you watched Matilda too much in your formative years. Can you borrow something from your friend?”

“I don’t really know if she’s my friend, so I don’t know if it’s okay to ask to share her stuff. Plus, she’s really slim, so realistically no.”

One of Gigi’s eyebrows creeps up to allude to her confusion. “What do you mean you don’t know if she’s your friend? She invited you to a party.”

How am I supposed to explain to a fifteen-year-old—who once called our mailman her friend because she sees him every day and, to her, that’s friendship—that making friends is not easy for every person? Especially as an adult when it’s difficult as hell? That there are new categories that spring up with no instructions? That it’s a directionless minefield that I’ve been failing to navigate since birth?

Cami is great, but is she a work colleague? Is she a work friend? Is she a friend that I also work with?

I could obsess over this for hours. I have obsessed over this for hours before. “Why couldn’t you have just let me live in ignorance?” I ask, not entirely talking about my outfit given how my friendship status is the main thing on my mind.

“What kind of sister would I be if I let you go to a party looking like Miss Honey’s socially inept twin?” she says playfully.

“A good one, because I don’t think I have an alternative. And hey! I’m not socially inept. I’m just out of practice.”

Out of practice feels like an understatement. I used to go to parties with Will at his college, and he’d encourage me to get ready with the girlfriends of his teammates. I’d go, I’d try, and no matter how hard I did try, I’d never had a good time. I just didn’t fit into his college life as his girlfriend the way I’d fit into his high school life as his friend. I don’t know exactly what I did wrong, but Will eventually stopped encouraging me to get ready with them. Or they stopped inviting me, I don’t know.

Sighing, Gigi rolls onto her back and balances her laptop against her knees, giving me the perfect view of the top of her head and a poster for a K-pop band I’ve never heard of on the wall above her bed. “Okay, well, I’m going to go, because watching you spiral is bumming me out and I have math homework to do.”

“Drop a bomb and leave why don’t you.”

“You’ll be fine. Love you. Bye, Hallebear. Make good choices.”

The top of Gigi’s head disappears as she ends the video call and I sit for five minutes working out the best thing to do. I finally admit defeat and pull out my phone to text Cami.

CAMI WALKER

Hey. Thanks for the invite but I don’t have anything to wear

My sister says I look like Miss Honey

miss honey was my ex’s bisexual awakening and i only have enough energy to think about one person who doesn’t want me anymore currently

ava (one of my roommates) said she has stuff you can wear

Oh, thanks! What size?

i’d say she’s a couple of sizes bigger than you, but she literally has every size bc she’s a fashion student/long-term clothes hoarder

Are you sure she doesn’t mind?

i don’t know her SUPER well yet bc i’ve only lived with her since last month, but she’s so chill and she said she’s excited to dress you up

so anyway let me know when you’re outside bc our building can be a pain to get into

*Location Shared*

also don’t be alarmed but i dyed my hair red and it’s the patchiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life

i’ve been dyeing it blond since i was 14 but i have a salon appointment to fix it in the morning.

feel free to come and keep me company

My trust issues have me sprinting to see which Avas Cami follows because I’ve been stung by the “oh, you’re basically the same size” so many times in my life, and it’s always by someone significantly smaller than I am. Thankfully, the first picture on her page is with a girl called Ava Jones, and one minute of scrolling through her page soothes all my worries.

CAMI WALKER

I’ll let you know when I’m on my way

Cami hearts my message and I drag myself from the sofa to get ready. Joy is following me around, confused probably, because I never do anything this late. She’s easily distracted by the food in her dish, and I use the freedom from her weaving around my feet to check every closet for an emergency outfit just in case Ava doesn’t have anything I like.

When I come up with nothing, I admit that maybe something new might be a good thing.

ON THE DRIVE TO THE party there was a split second, honestly just a tiny blip, where I had the urge to call Will.

It caught me off guard more than anything because I’ve done my best to push him to the back of my mind since I had my “new starts” last week at book club and work. Rationalizing, with some encouragement from Cami, that if he wants to say we can still be friends, he needs to put the effort in to be my friend. As it goes, I haven’t heard from him at all, and I’ve adjusted to not reaching for my phone to text him when I wake up.

In that blip, I think I wanted his reassurance that I was going to have fun. As the car moved through familiar-looking streets and Cami talked about people I don’t know with her roommates, I began to feel like I did going to all those parties in San Diego.

It’s funny that with a different house, different people, different school entirely, I still managed to feel like the outsider.

Until we stepped out of the car and Cami linked her arm with mine, reassuring me that she wouldn’t leave my side unless I decided to make some poor life choices with someone from the basketball team. She said it was a shame we only met now, because her favorite player just graduated.

Her intuitiveness about how I’m feeling soothes me. Earlier, when Ava suggested I wear something that was so far from what I’d normally wear, Cami sensed my hesitation and was the one to suggest something different.

Having a group of women to get ready with—ones who seem to want me there in the first place—is what I’ve always wanted. Maybe I watched too much TV growing up, but it always seemed like the pinnacle of girlhood, and I’ve always felt like I’ve missed out.

The party is like others I’ve been to. Hot, overcrowded, and full of drunk college students. Kaia and Poppy, Cami’s other roommates, put themselves in charge of “drinks and fun” the second we walked through the door—which roughly translates to more liquor than is smart and games that make me laugh so hard my sides hurt.

“Three, two, one… drink!”

Poppy blinks rapidly and grimaces as she struggles to swallow the contents of her cup for failing to replace a basketball quicker than Ava.

“Halle and Cami,” Kaia says, scanning the room. “Your quest is…”

“Oh, so they’re quests now?” Cami says, pushing her—sort of blond but sort of red?—hair over her shoulder as she laughs.

“I mean, quest sounds more noble and honorable than calling it a dare,” Kaia argues. “Roll with it! Your quest… is go get someone’s phone number. Three, two, one, go go go.”

I’m taking a sip of my drink when Cami immediately runs into the crowd of people. “Shit,” is the only thing I manage to say as I run off in a different direction. It’s not until I take a second to take in the guys in the room that I realize what I’m doing.

I’ve literally never asked for a guy’s number in my life.

And that’s when I spot him. Henry. Staring at his phone in the corner of the room alone. Considering he’s the only other person at this party whose name I know, I suspect it’ll be so much easier to explain to him why I need his number.

But as I’m about to head over, a girl approaches and hands him a Solo cup. She’s much shorter than my five-foot-ten height, I’d guess half a foot smaller. She has long brown hair and a gorgeous smile. He leans in to whisper something into her ear and she laughs, and for some unknown reason, I feel a tiny bit put out.

“Hi. You look lost.” Turning to my left, I immediately spot the guy talking to me. Much taller than me, probably about the same difference as Henry and the girl he’s with. “I’m Mason.”

I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol… No. That’s a lie. It’s definitely the alcohol that gives me the confidence. “Can I have your number?” I ask.

He holds out his hand. “Sure. Do I get your name before I give you my number?”

“It’s Halle.”

“Pretty name,” he says as he types his digits into my cell phone. The fact that he saves his name with both a basketball and an eggplant emoji tells me everything I need to know about this guy, but who am I to judge, I guess.

“Thanks,” I say over my shoulder as I’m running back to the girls. Cami joins the others a second before me and I don’t even wait to be encouraged to take the shot. I’m not someone who’s ever partied, which means every drink feels like five. Even in high school, if someone threw a party when their parents were out of town, I’d be Will’s designated driver.

“Gimme your phone,” Cami says seriously. I don’t question it as I hand it over and she navigates to my contacts. She taps on Mason’s recently saved number and hovers over the delete contact button with her thumb. “Do you like toxic men?”

“Huh?”

Kaia laughs and nods in the direction of Mason across the room talking to someone else. “Toxic men. Do you like them? Is your life being ruined by a fuck boy something that you want to experience in college?”

It isn’t something I’ve ever had to consider. “Uh, I don’t think so. No, no I don’t want anyone toxic. Why?”

Cami’s thumb taps the screen to delete the number and hands me back my phone. “Then I just saved your life. One of the housekeepers at the hotel has a sister who dated him, and let’s just say he isn’t for the weak hearted.”

Of course I picked out the guy in a room full of guys who is likely to ruin my life. Not that I would have called him, but it’s good to know that my natural instinct for self-preservation is zero. “Thank you?”

“You are so welcome!” Cami says happily.

I take another huge sip and Poppy wraps her arm around my shoulders. “This is why I don’t date men.”

“And this is why I hate them,” Kaia adds, sighing dramatically. “But I do date them… unfortunately. It’s my main character flaw, but nobody is perfect.”

I don’t know whether it’s the buzz from the drinks or the high from being surrounded by fun people who seem to be genuinely happy I’m here, but my brain doesn’t stop me when Henry walks toward the stairs alone in my line of vision. “What do you think of that guy?”

“Who?” Poppy asks. “Henry Turner?”

Oh crap. “Do you guys know everyone?”

They all look into their cups. Cami is the first person to break. “I don’t know him, know him. But I know of him. And his reputation. A very positive one, nothing like Mason, but well earned if rumors are to be believed. He’s… popular on campus. With women.”

“I think he’s nice,” Ava says, interrupting Cami. “I had a class with him last year. He’s quiet. Sweet.”

“I think he’s hot,” Kaia says. “Like really, unreasonably hot.”

“My friend is dating his roommate, Russ. Do you want me to replace out about him?” Poppy asks.

It’s in that moment that I realize how entangled the Maple Hills web is. I don’t mention to Poppy that I know Aurora, too, or that Henry was talking to someone earlier anyway. I just down the rest of my drink and put the cup on the counter. “What’s my next quest?”