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through my head. I’d never be the one to make her laugh so hard, soda shot out of her nose. Or pry her hands from her eyes during The Blair Witch Project . We’d never go on the Zipper at the St. Mary’s carnival so many times in a row we’d want to hurl. Memories. Packed up tight in a little box, shoved away like the cards. Done.
    â€œI want you to be happy, Hannah. I just don’t want to see it,” I said, backing away. I saw in her eyes this was a direct hit. They sharpened, lost just a bit of their light.
    I resisted the urge to apologize, and left.

THREE
MADISON
    YEARBOOK WAS MOSTLY PAINLESS, EXCEPT WHEN we had our bimonthly deadline meetings. Piper Murray, editor in chief, liked to call them “socials” to make them sound more fun, but they were really just deadline check-ins with Chips Ahoy! and Red Bull. The yearbook office was a forgotten room in the basement of Sacred Heart. On any given day, the heat either blasted or was nonexistent, and the awful fluorescent lighting made everyone look like zombie apocalypse survivors. At least we didn’t have to share it with another club.
    We sat around a long table, noshing on cookies and waiting for Piper, who was busy staring at her bulletin board of multicolored Post-its with the same concentration you would expect from a warlord devising a plan of attack. I entertained myself by continuing a mehndi-inspired floral design I’dstarted earlier in the day on the back of my hand with a dark brown Koh-I-Noor pen.
    I was officially on design staff and didn’t need to be at both monthly editorial meetings, but it was cool hanging out with Jazz and Wren. The three of us were in the running for editor positions next year when we were seniors. Aside from looking excellent on my college app, being in charge of design was something I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into. I figured an interest in every facet of production would help my cause.
    Piper grabbed a neon-blue Post-it and planted it on the desk next to me.
    It had Sadie Hawkins Dance written in bold letters.
    â€œWhat’s this?” I finished the vine on my hand with a spiral and looked up.
    â€œMarissa Teller was originally supposed to handle the Sadie Hawkins Dance section, but she’s going on a ski trip with her family. I need you to take photos for the layout.”
    Wren covered her mouth but failed to conceal a quickly growing grin.
    â€œThis is your doing,” I said, pointing at her. She had already tried to rally both Jazz and me to go to the dance since she was working it for Spirit Club.
    â€œNo, swear,” she said, raising her right hand. “I’m writing the copy for the section. Although, I thought Jazz could help too—there should be a sidebar with the history of the dance, don’t you think?”
    Jazz glared at Wren over her laptop. Once something was said in front of Piper, there was no turning back.
    â€œWhen is this?” I asked.
    â€œNext Friday.” A chorus of voices around the table answered.
    â€œI don’t get the whole Sadie Hawkins thing; I mean, technically, since we’re an all-girls school, isn’t every dance a Sadie Hawkins dance?” Jazz asked.
    â€œTrue, but still—we need this. Between winter and midterms, this dance is the only social event until prom. It’s way better than some Valentine’s BS with balloon hearts,” Piper said. “Maybe you could somehow work that angle in the copy. Wren, how were you thinking of incorporating the theme?”
    Wren shuffled through a couple of the pages in her notebook, stopped at one and put her finger on it. “I was thinking ‘On the Edge of . . . Romance’?”
    â€œToo banal,” Piper said, waving her hand. “Dig deeper, what were you going to write about? I want it to be more than just the basic ‘There was a band and cupcakes.’”
    â€œOf course. I planned on interviewing couples to see