Fell For You

The List

The look etched on Seth Clearwater's face sits somewhere between amusement and surprise as he stares down at The List.

He lets out a low chuckle, the kind that starts in his chest and makes the corners of his mouth twitch. I tilt my head just enough to peek, trying to see which part he finds so funny. His eyes flick up, catching me.

"You weren't kidding when you said you had a list," he says, voice warm with disbelief.

"When have I ever joked about these things?" I snort, not at all in a ladylike manner, which only makes him laugh harder.

Before we get into the contents of the list, allow me to introduce myself.

My name's Melody Hope Black, and I'm about to become a freshman at La Push High — in exactly seventy-one hours and thirty-two minutes. I've pictured myself walking into those hallways like the main character of every high-school movie ever made. Popular. Cool. Effortlessly adored. But, in reality, I'm sitting somewhere at the very bottom of the social food chain. I know, bummer.

It's not my looks. Maybe. I like to think I'm above average — because, as Lucille Ball once said, "Love yourself first and everything else falls into line." I repeat that like a mantra whenever I feel like the invisible girl in a world full of sparkly, tall, perfect hair-people.

I'm five-five, petite, and my hair is long, wavy, and dark — it falls to my waist because, in my family, it's practically tradition not to cut it. I'm weirdly proud of it. My eyes are hazel brown, though you'd hardly notice unless the rare sun manages to peek through La Push's endless gray.

So yeah, I'm not hideous. But if it's not my looks, it's probably my personality. I can be too hyper, too sarcastic, too... everything. Random outbursts of anger? Unfortunately, yes. It runs in the family — but if you think I'm bad, you should meet my cousin Jake. Or worse, Paul Lahote.

Anyway, I've decided that if I'm ever going to be known in La Push High, I need a strategy — a transformation. Hence... The List.
1. Stop being childish and act my age. Which, okay, is fifteen, so that's still pretty childish, but that's not the point.
2. Never ever sing SpongeBob SquarePants in the cafeteria. Or anywhere public.
3. Tell Seth not to wave chocolate in my face, or I'll attack it — and him — without mercy.
4. Get a new lunch box. The SpongeBob one has to go.
5. When chosen by the teacher, always answer with something funny but smart enough to avoid detention. (Cool kids do that all the time in movies.)
6. Never wear the same outfit twice. Be classy, stylish, elegant, yet simple.

I show it to Seth with pure pride, like it's a sacred document that will change my life.

He chuckles again and takes a bite of pizza, crumbs clinging to his grin. We're at Pete's Local Pizza — Forks' tiny excuse for a hotspot. The smell of melted cheese and oregano floats around us, mixing with the faint scent of rain through the open window. It's the kind of place where the light hums softly and everyone talks just loud enough to pretend they're not eavesdropping.

"Are you actually gonna do all that?" he asks, barely hiding his laugh.

I shrug, trying to look serious as I reach for a slice. "If I'm ever gonna be known in my only high school, then yeah — this is what I must do. Even if chocolate's involved." I pout a little, mourning the future loss of cafeteria cocoa bars.

I know what you're thinking — why go through all that trouble for high school? It's only four years, right? But in my family, every female leaves behind a legacy. My mom was the most popular girl at La Push High. She won four volleyball trophies. My cousin Sarah — basically my sister — was school captain and homecoming queen in the same year. Even my grandmother was in one of those old-timey black-and-white commercials.

So yeah, expectations. Everyone says it doesn't matter, but when you grow up in a house full of framed photos of "the most admired girls in La Push history," it kind of does.

Even the principal looked at me during registration like I was the next big thing. "Another Black girl," he'd said, smiling, as if that already guaranteed I'd be a legend. No pressure or anything.

Middle school was painfully normal. The only thing I was famous for was an eating contest that scarred half the boys who watched it.

Seth wipes his hands with a napkin, looking at me with mock seriousness. "Come on, Mel. This is stupid — no offense. You'll be remembered. You already are. You're that awesome, cute nerd everyone adores."

I smile at him. "If only life was that simple. But this is the twenty-first century. Teens drive cars worth five times my mom's best accessory. They wear tight clothes, perfect makeup, and boots that cost two hundred dollars — and they only wear them once a year." I sigh dramatically. "I have to be prepared for everything. Now, do you wanna see my 'Friend Approach Plan'?"

He groans. "Mel..."

I reach for my bag, but he grabs it first, holding it hostage with that smug grin of his.

"Come on, you're not average," he says. "You're Melody Hope Black. You've been class captain since third grade, you won the spelling bee, the eating contest, and you topped every subject in middle school. How can anyone not notice you?"

I grin so wide it hurts. "You really know how to cheer me up, don't you?"

He shrugs, pretending he doesn't care. "I try."

"But I'm still keeping my list."

He lets out a relieved sigh. "Fine. As long as I don't have to read the 'Friendship Approach Plan.'"

I gasp, clutching my chest in mock offense. "Hey! I worked all night on that!"

He smirks. "And I care because...?"

I purse my lips, trying not to laugh. "Because you love me," I say, all matter-of-fact.

He leans on his elbow, running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. His dark eyes meet mine with a teasing gleam. Any other girl would melt under that look — but me? I'm biting my lip, trying not to burst out laughing.

"Do I?" he says softly, pausing just long enough to make me raise a brow. Then he grins. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

That's it. I lose it. I start laughing so hard I nearly fall off the booth. A few people turn to stare — a woman shakes her head, some teens snicker — but Seth only smiles wider, amused by my chaos.

"What?" he says, pretending to be offended.

"I—S—Seth—what's with—the hair—thing?" I wheeze between laughs.

"I read on Google that girls dig that," he replies, dead serious.

I'm laughing so hard tears sting my eyes. "C-come on, you doofus. I have to drop a book off at the library," I say, pulling him up from his seat.

He groans but follows as I drag him outside. The cold air hits my face, crisp and sharp, smelling faintly of wet asphalt. I pull my jacket tighter around me, trying not to grin too hard.

"Oh, come on, I had one slice left," he protests.

"'Girls dig that,'" I mimic, and lean against the brick wall, laughing harder.

He rolls his eyes but still smiles, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "Pssh. Have you seen me? Girls fall for this."

"Mm-mm. Not even close."

He growls playfully. "Oh, that's it!"

I dart away before he can grab me, laughing as my sneakers slap against the damp sidewalk. "Missed me!" I call back, sticking my tongue out.

He chases me, his laughter echoing off the shopfronts. We weave through the crowd, dodging strangers, our footsteps quick and uneven, breathless and free. The street smells of rain and pizza and something electric — that kind of teenage happiness that feels like it'll last forever.

Maybe one day I'll stop being childish when school starts.
But for now, I'm not ready to.