We're a Bad Idea, Right?

CHAPTER 1

The hot shop was not the place to zone out, but I couldn’t stop myself from doing it anyway. “Holly?” I heard Henry’s voice, as if from a distance, while I stared into the furnace at the mesmerizing melting pot of sand, soda, and lime—­or, in one word: glass. Molten glass, which had taken hours to heat to a balmy two thousand degrees. Sweat was beading on my forehead even though I hadn’t technically started working.

Henry, again: “Holly? Are you okay?”

Don’t you have something else to ask me? I thought, but in­stead I blinked, as if I’d looked at the sun too long. “That’s not my name,” I said, for only the millionth time.

“Oh, right,” Henry said from behind me. His voice suggested a smirk. “Sorry, Sabrina.”

“Try again, Hank,” I replied, sliding the furnace’s hatch shut before turning to look at Henry perched on the nearby workbench’s stool. His thick black hair was tousled, ready for his GQ photo shoot, but his mouth had thinned into a straight line.

Because if there was one thing my dear friend Henry Chen hated in this world, it was being called Hank. We’d only known each other a year and change, but from the way we teased each other, it felt like much longer.

“What’s up?” he asked after I drained my dented water bottle in three glugs. “You seem pretty out of it.”

“I had a nightmare last night.” I rolled my tense shoulders back. “And I can’t seem to shake it.”

“Really? I always kick mine the second I wake up.”

I gave him a look. Henry had once told me that as soon as his head hit the pillow at night, his eyelids didn’t flutter until his alarm went off in the morning. If only I were that lucky.

“Okay, okay.” Henry shifted on the stool, offering me his full and undivided attention. “What was your nightmare about, Princess Anne?”

That one took me a second. I wasn’t well versed in Audrey Hepburn’s filmography, the source of Henry’s ridiculous nicknames. It turned out sharing a name with the Old Hollywood star made for endless quips from my best friend.

Roman Holiday? I guessed silently, then said, “It’s not just the plot; it’s that this is now the third time I’ve had this nightmare.”

Henry lifted an eyebrow. “Down to the last detail?”

“Down to the last detail,” I confirmed, crouching on the hot shop’s concrete floor. I traced the chalk drawing of a strawberry-­shaped paperweight—­what I’d fired up the furnace to blow—­then spoke. “It always starts with Griff calling—­”

Henry raised his hand.

“What?”

“You’re categorizing this as a nightmare,” he said. “But it’s al­ready sounding more like a dream.”

I rolled my eyes but felt a thrill at the thought of Griffin Keeler’s name popping up on my phone, the same thrill I always felt when we texted. Not only was he our school’s star quarter­back, he was also our coworker at the local catering company . . . and blissfully unaware of my crush on him.

The whole scenario fell just short of cliché, but I couldn’t help it.

Hey, Audrey! I could almost hear Griff’s upbeat voice in my ear, a flirtatious lilt to it. I have the house to myself . . .

Losing a battle with a blush, I said, “He asks if I want to come over and try the sugar cookies he’s baking.”

“Ah, so it is a nightmare.” Henry nodded. “Griff’s sugar cookies taste like sand, remember?”

How could I forget? Back in the fall, Griff had made a batch of atrocious cookies for the football team’s bake sale. “They were blander than bland,” I agreed. “So then I drive over to his house—­”

“In Brigitta? Or the Spider?”

I groaned. “Will you shut up and listen?”

Henry held up his hands, as if to say, Well, excuse me.

“The Spider,” I answered, another sign that this was a dream gone wrong. Unlike Brigitta, my beloved VW station wagon (named after one of the Sound of Music children), my parents’ Fiat Spider was a manual. And driving stick was not my forte.

Finally satisfied with the visual, Henry dropped his hands and settled in for story time.

The nightmare goes like this: I drive Brigitta over to Griff’s house. On the phone, he said he was home alone, but my stomach sinks when I pull up and see two cars in the driveway. Maybe his family just got back . . . ? I hesitate before unbuckling my seat belt. It isn’t that I don’t like the Keelers; I’m just not used to all the parental attention. My mom isn’t the type to “check in” every half hour under the guise of delivering snacks.

My eyebrows knit together as I make my way up the front walk and notice the wide-­open yellow front door. I kick off my Nikes in the foyer. “Hello?” I call into the kitchen.

No reply, but then: “Audrey!”

It’s Griff, thankfully, and it sounds like he’s upstairs.

“Did you finish the cookies?” I joke, because there’s a distinct lack of fresh-­baked-­cookies scent.

“Nah,” comes Griff’s voice. “I spaced and forgot to preheat the oven.”

I can’t remember climbing the stairs, but a wave of heat hits me on the second-­floor landing. Goose bumps burst on my skin, and dramatic clouds of steam billow out of the bathroom.

“Be out in a minute!” Griff shouts over the running water. “I’m jumping in for a quick rinse.”

Griffin Keeler in the shower, I think as the air grows thicker—­heady, even. My mind makes a sharp, off-­limits turn. Is he a shampoo-­then-­body-­wash guy? Or body-­wash-­then-­shampoo?

A blink later, the steam shifts into flashy yellow-­orange flames that lick the hallway walls. “Griff!” I screech. “Griff, get out! The house is on fire!”

And since this is a warped dream and not real life, I sprint into the bathroom sans fire extinguisher . . .

The Keelers’ hallway carpet suddenly turns into cold concrete under my socked feet, and the flames flicker and then burn out as I barrel into my hot shop. My heart rate slows, and I try to reorient myself amid the swift scene change. The space isn’t very big; when we moved to Essex Harbor last year, my parents let me convert the guesthouse garage into a hot shop. “You’ve been such a trooper about the move, kiddo . . .” my dad said, even though I didn’t feel like the permission was his to bestow. This house feels like my mom’s.

Everything looks normal in my dream:: the circular furnace in the far corner wrapped in sheet metal with a silver hood and cylindrical venting duct disappearing up through the ceiling. Its sliding hatch door is closed, no lava currently swirling inside. I glance over at the hot shop’s equipment stall, where I store my long blow­pipes.

Like a fishhook in my heart, I feel the longing tug I always feel in my workshop . . .

Only to be interrupted by a loud crash from my left. I spin to see my mother standing in front of the shelf of finished glasswork, near the candlesticks. There’s shattered blue glass on the floor. “Mom!” I blurt.

“Oh, Audrey, relax.” She waves her hand. “It wasn’t your best one.”

The back of my neck prickles. She isn’t wrong; my candlesticks aren’t good enough for Etsy yet, but they’re getting better.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, because while the guesthouse is directly overhead, my mom isn’t a regular hot shop visitor.

She takes a step toward my vases. “Your father and I need a wedding present for the Keelers,” she answers. “Their registry wasn’t very inspiring.”

A hard lump forms in my throat when she taps a pink ombré vase only for it to effortlessly tip over and smash. “I posted that this morning,” I whisper. “It’s my most expensive piece.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry . . .” My mom now assesses my drinkware. Rocks glasses are really popular come Father’s Day, so I’m stockpiling them. “I’ll take four of these,” she says. “Griffin and his fiancée apparently like bourbon.”

My heart twinges. Wait, what? Griff is getting married?

“I also saw you got a C on your statistics exam,” my mom continues, but now it’s my father’s voice coming out of her mouth. “That won’t cut it, Audrey. Wharton won’t like that.”

Again, what? I suddenly feel like smashing glass myself.

“I got an A!” I object, as if it even matters—­I only have a month left of high school. “And Wharton can’t wait for me to set foot on campus . . .” I drop my voice to a mutter. “Unfortunately.”

“Pardon?” A third voice says, and Henry, of all people, walks into the hot shop. He’s wearing a version of his typical ensemble: a black T-shirt with a pair of perfectly tailored stone-­colored trousers (with Henry, it’s never pants). There isn’t a single scuff mark on his leather loafers. They must be new.

“Henry, hello.” My mom is still speaking with my dad’s voice. “Please tell Audrey she can’t skip college to make glass.”

“It’s blow glass,” I correct her. “I blow glass, not make glass.”