Mr. Marin kissed the top of Hanna’s head. “Thank you so much.”
Don’t thank me quite yet, Hanna thought uneasily. She walked into the square, looking around. Kids were still playing Frisbee. Girls giggled over a magazine, not even glancing at their phones. What if Kate was right? What if nothing did happen? She could picture it: Kate, her evil cronies, and the band standing on the pavilion, staring out at an empty courtyard. Her father looking disappointedly at Hanna, losing all faith in her. Tomorrow Hanna would be the laughingstock of Rosewood Day—and her dad’s campaign.
When she was almost to the band shell, three girls wandered into the square, holding their phones and looking around. A couple of the guys slammed their textbooks shut and meandered over, curious looks on their faces. Two kids rolled up on skateboards. Hanna caught snippets of their conversation: Is something happening? Did you see that on Twitter? Who posted it? Someone get Sebastian. He’ll know.
Suddenly it was like a stampede. Kids poured out of the dining hall, emerged from the dorms, streamed in from late classes. A group of girls in sorority sweatshirts gathered under a big oak tree plastered with carvings. Some guys chugging beers from inside paper bags shoved one another by a board covered in advertisements for roommates, yoga lessons, and free tutoring services. Everyone was staring at their phones, their fingers moving over the keyboards. Retweeting. Asking what was up. Gathering more people.
Yes.
Kate turned around on the stage. When she saw the crowd, her mouth settled into a straight, annoyed line. Hanna gave her a triumphant three-fingered wave, then sent out a text telling her dad’s aides that they could start circulating with voter registration forms and flyers. A few minutes later, the band began to play. Thankfully, despite their ugliness, they were pretty good, and everyone started to bounce to the music. A green banner that advertised Mr. Marin’s campaign rose in the air. When Eggplant Supercar—they seriously needed a new name—finished a song, the lead singer roared into the microphone: “Let’s hear it for Tom Marin!” and Mr. Marin walked onto the stage and waved, the crowd actually cheered.
Hanna let the sound wash over her body. Maybe this would win her dad the election. Maybe Hanna had a future in campaign management. She pictured herself on the cover of Vanity Fair in a sleek Armani suit. Visiting the White House. Riding on Air Force One, wearing big Jackie O sunglasses . . .
“This band is decent,” said a voice.
Hanna jumped. A tall, lanky guy with wavy brown hair, dark eyebrows that framed kind, sparkling brown eyes, and a square, superhero-esque jaw stood beside her. He wore a faded navy T-shirt that said HYDE across the chest, slim-cut jeans, and a beat-up pair of Sperry Top-Siders. He was also standing close enough to Hanna that she could smell his Tom Ford Azure Lime cologne, her absolute favorite. He looked familiar for some reason, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe she’d had a dream about him or something. He was definitely hot.
“Do you know the band’s name?” the guy asked, his eyes still fixed on Hanna.
“Um, Eggplant Supercar,” Hanna answered, absently twirling a piece of auburn hair around her finger. Thank God she’d recently had it highlighted at Henri Flaubert at the King James.
“I like them.” The guy pushed his hands into his pockets. “Hyde doesn’t usually do cool stuff like this. I think we’ve been voted Most Boring Campus in a bunch of magazines, actually.”
Hanna took a breath, about to tell him that he could thank her for setting the whole thing up, when suddenly three burly guys holding beer cans cut between them. After they passed, the boy pushed around a couple of bodies to stand next to Hanna again. “Doesn’t the singer look exactly like Bert from Sesame Street?” he asked, pointing to the guy with the elongated head. He was fondling the microphone like he was in love with it.
“Totally.” Hanna giggled. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Of course, I shouldn’t talk,” the boy said sheepishly. “People used to call me Harry Potter when I was growing up.”
“Really?” Hanna cocked her head and inspected him. He was tall but not too tall, and his limbs were long and lanky without being too skinny. “I don’t really see a resemblance.”
“I used to wear these goofy wire-rimmed glasses when I was younger. I picked them out at the eye doctor myself. You would’ve thought my mom would have been a little smarter, but instead she was like, Get them!”
Hanna giggled. “When I wore glasses, I chose fuchsia plastic frames and pink lenses. I looked like I had a disease. My third-grade school picture was horrific.”