THE TIME WE HAVE LEFT

My best friend, Sophie Carter, had three rules for life:

1. Never trust someone who wears sunglasses indoors.

2. Never leave the house without lip gloss.

3. Tell your best friend everything, even when that "everything" involved humiliating situations, texts sent to the wrong person, or crushes that lasted less than a week.

Sophie also had a fourth rule, but she pretended it didn't exist.

4. Never tell Harper's secrets.

And I lived in fear of the day she would break that rule. Not that I didn't trust her. Sophie knew everyone's secret in town.

"Are you even listening to me?" Sophie asked, snapping her fingers in front of me. I blinked and looked at her. The classroom was too loud. But I had only been paying attention to the rain hitting the window for almost five minutes.

"I am," I lied.

"You're not. You've been staring at that window for almost five minutes."

Lying to Sophie was like trying to scam a con artist — impossible.

"I'm just thinking."

"That's never good, Harper."

"What are you thinking about?" she insisted.

"The chemistry test."

"Harper, the test is only on Friday," she said.

"Exactly. I'm thinking about the future."

"Your future is two days away. You don't need to suffer for it now."

I snorted and looked back out the window. Rain slid down the classroom glass. Portland always seemed wet. Sometimes I thought the city didn't have a normal sky, just different shades of gray. The teacher hadn't arrived yet, so the room was full of chatter. Some students were gathered in the back, others were on their phones hidden under the desks. I liked that noise. It made my own thoughts quieter.

Sophie grabbed my arm and examined my nails.

"Did you do your nails yesterday?"

"I did," I answered.

"Dark blue?"

"It's my favorite color."

"Your favorite color is black, Harper."

"Black isn't a color," I replied.

"That was the saddest thing you've ever said, Harper."

"I said that yesterday."

"Then it's still sad."

"You're really quiet today," she said.

"I'm here every day. I can't talk all the time."

"You can. I can talk for both of us."

"That's true."

"See? You're already better."

The teacher finally walked into the classroom, carrying a stack of books. Everyone went back to their seats, except Sophie, who was still standing next to me.

"Sit down, Sophie," I murmured.

"I just wanted to confirm something."

"What?" I asked. She lowered her voice.

"I heard a new family is moving into the Whitmore mansion."

"What house is that?" I asked. Sophie's eyes widened.

"The huge house at the end of Evergreen Street."

"The house that's been empty for two years?"

"That's the one," she said with a huge smile on her face.

"And how did you know someone's going to live there?"

"My mom knows everything that happens in this neighborhood."

"Your mom knows everything because she talks to everyone."

"It's a social skill."

"That's called gossip," I teased her.

"A well-informed gossip," she went back to her seat when the teacher clapped her hands.

"Books open to page one hundred and twenty-two!" the teacher said. Sophie sat down next to me and whispered.

"They say the family is super rich."

"Almost everyone here is rich, Sophie."

"Not like them. My brother saw three black cars at the house last night," she said excitedly. "Maybe they're security."

"Maybe they're criminals," I looked at her.

"Your imagination needs help, Sophie."

"My imagination is what makes my life interesting."

"Your imagination is what made you scared of the vacuum cleaner for six months."

"It made a threatening noise."

I tried not to laugh.

During class, Sophie passed me little pieces of paper with information about the mysterious family. According to her, they had come from New York. Or Boston. Maybe California. The father owned a huge company. The mother had been in a magazine. And the son had studied at a private school where everyone wore uniforms.

"How did you manage to find out all that in fifteen minutes?" I wrote on the paper. She replied: Talent. And then added: And my mom. I ignored her and tried to pay attention to class.

I didn't care about the new family. Rich people were constantly moving into neighborhoods like ours. They bought old houses, knocked down walls, built pools, and disappeared behind tall gates. But it wasn't my business.

Besides, I had enough problems. That afternoon, after class, Sophie came with me to the library. She needed to return two books and I needed to study for the chemistry test, although I still hadn't opened my notebook.

"What are you going to do today?" she asked as we walked down the hall.

"Go home. Help my dad with dinner and study."

"Your life sounds like a 70-year-old lady's calendar."

"And yours sounds like a fire."

"At least it's not boring."

"Sometimes boring is good."

"And you ask like you're a detective."

"I'm your best friend. It's basically the same thing."

I looked at the floor. There was a small black mark on the tile, right in front of my sneakers.

"I'm just tired."

Sophie didn't believe me, but she didn't push it. That was what I liked most about her. Sophie shared everything, but she knew when to stay silent.

When we left school, the rain had gotten heavier. She opened her red umbrella and pulled me under it, even though it was too small for both of us.

"Is your house this way?" she asked.

"It is."

"Then I'll go with you."

"You don't have to."

"I know. But I want to," she insisted.

We walked side by side on the wet sidewalk. The neighborhood was quiet, with lights on in the windows and the smell of food in the air. Some kids were playing on a porch while a man tried to protect his plants from the rain.

When we got to Evergreen Street, Sophie stopped suddenly.

"Look," she said.

At the end of the street, in front of the old abandoned house, there were several cars parked. They were big, black, and shiny. People were carrying boxes into the Whitmore mansion. Men in suits walked back and forth while an elegant woman gave orders on the phone. Sophie squeezed my arm.

"I told you they were rich."

"You also said they could be criminals."

"I haven't ruled out that possibility yet."

I looked at the house. For years, the windows had remained dark. Now there was light in almost every room. The mansion seemed to have woken up.

"Let's keep going," I said.

"Harper..."

"I'm not interested."

"Not even a little?"

"Not even a little."

At that moment, one of the black cars started to move. It drove slowly past us and stopped for a few seconds. The windows were tinted, so I couldn't see who was inside. Sophie moved closer to me.

"Maybe someone's watching us."

"Stop making stuff up," I replied.

The car kept going down the street.

When I looked back, I saw a figure standing on the porch of the mansion. It was a tall guy, dressed in black, with his arms crossed and his head slightly tilted. Even from a distance, I could tell he was looking directly at me. For a brief moment, our eyes met. Then he turned and went inside the house.

"Who was that?" Sophie asked.

"I don't know."

"Was he hot?"

"I didn't notice," she looked at me with an amused expression.

"Harper Grace Bennett, you just lied to me."

"I didn't lie."

"Your eyes are too blue for someone who didn't lie."

"My eyes are always blue."

"Exactly. I know you better than anyone."

Sophie started walking again, pulling me by the arm. I looked at the mansion one last time. I didn't know who that boy was. And I also didn't know that Sophie would turn his move into the main subject of her life.

"He looked at you for eight seconds," she wrote in our group chat. The group was called The Two Most Sensible, even though it was just the two of us and Sophie had created the name after setting a toaster on fire.

"That was three seconds," I replied.

"Eight."

"Three."

"I timed it mentally."

"That's not a normal thing to do."

"Checking out cute boys is an essential skill for female survival."

"Survival?" I asked.

"Of course. You never know when a hot guy might show up and require us to be interesting."

I was lying on my bed, my hair still wet and my chemistry notebook open in front of me. I had read the same sentence four times and still had no idea what it meant. "Chemical bonds are interactions that keep atoms together." Sophie sent another message.

*Sophie:* Do you think he's single?

*Me:* I don't know.

*Sophie:* Do you think he's nice?

*Me:*He stared at me without saying anything.

*Sophie:* That could be him being nice.

*Me:* Or it could be that he can't see well.

*Sophie:* Do you think he has a girlfriend?

*Me:* Stop, Sophie!

*Sophie:* Do you think he knows how to kiss?

I threw my phone to the other side of the bed. Two seconds later, it vibrated again.

*Sophie:* You don't have to answer now. You can answer after you investigate.

I picked up the phone and typed: "I'm not going to investigate anyone."

*Sophie:* You don't have to investigate if you don't want to. I'll do it for both of us.

*Me:* Don't investigate either.

*Sophie:* I already started.

*Me:*Sophie.

*Sophie:*I found out his last name is Whitmore.

I stopped writing.

*Me:* How?

*Sophie:* My mom saw the moving truck. Then she asked the neighbor. The neighbor asked the mailman. The mailman asked the guy who delivers newspapers.

*Me:* That's not investigating. That's a food chain.

*Sophie:* The important thing is that it works.

Before I could reply, I heard three knocks on the door. "Harper, dinner's ready!" my dad shouted from downstairs. "Coming!" I replied.

"And try not to bring your chemistry notebook to the table this time!" I looked at the notebook. He didn't need to say that. I went downstairs and found my dad in the kitchen, wearing a white apron with the words World's Best Cook written in red letters. The problem was that the apron belonged to my mom. And the bigger problem was that he really believed the sentence.

"You didn't make dinner," I said.

"I did." I looked at the table. There were three boxes of Chinese food.

"Dad, this was delivered by a guy on a motorcycle."

"Exactly. I supervised the delivery."

"That's called ordering food."

"Food doesn't order itself. It took leadership."

I sat down, trying not to laugh. My dad put a plate in front of me and sat across the table. "So, how was your day?" "Normal," I replied.

"Does that mean it went well or that something happened and you don't want to tell me?"

"Why is everyone asking me that today?"

"Because you only say 'normal' when something happened."

"Nothing happened, Dad."

"Harper."

"Yes, Dad?" We stared at each other. He raised his hands. "Okay. I won't push it."

"Thanks."

"I'll just ask every five minutes."

"That's not not pushing it."

"I'm learning." I picked up a piece of chicken with the chopsticks, but it slipped and fell onto my lap. My dad pointed at the chicken. "See? Even the chicken is nervous," he said. "Dad."

"It was just a joke."

"I know. That's the problem."

He laughed and started eating. For a few minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was the rain hitting the window. I almost managed to forget about the boy from the Whitmore house. Almost. "I heard new neighbors arrived," my dad commented. I looked up. "Does everyone already know?""This neighborhood is small. When someone buys a house that big, even the dogs know."

"Sophie said they're really rich."

"They seem to be."

"And does that matter?"

"Not to us."

"I know."

"I'm just saying don't be easily impressed," he said.

"I'm not impressed by money."

"I know. You wore the same pair of sneakers for three weeks because you didn't want me to spend money on others."

"They were still good," I replied.

"They had a hole on the side."

"It was ventilation." My dad pointed his chopsticks at me.

"That's exactly what I meant." After dinner, I went up to my room. Sophie kept sending messages.

*Sophie:*I found out one more thing.

*Sophie:*The Whitmore family has a son.

*Sophie:*He's 19.

*Sophie:* He went to a private school.

*Sophie:* He's probably tall.

*Sophie:*And probably handsome.

*Sophie:*Because rich people can't be ugly? It's against the law.

"That last piece of information doesn't make sense," I replied.

*Sophie:* It does. Have you ever seen an ugly millionaire in movies?

*Me:*Yes, I have.

*Sophie:* They were actors. It doesn't count.

Before I could reply another message came.

*Sophie:* He's starting at our school tomorrow.

*Me:*How do you know?

*Sophie:* My mom heard the principal telling the history teacher.

*Me:*Does your mom have a bug hidden at school?

*Sophie:*Not yet, but it's a great idea.

*Me:*Don't talk to him.

*Sophie:* Why?

*Me:* Because I don't want trouble.

*Sophie:* Harper, talking to someone isn't trouble.

*Me:*It depends on the person.

*Sophie:*You don't even know him.

*Me:* Exactly. I intend to keep it that way.

Sophie took a few seconds to reply.

*Sophie:*I bet you're going to fall in love with him.

*Me:* Ibet tomorrow you're going to trip over your own feet.

*Sophie:* That doesn't answer the question.

*Me:* Good night, Sophie.

*Sophie:* Good night, future Mrs. Whitmore.

I turned off my phone and threw it on the bed. Then I spent a few seconds looking at the ceiling. I wasn't going to fall in love with Elliott Whitmore. In fact, I didn't even know if his name was Elliot. Sophie hadn't found out his first name yet. The boy could be named Harold, Montgomery, or any other absurd name rich people use. Maybe his name was Cornelius. I smiled to myself. "Good night, Cornelius," I murmured.

The next morning, I arrived at school ten minutes late. It was the alarm clock's fault. Or, more precisely, my decision to turn off the alarm clock and sleep "just five more minutes." Those five minutes turned into forty, and when I finally woke up, my dad was standing in front of the bed, holding a wooden spoon. "Get up!"

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Too late for you to be asking that question."

"That's not a time."

"For someone who should have been ready twenty minutes ago, it's practically noon." I had left the house with my hair tied up any which way, a piece of toast in my mouth, and two different sneakers. I only noticed when I was already in the school parking lot. "Don't look at my feet," I asked Sophie. She looked immediately. "You're wearing one white sneaker and one black."

"It's fashion," I replied.

"It's desperation."

"It's an artistic statement," I replied.

"Your artistic statement says: 'Harper got dressed in the dark.'"

"I was in a hurry."

"That explains everything." We walked into the main hallway and, at that moment, all the conversations seemed to change subject. Sophie straightened up. "He's here.""Who?" I asked. She discreetly pointed to the end of the hallway. The boy from the Whitmore mansion was leaning against the lockers. Up close, he was even more handsome than I wanted to admit. He had dark brown hair, a serious face, and the coldest green eyes I had ever seen. Sophie brought her mouth to my ear.

"Cornelius."

"Don't say that," I replied.

"He looks like a Cornelius."

"He looks like an arrogant jerk." The boy turned his face in our direction. I froze. Sophie smiled.

"See? You already know his name." He pushed himself off the lockers and walked toward us. His gaze dropped to my feet. One white sneaker and one black.

"Nice shoes," he said. His voice was low and cold. I looked at my feet. "Thanks. They're exclusive." Sophie bit her lip to keep from laughing. He looked at Sophie, then back at me. "Shows."

"It's good to know there are still people with good taste," I replied.

"I didn't say I liked them," he replied seriously.

"I also didn't say I needed your approval." For a second, we both stood in silence. His green eyes seemed to be hiding something. Tiredness, maybe. Or just arrogance. Then he walked past us without saying anything else. Sophie waited until he was far away. "Harper."

"What?"

"I take back what I said."

"About what?"

"He doesn't look like a Cornelius."

"Doesn't he?" I asked, confused.

"He looks way more like trouble." I watched his back as he disappeared among the students. And, without knowing why, I had the feeling that Sophie was right.