Chapter Text
Sam’s read Spiderman; he knows what’s supposed to happen. The girl next door is meant to be sweet, and funny in a self-deprecating way, and have a cool secret talent. And pigtails, maybe. And supposedly , they should be best friends, hanging out in a treehouse, and staying up late to talk to each other on the phone long after their parents have gone to bed. And, based on the literature, he’s supposed to discover that he’s had feelings for her all along, culminating in this big moment where he admits he likes her, and she says she feels the same way, and they… kiss, or something.
But this isn’t a comic, or a movie – this is real life. And in real life, the girl next door seems hellbent on making Sam’s life a nightmare. Well, one of them does, anyway.
It’s been this way since he can remember. Since he and his parents had moved to Pelican Town, to the shabby blue house on Willow Lane.
“The family next door has two little girls,” his mom had said as they pulled off the highway, turning down into the valley. “About your age, I think.”
He had seen them as their station wagon stopped in front of the house: one girl in a red dress (her hair had been brown back then) planting something in a flower box in front of the beige house next door, and another in cutoffs and white heart-shaped sunglasses, reading a magazine on their front step. Definitely not Sam’s age. She blew a big pink bubble with her gum, and seemed surprised when Sam and his family stepped out of their car and slammed the doors shut.
“Hello there!” Sam’s mom had said, waving at them. The girl in red stood up, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Heard we were getting some new neighbours today!” she said, smiling. She dropped her trowel and brushed the dirt off her hands, walking over to greet them. “I’m Emily. You must be the Cavanaughs?”
“Jodi,” Sam’s mom said, “and my husband… oh, where did he go? He must have gone inside.” She put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, “And this is our son, Sam.”
“Hi,” he’d said, sticking a hand out to this stranger. Even at 10, he’d been good at making friends.
Emily had laughed, a big, full-sounding laugh that made Sam like her instantly, and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sam!” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the girl on the front step, who had lowered her sunglasses on her nose to look at them. “That’s my sister, Haley.”
Sam waved at her, but she just pushed her sunglasses up again and turned the page of her magazine.
Emily turned around. “Haley, come say hello.”
“No,” the blonde girl had said, flipping the magazine closed and standing up, “I’m good.”
“Don’t be rude,” her sister said, but Sam piped up, wanting desperately to make a good impression.
“I like your sunglasses,” he’d said, smiling. And she laughed. But her laugh wasn’t like her sister’s; it was short, and cold, and felt like the end of a sentence. Then she walked inside her house and shut the door.
Things hadn’t improved much from there. Actually, if anything, they’d gotten worse. It seemed as though Haley had gone out of her way to be rude to him, even though he’d done literally nothing to her.
Like last year, for example. Somehow, he’d ended up with Haley as his Secret Friend at the Feast of the Winter Star. And she’d given him pickles . Fucking pickles. Like, why? He hates pickles. It’s like it’s all some big joke to her, one that he doesn’t get.
And it’s not like he can just ignore her - she lives next door. Her room is literally fifteen feet from his. He can see her even when he doesn’t want to.
Like now, for instance.
Sam pulls his headphones off, letting them hang around his neck. There’s definitely music coming from next door. He hits pause on his game and leans over in his desk chair.
There she is. The bane of his existence. Turning up her little stereo and singing along to - oh the irony is too funny to ignore - ‘bad guy’ by Billie Eilish.
Shaking his head, Sam stands up, tossing his headphones onto the desk. He walks over to the window to shut it, even though the early summer heat is reaching uncomfortable levels, but nearly trips over his own feet when Haley starts dancing . She’s in her pyjamas, pulling a towel off from around her wet hair, and jumping around singing – and not well, either. No offence.
He stands there for a few seconds, revelling in this tiny bit of dirt he has on her. She would die if she knew he could see her right now. Actually wait, he shouldn’t be watching this. Right? I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to spy on her , he reasons with himself. I just came over here to shut the window.
Across the yard, Haley starts doing a very poor version of some TikTok dance, and Sam snorts out a laugh. Okay yeah, he definitely shouldn’t be watching this, no matter how embarrassing it is for her. He’s no voyeur. And he definitely doesn't want to listen to this all night.
Grinning to himself, he slides his window down and flips the latch.
The music stops.
Sam looks up, one hand on his window sill. Haley is glaring at him through her own window, looking like she wants to murder him. And he doesn’t doubt that she’s capable of it.
In a panic, he grabs ahold of his curtains and yanks them closed, blocking her out. He pulls his shirt off, changes into his own pyjama pants and jumps into bed. Pretends nothing happened.
There’s a sudden banging on his front door, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut. He’s so fucked.
“Haley?” he hears his mom say. “It’s 9 o’clock, Vincent is sleeping.”
“Sorry Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Haley says through gritted teeth, “this will only take a second. Is Sam home?”
“Sam?” his mom says, more confused now. “I-I think so-”
The door to his room opens and Sam sits up in bed. There she is again. But this time, she’s standing in his doorway, arms crossed, hair dripping wet.
Jodi’s head peeks out from behind Haley’s shoulder. She’s in her bathrobe, having clearly been woken up by this late-night intrusion. “Sam?” she says again. “What-”
“‘S’okay Mom,” he says, pushing back the covers and getting out of bed. “Go back to sleep.”
She looks hesitant, but at Sam’s reassurance, she nods and turns back into the hallway towards her room.
As soon as his mom is out of sight, he grabs Haley’s arm and pulls her into the room, shutting his door quietly.
“What the fuck?” he whispers. “You can’t just force your way into my house and start waking everybody up!”
“What the fuck, me ?” she whispers back. “What the fuck you ? Why were you looking through my window, perv?”
“I was looking out my window,” Sam says, pointing at it, now obscured by thick navy curtains. “It’s not my fault you don’t close your blinds while you’re dancing around like an idiot.”
He could swear he sees Haley blush, just for a second, but the moment passes and any embarrassment she may have felt is replaced with rage. “Mind your own business you creep,” she spits at him, brushing past him towards the door. “If I catch you spying on me again I’m calling the cops.”
“Good fucking luck with that,” Sam scoffs, “we don’t have any cops here. You want Mayor Lewis popping over to see your choreography too?”
Haley rolls her eyes and leaves the room, Sam at her heels. She pulls the front door open.
Sam reaches out as she storms outside. “Don’t slam the-”
The door bangs shut, rattling the picture frames on the wall.
“What’s happening?”
He turns around to see his little brother in his own doorway, rubbing his eyes.
“Sorry Vince,” Sam says, kneeling down next to him. “It’s nothing. Think you can go back to sleep?”
Vincent nods. “Can you come tuck me in?”
“Sure, buddy.”
Sam follows his brother into the room, lit up with the soft, warm glow of the teddy bear night light beside the bed. Vince clambers up and pulls the covers over himself. Sam folds the top of the comforter down, smoothing the edge.
“You aren’t too hot with this blanket?” he asks, and Vince shakes his head. “Okay, good night, little man.”
“Night,” Vince mumbles, his eyes already heavy with sleep. Sam presses a kiss to his brother’s forehead and stands back up, tiptoeing out of the room and shutting the door silently behind him.
He closes the door to his own room too, letting out a deep breath. With a smidge of courage, he sticks a finger between the curtains and pulls one aside. Haley’s blinds are closed, but her light is still on. Good , Sam thinks, maybe she’ll learn to keep them shut from now on. Maniac.
He lets the curtain fall shut before lying down on his bed again, kicking the comforter down and pulling the top sheet over himself instead. He really needs to bug his mom about getting AC in here, or something. Normally he wouldn’t be going to bed this early but it’s almost too hot to think about doing anything .
His phone pings, and he blindly reaches down to the floor where he usually plugs it in. Nothing. Sam sits up. Where did-
It pings again. Ah fuck. On the desk. Grumbling, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and crosses the room to retrieve it.
Seb
:
Yo we practicing tomorrow?
Abby says she’s only free until 5
He does this every fucking time. They always have band practice on Tuesdays. It’s like Seb’s just waiting for someone to bail so he doesn’t have to. It’s actually really annoying. He wishes his friends took the band more seriously.
Sam:
That’s fine, we’ll go until 5. My place, usual time?
Seb:
K
Sam reaches down and plugs his phone into the charger, leaving it on the floor.
Tomorrow will be better , he thinks, pulling the sheet back over himself, tucking it under his chin.
That night he dreams of playing a sold-out show. Mayor Lewis is on drums, and Haley’s in the front row.
* * * * *
Haley slams her front door shut, and for good measure, slams her bedroom door too.
The fucking nerve of that asshole! It isn’t enough that he’s always hanging out in front of her house on his skateboard or his stupid fucking Switch or whatever? Now she’s not even safe from him in her own goddamn bedroom?
She’s not being dramatic, but the worst thing that ever happened to her was him moving in next door. She could tell from the second she first saw him that he’d be a pain in her ass. That smug little people-pleasing face. Gelled-up hair. Scuffed-up shoes like some kind of wannabe skater boy. She’s always been a good judge of character, even back then, and time has only proven her right.
Haley looks out the window, happy to see that Sam at least had the good sense to keep his curtains shut. She pulls the cord on her blinds and lets it go, blocking his room from her view.
And he’s always playing music so fucking loud! Like, hello? Ever heard of headphones? If she had a nickel for every time she’d been woken up by his music coming through the window, she’d literally be a millionaire. And that’s not even counting the times she’s forced to leave her house so she doesn’t go crazy listening to his shitty band practice.
She takes a breath, trying to remember the calming exercises her therapist had taught her. Not that they ever fucking do anything, but at this point, she’s willing to try. She really needs to stop letting this guy get to her. She should just go back to ignoring him, like she did in high school.
He just always has to be the centre of attention, always trying to make people laugh. A real class clown, even now that they aren’t in high school. Not that they were in the same class or anything – he was a sophomore when she was a senior. But it seemed like she could always hear him. It wasn’t a very big high school. Bigger than Pelican Town, at least.
Not much has changed since they were kids. There are only seven families living here, and just a bunch of weird adults living alone. Not exactly the most exciting place to grow up. At least she has Alex. She doesn’t know what she’d do without him.
Haley sits down on the bed, picking up her laptop from where she’d tossed it before her shower.
Upload Complete
Good. She pulls the SD card out of the port and tucks it into the front pocket of the bag hanging off the bedpost. Sliding back to lean against her headboard, Haley sets to work in her photo library, adding descriptions and tags to every picture before making them available for purchase. It’s not exactly the glamourous gig she’d imagined for herself when she started getting into photography, but it turns out taking and selling stock photos was a pretty good money maker. And it’s really easy. People in the city must go crazy for aesthetic “country life” photos or whatever. Plus it allows her to pursue her real passion.
Not to be a total fucking cliché, but she really does want to move to the city to be a photographer. Yeah yeah, real original, she knows. Like one of those whiny trust fund babies in the movies with designer clothes and a coke addiction in high school, who moves into some industrial-looking loft decorated with tapestries and fairy lights to live the struggling artist lifestyle with some vintage camera they’d bought at a pawn shop to be ‘alternative’. Very realistic.
But in her own defence, she’s been into photography for a while. Her parents had given her a film camera for her fifteenth birthday, and she’d become obsessed . Had turned her walk-in closet into a dark room the following year, signed up for online photography classes the year after that. She didn’t have much to show for it, besides a fat stack of candid photographs from over the years: her sister dancing on the beach, smiling with her eyes closed and oblivious to the world around her. Alex in his jeep, laughing at some dumb joke she’d just made, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other out the window. Her parents, on one of their rare stopovers at home, sitting on the couch sharing a stack of their own photos with Emily, smiling as they pointed out some detail from whatever trip they’d just come back from.
It’s a fun hobby, sure. One she hopes to turn into a job. One day. She’s just a bit too strapped for cash to make that jump right now.
And then there’s her fashion blog, which had just started as a personal thing – a way for her to catalogue her outfits and try new things with a bit of anonymity. But after a while, she’d come to really enjoy the creativity that came with planning looks and finding different ways to shoot herself in them. She’d become extremely adept with her tripod and self-timer set-up. She has a not insignificant social following, and had even received a few PR packages with free clothes. It isn’t big enough to be earning any money yet, but hey, she’ll take what she can get.
Yep, lots of irons in the fire at the minute. And the last thing she needs is someone messing with her much-needed eight hours of sleep with shitty rock covers, or her sanity with voyeurism . For fuck’s sake.
Haley clicks ‘Update’ on her photo library then closes her laptop. That’s enough for tonight. She’d spent the day capturing all the classic early-summer shots that seemed to be stock-photo-crowd-pleasers, plus a few just for her: the soft purpley-pink petals of freshly-bloomed sweet peas, rainbow shells in the sand, and colourful butterflies fluttering around the Summer Spangles. Maybe tomorrow she’d be able to convince Alex to play hooky from work to hang out at the beach. She needed a rest and relaxation day.
Hopping off the bed, she brings her laptop over to her dresser to plug it in, then sits down at her vanity to dry her hair. Her grandmother always said that if you went to bed with wet hair, you’d wake up with a cold, and Haley has followed that advice as if it were scripture. She isn’t even sure if it’s true or not, but she doesn’t want to find out the hard way.
And anyway, blow-drying her hair has become part of her nighttime routine. It’s quite meditative. She’s never been the shower-in-the-morning type – always been more a night owl. Which works out, because Emily bartends until two most nights, so Haley doesn’t have to worry about bothering her sister with her own music, or hairdryer, or whatever. But it can get lonely.
Haley switches off the dryer, setting it back down on her vanity. She leans in close to the mirror, studying her reflection for any new pimples or wrinkles. Nothing to report today. She nods at herself in the mirror.
The clock on the wall reads 10:54. No more loud music. For now, at least. Curiosity gets the best of her, and she walks over to the window. Sticking two fingers into the blinds, she wedges them open to peer outside. Next door, the window is still shut, curtains still drawn. Good.
She gets comfortable in bed, arranging her pillows around herself and pulling her stuffed bear in close. She’s probably getting too old to be sleeping with a stuffed animal, but whatever. It’s not like anyone could see her.
“Good night,” she says, kissing Mr. Bear on top of his fuzzy, slightly balding head. “See you in the morning.”