Chapter 16
Aquiet house is so rare these days, I’m making the most of every minute. Now that everyone’s left for the day, I can finally enjoy some peace—much needed after that disaster of a party.
After a quick call from Stephanie, which involves me promising her I’m fine and her insisting on stopping by after school, I go downstairs.
The silence isn’t doing me any favors as snippets of memory from what was the worst night of my life rush to the front of my mind. I need noise. Distraction. Movement.
I attack the kitchen first, filling the sink with hot water that steams up the window above it.
The dishes from breakfast with their syrup-crusted edges and coffee rings need the most scrubbing, and my fingers turn pink under the scalding water.
Each plate I place in the drying rack is one more barrier between me and the invading memories.
My mind wanders anyway, so I move to the living room, where remnants of this morning’s chaos still linger. Crumpled napkins. An abandoned sock. Dad’s newspaper folded to the crossword he never finished. I snatch each item and tidy up as best as I can.
The laundry basket calls next. Folding clothes seems to be my superpower as I transform the jumbled pile into neat stacks.
T-shirts in thirds, then halves, socks matched and rolled—all in record time.
Each completed item offers a tiny dose of satisfaction that momentarily drowns out last night’s laughter of ridicule.
It’s not enough. The chores keep my hands busy, but my brain has other ideas; it keeps circling back to the party.
My eyes land on the speakers in the corner. Music. That’s what I need.
I scroll through my phone and select my emergency mood-lifter: BTS’s Butter. The moment those first beats pulse through the room, something inside me begins to loosen.
Neither Paige, Theo, nor the memory of that awful night can dim the joy of dancing. I won’t let them. Here, in the privacy of my home, I’m able to kick loose.
I push the coffee table to the side, tie my hair into a ponytail, and start moving. The rhythm travels from my ears down to my toes, and my body responds before my brain can overthink it. My hips sway, my shoulders roll, and my feet remember steps I’ve practiced a hundred times at the yoga studio.
Each move feels like shedding weight—like peeling off layers of embarrassment and hurt.
My heart pounds, but now it’s from exertion instead of anxiety.
Sweat beads at my temples as I hit each beat, each transition.
The choreography demands all my focus, leaving no room for the party replays that have been torturing me.
The tension in my muscles releases and my mind clears. Effortlessly, I fall into each move, gliding from side to side, every pop and twist lifting me above the dark clouds of humiliation.
It’s not the first time I’ve had to get over low spirits, and I swear, it gets easier each time. What doesn’t kill you truly makes you stronger.
The song ends just as I perform the last move.
Panting, I brace my hands on my knees, sweat trickling down my temples.
I love the exhilaration after a workout.
My lungs burn in the best way, and the endorphins flooding my system make everything seem more manageable.
The disaster at the party hasn’t disappeared from my mind, but it’s shrunk down to an easily manageable size.
After all, it was just one bad night, not a bad life.
I flop onto the couch, my muscles pleasantly spent. What else does a post-dance recovery need? Ice cream. Obviously.
I pad to the kitchen and dig through the freezer, pushing past frozen vegetables until my fingers graze what I’m seeking. Rocky road—the universal solution to life’s problems. A good-sized scoop goes into my favorite blue bowl. Make that two scoops. After last night, I’ve earned it.
Back on the couch, I curl my legs underneath me and flip on the TV. The screen flickers to life with mom’s favorite show already playing: Blitz Kitchen. Usually I’d change it, but the energy of chefs racing against the clock draws me in before I can reach for the remote.
“Thirty minutes remaining!” the host announces, and the contestants scramble like their lives depend on perfecting a soufflé.
Who knew cooking could be so intense? A woman with a purple streak in her hair nearly slices her finger off chopping onions at lightning speed. Another contestant looks ready to cry when his sauce separates.
I take another spoonful of ice cream, the chocolate melting on my tongue. This show isn’t half bad. Maybe mom’s onto something.
By the time the judges start tasting, I’ve scraped my bowl clean and find myself actually invested in who wins. The woman with purple hair takes it with her deconstructed shepherd’s pie. Good for her.
But now I need something more interactive. My Switch calls to me from my bedroom.
I settle on my bed, propping pillows behind me, and boot up The Legend of Zelda Tears of the Kingdom. A quick loading screen later, Link appears, ready for adventure. Or in my case, ready for some therapeutic monster slaying.
A red Bokoblin appears on the ridge ahead, dancing around with its crude weapon, making those ridiculous noises they do.
“Hello, Paige,” I say, my lips curving into a mischievous grin.
I craft a bomb arrow, take careful aim, and watch as digital Paige goes flying off the cliff with a satisfying squeal.
“That’s for ruining my makeup,” I tell the now-empty space where the Bokoblin stood. “And this”—I find another one lurking near a tree—“is for spilling chocolate milk on me.”
The second Bokoblin meets an even more spectacular end.
Does imagining Paige as video game monsters make me appear crazy? Probably. Is it helping? Absolutely.
After therapy, I check the clock. With a little time to spare before anyone comes back, I go to the kitchen for a snack and some water.
I’m splitting an avocado in half when the front door clicks open, and there he is—Theo. Of all the people I hoped to avoid today, he’s number two on the list. Did he leave school early?
He freezes by the door when he sees me, like he didn’t expect this encounter, either.
Glaring at him, I forcefully lodge the kitchen knife into the seed, then twist and remove it, holding it up so he can see the seed stuck in its blade. The avocado flesh mushes beneath my fingers as I imagine it to be every annoying thing Theo has ever done.
“Hey. How was school?” I wield the knife-impaled seed in the air with a twisted grin.
Theo’s eyes widen, his gaze ping-ponging between my face and the weaponized avocado seed. His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he takes an instinctive half-step back.
“It sucked.” He leans against the doorframe, trying to look casual, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrays him.
“Oh, yeah, why is that?” I slide the seed off the knife with deliberate slowness, letting it plunk into the trash can.
He pushes off the door and kicks off his sneakers before stepping out of the foyer. “You weren’t there.”
That warm sensation ballooning inside me is the last thing I wanna feel right now, especially since I promised myself I’d stay away from him. My heart does a stupid little flip, but I squash it down like I’m mashing the other half of this avocado.
“I thought I’d give you and your girlfriend some time alone.” I scrape the avocado flesh into a bowl, refusing to look at him.
“She’s not my girlfriend, and you know it,” he fires back. The kitchen counter rattles as he drops his backpack onto it.
“She ought to be,” I say, matter-of-factly. “You’d be great together. The whole school would rejoice. Paige and Theo, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N—“
“Is that what you want?” He crosses his arms, his voice dropping to a more serious tone.
I focus on wiping the knife clean under warm water. “Doesn’t matter. What you do is your business.” I’m surprised I don’t choke on my own words. I decided to push him away to avoid getting hurt. So why does it feel so wrong?
“You don’t mean that.” He takes a step closer.
The kitchen suddenly feels too small. I slide around to the other side of the counter, putting the island between us. “Actually, I do.”
He runs his hand through his hair, leaving parts standing on end. “I know you’re mad, but—“
“Quite the opposite,” I say, one hand on my hip. “I’m over it.”
He blinks twice. “You are?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it.” I grab lime from the fruit bowl and squeeze it over the avocado. The juice splashes, stinging a tiny paper cut I didn’t know I had. I wince but try to hide it. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.” Theo drums his fingers against the countertop. “You’re stabbing fruit and avoiding me.”
“I’m making guacamole,” I correct him, mashing the avocado with unnecessary vigor. “And I’m not avoiding you. I’m right here, talking to you, aren’t I?”
“After hiding at home all day.” He circles around to my side.
I step away, nearly bumping into the refrigerator. “So where was I supposed to be? Front row at the Paige and Theo show?”
“There is no show.” His voice rises with frustration. “If you’d just talk to me—“
“Things were perfectly fine before you told everyone we live together,” I cut him off, pointing my avocado-smeared spoon at him. “I don’t mind if we talk at home, but at school? Best if we keep to ourselves.”
Theo’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You think things were fine before?”
“Yes, Theo,” I say, exasperated, slamming the spoon down. “You screwed it all up.”
“By being honest? By not wanting to lie about where I live?”
“By complicating everything!” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “Do you have any idea what people are saying?”
“I don’t care what they’re saying. Why do you?” He can afford to say that. I can’t.
He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Hiding isn’t the way to get through high school. Is that what you’re planning to do forever? At college? At a job? Just run away from anything uncomfortable?”
His words hit too close for comfort. The truth in them stings worse than the lime juice in my paper cut. I scoff at him, my voice sharp. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”
“Isn’t it obvious? I care about you,” he says, his voice softening. “More than you seem to realize.”
No, I can’t let him get to me. Not when I’ve just decided to protect myself. “Well, don’t. It’s a waste of your time.”
His jaw clenches as he rubs his neck, and heat singes my cheeks as we just stand there in a standoffish silence. It’s as if there’s a fuse between us burning in opposite directions from the middle. Who will blow up first?
The grating sound of metal as a key slides into a lock breaks the tension. Both of us look at the door, where my dad walks in holding a bag from Dunkin Donuts, and behind him is Noah, chocolate smeared all over his mouth as he munches on the pastry.
“Got your favorite, too,” dad says, taking off his shoes. “Strawberry-frosted.”
Stephanie trails behind them. “Hey, Chrissy.” She gives Theo a reluctant wave of her hand.
Their timing couldn’t be more perfect.
I greet my dad, take the bag of donuts he gives me, give Noah a kiss on the top of his head, and grab Stephanie’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs.”
Once we’re in my room, Stephanie and I waste no time digging into the donuts. I pick out my fave, and pop half of it into my mouth, savoring the sweetness. Whoever says sugar doesn’t make things better has never tasted a strawberry-frosted donut with colorful candy confetti sprinkled on top.
With our mouths stuffed, I power on my Nintendo Switch and start Super Mario Jamboree. I grab Yoshi, and Stephanie picks Princess Peach—our classic lineup. It’s just us, chatting, laughing, snacking, and letting the game pull us into its fun world of mini games.
“So, what’s your plan?” Stephanie asks.
I swallow a mouthful of donut. “Avoid Theo and Paige like the plague. They can stay in their world of popularity, and I’ll stick to mine. No more unnecessary drama.”
Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Think you can pull it off? I mean, you guys live together.”
“Sure I can. It’s for the best.”