Chapter Six
To Do: Get Good… or Not.
Lyra
I may not need a noose, but I do need a plan.
I’ve spent the past week wallowing in self-pity like a total loser.
So as I organize the ropes, pots, bags of soil, and little baby plants for tomorrow’s workshop, I brainstorm a plan.
You know. If by brainstorming a plan I mean obsessively going over my interaction with Jove in the hardware store and checking over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t going to show up at the nursery to throw bricks through the many, many windows because I’ve upset him somehow.
Nevermind the fact that I’m 97% sure he only exacts revenge on people who do his brother wrong or the fact that I didn’t do anything particularly offensive during our short interaction – unless you count raining ropes on him, but that was really his fault, and he surely knows that. He’s scary, not stupid.
No, he’s not stupid, but I might be, looking over my shoulder every five minutes for a man I’m 97% sure isn’t going to actually do anything to me instead of figuring out how to stop crying all the time, get my life together, and generally be the type of person I’d like to be.
That type of person being a better one than I am now or ever have been .
I restack a slightly wobbly pile of small pots and nibble at the inside of my cheek.
I wonder if Jove’s ever worried about being a better person.
The thought makes me let go of the death grip my teeth have on the sensitive inside lining of my mouth so that I can scoff.
Jove Rogue has most definitely 100% absolutely never worried about being a better person.
That man walks around broad shoulders firmly back, standing tall and confident in his unhinge.
He has more hubris in his left pinky than the rest of the town combined – save Mars, probably, but I’m less sure that Mars is full of hubris about his and his brother’s probably-definitely criminal actions so much as pure, unadulterated glee.
How so much confidence infiltrated their bloodline but fully missed mine, I will never know.
I pause, hands hovering over a tray of tiny little succulents. Am I… jealous? Of Jove ?
I need to sit down.
Leaving my workbench – and my busywork – I do just that, wandering to the hanging wicker chair in the back corner of the greenhouse.
The chain holding the giant, wildly comfortable egg creaks as I drop onto the forest-green cushion and pull my legs up to sit criss-cross-applesauce, flicking the skirt of my dress to hang down out of the chair instead of bunching in my lap.
The chain sings another complaint as I lean back, settling against the green, brown, and pink pillows behind me.
As comfortable as I could possibly get in my physical body, I start the onerous task of making myself as mentally uncomfortable as I have ever been.
Jealous.
Of Jove.
For what, Lyra? For what would you be jealous of Jove about? Because he’s confident? Lots of people are confident. Maybe just… not to the extent that he seems to be.
Jove is a rare, elusive type of confident – the quiet kind.
Sure, one could say that flipping Chrissy’s grandpa’s truck wasn’t exactly quiet behavior, but Jove did that and then just…
went home? He didn’t stick around to make sure Chrissy’s grandpa saw.
He didn’t yell at the old man. He went there, did what he went to do, and then left.
Justice served, moving on. Justice, of course, being relative. Still.
I bet that if someone were to actually figure out what code it is that he lives by, he’d be an easy enough guy to get along with.
The problem is in the mystery of it, not the nature of it.
In my opinion, anyway. The rest of the town?
Well… I’m sure they would not quite agree with me.
Mostly on account of him having delivered justice upon roughly 40% of the town, and the other 60% being related to that 40%.
Hard to respect a man who lit your aunt’s barn on fire after she honked at his brother for using his right of way rights on his bicycle at a stoplight. Or something.
While I don’t agree with basically any of his actions, I can respect his commitment to being the town baddie.
I’m not sure what he does for work that affords him seemingly endless amounts of time to terrorize – drug trade?
Harvesting illegal organs? Black market art broker?
– but I really can appreciate his complete and utter dedication to it.
He’s big, he’s bad, and he’s not bothered about anybody knowing it.
Hm.
I could… do two of those things. At 5’4”, I’m never going to accomplish big in the way that his shoulders do, but I could be bad. I could be unbothered.
My chair keens what sounds suspiciously like a laugh as it swings gently under my weight.
I tilt my head back and glare at the wicker braiding above my head.
“I can be bad,” I tell it, ignoring the soft, gauzy weight of my dress skirt as it sways below me.
“I can be unbothered,” I hiss, eyes narrowing in a glare.
The chair does not respond.
I tip my head back down, huffing. What does it know anyway? It’s not even sentient.
My legs uncross, slipping out from under me to land on the floor, and the giant egg swings behind me, protesting as I stand. “I’m going to be bad,” I say. “And unbothered.” I spin, pointing a finger at the still-swaying wicker. “You’ll see!”
Satisfied with my plan, I nod, then stomp through the greenhouse. I pause long enough to lock up before following my fairytale path home, where I open a girl’s best friend – the internet.
“Baddie… inspo… outfits…” I mutter, grabbing letter making supplies to match the images showing up on my screen. I have a reply to write to Jupiter, and I know just what the theme will be.