Two
I lean into the dented burgundy locker and angle the handle up a few more degrees. I feel it give a little under my fingers, and shoulder-check the door to pop it open.
“The efficiency of that was extremely sexy.”
My heart tugs a little as Odette arrives at my elbow. She has a very complicated relationship with punctuality. And alarm clocks. And other human beings. This combination results in her barreling into every class as the final bell rings, so I know she’s here early for me. She stands almost a foot shorter than me, with pale blond hair and facial features that are ridiculous in their symmetry. A perfect little doll, if that doll was fifteen times smarter than you, routinely terrifying, and going through a jumpsuit phase.
“You’re early,” I say, hiding my smile.
“I couldn’t wait another second before seeing the R-rated dolphins.”
I pull out one of the cursed notebooks. “Well, you’re going to be sorely disappointed, because this is barely PG-13.” I hold up the two pink dolphins flying through space, their snouts meeting in a starburst of pink glitter.
“This was massively oversold,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Who exactly is the target market for this?”
“An excellent question,” Poppy says, adjusting glasses fogged from the long walk from the parking lot. She’s wearing a purple skirt with Cheshire cats dancing across the pleats, a pink blouse climbing with leopards, and a cardigan with rockets blasting toward her wrists. The most methodical and cautious of all of us, and her clothes are a level of chaos that’s unmatched. Her brown skin is damp from the exertion, and her short curly hair holds three separate cat clips. She’s Ms. Frizzle incarnate, and I couldn’t adore her more.
“Poppy, doesn’t your house have any mirrors?” Derrick Watts says, ambling past us and already laughing at his own joke.
“Yes, why do you ask?” She looks up with bland curiosity.
“Yeah, Derrick, why do you ask?” Odette shoots back. “Especially since you’ve dressed identical to Josh since fifth grade, and I’m pretty sure he told you to stop hiding in his bushes at night.”
Derrick flushes as red as the polo that sits a little too starched on his shoulders. He doesn’t nod at me, or say hello, or show any indication that we’ve spent countless hours in each other’s company. The best friend and the girlfriend. Josh’s bookends. He just murmurs “Freaks” under his breath and keeps walking down to where I’ve spent every school morning for the past two years. I’ve been thoroughly excommunicated.
“I guess we’re not friends anymore,” I say, one octave too high to pass for normal. “Now who will bore me with sports data I don’t care about?”
“Maybe he has a newsletter you can subscribe to.” Poppy wipes her lenses, completely unbothered.
“I could hack his laptop. He probably has a breathtaking amount of blackmail material on there.” Odette nudges me until I give her the smile she’s looking for.
“That’s illegal,” Poppy chides.
“I bet his password is literally ‘password.’ It’s not illegal if it requires no special skill to do it. I would wager real money that he has folders of feet pics.”
“No,” Poppy and I say in unison.
I track Derrick’s progress down the hallway. I know I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t help it. I’m looking for him. It’s been two months, and I don’t know why I think his appearance will have all the answers. Will he look withdrawn and morose? Like he’s also spent every day of the summer thinking about me and self-medicating with carbohydrates?
Would it be so bad to walk past rows of pitying glances and snide comments, and slide my arms around his neck until everything turns right side up again? Just for a moment, so my life, my routines, and my boyfriend can click back into place. All my particles solidified by the heat of his chest and his deep spicy scent that always burned a little before settling into my lungs with a sigh.
“Okay, I need some preparation on what today is going to be like,” Poppy says, sliding rocket sleeves up to her elbows and pulling my brain back. “On a scale of fine to watching 2005 Keira Knightley Pride Prejudice over and over again, where are we?”
“That was one week!”
“The Mr. Darcy binge was still better than the weird bread,” Odette says. “Or the many PowerPoints I had to threaten you to not email him.”
“Listen, Barbara the sourdough starter remains deeply beloved, and everyone loves a PowerPoint.”
“Not when the topics include arguments like how his dog will miss you because he won’t understand the breakup,” Poppy says.
“The science behind pack dynamics is very well-researched.” I clear my throat. “And I believe he used the word ‘break,’ not ‘breakup.’”
“Marlowe.” Her arms grip mine, anchoring me here in this deeply unpleasant reality.
I know what she’s asking me. Isn’t it time you just got over all of this?
The normal, cool-girl answer? Yes, it’s time, but I’m not ready.
These two have walked with me from braces to Josh’s backseat and every stop in between. They don’t get it, though. They weren’t there when a boy who gleamed so bright it was hard to look at him sometimes tucked my hair behind my ear and whispered into the darkness, Let me teach you something for once, Marlowe.
It’s as if I made all of it up in my head, and I’m here alone in my detoxification and delusions. (That was one of the other PowerPoints—how love should be banned because it’s a drug, and MRIs done on poor heartbroken losers like myself were similar to those of cocaine users in withdrawal.)
Most addicts require rehab. I got a summer in Denver to pretend it wasn’t happening, but here in this ugly, familiar hallway, reality has me in a chokehold.
“Maybe it’s just some sunk-cost fallacy I can’t get through,” I say, finally dragging the words out. A laugh bubbles up my throat, only a little more deranged than I’d planned.
Odette and Poppy move a little closer, and my poor heart rattles in its cage.
I hear the murmurs, but more than anything I feel the shift in the air. Like something heavy has moved into our space, and we’re all just helpless to orbit. I brace myself for the impact, and there he is.
Joshua Shepherd Stallings.
His hair is a little longer than normal, and I know how much he hates it when it brushes across his ears like that. He’s wearing a sky-blue button-down I don’t recognize, and I immediately hate it more than any shirt I’ve ever seen. We’d been together for two years and I know the inside of his closet like my own, but I am not acquainted with this shirt. Me and this shirt have no core memories. He’s out there laughing, and tanning, and shopping, and moving on, and I’m here. In stasis.
He looks up (likely scorched by my pitiful eyeballs) and I wait for it. For him to say, Oh my God, Marlowe. It was just a joke, couldn’t you tell? Come here and kiss me good morning. For the roll of his eyes, and the stretch of his hand.
Reader, he does none of that. He smiles briefly, a nod in my direction, like you would give an acquaintance in the grocery store when you’re hoping to God they don’t stop to chat.
I sway a little, the cool bite of the lockers bracing me.
“Marlowe, what can we do?” Odette’s voice is small and tense.
“Fix it.” The words tumble out before I can swallow them back down. “Fix me.”
“There is nothing to fix.”
“I don’t need the atta-girl bullshit talk. I’m standing here in the literal wreckage of my life, and I want it all back. I want him back.”
“Okay,” Poppy says, hands on her hips and over the small talk. “Let’s be solution-oriented about this. What’s the plan?”
“The plan?”
“Well, despite relatively decent grades, and a solid presence in AP classes, Josh is unfortunately a dumbass. But you’re sad, and you miss him, so how do we help him realize how dumb he was to dump you?”
I laugh despite myself.
“I mean, I don’t know if we can really support him as a partner after that staggeringly poor show of deductive abilities, but maybe you can tutor him,” Odette says.
“I think all of this is a moot point.” I pull out the dolphins to take with me to AP English. I simultaneously want to stop talking about this and never stop talking about it. Is it weird to want the world to be as obsessed as me over the implosion of my relationship? Misery loves company, right?
I shoulder-check my locker closed and feel five thousand years old. I don’t want to make some plan to trick my boyfriend (sorry, ex-boyfriend) into seeing me. I don’t want to stare too hard at the thought that maybe he didn’t understand anything about me if he felt there was any part of me that was uninterested. That I loved wrong. This fear that I’m broken burrows down to my mitochondria. But I also don’t want to spend the rest of the year wondering if I misunderstood the conversation, or the meaning of the word “break.”
I bounce on the balls of my feet, adrenaline making me dizzy. “You know what? I’m going in.”
Odette’s head whips down to locker 118 and back to me. “Over there?”
I nod, my feet moving before the rest of me catches up. “Don’t wait for me.” My stomach twists as my Converse eat up the scuffed linoleum between us.
This is not the right response. Upon being dumped, you don’t storm your ex like a castle in front of the entire school. You’re supposed to act like the past doesn’t exist and keep it civil. Give each other bland little smiles and well-wishes and keep the embarrassment to a minimum.
Well, this isn’t The Crown, and I want answers more than pride.
I ignore the fake coughs and sharp smiles surrounding him like a moat. Old habits briefly rise where I would usually remind myself to say good morning to everyone, ask people about their summers, or remember to smile.
Today, I go straight for the jugular.
“Josh.” I stumble over his name, the syllable awkward with disuse. “Hi.”
“What’s up, Marlowe?” No preamble. He’s forgoing the social niceties this morning too.
“Can we talk?” The words scrape coming out. “Please?”
His jaw tightens, and I know he doesn’t want to. I also recognize the moment he decides to humor me over seeing whatever other unpredictable thing I might do this morning. He nods toward the classroom to his left, and I walk into the freshman chemistry lab before he changes his mind.
I move to the back of the room, hope fluttering against my ribs for the first time in months. I stop reflexively next to my old lab table and turn into the full force of him.
He raises an eyebrow and waits. Not a care in the world, not a single thing to get off his chest. I ignore that he has nothing he wants to discuss with me. I ignore that I have no plan, no PowerPoint materials, and fully recognize that bleating why at him would not lead to anything productive.
“Hi,” I repeat, stunned I finally have him to myself again. Every thought I’ve ever had evaporates into thin air.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, having apparently given up on me finding the point.
None of this is the same. I don’t know this Josh. This one who makes no effort to pretend I’m more than a casual acquaintance. He’s not going to slide his hands around my waist, outline all the ways he misses me, or ravish me next to my favorite Bunsen burner.
I curl my fingers around the edge of the table and lean back before I do something stupid like brush my fingers through damp, golden hair.
Focus.
Favorite burner.
Least favorite smile.
“Marlowe?” Impatience bleeds into Josh’s voice. “You wanted to talk?”
This smile is not one that I see very often. I usually get the lazy, amused twist of his lips, or the laughing-with-friends dimple and flash of teeth, or, when we’re alone—a slow curve at the corner of his mouth that makes my knees weak.
Thisis the one he uses when he blows off something his momma asks him to do, and he still expects love and forgiveness.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear out all the background noise.
“Did you take your meds this morning?”
I bristle, because I always take my meds. I have a vested interest in making my brain work at school, and I don’t need anyone trying to take on the responsibility of reminding me.
“I’m focused” is all I say. I don’t want to fight. I try to give him his favorite smile. The one that hints of secrets and promises passed between us.
“You said you wanted a break for the summer, but we’re back at school now,” I say, willfully ignoring all of his body language. I’m playing a game of autistic chicken and hoping that he won’t call me out on it. That maybe, just maybe, he’ll chime in with a You’re right! New year, new us, let’s pick up where we left off.
He stills as I dangle the unspoken question toward him.
“We’re doing this here?” He sighs, the disappointment stealing the air out of the room. “All right. I think having some space this summer really gave me an opportunity to think about things.”
Space.I hate that word. Not the space where we blast phallic-shaped rockets into the universe, nebulas collapse, and we’re all made of stardust, but the space that has Josh inching farther and farther away from me.
“Me too. I think we should get back together.”
“And I think we shouldn’t.” His tone is almost kind, and I hate that most of all. “Nothing lasts forever, Marlowe.”
“Some things do,” I say, desperation bleeding into my voice. I can’t help myself, and the first example that comes to mind tumbles out. “The Ganoderma mushroom is supposed to be immortal.”
“Jesus Christ,” he says, brushing hair off his forehead. “Not mushrooms again.” I know this expression too. It’s the one after I say something that he would have preferred I kept to myself. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. We’re talking about our breakup and instead of love, you bring up mushrooms.”
My thoughts scatter into ten different directions. I swallow the urge to correct that we weren’t talking about love, but about longevity. Another synapse sparks and tells me that if I explained the way the Ganoderma grows like curls of red parchment he would understand. I chase another brain cell that tells me to describe how the loss of him carved out an area of my chest that will likely always make me feel off-balance, but he beats me to it.
“It’s not your fault, Marlowe. I know you tried your best.”
My best. Like what you would tell a toddler holding up a sloppy art project, but instead it was my efforts to love him.
“You know Patrick and Brittany did long distance over the summer, and she made a Gabber post about how much she missed him every single day.” He gives me a knowing look that skates the edge of accusatory. “I need something more like that in my life.”
“You wanted me to make Gabber posts about you? While we were on a break?”
I feel the cold ledge of the lab table digging into my back and try not to make the scene I know he’s hoping to avoid. He’s cut me wide open, exposed all the wires, and now he’s frowning at me like it was my hand wielding the knife all along.
He leans over and squeezes my shoulder. “Breakup,” he corrects, gently.
Nope. I was wrong. There goes the knife.
I pull back as I’m summarily dismissed as defective.
I know I’m smart, I’m a good person, and I’m very careful about recycling and always using my turn signal. I have a great family, people who care about me and would likely help me hide a body, but sometimes I still feel like I’m performing well below average. Like the playground games I was expelled from because I just didn’t get the rules. Teachers venting frustrations that my work doesn’t look the same as my classmates’, and why couldn’t I read between the lines that they wanted this specific format? Boys who told me during spin the bottle at Marty Patrick’s thirteenth-birthday party that nobody wanted to kiss a robot. And here. Here. On the first day of senior year, the boy who, two years ago, gave me a slow and careful smile that sank into my brain like honey, tells me he was wrong. That I was an investment that did not pay off.
He’s looking at his watch, looking at the door, everywhere but me, and I nod. He needs a response, and I understand that there needs to be an end to this conversation before he feels he can leave.
He smiles softly, a shadow of what it used to be when he shined in my direction. There’s a finality in the lines of his lips. No hint of regret in the easy slide of his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to unload all of this on you before class. I really do care about you, Marlowe, but let’s just call it, okay?” He tugs my braid, his touch lingering for a moment. He’s comfortable again. Back on solid ground. A weight officially lifted. “See you in class?”
I don’t respond, but he doesn’t need it, and he’s out the door before I can blink.
I continue to blink. And breathe. And tell myself that I am many things, but I am not a crier. It’s an unnecessary expenditure of energy, and my cells need every scrap of ATP for me to remain standing. To not chase him and demand a better explanation. To insist on a detailed list of examples and evidence where I fell short.
Blink.
Breathe.
The first bell jangles, but I stay in place. I know I can’t live here. This burner is my favorite, but freshman chemistry isn’t going to be a class they let me take again for old times’ sake.
The door bursts open, and unfamiliar faces pour in, scouting seats and making frantic game-time alliances for the semester.
Then a familiar face. Her long ponytail bounces over her shoulder and slides across a fuchsia-pink dress she modeled for us six times to make sure it was the perfect first-day outfit.
She pauses when she sees me, holding on to a lab table for dear life. Something in my expression has her flying past classmates and down the aisle until she’s right in front of me. Synthetic vanilla floods my senses and reboots my brain.
“Marlowe?”
I blink harder. “Hey, Blue. You should pick this burner. The flame is the most consistent in the entire classroom.”
“Okay.” She nods slowly. “Anything else?”
“Well,” I say, still selfishly hoarding ATP. “Josh is one hundred percent not interested in getting back together with me.”
She exhales, the air hissing out of bubble-gum-pink lips. “Asshole.”
“Language,” I say, automatically, Momma’s words rising to the surface like muscle memory.
“Marlowe, I think Momma would give me a pass.”
I nod, because southern women know a thing or two about grudges.
“Well, are you going to prop up that table all day, or are we gonna go key his truck?”
“Are those really the only two options?”
“I’m calling Momma.”
If there was one thing that would shake some sense into me, it would be having to explain to Bunny Thompson why I was making a scene at school and dragging Blue into it.
“No.” I smile, hoping my face isn’t as red as my hair. “I’m leaving, it’s fine.”
Blue clutches her phone, disbelief written into every feature.
“I’m good,” I insist as I move toward the exit. One foot in front of the other. Away from this spot. I almost get to the door before turning around, but again—I really can’t help myself.
“Blue, I was serious about the flame consistency.”