7. BACK THEN – November
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
I briefly look up from my cellphone. On a Sunday afternoon, the mall is packed with families. Babies cry in their strollers, and parents holler at wandering toddlers. I loiter next to a retro arcade called Galactica Arcadia and text my mom a simple reply.
Something like: I don’t want anything for my birthday. Don’t worry about it. I already have plans for tonight.
I basically just told my mom that my plans don’t include her—which they don’t. Guilt should strike me. My mom is nice.
Nice but completely…I shake my head, not wanting to touch any of this. Not wanting to spell out any more words relating to my parents.
While I wait for a certain someone to show up, I log into Tumblr and start digging through Willow’s latest questionnaire. She tagged me in one, and I promised Willow the answers if she bobbed for apples during Halloween.
More than anything, I’m curious what questions she actually wants me to answer.
It’s different than the first one. Here, she’s actively choosing which questionnaire I’ll fill out.
Whereas the first one, there was no initial intention that some guy from Philly would appear and ask for her username and yada, yada, whatever.
The past is already written, isn’t it?
So here I am. In a noisy mall, filling out the new questionnaire with one hand stuffed in my leather jacket, the other gripping my cellphone.
Rules: Complete the form by answering each section truthfully. Once you’ve finished, tag other users to complete the task. Begin by sourcing the person who tagged you.
I source Willow using her new Tumblr account name: @vegablaze33 . Here we go…
Name: Garrison (It’s an alright name, I guess.)
Age: 18 and surprisingly still alive
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Dream Home: anywhere but the suburbs.
Favorite Band: Interpol
Favorite TV Show: Supernatural. Sometimes American Horror Story.
I check my browser history for the next question.
What was your…
Last Google Search: porn. Jk, I was reading a tv recap for AHS.
Last person you told you loved: I can’t think that far back.
Last time you felt jealous: not computable at this time.
After Lily Calloway said that Superheroes & Scones needed a couple more staff members, Maya hired a new employee during the Halloween weekend. One of which goes to Dalton Academy. Ace Davenport. Never seen him in my life—though he said he heard of me.
I couldn’t really tell if he hated or liked me. Maybe he’s just indifferent, but the moment he saw Willow fumbling with a rack of comics, he crouched next to her and helped re-shelve them.
They exchanged smiles.
I had a flashback.
Of me doing something kind of similar. Helping Willow pick up fallen cash from the register. It was the beginning of our friendship.
My stomach roiled at the thought of the beginning of theirs. I stewed silently, and Maya must’ve seen my irritation. She gave me a look like, don’t do anything bad. “He’s very valuable to our team.”
Valuable. “How?”
“He’s a walking Marvel encyclopedia. He knows every character, every comic line, unlike other employees.” Unlike me. I probably won’t ever be Maya’s favorite, not after making her job as store manager harder, but I won’t stop trying to make it up to her.
I didn’t even complain when she gave me toilet duty this week. And the bathrooms were so shitty. Pun intended.
I push Ace to the back of my brain and focus on the questionnaire again.
Last time you screwed up something important: probably yesterday. Every day. Story of my life.
Currently…
What turns you on: girls with glasses.
My lips start to rise, a little surprised she asked this one.
What turns you off: anyone who’s “mean” to girls with glasses.
Are you pissed at anyone: pick a brother.
Have you ever…
Been scared of the dark: never.
Cried in front of your parents: only when I was a baby
Kept a journal: nah
What do you like…
Love or Lust: only ever known lust.
Text or Call: text most of the time.
Nerds or Geeks: geeks, definitely.
Done. Not tagging anyone else, I slip my phone in my jeans pocket and then loosen my leather bracelet that digs into my wrist bone. A pack of cigarettes sits heavy in my leather jacket, but I can’t really smoke inside the mall. Not to mention, I’m trying to curb the habit.
I retie my black Converse shoes for something to do, and when I look up, I see her.
Down the stretch of mall hallway, Willow spots me too, and she waves sheepishly—and her awkward smile causes my lips to curve higher than before. I skim her head-to-toe. Like I didn’t just hang out with her yesterday at Superheroes & Scones.
She wears a mustard yellow shirt beneath saggy, faded overalls.
Not especially trendy or something people would “like” on Instagram.
Just…geeky. No makeup, but she rarely ever wears much more than eyeliner.
Her light brown hair is twisted in a sloppy braid.
Flyaway pieces escape, and baby hairs stick up by her forehead.
It’s nice to be around someone comfortable with who they are—and who they want to be—without bowing to peer pressure. In class last week, Rachel showed Willow a YouTube video of how to braid hair after critiquing all of her loose strands.
Willow thanked Rachel for the suggestions, but she never bothered with the “proper” technique.
Closer, Willow grabs tight of the strap to her JanSport backpack, always slightly tucked into herself. Overly aware of the strollers, the bumbling people, the sheer amount of bodies, and the many hands clutching Styrofoam coffee cups.
I see her mouth a few apologies for brushing arms with people, and she glances cautiously left and right. The crowds don’t cause her to fall back. She pushes through anxiety to reach me and the arcade.
I’m appreciative…more than I can even express.
“Am I late?” She nudges up black-rimmed glasses and checks her phone.
I knot my laces and rise. “Nah. I’m just early.” I gesture with my head to the arcade. “I had nothing better to do.”
“Oh.” Willow tries hard to stifle a smile. “Yeah…me too. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” I hold the door open.
As she slips inside the nearly empty arcade, she says, “I got distracted this morning.”
Ace Davenport . I frown and catch up to her side. “With what?” That douchebag Marvel encyclopedia.
“Lily let me feed Moffy dry cereal for the first time…I mean, he’s allowed to eat solid foods, but it’s the first time that I fed him. It’s kind of cool that she trusts me with her baby.”
And it’s kind of fucking cool that Willow trusts me with anything related to Lily and Loren Hale, especially Maximoff Hale. Their son is like media fodder. Celebrity Crush eats up any and all information about their baby, who can’t be older than five or six months now.
After Halloween, I already swore up and down to Willow that I’d never sell a single word to the tabloids.
If I ever break this promise, she has full permission to spill any of my secrets to the world, my parents—whoever she wants.
When I said that, we both paused in silence, remembering when I showed her my tattoos… and bruises.
In the end, I think she trusts me because I have no reason to speak to Celebrity Crush editors and reporters. I don’t need the money. I’m not looking for fame or notoriety. I literally want to be left alone.
I’m also no longer surprised when Willow acts like she sits on the outskirts of the Hales when she’s Loren’s cousin. She mentioned her mom being estranged from everyone, and therefore, she was too.
“Would you babysit if they asked?” I wonder.
Willow nods with a growing smile. “I’m used to babies since Ellie is so much younger than me. I helped my mom a lot.” She stares off for a second. “I can’t even believe this is my life. I can hold Maximoff Hale—do you know how many people just want to touch his pinky?”
“About forty-five thousand.”
She skids to a stop in the middle of the arcade. Retro machines line star-patterned carpet, and glow-in-the-dark moons and planets are glued to the ceiling. “You saw the poll?” she asks, color draining from her cheeks.
“The one on Twitter asking a yes or no question about Maximoff’s pinky finger? No, never seen it,” I tease.
Willow presses her lips together, hiding another giddy smile. Something flutters in my stomach—which is lame. But whatever. I don’t care. I’ll be lame with this girl.
We drift subconsciously towards the Streets of Rage machine.
“I didn’t post that poll,” she says more quietly, “but I definitely entered…and it’s weird, right, that I’m so enamored by a baby just because he’s famous?” She frowns in thought.
“Not weird. Not when the media makes the baby seem like American royalty.”
Willow mutters, “Prince Moffy,” with an awkward smile, not intending for me to see. When she notices me staring, she clears her throat and touches her lips. “Uhh…yeah.”
“Hey, Prince Maximoff fanfic might actually be a thing when he’s a teenager.”
“I’d read it,” Willow says and adds, “but in a…non-creepy way. I’m related to him. It’s just like entertainment…like television. Sort of.”
“Yeah, sort of,” I agree, aching to stretch my arm over her shoulders, but I tense more. We stand side-by-side in front of the Streets of Rage control panel: red and blue joysticks and a couple buttons each. Nothing fancy or complicated.
I strain my ears to catch her muttering, “I’m talking too much.”
“You’re not talking too much, trust me,” I assure Willow. “You could be quiet the whole day too, and that’d be okay. I just like being with you.” I want to retract that last part because she stiffens a little more.
Tension winds between us.
“As friends,” I add.
She eases more.
Just friends then. Right. Just friends. It’s easier. I know that.
Willow lets out a breath and then meets my eyes. “Before we play…can I ask you to do something for me. I mean, it’s okay if you say no. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
I nod, curious about where she’s headed.
Willow sets the JanSport backpack at her sneakers and then unzips a pocket. Retrieving a phone, she clicks into the camera app. “So you know Maggie?”
“Your friend from Maine.” Her only friend. Before I came along.
“Every day she asks me about Lo and Lily, sometimes even Connor and Rose, and Ryke and Daisy…and I can’t answer her questions. She hasn’t been answering my texts in two days, which isn’t like her, and she unfollowed me on Twitter.”
“Damn.” I rest my elbow on the control panel.
“I know, it’s bad.”
I frown. “All because you wouldn’t talk about your cousin and his friends?”
Willow flips the cellphone in her hand. “I used to tell Maggie everything. She has a right to be mad and upset that I’m…I’m shutting her out. I’d be sad too, and I want to share my life in Philly with her. I just can’t share that side.”
It clicks. “You want to share me ?”
Willow pales again. “Not like share you, share you—”
I hold out my hand to stop her eyes from widening. “I know what you meant.” I see how hard this is for her to ask. We may spend a lot of time in each other’s company, but she still has no idea how I’ll react to new situations or where our friendship boundaries lie.
New friendships come with a shit ton of untested waters, and half the fun is testing them—but then there’s the risk of drowning the friendship altogether.
With a deep breath, Willow asks, “Can I take a selfie with you?”
I think I’ll always remember this moment.
We haven’t really taken each other’s picture. Not even during Halloween. Not alone or together. I’m not opposed to photos either. People tag me in pictures on Facebook and Instagram all the time. Most of them are of me at parties with friends.
My father scolded me about a few that “future employers” would deem disrespectful and irresponsible. Underage drinking in one picture, and about six or seven show me giving rude gestures to the camera.
Without hesitation, I hold out my hand for her phone. “I have longer arms for a selfie.”
She wavers. “So that’s a…yes?” Seeing that it is—even before I answer—she hands me the phone.
“Yeah.” I tweak the lighting settings, and then I raise the camera towards us. She stands on her tiptoes to be closer to me, the Streets of Rage machine a backdrop.
I dip my head towards hers, my hair brushing my eyelashes. We’re not touching, but the not touching thing almost builds more tension.
A good kind.
Willow smiles that awkward smile, more horizontal like a line than upturned like a U. She looks happy, and I look like the delinquent everyone believes I am.
I snap several photos and then return the phone. “What are you telling her?”
Willow texts Maggie quickly. “ This is my friend Garrison. We’re playing Streets of Rage. Wish you were here! Visit when you can. You think that’s enough?”
“Maybe add emojis. Hearts, sparkles, pizza.”
Willow has this look like she wants to say something, but she’s mulling over her words. Thinking about them. And then finally, she says, “You know, um, if we ever fight, now I know what emojis will bring you back.” Avoiding my reaction, she slips the cellphone into her backpack.
“If we ever fought, it’d be my fault, and I’d be the one to send you pizza emojis and penguins, some turtles.” She’s smiling. “Maybe a raccoon.”
“There’s a raccoon emoji?” She braves a glance at me.
I have no idea. “I’ll make one.” I reach into my pocket for change, but Willow is already pulling out a Ziploc baggie filled with a ton of quarters.
“No,” I instantly decline. “I’m paying.” It’s a date. I haven’t announced this or anything, but in my mind, it’s sort of a date. Kind of.
It could be.
Willow hesitates but then opens the baggie. “You can’t pay.”
I shift my weight and comb back the long pieces of my dark hair. “Why not?” She doesn’t want this to be a date, you idiot.
“It’s your birthday.” She pops two quarters into the coin slots, one for player 1 and one for player 2.
I was the one who sent the Twitter message: Blaze, want to kick some ass today? Galactica Arcadia, noon-ish.
Willow replied: sure, Axel.
Now we face the game with the characters Blaze and Axel, prepared to wipe crime off a city street using crowbars and broken bottles.
I never meant this arcade outing to be a “birthday thing” but my date of birth is posted on all of my social medias. So she knows.
“Hey,” I say before we start playing, “do you want to hang out after this? Nothing birthday-related. I just figured we could do that Supernatural marathon tonight, if you want to.” I keep postponing on her, and she’s too nice to bug me about it.
“Yeah,” she says instantly. “Yeah, of course. Still at your house?”
I nod. “Still at my house.” It’s weird. I’ve never shied from bringing anyone over to my family’s place, but I like keeping Willow to myself and far, far away from my parent’s unwanted opinions.