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I sighed. I hate when you sigh, a voice said from the porch. I looked over and could make out his silhouette, leaning in the doorway. I smiled into the darkness. It's just deep breathing, really. He crossed the patio to sit next to me, taking my glass of wine and draining the rest. I hate when I make you sigh. How about that? Good thing you weren't here when I was crying then, I responded softly. Now he was the one sighing. He moved his hands under the blanket, pulling my feet into his lap and kneading at my toes, rubbing my skin. I leaned down and flung the other half over him. He was in his skivvies after all, and it was chilly. With his hands anchoring me, I stretched out a bit, leaning back into the pillows and watching him thoughtfully. Can I apologize for real now? He asked, looking at me. I had my jack back. I nodded. I'm so sorry for being an arse tonight. You were right to be pissed. And may I tell you again for the record, you were amazing. Thanks. Seriously, Grace. I'm so proud of you. You killed it. It's gonna be a huge success. Well, we'll see about that. Right now, I'm not so worried about whether my show does well. I'm a little more focused on how well a certain Brit is doing. See, that's the exact opposite of the thing I want you to be focused on right now. You should be enjoying this, focusing on you and everything you have going right now. Don't worry about a prat like me. I'm fine. He pulled me across the loveseat and into his lap. I wish I could believe you, Jackie. I breathed into his neck as he clutched me close. I wish you could too, he answered, lifting me and carrying me into the house. He pressed countless kisses into my skin, shifting me in his arms so I could wrap my legs around his waist as he walked, feeling his strong body underneath and all around me. In between the thousand kisses, his lips told me how beautiful I looked tonight, how lovely, how he couldn't believe I was his, how he didn't deserve me. I tried to argue with him, but each time I tried to speak he planted another searing kiss on me, stopping my thoughts right in their track and funneling them into an entirely different thought process. One where we existed alone. Just mouths and lips and arms and legs and tongues. And all the time in the world.
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Spring, though it was, my thoughts were still of endings. I could not lie there and live that moment, but had to find some way to preserve it. My fidgeting free hand found another flower. I reached over and laid it on Thalber's chest like an offering, to be lifted and held against the blue, and turned around as though such a thing had never been seen before. Another daisy. Add it to your chain, I said, and I'll add this to mine, and then, and then, and then, my chain, I'll give to you, and mine to you, to wear about your brow, said Thalber. As I shook my head and said, to keep, a souvenir, we will soon part. Today must be today, Thalber said, so this I'll wear, but keep you always in my heart.
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Abby stared at the blank piece of paper in front of her. Normally, she loved blank pieces of paper. They were meant to be filled with writing. Writing was what she loved to do best, but this was map making. It was very precise. She liked to draw, but she didn't like rules about what she had to draw. She wished she could write about the island instead of mapping it. We'll start today with sketches and a rough draft. Next Wednesday, I expect a full color map with lots of details, Ms. Cantor said. Next Wednesday? That was one day before the tryouts, as if Abby didn't have enough to think about. When it rains, it pours, she said to herself. She had read that this morning in her cute and cuddly cat calendar. Ms. Cantor ought to hand out umbrellas. Jessica was already bent over her paper, sketching her island with a sharp pencil. She looked happy. She had already given her island a name, and she probably knew its exact population, chief exports, and seasonal climate. This was just the kind of assignment that Jessica thrived on. Abby quietly opened her journal again. No wonder they call it a rough draft. Maybe it should even be called a tough draft, or a rough, tough draft. I don't want to think about this island. I'd rather think about Mermaid Island in Never Never Land. Could I do a map of Mermaid Island for the assignment? I don't think so. Mermaids, pirates, fairies, and flying boys are not scientific. Anyway, what would they export? Fairy dust? Abby? It was Ms. Cantor. She quickly shut her journal and picked up her pencil. Get to work, Ms. Cantor said. Unless you want to do the assignment at home, where I won't be able to help you if you have a question. Ms. Cantor didn't know about Isabel. Abby's older sister was a walking dictionary slash encyclopedia slash book of knowledge. Then again, Ms. Cantor was right. Abby had to work on it now. At home, rehearsing was her first priority.
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As a kid, I never saw anyone remotely like myself on TV, or in the movies, or in video games, or at the children's theater, or in books, or anywhere at all in my field of vision. There simply were no young, funny, capable, strong, good, fat girls. A fat man can be Tony Soprano. He can be Dan from Roseanne, still my number one celeb crush. He can be John Candy, funny without being a human sight gag. But fat women were sexless mothers, pathetic punchlines, or gruesome villains. Don't believe me? It's cool. I wrote it down. Here is a complete list of fat female role models available in my youth. Lady Cluck. Lady Cluck was a loud, fat chicken woman who took care of Maid Marian, and presumably may have wet nursed her with chicken milk, in Disney's Robin Hood. Cluck was so fat, in fact, that she was nearly the size of an adult male bear. Being a 400-pound chicken, she wasn't afraid to throw down in a fight with a lion and a gay snake, even though the lion was her boss. Hashtag lean in. And she had monstro jugs, but in a maternal, sexless way, which is a total ripoff. Like, she doesn't even get to have a plus-size fuck fest with Baloo. It's weird that motherhood is coded as sexless, by the way. I know most of America is clueless about the female reproductive system, but if there's one thing most babies have in common, it's that your dad goofed in your mom. Baloo dressed as a sexy fortune teller. In order to assist Robin Hood in ripping off Prince John's bejeweled decadence caravan, Baloo adorns himself with scarves and rags and golden bangles and whirls around like an impish Sirocco, utterly beguiling PJ's guard rhinos and incapacitating them with boners. Baloo dressed as a sexy fortune teller luxuriates in every curve of his huge, sensuous bear butt. Self-consciousness is not in his vocabulary. He knows he looks good. The most depressing thing I realized while making this list is that Baloo dressed as a sexy fortune teller is the single most positive role model of my youth.
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Mr. Radford passes our tests back and minutely shakes his head at me as he slides mine onto the table, 37. A disgruntled noise comes from behind me, Gideon's glaring at his test, also 37. He glances at me and when I catch him looking, he looks away. Then when he thinks I'm not paying attention, he looks at me again. When the bell rings, he catches up to me by the door, hey. I stop, my heart pounding hard enough to shake my brain. Even before we got our tests back, for some reason I could feel him looking at me the whole period, boring holes in the back right side of my head. And it's not a good feeling. It's that nauseous fight or flight feeling I get when I see Ashley and Natalia looking either near me or at me and whispering something and laughing. But that's not fair, because he's the one who did something wrong. Maybe you shouldn't have cheated on me, I blurt. Ha, cheated off me is what I meant, he stares. Because like, I didn't do the reading, I add. Yeah, I got that. He waves the test he's still holding. Well, I never promised you a rose garden. So, okay, I awkwardly slip by under his armpit and speed walk to my locker. Wishing for the first time that I'd done the reading, and his A plus on the test had helped him get into Dartmouth. Then he'd owe me one, then, but that is the end of the plan, really. I'm so lost in fantasies that I don't notice him following me to my locker. Scarlet, hold up. My name coming out of his mouth so casually gives me a head rush, like emotional brain freeze. He pauses in front of my locker, running his hand through his hair. I was kind of a dick the other day, I know. But it was weird what you said, I do have friends. What? It takes me a second before I realize that he's talking about my verbal brain fart from the other day. I mean, they don't go here. I know that sounds fake, like how girls are like. He does a girl voice. I have a boyfriend, but he doesn't go here. And actually, they're just making it up, but I'm not. Okay, I say. He shifts, irritated. Don't just say okay if you still don't believe me. I do believe you. I mean it. I have friends, he says again. Then makes a face that's like, shit, the more I say that, the faker it sounds. At that moment, I am even more positive that Gideon and I have a lot in common. I feel protective, like I need to rescue him.
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I ducked under the table and almost took a dive. My head swam, purple circles flared in my eyes, blocking the view of the house, a sharp pain seared my back, not good. Julie, we have to go. She hit the wall with her back. You're like them, like the people. No, completely different, exactly like the people. I'm so like the people that if you knew, you'd run away screaming. We have to go, Julie, we can't stay here. There might be more of these things out there and we have a busted door and a busted ward on the window. We've got to go. She shook her head. The pain sliced my spine in half, wringing tears from my eyes. I couldn't remember the last time something had hurt so much. I forced my voice to go soft. Julie, I'm still me. I swear to you, I'll do everything I can to keep you safe. But now, we have to run before he comes back with more of those Reeve things. Come on, sweetheart, come on out, please. She swallowed and took my hand. I helped her from under the table. That's my girl, come. What kind of magic was that? The forbidden kind, you can never tell anyone I used it or I'll be in trouble. The power words commanded the magic itself. They were primal words. It wasn't enough to know them. One had to own them, and there were no do-overs. One conquered them or died. The most accomplished mages had two or three. I had six, and I didn't want to explain why. They were my weapon of last resort. You're back, I know. There was only one place within reach that offered stronger protection than my apartment, the Order. Under the Order lay the vault. Its wards were impenetrable, and its armored door would take a focused fire from a howitzer to break. I tried the phone, still out. There would be no pickup for us from the Order. A 15-minute run separated us from the Order's building, 20 with the kid in tow. Piece of cake, I could do this. I just needed something to dull the pain, just for a little bit, and then I'd be fine.
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This is it, you know, you'll have to find someone else to supply you once this is done. Tried that already, didn't end so spectacularly. Cass takes a shuddering breath as the patch's contents hit her system. All the colors in the room take on a heightened quality and hue, her body coursing with the delicious rush that the patch brings with it. Mai places a light hand on her shoulder and brushes stray hair off of Cass's skin. Don't. Cass shifts forward angrily, letting Mai's hand drop off of her shoulder. Why not? The question is asked almost without any change in inflection, as if Mai is discussing the weather. Because we're over. Cass's pale green eyes flash angrily, her temper always quick, even on standard strength patches. Mai comes to stand in front of her, bringing two hands up to the other woman's chin, cupping it and looking evenly at her. We don't have to be. Cass slaps the other woman's hands away and stands, taking her drink with her to the window and staring moodily through the glass. Breakers roll past the elevated structure and wind buffets the pain as gulls shift in the nighttime skies, hunting on the wing. A presence behind her announces Mai's arrival and Cass turns. The woman's hungry demeanor makes her anger fall away, a flush beginning to play across her cheeks. We're not going to fuck. I told you, we're over. Besides, you let me go, remember? Mai takes Cass's hands as she delivers the denial. Who said anything about fucking? Mai smiles, her expression quicksilver. Cass doesn't reply as Mai places her lips against her own, soft and warm, nostalgic and dangerous. Pushing her away takes a lot more energy than Cass feels she possesses at the end of this day, but it is required. Too many times, Mai had used her sexuality as an escape route from having more serious discussions. Mai steps back and shrugs, taking a sip from her drink and turning. She walks away as if nothing happened, and Cass knows then that she has made the right choice.
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A brief note on high-functioning anxiety. Many of us with anxiety don't look like we've got a problem, because outwardly, we function ludicrously well. Or so the merry story goes. Our anxiety sees us make industrious lists and plans, run purposefully from one thing to the next, and move fast upstairs and across traffic intersections. We are a picture of efficiency and energy, always on the move, always doing. We're Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh, always flitting about convinced everyone depends on us to make things happen and to be there when they do, and to generally attend to happenings. But beneath the veneer, we're being pushed by fear and doubt, and a voice that tells us we're a bad husband, an insufficient sister, we're wasting time, we're not producing enough, that we turn everything into a clusterfuck. Sure, we look busy, but mostly, we're busy avoiding things, so we tie ourselves up in stupid paper-shuffling-like tasks that shield us from ever getting around to the important stuff. Or the tough stuff. And yep, we're the ones who send out random texts suggesting we all catch up for dinner next week. We're also the ones who cancel at the last minute, and who simply do not pick up the phone for days, weeks, when it gets too much. We go underground. We remain single for decades, and everyone just assumes we're too busy and high-functioning for such things. On a blog post entitled, When Social Anxiety Looks Like Talking Too Much, I read about one girl's battle with the seemingly inconsistent appearance of her anxiety. To everyone, I'm just the girl who talks too much and tries too hard, when really, I'm just trying to quiet this battle in my mind for the hour. I'd add that, in such instances, we'd love everyone, someone, to see that we absolutely do not have our shit together, and to come and tell us they've got this one, even for five minutes. The more anxious we are, the more we'd really love someone to come and take the load off us and help us cope for a bit. This presents us with another cruel, anxious irony, doesn't it? The more anxious we are, the more high-functioning we will make ourselves appear, which just encourages the world to lean on us more. Anxiety. It's befuddling and clusterfucky for everyone involved.
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Over her comm, Jess heard Smith's voice as she approached Krusty through the airlock that separated him from the hangar's exposed interior. Then she heard Smith relaying the fake message about stabilizers to the mechanic. So far, so good, she thought. You're launching early, said Smith's voice in her helmet. There was certainty in her accusation. Jessamine's heart pounded. I'm running a sim with the captain, replied Krusty. Put that gun down. You trying to get new Houston's emergency services over here? Cause they ain't gonna like what they find. Stop what you're doing, said Smith. Step away from the wafer right now. Keep doing what you do best, kid, said Krusty, apparently ignoring the woman with the gun. A message flashed upon Jessamine's screen. Hangar doors retracting. In her helmet, she could hear Krusty arguing with Smith. And then she heard a shot and the sound of something large and metal toppling to the ground. Krusty, she called out, unable to stop herself. There was no response. The chronometer ticked down to one minute, 30 seconds until launch. She heard a low groan. A woman's groan, she thought. It faded and did not resume. Krusty! She screamed, her stomach seized with cold fear. She opened her public channel. Smith, what's going on down there? She cried. No response. One minute to go. She stood and then sat again, mad with not knowing what was happening. Was Krusty racing on foot to the ship? Was he dead? Was he dead? Forty-five seconds to go. Krusty! She called again. Krusty! She heard nothing. What should she do? What is it that makes you a good pilot, Jess? Harpreet's question echoed in her memory, as did her answer. I fly with my gut. What was her gut telling her now? Krusty! It was time to listen to her reason. The answer was there, like she'd known it would be. You are a pilot. Fly. This was no time for regrets or fears or thoughts of anything beyond this bridge. Jess approved the Galleon's final launch sequence. Transcribed by ESO. Translated by —
