Complementary and Acute

by Ella Lyons

  She wrote her name down on the bottom of the list of people who’d shown up for Number Ninjas (Mr. Akins would know she’d been there, of course, but it didn’t hurt to make sure) and left it on his desk, then shoved her notebook in her bag and headed back to the dorms. Normally she’d grab an hour or two at the library, but her head was aching from lack of sleep, and trying to read made the pounding behind her eyes even worse. All she wanted was a quiet room and her peppermint oil. Maybe Jac was back from class and would rub her neck.

  The room was empty and blessedly quiet. A quiet pang of disappointment zinged through Anabelle, but she ignored it in favor of unearthing the essential oil blend she’d created for headaches. Peppermint and eucalyptus. Smelled like a dream. She placed a few drops on her temples, then set her shoes in her closet, sprayed them with orange oil, and laid down on the bed.

  Sleep, she told herself, but sleep didn’t come. Her mind spun chaotically, without landing on any one thing long enough for Anabelle to resolve it. Number Ninjas, Jac, her English reading, the AP science class she had to get a nearly perfect score in, Dahlia and her earrings, her elective class, which started tomorrow and had Anabelle scared straight down to her toes. She groaned and pulled her pillow over her head, breathing into it. She tried to relax her body bit by bit, but all that did was make her aware of how ill-fitting her skirt was. She’d meant to move the button on it, but hadn’t had a chance.

  Anabelle couldn’t have said how long she laid there trying to quiet her mind and uselessly hoping for her headache to go away, but eventually the door opened and Jac tumbled in, giggling.

  There was at least one other voice too, giggling right alongside Jac.

  “Shh,” Jac whispered. She crept into the room, another set of footfalls right behind her. “My roommate’s sleeping.”

  Anabelle went utterly still. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t just take the pillow off her face and tell Jac she was awake, but something kept her from moving. She squeezed her eyes shut and stayed as still as a rock.

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon,” came an answering whisper.

  “She’s probably got a headache,” Jac said. “Smells like her peppermint headache stuff.”

  There were a few more giggles, then some rustling, and a moment later, the door shut. Anabelle breathed out, curling her hands into fists beneath her blanket.

  * * *

  Anabelle had been second guessing her choice of elective all summer long, and now that it was here, she was quite certain it had been a terrible choice. Looking in at the workshop, the enormous saws and walls full of scary looking metal tools—it was like the dentist’s office from hell. Anabelle hovered in the doorway uncertainly, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

  The shop teacher, a squat, balding man with red cheeks and a toupee like a wet mop, glanced over at her. “You need something, Ms. Horton?”

  “This is my…” Anabelle gestured at the classroom. “I’m registered for this class.”

  At that, there were a few twitters from the girls already seated at the tall tables, and Mr. Fenton actually stopped what he was doing to sit up and look at her. “You are?”

  “Yes,” Anabelle said with more determination than she felt.

  “Well,” Mr. Fenton said. “Well. All right, then. Grab any empty seat.”

  Anabelle took a seat at the table nearest to the door; if she had to make a getaway, she wanted to be able to do it quickly.

  The classroom filled up slowly. Shop wasn’t one of the more popular electives at Dearington. Barely half the seats were filled when the bell rang and Jac’s friend Dahlia ambled through the door.

  Mr. Fenton cleared his throat and looked up at the clock pointedly. “Ms. Gardiner. Let’s not start this semester like we did the last one.”

  “Of course not,” Dahlia said, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Mr. Fenton rolled his eyes and turned back to the board. “Take a seat beside Ms. Horton, won’t you? This is her first semester, so I’d like you to partner with her until she gets her feet wet.”

  Dahlia plopped her bag down on the table beside Anabelle. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.” She flopped down in her chair and hooked her leg up on the table. No one had told Anabelle they didn’t have to wear their uniforms to shop. Everyone else was in street clothes, mostly jeans and t-shirts. Dahlia’s had the sleeves cut out and the black strap of her bra was slipping over her shoulder. Anabelle looked away, frowning. How exactly was she supposed to make a quick break for the door with Dahlia in front of it?

  “Anabelle, yeah?”

  Anabelle nodded, carefully extracting her notebook from her bag. “Yes.”

  “Jac’s roommate.”

  “Jac’s best friend,” Anabelle snapped, looking up. She had to fight down the urge to flick one of the stupid silver hoops lacing through Dahlia’s left ear. “I’m not just her roommate, I’m her best friend.”

  “Ah,” Dahlia said. “Well. Good info to have, Anabelle. Thanks.”

  Anabelle nodded and flipped her notebook open.

  “We don’t really need notebooks in here, you know. We use actual tools.”

  To hide her embarrassment, Anabelle slapped her notebook shut and busied herself stuffing it back into her bag. “Good info to have, Dahlia. Thanks.”

  Dahlia threw her head back and laughed. “So what are you even doing in shop? I wouldn’t have thought this was your bag.”

  “What would you know about it?”

  “Just whatever Jac tells me.”

  Anabelle’s hands were shaking. Surely that wasn’t a good thing to have happen around all these power tools. “And what exactly has Jac said about me?”

  Dahlia quirked one dark eyebrow. “Why don’t you ask her? Since she’s your best friend and all.”

  “Fine,” Anabelle snapped. “Maybe I will.”

  “Good plan,” Dahlia said. “Now you might want to pay attention. Wouldn’t want you to lose one of those perfectly manicured little fingers, would we?”

  If Anabelle ignored her for the rest of class, it was just because she was paying really close attention to Mr. Fenton, that’s all.

  * * *

  The thing to do, Anabelle decided, was just to not think about Dahlia. She had quite enough to do without sparing any energy for Dahlia Gardiner. And it wasn’t like Jac needed permission to have other friends, it’s just that something about Dahlia made Anabelle wary. She couldn’t put a finger on it, and maybe it was better if she didn’t try. She’d just focus on Number Ninjas, and on not cutting any parts of her hand off in shop class, and on Stranger in a Strange Land, which she needed to be done with by Sunday if she was going to have time to reread it before starting her paper on it. She had only just curled up on her bed with it when the door swung open and Jac stumbled in, shedding clothes as she came.

  “Hey,” Anabelle said, marking her place with her finger and letting the book fall shut.

  “Hey!” Jac said. She paused, shirt halfway over her head. “What are you doing?”

  Anabelle held up her book. “Trying to get through this reading.”

  “You’ve got three weeks.”

  “I know,” Anabelle said. She sat up and crossed her legs underneath her, smoothing out a wrinkle in her duvet. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

  “GLG all day,” Jac said, half in and half out of her closet.

  “Oh. How was it?”

  “Good. Great, actually.” Jac straightened up, pulling a t-shirt over her head.

  “You want to go get some food? The dining hall opens in ten minutes.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got a lecture.”

  “What, now?”

  “In half an hour,” Jac said. She bent over and shook out her curls. When she straightened up, they fell in dark waves around her shoulders.

  “What sort of lecture?”

  “It’s a symposium on alternative hairstyles.”

  “A what?”
r />   Jac laughed. “It’s a lecture about female empowerment through hair choice, and then a bunch of the people from the cosmetology school across town come and give free haircuts.”

  Anabelle bolted upright. “Don’t cut your hair.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Jac said. “I have no desire to look like a mushroom.”

  “Promise?” Anabelle said urgently.

  “Swear. You want to come?” She was pulling on her tightest pair of jeans and shoving her feet in black ankle boots that Anabelle didn’t recognize. “We could get a free toaster.”

  “What do we need a toaster for? We’re not even allowed to have food up here.”

  “It’s a joke, Anabelle.” Jac turned to the mirror and grabbed an eyeliner. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Anabelle frowned and looked down at the book in her hands, unsure how to feel about being on the outside of one of Jac’s inside jokes. It wasn’t nice. “How come you’re dressing up for a lecture?”

  “Some of us are going out after. Grab a bite or dinner or whatever. You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

  If there was a thing Anabelle wanted less than spending the evening with Jac and these new friends of hers, she couldn’t think of what it was. “I really need to get to this reading done.”

  “Suit yourself,” Jac said with a shrug, and she checked her reflection one last time before stuffing her keys and her wallet in her pocket. “See you.”

  The door swung shut behind her. Anabelle opened her book and found her spot. “Yeah. See you.”

  Six hours later, Anabelle was so furious she was shaking. The clock was creeping steadily towards midnight, it was almost two hours past curfew, and if Anabelle had been a betting woman, she’d have put money on the racket coming down the hall being Jac. Anabelle climbed out of bed and pulled her robe on over her pajamas, then walked over and unlocked the door just in time for Jac to fall through, landing face down in a giggling heap.

  “For God’s sake, Jac.”

  Jac rolled over and cracked one eye; her face lit up in a grin. “Anabelle!”

  “You’re drunk.”

  Jac nodded seriously. “Very drunk indeed.”

  “It’s Thursday.”

  “Thurs-gay!”

  “Shh,” Anabelle said furiously, kicking at Jac until she rolled in the room and Anabelle could shut the door behind her. “You’re going to wake up the RA.”

  “I don’t give a fuuuuuuck.”

  “You’ll give a fuuuuuuck when you get kicked out of school, you idiot. What is the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” Jac said brightly, still on the floor. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m not the one drunk and out past curfew on a Thursday night.”

  “Thurs-gay!” Jac cried. “We had shots, free ones!” She rolled over and sat up, tipping over against the wall. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Shit,” Anabelle said, reaching down to grab the trashcan from under her desk. “If you’re going to throw up—”

  She couldn’t finish her sentence before Jac doubled over and heaved all over the floor. A smattering of it hit the side of the trashcan. The smell was appalling; Anabelle swore and squatted down to grab Jac’s hair and hold it above her head.

  Jac threw up again. Whatever she’d been drinking had been hot pink. Still was, actually.

  “Sorry,” Jac said when she had finished heaving. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Did I get it in the trash can?”

  “Not even a little bit.” She let go of Jac’s hair to fetch a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge. The nearest bit of cloth was a t-shirt Jac had left flung over her desk chair, so Anabelle grabbed that and poured some of the water on it. “Wipe your face. You’ve got barf on it.”

  “Your face,” Jac said, narrowing her eyes.

  “You’re wasted.”

  “Nu-uh.”

  Anabelle gave up trying to reason with Jac in favor of grabbing her chin and wiping her face with the wet shirt. Jac pushed at her uselessly.

  “Leave me ‘lone.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re mean.”

  Anabelle didn’t answer. She threw the shirt toward her laundry hamper and reached down, hauling Jac up by her armpits. “Come on, get up.”

  “Leave me ‘lone, I said.”

  “You’re not sleeping in a pile of barf, Jac, much as you deserve it right now.”

  Jac stumbled upright and pitched forward. “How come you’re being so mean to me?”

  “I’m just absolutely not having this conversation with you right now,” Anabelle said. She carefully maneuvered Jac around the puddle of vomit and dumped her in the bed. She pulled off Jac’s boots and then unfastened her jeans. “I can’t get these off without your help, Jac. Get a wiggle on.”

  “Don’t wanna.”

  “You’re going to regret it if you—oh, you know what, never mind. You’re going to be nothing but regret in the morning.”

  Anabelle took the first aid kit from her closet and tossed a bottle of Tylenol at Jac. She  uncapped the bottle of water and held it out. “Drink that whole thing.”

  She stood and watched as Jac feebly drank half the bottle of water, then grimaced and put it on her bedside table. No sooner had she’d flopped back on the bed than she was asleep, snoring into her pillow. Anabelle watched for a few moments, then turned and grabbed a roll of paper towels out of the closet. She unearthed a bottle of cleaner from under her bed and squatted down to clean up Jac’s mess.

  Her heart was pounding, and her hands were shaking terribly. Normally she had a pretty high threshold for Jac’s shenanigans—they were best friends after all and Jac’s forays into complete absurdity were on the thin side of rare—but this was beyond the pale. She didn’t know what was going on with Jac, but she didn’t like it, not one bit. If Anabelle had anywhere else to go, she’d have left Jac to sleep it off and clean up her own mess in the morning.

  But she didn’t, so she scrubbed the floor, tied up the gross trash bag, and carried it down the hall to the garbage chute. Then she showered off, pulled on a fresh pair of pajamas, and settled in to wait for the morning.

  Chapter Three

  “Anabelle?”

  A hand on Anabelle’s shoulder startled her; she looked up to see Blakely, one of the girls from Number Ninjas, standing beside her. Anabelle hadn’t even realized anyone else was in the library.

  “Hey,” she said, leaning back in her chair and forcing a smile. “What’s up?”

  “Didn’t see you in English this morning,” Blakely said.

  “Oh. I, um. I didn’t sleep super well last night.”

  Blakely’s eyes went wide. “You skipped class?” she asked, sounding delighted. “I didn’t think you cut class.”

  As a matter of fact, it was the first time Anabelle had skipped class since starting at Dearington seven years ago. She figured it was long overdue. “Don’t tell.”

  Blakely laughed and sat down in the chair beside Anabelle’s. “Don’t worry, no one would believe me if I did. What are you up to? You haven’t turned a page in like, twenty minutes.”

  “Oh, um.” Anabelle looked down at the book in front of her. She couldn’t even remember what she was supposed to be reading. “Yeah, no. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

  “Hmm,” Blakely said, and she leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “You want to talk about it?”

  Anabelle looked at her blankly. It wasn’t that she didn’t have friends other than Jac—she did. Just not ones she talked about this kind of stuff with, and the truth was, Anabelle wasn’t even sure what this kind of stuff was. Her heart was jumbled up and achy, and she didn’t want to pluck at a single strand, worried if she did the whole thing would unravel. She shook her head and bit her lip.

  “No? Okay, cool. I’m a shitty listener anyway. You want to get a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”


  “Is that a firm no, or is that a no to coffee?”

  “To coffee,” Anabelle said, surprising herself.

  “Milkshake, then? Orange juice?” Blakely grinned. “Ovaltine?”

  Anabelle laughed. “I could go for a milkshake.”

  “Milkshake it is, then,” Blakely said, and she reached over and closed Anabelle’s book.

  * * *

  Dearington was nestled in the foothills of the North Carolina mountains, just a short walk from the nearest town—a cozy little square of space filled with coffee shops, tidy storefronts, a bakery, two bars, and a movie theatre with a single screen. The weather was nice for September, so Blakely and Anabelle took their drinks outside and settled in under an umbrella on the patio of Dottie’s.

  Blakely was right; the fresh air was nice, and getting away from the school for a bit was even nicer. Anabelle took a deep breath and tipped her face up toward the sun.

  “Better?”

  Anabelle sighed and grinned sheepishly. “Better.”

  “Good,” Blakely said. “I think that’s the first deep breath I’ve ever seen you take. I swear, you’re wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch.”

  “I’m not that bad!”

  “I didn’t say it was bad, only that you could do with blowing off some steam now and then. The world won’t come crashing down if the pleats in your skirt aren’t pressed, you know.”

  Anabelle frowned, and Blakely burst into laughter.

  “Oh God, I’m making it worse,” she said. “You’re getting that furrow between your brows.” She leaned across the table and pressed her thumb between Anabelle’s eyebrows. “You’ll get wrinkles, Anabelle.”

  It was her touch more than anything that startled Anabelle out of her consternation. She wasn’t used to anyone but Jac touching her with such familiarity. Not even her dad, whose main involvement in her life was writing checks to Dearington and frowning at her over breakfast every morning during breaks.

  “I think my roommate and I are fighting.”

  If Blakely was surprised at the change of subject, she didn’t show it. She took a sip of her milkshake and surveyed Anabelle over the top of her glass. “Jac? I thought you guys were like, the perfect couple.”