Whatever It Takes

by Ritchie, Krista

  A long wave of silence passes.

  “So you couldn’t go downstairs?” he asks like he’s still confused.

  “I wasn’t…a princess…” I say slowly. “It makes more sense if you know my sister.” I push up my glasses and stretch my mind to that vivid memory. “She took the theme of her party really seriously.”

  “Sounds like she was channeling a character from Cinderella.”

  I smile weakly. “She’s six-years-old. She doesn’t know any better.”

  “What about your mom? Does she know better?”

  A sharp pang punctures my heart. I must wear a pained expression because he says, “Sorry”—and I shake my head like it’s alright.

  I haven’t talked to my mom as much as I would like. Our conversations are so stilted anyway. She won’t open up to me. She just says, it’s not your place. You’re the child. It’s about us—doesn’t she realize this?

  I’d like to know why she goes quiet every time I utter Lo’s name. Not just facts—I have some of those—but her feelings. He’s her child. Why wouldn’t she want to know him? Just a little more. And is she sad that I’m gone? Is she happy?

  But I’m just the child.

  “My mom,” I say casually, “sided with the birthday girl. Which is only fair, it was her birthday.”

  Garrison does this thing where he groans without even opening his mouth, and I can hear the deep rumble in his throat.

  “You don’t agree?”

  He shakes his head and retrieves a cigarette again. “It seems kind of fucked up.”

  I try to view the situation from his stance, and I think I can. I just don’t want to.

  “Can I ask you something now?” I wonder.

  Garrison nods.

  I open my mouth but struggle to broach his questionnaire. I actually pale again, and my neck heats. “Um…it’s about one of your answers.”

  “Which one?” He doesn’t sound surprised.

  “Hiatus?” I quickly add, “Not that I care. I mean, I care out of…curiosity, but your relationship status can be whatever you want it to be.” When I look up, the corners of his lips are lifting.

  “I know what you meant.” Still sitting, he rolls on the desk chair. Until he’s positioned right across from me. “I’ve been on-and-off with this girl at Dalton who wants absolutely nothing to do with me now, so…” He shrugs like it is what it is. “There’s my hiatus.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Not like I probably should. And for the record, at the time, I thought—maybe if Frankie and my friends forgave me, I’d think about…”

  “Going back to them?” Leaving me.

  Would it be that easy for him? My heart sinks more, a pit in my stomach. This is why I never asked.

  I can feel him watching me, and I turn towards my mirror, about to take off my glasses. His voice stops me. “It’s different now. I’m different.”

  I can’t imagine the person who he’s described to me. The one who’d drink alcohol at playgrounds and destroy public property, just because he could. Who’d graffiti houses and knock over mailboxes with baseball bats.

  He’s said that he’s always liked Sega, Pokémon, the Sims—and part of me believes that he was always this person on this desk chair, right in front of me. He just felt too much pressure to be a different guy in front of other people. He was too scared to be himself. With his friends gone, he has nothing to lose by being the real Garrison Abbey.

  So he’s let him free.

  All I ask is, “What kind of name is Frankie?”

  He almost smiles, glad that I’m not mad at him. “Nickname for Francesca.”

  “Of course, she has a cool nickname,” I mumble. I don’t know if he hears or not because I ask speedily, “What about your tattoo?”

  He pulls off his hoodie, splaying it on the chair. Now just in a black tee. He stretches out his arm, about to show me the tattoo on his forearm, but I’ve seen that one before. It’s a skull with lyrics to an Interpol song. I had to Google it.

  “The one on your shoulder blade, I mean.”

  He goes a little rigid and then his arms fall to his sides. “That one is kind of an intense tattoo.” He pauses. “My mom hasn’t even seen it.”

  “Not even when you go swimming?”

  “Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I went swimming in my pool.”

  More silence spreads in a long moment. Neither of us moves or speaks.

  We look at each other. We wonder. His brown eyelashes flit up, each time he peeks at me. Strands of his hair fall over his forehead, and he rests his forearms on his thighs, thinking.

  I wait, just as calmly. Inspecting my mascara brush. Glancing at him.

  He’s never pushed me, and I won’t push him to do anything or reveal more.

  He licks his pink lips and then nods to himself once or twice. “How about”—he retrieves his phone from his pocket and then flips the cell in his hand a couple of times—“we make a trade. I don’t know your Twitter username yet. You give me yours, I’ll show you my tattoo.”

  As he processes his own declaration, his eyes flit to the wall, the ground and the window, more than a few times—almost nervously. His joints even stiffen more than usual.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  He raises his gaze and nods. “Yeah.” He adds, “I want to see what Willow Hale tweets about.”

  Willow Hale.

  He still has no idea that I’m not Lo’s cousin. I’m his half-sister. Willow Moore. And I have no idea when I’ll be able to trust Garrison enough to tell him the truth. It’s not just my secret to keep. It involves everyone.

  I know that I can’t jump the gun on this, even if he’s my friend.

  “They’re not that great of tweets,” I warn him. “Mostly fandom stuff.” I reach for my phone on my bed and then pause before logging into Twitter. “I was thinking about changing my username though.”

  “Oh no.” He points at me. “You’re one of those people who changes their usernames every day, aren’t you?” He’s nearly smiling as he says it, and he tilts his head at me. “How am I going to find my girl if you’re willowkicksass one day and vegalover the next?”

  “Ha ha.” My cheeks hurt from my own smile. In the mirror, I notice an actual blush rising. “And you’d find me. It’d just take you a couple seconds…maybe even less.” Not because he’s good at computers.

  But because he knows what I like.

  “Probably.” His knee brushes against mine, on accident. We both go still. My heavy breath is more audible than his.

  So he scoots back his chair, giving me more room.

  I clear my throat, my neck burning again. “The next username I make, I want to go public with it and promote Superheroes & Scones. Lily also keeps asking for my u.n. so she can tweet me.” I hold my phone flat on my lap. “I won’t change this one all the time like the others.”

  He sees the Twitter login screen. “Have you already picked it out?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to do something like Lo. He has his name paired with his favorite mutant.” His username: lorenhellion. “The problem is that willowallflower is already taken.”

  Garrison doesn’t seem surprised when I say the word wallflower—instead he just points at my phone screen. “Make the double L’s in ‘wallflower’ capital I’s and it’ll look the same on Twitter.”

  I type in the changes, and he’s right. The I’s show up more like L’s, and this username is available. Before I accept the new username, I ask, “You know Wallflower?” She’s not a well-known mutant, and she’s not around for long in the comics.

  “You mentioned her in your questionnaire.”

  I did?

  “I looked her up,” he explains off my confusion, “figured it couldn’t hurt with Maya grilling me every shift.” He spins some in his chair, pretty casual. “Do you like Wallflower with the blond guy or the brown-haired one?” He leans back.

  I’m trying so hard not to smile like he’s put his hands on my
cheeks. Like he’s kissed me. I just—this is surreal. That he’s here, talking to me about my favorite mutants. He’s not laughing. He’s not calling me a little girl. He’s not calling me dumb or silly. He’s respecting the things I love.

  He stares at the ceiling, trying to recall something. “I remember looking up their names.” He swivels. “Shit.” He thinks a second longer. “Elixir…and Wither?”

  “Yeah, that’s them. They’re in a love triangle with Wallflower.” I don’t mention how their romances don’t end very well, in case he wants to read the comics. “I like her with Wither, even if they’re doomed from the start.”

  “Why are they doomed?”

  I intake a breath as I say, “He can’t touch her.”

  Garrison’s chair goes still.

  “Whatever or whoever he touches decays to dust.” He also wears only black, but I don’t mention this either.

  Garrison blinks a few times, processing Wither’s superpower. I think he mutters something about being cursed and then he asks, “What about Elixir?”

  “He can heal people. He’s an Omega-level, so his powers are even extraordinary among mutants.” I pause. “He’s also mean.”

  Garrison begins to smile. “I already hate him if you think he’s mean.” He suddenly brings his phone up to his chest, and he lifts his brows at me like he’s doing something secret.

  I take the time to log into my new username, and within the second, I get a new notification.

  @garrisonwither: @willowaIIflower looks like it was time for a change for me too *gasp* we’re matching

  I look up at him, my mouth ajar. “…is…is this your real account?” He could’ve made a fake one just to tweet me.

  Garrison nods, slipping his phone in his jeans pocket before he stands. “Yeah. It’s my primary account. Favorite one.” His voice is so honest that I trust him.

  I have a matching Twitter account.

  With a guy.

  Maggie wouldn’t believe me, even if I told her.

  “So…” Garrison towers above me, his hands on the hem of his black shirt. He looks beyond hesitant.

  He looks scared.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “It’s fine. Just don’t freak about the bruises. Lacrosse gets rough and…” he trails off. “I tripped over some guy during last practice.”

  I swallow hard and just nod, but I wonder if this was the reason why he didn’t want to take off his shirt. Or why he doesn’t want to dress as Ryu or even Ken Masters for Halloween.

  As he peels the fabric off his head, my eyes trace the lines of his lean, toned muscles. In a sharp inhale, his ribs are apparent, along with his tightened abs. Most of the bruises appear faded, but the dark, dark purple welt by his right ribcage seems brand new.

  When he tosses his shirt aside, I say, “That looks bad.”

  He glances at the welt. “It’s nothing.”

  “Garrison—”

  “Don’t!” Panic spikes his voice, and he raises his hands like I sprung up from the bed and tried to touch his ribs. I haven’t even shifted.

  He shuffles back, breathing heavily. Then he freezes and stares off for a second, attempting to calm down.

  I hold up my hands to show him that I’m not coming at him.

  He mutters a sorry but stays still.

  My stomach twists. I’m just scared for him, of whoever did this to him. I’m not sure it’s just lacrosse. “You said…you don’t like your brothers, right?”

  “It’s nothing,” he repeats, but he pauses and adds, “They play rough, but it’s just brother stuff. Football. Wrestling. They don’t mean it.”

  “What if your ribs are broken?”

  “They aren’t.” I don’t ask if he went to a doctor, and I can tell he wants to drop the subject. Especially as he turns his back to me. To show me the tattoo on his right shoulder blade.

  It’s another gothic skull, only its jaw is wide open, screaming. It’s also inside the mouth of a wolf’s head, which looks violent, saliva dripping off its teeth as it roars too.

  You can’t hear ink, and something about a silent scream guts me.

  Everything about the tattoo is haunting. Everything about Garrison Abbey feels just the same. Like a boy you’d find lying on a tombstone, smoking a cigarette, a bundle of flowers on his chest. It makes no sense, but something deeper, something hidden, wants to crawl out. So I keep staring. I keep looking.

  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to find. I’m not sure if I’ll ever truly see what he’s expressing, but I don’t leave. Maybe later, I’ll know. The pieces will add up and I’ll see what he wants me to see.

  Some things can’t be forced out of people. I wouldn’t want him to force things out of me.

  Without even spinning back around, he picks up his shirt and tugs it on. He doesn’t want me to see the welt again. When he plops down on the chair, he shrugs on his hoodie, and then our eyes meet.

  “Have you ever been hugged by a guy?” he asks me, so suddenly.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Will you stand up for a second?” He adds, “If you want to.”

  I slowly rise, dressed in pants and a white blouse for my Vega costume. Then he stands from the chair, pushing it back into the dresser, away from us. He takes a step closer to me, until his chest is an inch from mine.

  He mostly smells like citrus, spearmint and his pine car freshener. I once asked why he keeps his Mustang so clean. He never smokes inside, and the interior is always spotless, like a brand new car.

  I don’t like the smell of smoke lingering around all the time, he told me. And I can’t think straight if my car is dirty.

  Garrison, more than just a few inches taller than me, stares down at my features. I look up, my pulse quickening.

  And he asks, “Can I hug you, Willow?”

  I breathe deeply, pushing up my glasses. “I’m not that good at hugging.”

  “You don’t have to be good at hugging. I’d still want to hug you.”

  “Why?” I whisper.

  His aquamarine eyes skim my cheek, my neck, descending. “…because I think you may be the best friend I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot and spent a shit ton more days and months and years with them than the short time I’ve spent with you.” His hand wavers by my hip, but he doesn’t touch me. “I’ve never wanted to bolt out of your door. I’ve never wanted to leave you. This—it’s a first for me.” He nods to himself a couple times. “So you’re the best—and I want to hug you, if you’ll let me.”

  My lips part, speechless. Inside, I’m blown over.

  Outside, I’m frozen in place.

  When my brain functions again, I rewind and all I can wonder is whether this feeling of not wanting to leave my room—of not wanting to leave me—surprised him after he revealed his tattoo. After he was vulnerable in front of me.

  Yes, my brain says. Most likely.

  Can I drop my guard just the same? Can I express more emotion than I usually do? I don’t think he’s testing me, but maybe I need to test myself.

  He watches me, waiting for a vocal response.

  I open my mouth to say you can hug me but my tongue is dry and my throat closes.

  His brows scrunch. “You nervous?”

  I nod. “This would be a first…for me.” He knows that, Willow. I cringe a little but try to wipe it away with a weak smile. “I’m not touchy-feely or anything like that.”

  Garrison’s eyes soften like he’s trying to understand me. “Would it be bad if I touched you?”

  I can hardly look up at him, my gaze dropping to the floor. “Um…” I swallow. “I don’t think so. It’ll just be new, and sometimes new things are frightening.” My heart thuds so hard and so fast.

  “Willow,” he murmurs.

  I look up, our eyes lock, and he sets his hands on my shoulders. I hold in a breath. His palms—they slide slowly to my biceps, his skin heating my skin, and then they slip around me, to my back. He draws me tenderly to his chest.


  My feet just barely cooperate and step closer.

  Garrison leans his head down, his jaw skimming my cheek, his arms wrapped around me, and mine hang uncertainly.

  He helps me. He lifts one of my hands and places it on his waist. I follow with the other. My touch is feather-light, but he doesn’t seem to care.

  Garrison pulls me tighter, his body warm and comforting. In comparison, mine is awkward and stiff. He holds the back of my head, and his breath tingles my ear as he whispers, “This okay?”

  “Yeah,” I breathe, so softly.

  “You’re shaking.” He draws his head back, just a fraction, and I realize my arms and legs are trembling, out of anxiety.

  “It’s just a lot…not bad.” I wish I could express my feelings better, but maybe that’s the problem. So much has suddenly poured through me, so many foreign sentiments, that my system is basically overloading.

  Willow Moore at approximately 115% capacity. Delete or reboot.

  I don’t want to delete anything with him.

  Before he speaks, I ask, “Am I hurting you?” My hands are barely pressing on his ribs, but I just want to make sure.

  “No.” He pauses. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No.”

  He nods a couple times again. Then he lets me go, his arms falling—then mine do too, but he never takes a step back. I worry about the second hug, now that the first has ended. I wonder if I’ll grow used to this embrace in time.

  “Will you alert me?” I ask him. “Next time you hug me again?”

  “By plane banner and smoke in the sky.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be looking up.”

  He nearly smiles but feigns surprise. “You’d miss an aerial ad? No way.”

  His sarcasm isn’t the mean kind. It pulls my lips higher.

  Garrison never takes his eyes off me. “Willow,” he says in a quiet, calm moment, “can I hug you again?”

  My chest swells. “Yeah.”

  Garrison wraps his arms around me once more, and my arms almost stop trembling. His lips to my ear, he whispers, “How was that alert?”

  “Perfect.” I try to relax a little more.

  He rubs my back, his hand soothing as it travels in a short up and down wave. And he says, “Thanks for inviting me.”