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.
8 BACK THEN – November
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW MOORE
Age 17
Playing video games with Garrison Abbey is like sharing one milkshake with two straws. I wear an uncontrollable smile that hurts my face. The kind of smile I’ve tried to suppress, but it’s becoming fruitless the longer we play Streets of Rage in Galactica Arcadia.
I can only remember feeling this way one other time, when I imagined Tom Hiddleston (AKA Loki, Thor’s brother and foe) running into me at Superheroes & Scones. He’s never actually been to the comic book shop, but sometimes dreams are better than reality.
Except this reality. Right here and now, my cheeks are sore from the amount of times they’ve stretched towards my ears. We laugh. We curse when the game bosses arrive, and he helps me when I fumble with special combinations.
I may be better at everything comic-book-related, but Garrison is an absolute pro at gaming. I think he’d be able to work both joysticks and buttons with relative ease.
Time slips by fast, and when we run out of quarters, we come to a stop.
“New high score,” Garrison reads the screen. We’re second to someone who typed in the three initials: SUX.
“Not very clever, is it?” I say, pointing at the SUX scoreboard leader. It’s the go-to initials for one-time players, really. Lots of machines probably have at least two sux in their records.
“I never really am that clever,” Garrison tells me, catching me off guard.
“Wait…what?” My mouth falls. “This…is you?” I gesture to SUX, and as he nods, I want to collapse on the star-patterned carpet and bury my head. I just insulted him.
On his birthday.
What kind of friend am I?
My new eulogy: that turd, Willow Moore, she’s a “whatever” kind of friend. You should’ve left her while you had the chance.
Garrison isn’t looking at my downtrodden features. He’s scrolling through letters to lock in the initials: GPW. I barely hear him say, “Garrison Plus Willow.”
If he’s not hurt over the comment, then I shouldn’t agonize over it either, but for some reason, I zone in on this awkward part over every other great one. I wish I wouldn’t do that. I rub my face beneath my glasses and then fit them on again.
“You okay?” he asks, not even noticing what threw me off. I’m making something out of nothing. Before I say yeah, his gaze travels to the glass entrance, and he curses, “Shit.”
A scruffy older man lingers outside the arcade, his phone positioned towards us like he’s using the camera. He must be playing the part of “coy paparazzi” today. I’m not sure if cameramen are allowed inside the mall or not, but I’m certain he’s here because of me.
“I’ll go to the bathroom,” I say, “and when I come back, he’ll probably be gone.” I think I’m pretty boring compared to the Calloway sisters, and if I’m not with them or my brother, only one or two cameramen usually trail me during a whole week. It’s not even a daily occurrence like it is for them.
“I’ll wait here.” Garrison keeps an eye on the older man.
I depart and find my way through the rows of arcade machines. The bathroom is lit with a neon sign that says Relieve Yourself. I grab the doorknob to the girl’s bathroom.
“You’re Loren Hale’s cousin,” someone says behind me, the male voice more accusatory than questioning.
I glance over my shoulder. A preppy guy waits outside the boy’s bathroom. Collared shirt, khaki slacks, combed blond hair, twenty-something-years-old—he looks like a walking fraternity ad. Except for his face.
His angular features hold more contempt than I’ve ever personally met. He knows Loren Hale. And he hates him. It’s the only conclusion that makes sense.
I instinctively shrink and refuse to answer the preppy guy. I just slip into the girl’s bathroom. A sickening feeling descends to the bottom of my stomach.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I mumble and reach for my backpack.
I freeze.
I left my backpack with Garrison. I have no phone. “Okay,” I whisper to myself and exhale a short breath. I’m making up something out of nothing again. That’s what this is. At the sink, I remove my glasses and splash water on my face.
People say, trust your gut.
They also say, step out of your comfort zone.
So which one is this? Just a regular bout of anxiety or a real threat? How do I even determine the difference?
; Using a paper towel, I wipe dripping water off my face, slip on my glasses, and look into the mirror. That Willow Moore. I’ve lost color in my cheeks, and my flyaway hairs stick to my forehead.
I swallow. “Step out of your comfort zone,” I tell myself.
After tossing the paper towel, I exit, hoping the person has left. The minute I swing open the door, I’m met with two preppy twenty-somethings.
Hatred flames their eyes.
“That’s definitely his cousin,” the new guy says, looking from me to his cellphone screen. He must have found a picture of Loren Hale’s cousin! from the internet.
I rush to leave, but the angular-faced guy physically blocks my path. I take a step backwards. “I’m just trying to leave,” I say, much softer than I intend. “I don’t know you.”
“But we know Loren,” the angular-faced guy says. “He slashed the tires of our car in college.”
“Oh.” Oh my God. “I’m sorry about that—”
He plucks my glasses right off my face.
I gasp and reach out for them, but I can’t see. I catch air. My world is a blurry mess, especially with the dark lighting and the glow-in-the-dark shapes.
I hear the crunch beneath his shoe.
My heart nosedives. He…he just broke my glasses.
“You tell Loren that the public may love the person he’s selling them, but everyone who truly knows Loren Hale still hates the fuck out of him.”
I back up into the wall and reach out for the bathroom knob. I knock off a poster or something, and I go completely still.
They no longer speak. I listen for their footsteps, but it’s hard to hear over the pinging of arcade machines. I think they left. I hope they left.
“Garrison,” I say in a panicked breath. I meant to yell his name. So I try again. “Garrison.” Slightly louder. Not loud enough. I crouch into a squat, feeling the carpet for my glasses. “Garrison!”
I touch the bent frame, broken in half, and the lenses are shattered. I prick my finger on the sharp glass and retract my hand.
Wherever You Are (Bad Reputation Duet Book 2) Page 7