by Laura Steven
‘My apologies.’ Vati stuffs the old condom back into his overalls and pulls out something else – a postage slip. ‘Oh, I forgot. There’s a package for you in the house.’
Despite my lack of core muscles, excitement causes me to sit bolt upright. ‘Where?’
‘I put it on your bed. You know, I –’
Grabbing the zucchini and the condom, I clamber to my feet, wipe my muddy hands on Vati’s overalls, then dash towards the porch doors. ‘I gotta go. Try not to molest any more vegetables.’
Breathless after the sprint upstairs, I skid into my bedroom and see the package resting nonchalantly on the bedspread. The brown paper wrapping is discreet and doesn’t hint at what’s inside – not even so much as a university logo. I prod at it with the deformed zucchini just to be sure it’s not on the brink of detonation.
I know I should wait until my dads go to bed before I open it, because I don’t want to risk either of them walking in and catching me with a box of murky internet pills in my hands. But something inside me burns to open it. My hands itch, and I can’t think of anything else but tearing through the packaging. Is this how chain smokers feel about their next cigarette? Like they’ll combust if they don’t get it in the next 0.2 milliseconds?
Sticking my head into the corridor, I listen for my dads. Vati’s voice drifts through the open hall window. It sounds like he’s performing some kind of Punch & Judy show with a family of malformed potatoes, and Dad is watching from the kitchen window, laughing politely at the extremely slapstick performance. I slip back into my bedroom and close the door quietly.
Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I use a pointy nail file to slice through the package seal, and slip my fingers inside. They close around a cool, smooth cardboard box which rattles when I pull it out. All of the information on the packet, including the leaflet explaining potential side effects, is in Portuguese. The pills themselves are small – 10mg at most – and vivid purple. My heart thuds in my chest.
So here it is. The potential solution to all my worldly problems. And I feel . . . I don’t know how I feel, exactly.
The overriding emotion is curiosity. Will they actually work? How will it feel if they do? Will I notice an immediate difference, or will they take time to get into my bloodstream? What will it be like to have hordes of admiring fans lusting after me in the cafeteria? Will I suddenly become some kind of egomaniac? Will I start seeing myself differently? Will I be able to look in the mirror without the sinking disappointment that I haven’t magically turned into a Hadid sister overnight? Maybe I’ll finally be able to accept myself as I am.
My belly flutters with excitement. My veins fizz with the potential.
Beneath the curiosity, though, there’s a curdling sensation. Like nerves, or dread. Something fear-shaped. What if something goes wrong? What if I have an allergic reaction to the pills? Sure, my regular life is dull and often humiliating, but I still want to keep living it. How much would I hate myself if I woke up in the hospital with a shaved head and a scar down my cranium from emergency brain surgery? What if I lost the power of speech, or the ability to walk, or, god forbid, something happened to my tastebuds? A life without ever tasting Dad’s brisket again would not be worth enduring.
Oh god, my dads. What if the pills did work – too well? Would my dads be attracted to me? Or would their deep-rooted familial love for me override the effects of the pheromones? Is that even a die I’m willing to roll?
Shuddering, I realize I can’t do it. Getting Haruki to fancy me is not worth the long list of risks. I’ve just decided not to take them when I hear footsteps climbing up the stairs. Panicking, I stuff the pills into my school backpack just in time. There’s a polite tap at my door – it must be Dad. Vati never knocks.
‘Come in,’ I call, trying and failing to make my shaky voice sound as normal as possible.
Dad walks in and immediately freezes. That’s when I realize I’m still cradling the deformed zucchini in my left hand, the condom perched on the bed in front of me. Dad looks at me, aghast.
‘Oh, no! This isn’t . . . I’m not . . . Vati, he was giving me a demo –’
‘I’ll come back later,’ Dad mutters, even though he believes both contractions and poor vocal clarity to be signs of a weak mind. He shuffles back out the door, closing it too fast behind him, and practically sprints back downstairs. From a man who is usually so controlled, this is nothing short of bone-chilling.
Sighing deeply, I pull out my phone to text my group chat with Keiko and Gabriela.
Why do vegetables have to be so phallic? It’s a serious design flaw.
Gabriela does the crying-laughing emoji, and Keiko replies instantly.
Vegetables have no redeeming qualities. How many times do I have to tell you?
6
Over the weekend, I catch up on my homework, do some extra credit work, help Vati paint the front door eggplant purple, try not to make eye contact with Dad after Zucchinigate, and hang out with Gabriela and Keiko a whole bunch. We go to see the movie Keiko wanted to see, and true to form she did seem incredibly into the scenario of rock-star-falls-for-manager. She threatened to cut a hole in the bottom of her popcorn bucket for ‘easy access.’ At the mention of this maneuver, Gabriela almost vomited everywhere, then disappeared pretty quickly after the movie to grab an impromptu dinner with Ryan.
I don’t know why this bugs me so much. The obvious answer is boyfriend jealousy, but I think it’s more than that. Lately, it’s like something has been shifting in the waters of our friendship with Gabriela, and I can’t put my finger on what.
On Sunday, Ryan is mercifully hanging with the guys, so we head over to Keiko’s house so we can help her build a new website for her music. Gabriela styles Keiko with dramatic cat-eye makeup and a thrifted Elvis Costello tee, then I take some headshots with my smartphone camera. In the background, Keiko’s latest demo plays over the computer speakers. She’s trialling a new Stevie Nicks style and it’s . . . hit and miss, shall we say.
Keiko’s bedroom is wallpapered floor to ceiling in old record covers, which she’s taped together into a mural. There’s also a lot of incense from last winter, when she was briefly convinced she was a mage. Unfortunately, she also shares a room with her nine-year-old sister, Momo, and there’s currently a turf war between Momo’s mermaid merch and Keiko’s guitar collection. Momo is away at a soccer tournament today, so Keiko has hung all of the mermaids from the bannister in some kind of mass-execution situation.
Gabriela and I are hunched over Keiko’s beat-up laptop, pulling together a rudimentary website design using some cheap software we found. Gabriela has a way better eye for it than I do, and hunts down some free music-themed illustrations to adorn the sidebar. Proud luddite Keiko, who is much too edgy for nerdy things like computers, lies on her bed and scrolls through Instagram. The irony is apparently lost on her.
‘Have either of you ever spoken to Samira Hossain?’ she asks, picking at her heavy mascara with her fingernail. ‘I’m into her.’
Keiko came out a little over a year ago. She’d been acting out of character for a while, evading questions and generally keeping her giant mouth shut far more often than usual. She was also spending way more time with Katie Michaels, one of Gabriela’s cheerleading friends.
The deep-seated paranoia in me worried that she was finally realizing she was much, much too cool to be hanging out with me, and replacing me accordingly. But then I pulled my head out of my rectum and noticed the way she tilted her phone to the side while she was texting Katie, a coy grin on her face. The total lack of interest in the countless guys who hit on her wherever we went. The fact she went to see Captain Marvel three times a week despite declaring superheroes ‘the realm of tragic six-year-olds who don’t want to be tragic six-year-olds anymore.’ (Don’t get me started.)
One day she was hanging out at my place, the two of us chilling on sun loungers and watching my dads install a phallic water feature on the lawn, when she blurted out:
/> ‘I like girls.’
In that split second, I had a decision to make. I could either say, no shit, of course you do – because of course she does – and risk making her feel like the moment she’d built up to for so long didn’t matter. Because even though it shouldn’t matter, it does, and especially to her. Or I could say something saccharine and cloying, which isn’t her at all, and it isn’t me either. I shot somewhere down the middle.
‘Thank you for telling me.’ I wanted to say I was proud of her, because I was, but that would’ve sounded patronizing.
She slurped her iced tea and turned to me. Vati stroked the water feature lovingly in the background. ‘That’s it?’
I shrugged. ‘What else were you expecting?’
‘Honestly, I expected you to ask whether I’m fucking Katie.’
I laughed at her bluntness. It’s one of my favorite things about her. ‘Are you?’
A heavy eye roll. ‘Duh.’
‘Have you told your mom?’
Keiko’s dad went on a business trip to Japan three years ago and just . . . never came back. She never, ever talks about it. At least not since the day she called me and sobbed down the line for several minutes, before finally choking out that her dad was gone. By that point I was already halfway to her place to perform the Heimlich maneuver, because it really sounded like she was dying.
When I asked about her mom, though, Keiko had her first wobble. She fiddled with the necklace her mom had bought for her sweet sixteenth. ‘She’s going to hate me.’
Softly, I said, ‘She won’t.’
‘Have you met the woman? She grounded me for a month for sneaking into an R-rated movie.’
‘Well, technically that’s illegal. Being gay isn’t.’
‘You know that’s not the point.’
‘I know.’ I squeezed her hand, surprised how sweaty it was. She was obviously more nervous about coming out to me than I thought. ‘I’ll come with you if you want.’
When Keiko eventually told her mom she liked girls, her mom – a voluptuous nurse with a sailor’s mouth – burst into a massive grin and said, ‘No shit, of course you do.’
But back to now. ‘Samira Hossain. She’s a junior, right?’ I ask, trying out different fonts on Keiko’s new site. ‘Track captain?’ I only know this because I’ve seen Samira hanging out with Haruki at lunch. Please do not report me to the authorities for this blatant stalking.
Keiko blows air through her purple lips. ‘Yup. Do you think she’s gay? Do you get that vibe from her?’ A new song starts, and she performs a weird limb-shaking dance from her reclining position. ‘Oh my god, I love this song. It’s so bouncy.’
Gabriela laughs, taking a sip of Boba tea. ‘You wrote it.’
‘I know. I’m so talented.’ Keiko examines her makeup in her front-facing camera, turning her head so it catches the light in different ways. ‘Gabriela, this makeup is killer. Like, forreal. Will you still hook me up when you’re working on movie sets in Hollywood?’
Gabriela half-snorts, half-sighs. ‘My parents would murder me if I “wasted my brain” being an MUA.’
Keiko shrugs. ‘At least you’d die with a killer cut crease.’
‘Any idea what you want to do that your parents would approve of ?’ I ask, watching Gabriela dragging Keiko’s new headshots into place on the homepage.
‘They’re old-fashioned. Unless it’s medicine or law, it’s not worth doing.’ Two or three over-aggressive clicks. ‘And considering how a) squeamish and b) non-confrontational I am, neither seems like a great option.’
Keiko sits up suddenly. ‘Hang on, Samira just posted on her story. Looks like she’s hanging out with Haruki and a bunch of other track and field weirdos.’ She tilts the phone toward me and Gabriela, holding her thumb on the photo so it stays open. ‘Hey, does this pose look romantic to you? Simon Kelly has his arm around her waist, but does she seem into it?’
I squint, but the lighting is dim and Samira’s expression is hard to read. ‘I can’t tell. Lemme do some digging.’ I pull out my own phone and load up Instagram.
Then my heart stops.
I have a DM from Haruki Ito.
A hot jolt of adrenaline bursts through my shaking hands as I open the message.
Hey. So this is random. But do you wanna go see a movie or something? Like, as in, a date. :)
I scream. An actual, eardrum-bursting scream. Gabriela drops the mouse in alarm. Keiko shouts back, ‘What the fuck!’
‘HARUKI ASKED ME ON A DATE!’ I squeal, as laughter erupts through my chest. I stare at the message in astonishment, sure I’m dreaming, sure this cannot be real.
Keiko grabs the phone from me and punches the air triumphantly. ‘Yassssss! Finally! Oh my god, dude. I’m so happy for you! Are you dying? I would be dying.’
I beam. ‘Literally slipping into cardiac arrest at this very second.’
A wave of pure, unfiltered happiness rolls through me. The person I’ve loved from afar for years finally noticed me. I picture the internet drugs in my backpack, unneeded. I already have everything I need to make guys like Haruki like me. Maybe I am enough. Just by being myself, by helping him in Physics and goofily saying hey to him while he was running, I showed him I was fun and chill. And he wants to know more.
Gabriela squeezes my hand. ‘This is awesome, Caro. What are you going to say?’
‘I mean, yes, obviously!’ I giggle. ‘But how should I phrase it? Should I leave him hanging for a while? Should I play it cool, or show how into him I am?’
‘Pass it here. I got this.’ Keiko grabs the phone and starts typing. A twinge of discomfort plucks at me. What if she accidentally hits send before we’re ready? I’d be more comfortable typing stuff in the Notes app first. Keiko looks up, smiling with satisfaction. ‘Okay. Sent.’
My stomach plummets through an intestinal trapdoor. ‘You sent the message without showing me?’
Keiko shrugs, handing the phone back to me. ‘Relax. It’s pitch perfect.’
Movie sounds awesome! Salty or sweet popcorn? That’s the ultimate question. :)
‘I mirrored his emoji usage,’ Keiko explains. ‘It subconsciously shows you’re both on the same page. And the flirty lighthearted question encourages further conversation without being too intense.’
Despite my euphoria at being asked out by Haruki, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. I’ve waited for this moment for so long, and Keiko just stole a piece of the joy from me. Constructing the perfect text response can be so much fun, and I’ve just lost out on it. Even though her answer is cute and not embarrassing, it’s also not . . . me. And isn’t it me Haruki was asking out to begin with?
Gabriela studies my face. I swallow hard, then say, ‘That’s perfect. Thanks, Keiko.’
Keiko winks. ‘What would you do without me?’
Maybe I’m imagining it, but Gabriela looks a little disappointed that I didn’t call Keiko out. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m disappointed too. Why can’t I be more headstrong? But arguments with Keiko are fierce, and it’s usually best to avoid them at all costs.
Anyway, I just have to focus on the good: Haruki Ito asked me out! And I didn’t have to take miracle drugs in order for that to happen! And maybe, just maybe, I’m enough after all!
I picture us hanging out in the movie theater, watching the latest Fantastic Beasts release, arms brushing together, flickering lights of the movie dancing across my face. I smile at the thought.
When I look down at my phone, Haruki has replied.
Oh god, I’m so sorry. My asshole friends stole my phone. Please ignore the last message?
It’s like being punched in the chest.
Heat burns at my cheeks. I whimper and drop my phone, covering my face with my hands so my friends can’t see the tears.
Gabriela picks up my phone and reads. She gasps softly. ‘Oh, Caro. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I swear, if Ryan had anything to do with this I’ll . . .’
Stupid, stupid, stu
pid. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have honestly believed someone like Haruki would want to go on a date with me?
‘That dick !’ Keiko fumes, thumping the bedspread with her balled-up fist. ‘I’m going to kill him. Actually kill him. How would you like me to do it? The bloodier the better. I think my mom has a chainsaw in the garage.’
I can barely hear her. I wish I could feel the same anger she feels, the delicious righteousness that can patch over any wound, but I don’t. I feel hollow and ashamed.
Even though I love my friends, I wish they hadn’t witnessed all this. I wish I could just pretend it never happened. I don’t want Gabriela’s sympathy or Keiko’s rage. I just want to rewind two minutes and not scream with joy, not let myself feel that euphoric dream-come-true high. Because experiencing it for real, then having it snatched away moments later, is a thousand times worse than being ignored all along.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I mumble, dabbing at my wet face with my sleeve.
I grab my backpack and run to the bathroom, fumbling for the pills before I’ve even locked the door. I swallow one, then two, coughing as they stick in my dry throat. Wrenching the cold tap on, I take a long, cool drink, splashing the tears from my face, drying them on the soft towel hanging by the shower.
The pills slide down my gullet, and even though it’s not possible, I swear there’s a slight tingle as they drop into my stomach.
7
Nothing happens.
I’m both disappointed and relieved. Because even though I spend Monday morning wandering the halls unnoticed, as usual, I’m also not dying in a hospital bed. It was a ludicrous risk to take.
Stupid, really, to think some random pills I bought on the internet could make me desirable. I’m pissed at myself for wasting the money, and even more pissed that I allowed myself that desperate glint of hope. And also pissed that I poured apple juice into my oatmeal this morning. Will the horrors never cease? (It was actually weirdly good. *shrugs*)