Chaotic Good

by Whitney Gardner

  I rip apart strip after strip of black scrap fabric. I leave the frayed edges, and I don’t measure anything. I want it to look like it made itself out of some ancient magic. I switch out the green thread in my machine for black. The stitching will be invisible, erase any trace of my handiwork.

  Strip after strip, the stringy fabric shoots across my lap and under the needle. I zone out; the feel of the fabric, the hum of the machine, perfectly match the rage pounding in my head.

  KRRRRRRRTTGGGGGGG G G G

  Everything comes to a grinding halt, and I snap out of my trance. The needle is blocked up, completely tangled in a ball of threads. The frayed edges got caught in the bobbin chamber and made a mess of everything. I turn the knob on the side of the sewing machine and raise the needle, which pulls up even more thread with it. I yank the fabric away, ripping the fibers and breaking the needle. Is everything conspiring against me today?

  I unplug the machine and the light goes out. Black fabric rains down over the workspace as I throw the bits and pieces away from me. I should know better than to work angry. I get careless and sloppy. The scraps and Cooper’s clothes work as a decent makeshift pillow. Drained, I settle down and fall asleep watching the shadowy patterns dance across my bare skin.

  * * *

  What a mess. Daylight only makes the destruction look worse. My tantrum left nothing meaningful in its wake, just a floor full of flotsam. Time to clean up the wreckage. It’s one thing to have my bedroom be a mess, but I hate when the studio gets this way. We’ve only been living here a month, and I don’t want it to go to crap so soon.

  I have a hard time working when everything is in disarray, and today I want to work. I separate out the ripped-up scraps from the rest. I may still use them; they have potential. Outside, I hear a car roll over the gravel driveway: Cooper leaving for work. I guess he took the hint, because he didn’t bother coming to find me this morning.

  It’s not his fault. He’s not to blame for Brody’s bro-ness. He has no idea about what goes on in my inbox. I can’t tell him. Not after all the nights he cried to me. The first time someone called him the f-word, when someone left a note in his locker threatening to kick his ass, after his best friend told him he didn’t want to be friends anymore. Each moment sobbed into his pillow until it was soaked.

  All of that was just as bad as, if not worse than, what I’m going through, because those were his classmates, his friends, people he knew. At least I don’t have to know who’s on the other end of the screen. I like to imagine they all live on the other side of the moon and I’ll never, ever see them in real life, so who cares? Except I do care. Sometimes. Like last night.

  I manage to get the mess under control and take up my seat at the sewing table. I blow away the threads and notice the snapped needle. Right. There’s a compartment in my machine for extra thread, bobbins, and needles. I have plenty of the first two items. But the only needle left is one for sewing heavy-duty fabric like leather or denim, and it’s not going to cut it.

  Dad is already puttering around in the garden. I can hear him humming some old Motown song. I don’t want to see him, or I don’t want him to see me. He’ll ask me questions I don’t feel like answering. And my dad knows when I’m lying, always. If I cross the garden to the house so I can get dressed, he’ll notice me. I can head straight out of the driveway and he won’t. But that means I have to go to Kozy Corner in my underwear, or in Cooper’s clothes from last night.

  His shirt is already wrinkled, thousands of little creases bent into the fabric from spending the night balled up under my head. It looks more like mine now, softer. Cooper would be pissed. But Cooper isn’t here. I leave the first few buttons undone and let my collarbone breathe. His jeans don’t look too wrinkled. I like them; they’re relaxed and broken in. The full-length mirror reflects a weird average of boy-Cameron and me. It’s certainly not an outfit I’d normally wear, but I feel comfortable. I feel okay.

  * * *

  I manage to avoid Dad and Atomix on the way to Kozy Corner. I walk along back roads and side streets. Eugene is different from Portland. Not as many condos, bigger gardens, bigger houses. It’s more lived-in, more run-down. Dad says Portland used to be like Eugene, but all the techies moved up from California and started “ruining the vibes, man.”

  The bell jingles at the fabric store, and I’m off like a shot at the first sign of broad shoulders and blond hair. Did he see me? I duck behind a display of silk flowers and Styrofoam blocks and inch my way into one of the aisles. I thank God I wasn’t staring at the ground when I walked in. I don’t know what I would have done if Lincoln had seen me first. What’s he doing here?

  “I want it to be big, Nan. Like the size of a table.” I listen to Lincoln’s deep voice from my hiding place.

  “I know. I still think you can do it on your own. Sewing isn’t all that difficult,” Dotty answers him. Is she his grandma?

  “You know if I make it it’s going to look like a kid’s craft project.” His voice smiles. I can tell he’s being playful without even seeing him, and my heart just dissolves. I imagine his face, his little crooked smile creeping up one of his round cheeks. He must tower over Dotty. I bet he has to lean down for her to hear him.

  “I just don’t have the fingers for it anymore, Link.”

  “Look at these big stubby things! I never had the fingers for it,” Lincoln jokes.

  “Would you get that box down for me?” Dotty changes the subject.

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  Lincoln and Dotty chat about her pet bird and the weather and how things are going for him at U of O. Standing there, hidden between the rainbow of embroidery thread and notions, I realize I want to know everything there is to know about Lincoln. All I know now is that he’s easy on the eyes and can weave one heck of a tale off the top of his head.

  “I don’t know, things are…” I can hear him take a deep breath. He sighs it out and switches tone. “Fine, things are fine.” I feel a little guilty listening in, so I make myself busy and tiptoe around the aisle to finally get my supplies. Thankfully, they’re nowhere near the register.

  The needles are all lined up together; Dotty keeps an amazing selection that takes up an entire wall. I grab a pack of four blue universal needles and a pack of teal quilting needles. Might as well have the right ones if I want to keep quilting that green piece. I like shopping to the sound of their chatter. Dotty complaining about something and Lincoln teasing, then the reverse. They have rapport; it’s snappy, musical. There’s a spring in my step, the song of their conversation in my heart. I pick up some more thimbles and debate a new spool of gold embroidery thread.

  “You should have that cute girl help you,” Dotty says, and I fumble, trying not to spill everything on the ground. “The girl, you know, she comes in all the time lately. I think she just moved here.”

  “No. I don’t know,” Lincoln scoffs. “Stop trying to fix me up, Nan.”

  “Who said fix you up? I said she should help you. She’s a fine sewer. Great fingers.” She has got to be talking about me. I have no idea who else it could be.

  “Sure, Nan, tell her to call me. Love you. See you at dinner.”

  “I will! Bring home some of that bread I like, would you?”

  “You got it.”

  The jingle signals his exit, but I’m not ready to come out of hiding. Sure, Nan. You could hear the eye roll from space. He isn’t serious; he doesn’t want me to call him. He was appeasing her. I could teach him to sew. I’d teach him how to make a quilt the size of a king-sized bed if he wanted, and we could celebrate a job well done underneath it.

  “Is that all?” Dotty asks while ringing me up. She’s dressed in a sleeveless black turtleneck, with a silk scarf draped around her shoulders. It’s dyed deep purple with lighter purple batik patterns. I wonder if she made it herself.

  “For today, yep!” I answ
er, trying to sound cheerful. She studies me over her thick tortoiseshell frames.

  “Oh! I didn’t recognize you. You don’t look like yourself in that…outfit. Laundry day?”

  “Something like that.” I look down at my wrinkled clothes and remember I didn’t even comb my hair.

  “Quilting needles?” She raises a penciled-in brow. “Maybe you can help my grandson with a project. You just missed him! He must be your age, you know.”

  “He wants to make a quilt?”

  “Something like that—you’d like him. He’s handsome,” she lilts. I want to tell her that I know just how handsome he is, but actually your darling Link thinks I’m a geek who rolls dice and drinks Mountain Dew. And is, you know, a boy.

  “Maybe. I’ve been really busy this summer.”

  “Here.” Dotty pens his phone number on my receipt in the adorable, shaky script that all old people write with. I wonder when my own mother’s handwriting will start looking like that. Hopefully, not anytime soon. “You could teach him how. It wouldn’t take long; he’s very smart.”

  I thank Dotty for her meddling and supplies after gently folding the receipt and sliding it into my back pocket. It’s a thin scrap of paper, but, I swear, I can feel it there the whole way home.

  * * *

  Mom must have been up in the studio while I was gone. Everything is just as I left it except the portfolio requirement letter is now prominently displayed up on my corkboard. I’m about to rip it down when my phone rings. It’s Why. I consider not answering, but his dorky grin on the screen reminds me of our bad jokes last night, and I hit accept.

  “Cameron! You answered!”

  “Yep.” Still feeling a bit messed up, I go deeper with my voice than usual.

  “Are you busy? Not, like, now. Maybe later?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Right, I um, I feel kind of bad? I had such a rad time at the game, you know?” Why speaks in quick, sharp sentences. Most of them sound like questions, even when they aren’t.

  “And you feel bad?”

  “Well, Brody kind of, like, made stuff all awkward. He does that. You should know. It’s not meant to be personal?”

  “You sure about that?” I fire back.

  “I don’t know. Heh, neither does he. He’s not really…”

  “He’s a bro.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you’re not?” It’s not like Why stepped up to the plate when Brody was throwing his fit. Then again, it’s not like he knew there was a girl present. But why should a girl have to be present for someone to stand up for her?

  “Psh! I’m probably the least bro dude in the universe.”

  “Wanna bet?” I counter. Why certainly was quiet when Brody was throwing girls under the bus last night. He’s probably more of a bro than he even realizes.

  “I’ve never watched a single football game. Televised or otherwise.”

  “I think beer is the most disgusting liquid a human could ever drink.”

  “I own twelve pairs of pink socks,” he boasts.

  “My closest friend here is an eighty-year-old lady, and we just met.”

  “Okay, you win.” Why gives in.

  “What do I win?” I relax and laugh. Okay, maybe Why’s not so bad after all. The conversation reminds me of the ones Liv and I used to have. Full of quick comebacks and snappy jokes. And for a brief moment I feel less homesick.

  “Dunno, pad thai?” He says the magic words.

  “Tonight?”

  “Five?”

  “Lucky Noodle?” I suggest.

  “See you then.”

  “Peace.”

  * * *

  The portfolio requirements glare at me from the corkboard. Sun beams in through the skylight and highlights the paper so that it’s barely legible. I know what I need to make, but for the first time ever, I’m afraid to make it. The pressure is on. All my other costumes and cosplays have been for me or Cooper or my friends. Seattle Comic Con was the first time I entered a competition, and that turned out to be a disaster. This is supposed to be the dream, my first step toward silver-screen status, and, dear lord of lost buttons, I can’t fuck it up.

  I’ve decided to outfit our entire ragtag D&D crew. There are plenty of characters to work with. If Why can be my friend, no questions asked, things might not be as bad as they seem. Why deserves his wizard robes; Cooper deserves his tunic. So Brody is still a jerk. It’s not fair for me to lump Why in with him. I make my own list and pin it next to the letter.

  Five original characters:

  Wizzy

  Jade

  Clover

  Brody’s character can get eaten by an orc for all I care.

  Something for Lincoln?

  There’s still the reimagined costume to make on top of these, but I have to start somewhere. I review the sketch for Jade, Cooper’s wood elf. It looks good, but not complete. I’m not aiming for good; I’m aiming for greatest portfolio of all time. I’m very reasonable like that.

  The costume is missing all those extra little details that make it feel real and not like a Halloween costume. Stuff like Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber holster. All the pouches and belts and jackets that Samwise Gamgee totes around. The undergarments Viola wears in Shakespeare in Love. Luna Lovegood’s Spectrespecs.

  His clothes look like Generic Elf™ from any universe. There’s nothing really original. It’s because I don’t know anything about Jade Everwood, but a few more hours playing D&D should help. I doubt Coop will let me interrogate him, and I realize I learn more from watching scenes play out in front of me than I do pulling ideas out of thin air.

  I know a lot about Wizzy, Why’s halfling wizard. I can picture him in my mind after playing with him, hearing how he talks, seeing how he acts. I flip to a new page but change my mind and immediately close the book. I don’t want to sketch it out, I just want to make it.

  The black scraps from last night are all twisted up in their bin; it takes me a while to untangle them. My fingertips turn red, then purple as the thread winds around them. I wedge my seam ripper into the impossible knots and pry the fabric apart from itself. If only I knew magic. I’d roll a d10 for a spell of unraveling and cross my fingers for a high number. Once I’ve separated out enough pieces, I lay them across the floor in piles according to size. I take the biggest strips over to the machine, replace the broken needle, thread it up, and get to work.

  Even though the edges are still frayed and torn, I push them slowly and deliberately through the machine. Nothing snags, nothing tangles, and Wizzy’s little hat starts coming together. Every few minutes I try it on and check it out in the mirror.

  Wizzy, like Why, is funny, so I make it smaller than a traditional wizard cap. That way his ears will stick out a bit. Lincoln says that practicing magic is forbidden for us halflings, and Wizzy does it anyway. So he’s brave. Black is brave, and dark, and mischievous.

  My phone buzzes next to me on the table. New mail. I give my fingers a break from sewing so they can go on a deleting spree. But it’s not from an anon. Right on top of all the junk mail is a message from the Quentin client.

  Subject: I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH.

  My Quentin cosplay went over like—Mother-FLIPPIN—Gangbusters. So many people stopped me to take pictures at the con. It was amazing. I can’t believe how detailed you got with it. I told everyone who asked about your blog. I hope you get some more customers out of it. I sent the rest of your $ to your PayPal and attached some pictures for you!

  You rock.

  —QQ

  My hands are trembling so much my phone almost slips from my grasp. Attached is a photo of the client looking good as all get-out in my cosplay…standing next to Gillian flipping Grayson. Gillian Grayson saw my costume. She posed for a picture with it. She put her arm around it and touched it. I
imagine what she said when she saw it, if she recognized Quentin. She did design that amazing Wolverine costume in the tenth reboot. Did she ask him about it? Did he tell her my name, and did she instantly recognize it from the National Portfolio Review roster? Am I accepted already?

  I want to write back and ask him all these questions and then some, but it’s too scary. She might not have said anything at all. I’ll find out what she thinks of my work soon enough. This right here is why I haven’t closed my blog yet. If I take it down, who knows what opportunities I might miss. I’m about to cancel my plans with Why—I have to keep working—but Cooper clambering up to the loft interrupts me.

  “I’m sorry, but I need, like, a whole damn hour to vent about what happened at work today.” Coop collapses into the beanbag chair, his arms and legs all splayed out. “I don’t even care that you’re still in my clothes. That’s how frustrating it was.” I push out from the table, and my chair rolls across the floor to him.

  “Poor Snap.” I pet his shoulder with my foot.

  “Ew, excuse your nasty, bare feet.” He pushes them aside. “Thank you.”

  “So?”

  “So, who would you never, ever expect to be shopping in a Eugene mall, let alone in a Banana?”

  “A lot of people. Jack Black? Mark Ruffalo?” I guess.

  “Stop listing your crushes. Try again. Try the one person I was more than happy to leave behind in Portland.”

  “Not Farrin. Please tell me it wasn’t Farrin.”

  “I hate my life,” Cooper groans, and shuts his eyes. He’s right. I would never have guessed, not in a gajillion years, that Farrin would be down here in Eugene. He’s Coop’s one and only ex. And therefore worst. His name isn’t even Farrin. It’s Brian, but apparently that wasn’t fartsy enough for him.