Chaotic Good

by Whitney Gardner

  * * *

  “Cam! Wait up!” Why calls from the entrance of Atomix. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Why shoots the quickest glance in Cooper’s direction. “Alone?” I look over at Coop; he gives me a nod of approval, or indifference—it’s hard to say.

  “What’s up?” I ask as we walk, slowly, down to the corner. Why turns around and stares at me, right into my eyes, biting his lip. Oh God, he knows. He figured out I’m a girl. He’s going to call me out for being yet another fake-geek-girl and tell me to never come back. Then he’ll tell Lincoln, who’ll be majorly pissed at me for breaking up the group, and he’ll never touch me with those hands of his, much less let me teach him how to sew. What was I thinking? Why did I ever do this?

  “You wanna go out sometime? Just, like, you-and-me style?” Why asks, and the relief is so extreme I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Sure, but I don’t know what’s fun around here. I bet Cooper knows. We could all—”

  “No. I mean, go out. Go out? You know, I pick you up and we sit in a movie theater and maybe, like, you know? A date?” I wonder if my face is as red as it feels. As soon as he says the word, everything shifts. It catches me off guard, knocks the wind out of me. And I realize this is what Lincoln was talking about. He could tell Why was crushing.

  I thought for once I was going to have a purely platonic friendship with a guy. But Why’s ruined all that now; all it took was the d-word. I tap my toe against the pavement, my eyes darting back and forth, searching for the right words in the cracks in the sidewalk. Words that, like a spell, could somehow undo this, save our friendship. But the best I can come up with is,

  “I’m not…I’m not gay. Sorry.”

  “Shhhhhhhhhiiiii­iiiii­iiit.” Why hangs his head, mortified. “I just thought, you know? You’re just so…”

  “No, I’m not. You wouldn’t want to date me. Trust me.”

  “Damn it!” Why curses under his breath and turns away from me.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” I try to comfort him. It sounds weird masked in my tenor voice. I want to be real, be honest. But that’s not an option.

  “It’s just…so embarrassing. I’m sorry. I…I’m an idiot.” He doesn’t turn around. I pray that he’s not crying. This is horrible. I’ve never turned down a date before, and Why is the last person I’d want to hurt.

  “You’re not an idiot. You’re awesome. I’m sure there’s a ton of guys who would—”

  “Right.”

  “Really. Why. Dude. We can still be friends, right? Please?” I practically beg. He sighs and finally turns around.

  “Yeah. Sure.” He curls his lips inward. A fake smile.

  “Because I just moved here, and we just met—”

  “Oh, of course.” He shakes off a bit of his embarrassment and straightens up. “Have you been to the ABP yet?” he asks the ground.

  “The what?”

  “Alton Baker Park? It’s nice in the summer.”

  “Uh, sure. Sounds fun.”

  “Wednesday?” He perks up.

  “Should be okay.” Gives me a few days to really buckle down and get back to work. There’s not much time left and I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I need to finish.

  “See you then….And I’m sorry…about…”

  “Don’t be.”

  “You should have told him,” Cooper snipes from the little platform in our studio.

  “You should tell him,” I say, and accidentally poke him with a pin. He yelps and swats me away. The fabric around his legs flaps about as he moves. “Stay still!”

  “Just tell him I’m into him. No. Tell him you think I might like him. And then you’ll really be off the hook.”

  “Don’t be so high school about it, Snap.” I attach two bits of fabric around his thigh with one pin, then another.

  “Snip, we are in high school.”

  “Point taken.” I step back to check my work. I’ve been working on Jade Everwood’s costume for two days, and it’s still not quite right. “What if I drop the crotch?”

  “Absolutely not. It’ll look like I’m wearing a diaper.”

  “But it’s different! I don’t want to do the same ol’ tights look.” I’m just playing around with the silhouette for as long as Coop will let me.

  “No.”

  “Fine.” I poke him again.

  “Farrin keeps texting me, wants to know what I think of his stupid script. I thought if I waited long enough he would just forget about it. He’s already in New York.”

  “You didn’t actually read it, did you?” I make Cooper spin around so I can work on the back. I think I’m going to do a dropped crotch anyway. I think they’re weird and cool, and a wood elf would totally wear one.

  “I started to. It’s about us. Our whole relationship.”

  “But told through some metaphor or something?”

  “Sort of…We’re all these stop-motion animals. You’re a rat.”

  “Lovely.”

  “There’s nothing interesting about it. It’s just our story. He’s so lazy.” Cooper goes quiet as I work out the rest of the seams on his pants. My stomach is in knots, and I know it’s because his is too. I wonder if Farrin included the part where he ripped Cooper’s heart out for some other boy.

  They hated each other when they first met. Always trying to out-cool each other, trying to be the bigger movie snob. Who knew more from which commentary on which director’s cut of whatever indie darling was playing at Living Room that week. Which of course led to them making out at some film fest. Then they were inseparable for two whole years. I liked Farrin at first. It felt like Cooper had found someone who loved all the things he loved, but it became obvious—to me, at least—that Farrin never stopped competing. Cooper just didn’t mind coming in second place anymore. Farrin became the authority on everything. “You shouldn’t wear that…see that…do that…go there.” It got really annoying, but Cooper never saw it that way. He was in love. Right up until he caught Farrin tongue-deep in Noah Baker, the lead in our school production of Fiddler on the Roof. Cooper said he was wearing the beard and everything. I hope Farrin choked on it.

  “I’ll tell him. I’ll tell Wyatt.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you more.”

  * * *

  I run my fingers over the softest jersey-knit fabric I’ve ever felt at Kozy Corner. It’s white, but I can dye it the burnt-orange color I came in here for. White might be even better. I can fold the fabric, tie-dye it, and get some natural-looking rusty patterns instead of solid color. Jade Everwood should look like all of his clothes were made from natural materials. I tuck the bolt under my arm and grab a box of dye. I was dreading running into Lincoln, and yet here I am, dressed in my most flowy sundress, hoping to get caught. He’s not here.

  “Now that’s a dress!” Dotty grins from behind the counter. “Perfect for this weather. Do a twirl!” she demands. I oblige. I turn on my toe, and the dress floats around my knees. The colors swirl together and form new kaleidoscopic patterns. I stop spinning; the dress tries to keep going and wraps itself around my legs once more before settling back into place.

  “I sewed it right before we moved here. I thought it would be my lucky dress.”

  “I love it,” she declares, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Thank you.” I blush, looking down. I check over the supplies in my arms and remember I’m still a bit short. “Hey, you’re out of that rose-colored crushed velvet,” I tell Dotty, hoping she has some more stashed somewhere so I can finish Jade’s costume today.

  “And you didn’t call my Link.” Dotty frowns as I approach the counter. Reading my mind.

  “No. Not yet.” I’ve tucked his phone number into my bra. I never leave home without it.

  “Give him a call, woul
d you? He’s getting on my last nerve around the house. He’s so young and vibrant! He should be going out, not spending every night playing Hegemon Scrabble with me. I’m old; the last thing I need is a teenaged babysitter.” She rings me up, and I giggle at the thought of Lincoln playing games and letting Dotty win. The two of them puttering around her house, probably all shag carpet and plastic furniture, cracks me up.

  “Maybe.”

  “And maybe your velvet will be here on Tuesday.” She hands me a paper bag. Her fingernails are long and pointy, painted a deep glittering green that matches the emerald on her claddagh ring. The heart faces inward.

  “Thanks, Dots.”

  “And listen”—Dotty leans over the counter, her voice soft and serious—“you have to make your own luck. Just like you made that dress.”

  * * *

  “What happened!” Liv shouts through the phone. “Can’t I go off to Mount Hood for a hot sec without everything blowing up?”

  “I thought Jen told you.” I was surprised to see Liv’s face pop up on my phone screen today. I didn’t expect to hear from her any time soon.

  “Not the whole deal, no! I’ve been scrolling through the drama for, like, hours. I feel like it’s all my fault.”

  “Please don’t say that. It’s not true.” The last thing I want is for her to feel so guilty that she gives me time or space or whatever. I just want my friend back.

  “It was my idea, the whole Final Fantasy thing. That’s what started all of this, right?”

  “A bunch of randos started it. Not you,” I reassure her.

  “What’re you gonna do?” I picture her bouncing in her seat like she always does when she’s on the phone.

  “I dunno. Nothing? Wait it out?”

  “Fuck that with a million bananas, Cam. You should say something. I’m gonna say something!”

  “Don’t!” I beg.

  “Why the heck not?” She’s getting fired up. Liv is like that. Fierce in ways I can’t be. She would never disguise herself to fit in. She’d march right into Atomix and force Brody to dismantle his girl section piece by piece. Still, if she speaks up, I know exactly what will happen.

  “It’s not worth it.”

  “Of course it is!”

  “They came after Jen; they’ll come after you next,” I warn her.

  “You know Jen has always been shy. I can handle some puny trolls. Bring ’em on.”

  “I would have said the same thing myself, but you don’t know what it’s like, not until it’s your inbox and feed and everything full of the grossest shit, Liv. Please don’t.”

  “If I don’t say anything, you have to. Don’t wilt. Don’t waffle.”

  “Don’t waver—I know.” Liv and her mottos. She’s printed out a thousand quotes from various blogs and websites and hung them all over her room. A new mantra for every week.

  “I got you, girl. And you got this.” She hangs up and I log in.

  Two hundred sixty notes. Three hundred forty-eight notes. Five hundred and two notes. My blog is blowing up. The Quentin cosplay brought me a bunch of new followers, but they’re not all fans. I can’t wrap my head around it, people who started following my posts, combing through the archive just to hurl insults. Why waste your time? If you hate me so much, why follow me at all?

  When I’m dressed as Poison Ivy, I’m a noncanonical whore. When I’m dressed as Agent Carter, I’m a frigid bitch who can’t sew. When I’m dressed as Zelda, my dark-ass eyebrows completely ruin the look. The posts of Cooper dressed as Nightwing, Nathan Drake, Shay from Broken Age don’t get nearly as many comments. Do the trolls not realize I made those costumes too? They’re in my blog. There are plenty of nice comments, but the nasty ones always seem louder. They dominate my inbox.

  And how dare they? They don’t know what goes into making something like a Samus suit by hand. They’ve never picked up a thimble that wasn’t on a Monopoly board. I have. I put my blood, sweat, and now tears into my work. That’s why I’ll have a career, and they’ll be stuck on the other side of the moon, never bothering to come out from behind their screens. Liv is right. I don’t want to be a wilting waffle.

  Hey everyone. Pinz+Needlez here. I’m kinda thrilled and stunned that so many of you like my work. I wanted to tell everyone that every cosplay you see on my page was made by me with my own two hands. Sometimes lovingly, sometimes after hours and hours of bashing my thumbs and jabbing my fingers. But there isn’t a thimble big enough to protect me from some of these nasty comments! So yeah, please consider that before you go and say something harsh or mean or rude. That a real person made all this and is here and can read what you write. If you don’t like what I make, you can unfollow me, or just, you know, lay off.

  I stare at the dress form with the half-finished Jade Everwood costume, proud that I’m finally working on my own designs. Anons can’t scream at me for being “inaccurate” when I’ve designed everything myself. It’s canon if I say it is, bitch. I snap a picture of the work in progress and attach it to the post.

  I have some cool new projects in the works, so all of the randos can show themselves out. Thx.

  —Pinz

  I put the Internet drama behind me and get back to stitching up Jade’s vest. I’ll pick up the velvet lining on Tuesday. I’m going for impressive, couture, so I hand-sew every seam with metallic-green thread. I’m not going to give Gillian Grayson a single thing to criticize in my portfolio. Every detail, every stitch is considered and deliberate.

  “Hey, thimble girl!” Dad calls up to me from the garage. My hand slips, and I jab my finger with the needle. He’s never called me that before. Did Cooper figure out my password? And why would he tell Dad? “Dinner!” I rush down the stairs, but Dad’s standing at the bottom, grinning, with his hand held out. A bright, shining thimble sits upright on his palm. It’s beautiful, with butterflies carved all around the rim. “For your collection.” He beams. I love the way his eyes sparkle when he’s happy. Little brown gems set in half a lifetime’s laugh lines. Dad’s eyes smile all on their own.

  “Where did you find it?” I take the thimble and place it on my finger.

  “In the garden, would you believe it?” He wraps his arm around my shoulder and walks me out of the garage. “You’ve been busy. Haven’t seen you much lately.”

  “You see me every night at dinner.”

  “Yeah, but you’re actually off on the moon somewhere designing costumes in your head.”

  “No. Not the moon, never the moon,” I assure him. The moon is the last place I like to think about with its army of anons and assholes.

  “Don’t forget to have a summer. You shouldn’t spend every minute holed up in there.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” The kitchen smells like garlic and basil. Mom spoons the green pesto-coated penne onto our plates. Cooper shaves a mountain of Parmesan onto his before even bothering to sit down.

  “Do you need to take your plate to the loft?” Mom holds the dish above my place at the table.

  “Lori,” Dad scolds her. “Give her a break.”

  “She can take a break if she wants to. Do you want to take a break?” Mom turns back to me, still hovering. Cooper is already stuffing his face.

  “I can eat here, it’s fine.” I appreciate what she’s trying to do, let me off the hook for family dinner so I can keep working. It’s a fight we’ve had before, but usually with me on the other side of it. I would beg to work through dinner, but family time was more important. Now that college is on the radar, Mom has pulled a complete one-eighty.

  “Okay, whatever you think is best,” Mom says skeptically, taking her seat and laying a napkin on her lap.

  “She’s going to be fine. My little Snip.” Dad is in a sentimental mood tonight. He’s picked up on our nicknames and uses them like he invented them sometimes.

  “I know she’s going t
o be fine. But I want her to know she can work whenever she needs to. It’s important.”

  “She knows. She’ll work when her muse decides to—”

  “Ben. Cameron doesn’t need a muse.” She glares at Dad, who giggles. He loves to egg her on. It’s this little game they play. Sometimes it’s funny; sometimes it’s just plain gross. “She can—”

  “She’s right here.” I slam on the brakes before it gets heated, which always leads to them kissing right at the table. And nobody needs to see that.

  “So is her brother, your son, who you also love just as much as her,” Cooper snipes.

  “Don’t worry, my little Snap,” I tease. “They will be on your case when you’re writing your spec scripts or whatever.”

  “They wouldn’t. They know I can handle it.”

  “Did you have to write another script?” Mom butts in. “Can I read it? Where are you sending it? Is there a deadline?”

  “Told you. They’ll get on your case anyway,” I assure him, and Mom grumbles.

  “Okay, okay, they get the picture.”

  * * *

  I’m sweating through the oversized Hawaiian shirt that I got at Goodwill yesterday. I picked out some shirts for boy-Cam to wear to D&D and, now, for hanging out with Why. It’s way too hot for the two-mile walk to Alton Baker Park, and way too hot to be wearing this stupid beanie, but here I am, trekking over the DeFazio Bridge, wishing I could just jump into the river and swim the rest of the way.

  The bridge has been the nicest part of the walk, no cars to worry about, just me and the cyclists making our way to and from the park under the weird, tweezer-like support beams. I brainstorm a costume idea for my halfling character, Clover, on my way to the pond where we’re supposed to meet.