Chaotic Good

by Whitney Gardner

  I keep imagining Clover as a girl, though. I guess it’s because she’s me, and as much as I’m trying to be just one of the dudes, deep down I know I’m not. I do know that Clover will wear a crown of his namesake around his head. Dutch white and crimson blooms.

  Someone bumps into me as they pass by to cross the bridge. A man in a tracksuit slows down the minute he’s in front of me. I try to copy the way he’s walking: like he owns the place. Not a care in the world. Anyone in his way is just an obstacle to overcome. I square my shoulders, lift my jaw. I pretend that everything the light touches is mine. Arrogant.

  “Smile, wouldja!” he brightly calls out to a girl walking past us, and I slump back to my normal posture. Her eyes dart to the ground, and she tightens her fingers around her phone. Something I’ve done when I’ve walked alone dozens of times. I recognize it right away. Usually I’ll pick up a fake phone call so I don’t have to respond to the catcaller. “Hey, I’m almost home, so get ready,” I always say. But he doesn’t recognize any of the signs. He doesn’t have to. He’s too busy turning to watch her backside walk away from him.

  I want to trip him. But I don’t. I feel oddly guilty in my guy getup. I could stand up for her; I could say something without worrying he’ll hit on me next. But it’s too late; she’s gone, and I settle for jogging past him. I have more important places to be.

  Why isn’t late. I spot his blond halo-hair from across the water. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, glancing up to check for me every now and then. I guess he doesn’t see me. I need a minute to get myself back to that place. The boy place. I pace back and forth until I find my stride. Leaning back, shuffling my feet, nodding my head to some imaginary beat.

  “Yo! Why!” I call out to him and wave once. He stuffs his phone into his pocket and waves, like a maniac, back at me.

  “You’re, like, sweating gallons. You know that?” he says.

  “I’m fully aware. Is there some shade? Lemonade? Anything?”

  “We’ll figure something out.” Why starts walking the path around the pond. The opposite side looks like it has more trees, and I’m looking forward to the shade. I keep wiping my forehead on my arm, but my arm is just as sweaty as my face, and I’m a girl—I’m not supposed to sweat this much, right?

  “I wanted to say, you know, I’m sorry again because, like—” Why stops and starts.

  “Dude, I told you. It’s really okay. Stop beating yourself up about it.” Maybe I should bring up Cooper now, get it over with. Get it all out in the open.

  “Didn’t you say you make costumes and stuff?” Why asks, slowing down to walk next to me. I had just about forgotten that conversation over pad thai when he called Cooper and me the wonder twins.

  “Yeah, I do,” I say, trying to take it an octave lower.

  “And you’re sure you aren’t…?” He looks me up and down; I can’t tell if Why is joking or not. I want to move on from this. I’m not a prospect—I’m a friend. Remember?

  “Yes, I am. Sure. I am sure. I can sew and be straight.”

  “Of course! Ugh—yes—totally,” he stammers. I can tell he feels bad for making the assumption. But I’m the one lying, so why should I make him feel guilty?

  “Please don’t worry about it. I totally get it.” I elbow him, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Well…tell me about it,” he asks.

  “What part?”

  “Costumes. When did you start?”

  “Jeez, hmmm.” I search for the right words and try to remember when all of the madness began. If I’m being honest, it probably started when I would make outfits for my Barbies. The clothes they came with were always so boring. I liked adding pom-poms and fringe and sequins and tassels all on one outfit. I remember spending all day on this one look: it was messy and weird with fake flower petals glued together to make a wild hat, and I just had to match her. I had to make the outfit for myself. That’s when Mom taught me how to sew. But I can’t tell Why that story. I can’t tell him about Barbies and silk flowers and glue guns.

  I think harder and follow a different thread back to a Halloween. Perfect. How else would you get interested in costumes when you’re a kid? “I really, really wanted to be a robot for Halloween when I was ten.” We finally hit the opposite side of the pond, and I’m already feeling better in the shade of the Doug firs. “So we looked for robot costumes everywhere—Target, Freddies, you know.”

  “Sure.” Why listens intently, grinning and bopping to the sounds of the birds in the branches overhead.

  “None of them were right. Silver foam and fabric, everything looked soft and wrinkled and not robotic at all. I complained for two whole weeks, really dragged it out. I would print out pictures of robots and slide them under my parents’ bedroom door. My mom finally had enough and suggested I make my own.”

  “Let me guess, classic cardboard box and accordion tube arms.” Why makes a wave from one arm to the other and back again. He moves like liquid; it’s mesmerizing.

  “What do you take me for, an amateur? Please. I got a white motorcycle helmet and bent sheets of white plastic. I looked just like ASIMO. Scared the crap out of my mom for a week pretending the suit was empty and then moving when she least expected it. After that, I was sold.”

  “I’m waiting for that.” Why digs his hands into his pockets. “It’s there; I know it is. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Your thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you tried classical French horn?” I joke.

  “Maybe I should join a traveling circus. I could train a flock of peacocks to sing Carmina Burana,” he counters.

  “Or study nineteenth-century fine artists.”

  “More like figure out how to steal the Mona Lisa from the Louvre.” He pushes down an arm of his glasses, making the frames wiggle up on his nose.

  “Hey, at least that one involves a trip to Paris,” I offer.

  “I can use my two years of high school French.”

  “Can you say: ‘Run! It’s the cops!’ ”

  “Merde. I’m screwed.”

  We leave the pond and start walking around the perimeter of the park. It’s big, but it’s no Forest Park. It makes me miss Portland. We stop in front of the off-leash dog park to watch the doggies chase each other across the dry, golden grass.

  “That one is Cooper.” Why points to a little spaniel with glossy ears, preening in the shade of a plum tree. Not bothering with any of the other dogs, it really does seem like Coop.

  “Ha! True, but Cooper is friendlier than that.”

  “Really? He’s kind of…intimidating.”

  “Cooper?!”

  “Yeah, man. Both of you got good genes, or whatever.”

  “Please.” I roll my eyes.

  “You both make me nervous. That’s all.”

  “No way, you’re cooler than both of us combined,” I reassure him.

  “See, then you have to go and say something like that. It’s nervous making!” The spaniel gets up and walks around the tree. It settles back down in the exact same place.

  “Thanks for inviting me to D and D. I really like the game.”

  “Hey, it’s not every day a guy walks into Atomix wearing a shirt as legit as yours.”

  “Sure it is.” I bet it would be more of an anomaly if a girl did.

  “Okay, well, not one like you.”

  “That one’s Brody.” I point out a stubby pit-mix, trying to dodge the compliment. If it were growling, it would look vicious, but it’s rolling on its back in a patch of dandelions. Harmless and scary at the same time.

  “Yeah, right down to the lack of nuts.” We can’t help but crack up. I double over, head between my knees on the park bench where we’ve sprawled out. I keep my laughs in, mouth closed. I’m getting used to it.

  “
Lincoln is the yellow lab,” I sigh.

  “Totally,” Why sighs back.

  “Which one am I?” I ask Why, and he scans over the park, squinting through his glasses.

  “That one.” He grins, pointing to a tricolored dachshund. It’s scrambling around the dog park, trying to run in ten different directions at once, its tongue hanging out of its mouth. It’s derpy and manic, and he pretty much nailed it.

  “And that’s you.” I point out a black-and-white collie. It prances around, happy, smiling, and wagging its tail as it bounds after a butterfly.

  “Too true,” he says. “Always chasing something I can’t have.”

  “Listen, about that.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

  “Well, I think I know someone who might not, you know, mind being chased.” I figure now is the best time to bring it up. It’s my first time being a wingman, and I have no idea what I’m doing.

  “Right.” Why shifts away from me and switches from his red-framed prescription glasses to his mirrored shades. “I get it. And I’m sure they’re really, you know, cool, if you know them. But. Not yet? Not from you. Not yet.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sure. You just—” I stammer.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Wanna hit up the shop?” I offer as the world’s worst consolation prize.

  “Sure. Why not.”

  * * *

  There’s no bell on the door at Atomix Comix. No happy jingle to welcome you, just the metallic screech of the hinges.

  “Dude, it’s dead in here,” Why scoffs as the door closes behind us. Brody, stationed behind the glass counter, silently motions to us. Knock it off. He holds up his palm and shields a pointing finger. Why and I both turn in unison, and there she is. A girl in the shop.

  She’s tall, with shoulder-length curly orange hair. The thin buzz of an undercut peeks out above one ear. She has the most amazing enamel-pin collection I’ve ever seen. Her messenger bag glitters in the fluorescent lights, every inch covered in pins.

  “Brina,” Why whispers to me.

  “Oh…,” I mouth. Brody waves his arms, beckoning us behind the counter. He wants to huddle up.

  “What do I do?” he asks through clenched teeth.

  “I’m out.” Why throws his hands up. “I’ll catch you at the game, right, Cam?” he asks.

  “You know it.” I nod, and we bump fists.

  “C’mon, man. Help me out here. Please?” Brody begs. He looks at me like he lost his mommy in the supermarket. Brina browses the graphic novel section, seemingly unaware of his presence. I can’t believe Brody is asking me for help. With a girl. I take it as a sign. Maybe I can actually help him, not just as a guy but as a person. Step up and show him how to interact with people without being a total creep.

  “Have you tried saying hello?”

  “I’m not an idiot.” He bristles. But I beg to differ. “She just said hi and that’s it. Nothing else. Like she doesn’t even know me.”

  “Maybe she just wants to shop.”

  “So, what? I ignore her?”

  “Just wait. Don’t be so thirsty,” I scold him. It feels good. Finally I’m this powerful person, able to let it fly and say what I actually want to say. Unafraid of Brody’s reactions. I lean against the counter and try not to watch Brina.

  Brina looks like I do when I’m in cosplay. Confident, at ease, happy. Turning pages, smiling, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. Unafraid. I don’t know her, but I want to be like her. She tucks two books under her arm before walking over to the counter. I covet her Wonder Woman Chuck Taylors.

  “Hey.” She slides the books across the glass.

  “Hi. Did you see?” Brody points over to the graphic novel shelf again. “I stocked more of them.”

  “Yeah, not bad. Still pretty light, though.” She folds her arms in front of her chest. I don’t know too much about graphic novels, but the section is kinda puny. Brody pounds the keys on the register, taking her comment personally.

  “I’m sure you’ll get more. Right, man?” I nudge. Trying to snap him back to reality. No reason for him to blow one tiny comment out of proportion.

  “Yeah, sure. I still say you should get into some classic runs, though. I know you liked Dark Knight.”

  “It was all right.” She shrugs.

  “I’m telling you, there’s some great stuff. Especially Marvel.”

  “What about the new X-Men movie?” Brina asks. “What should I read before I see it?”

  “There’s gonna be a new X-Men movie?” I cut in. I wonder if Gillian is working on it. I make a mental note to check up on it later.

  “Do I know you?” Brina tilts her head and asks. “You look so familiar.”

  “Uh…I, uh, I don’t think so,” I spit out. Her comment catches me off guard. Should I know who she is? I’ve never seen her before. I’m pretty sure I’d remember that hair of hers.

  “That reboot is going to be terrible. Don’t waste your time. I hear Dazzler’s gonna be in it.” Brody rolls his eyes and smiles at me. I can’t believe I actually smile back. It’s infectious. I’ve made it. I’m part of the club. I’m in the inner circle. I’m so overcome with acceptance I almost don’t recognize the sound of my own voice laughing at Brina when she says,

  “Who?”

  “See, this is why you need to read more than just graphic novels, Brina.” Halfway through his sentence I start hating myself. Did I seriously just laugh at her? Brody smirks at me and elbows my arm. I open my stupid big mouth, but nothing comes out. “You got some bad taste,” he adds.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Brina takes it all in stride; nothing he says fazes her in the slightest. “Mr. Tastemaker over here.” She opens the glittering flap on her bag and tucks the comics safe inside. “See you round.” She pivots on her heel, and we both watch her as she leaves. Both of us jealous for entirely different reasons.

  “Are you sure I don’t know you? Do you have a blog?” she calls back to me, foot propping open the door.

  “A what? A blog? No. I don’t, I don’t have one. A blog. Sorry. No.” I am as smooth as twenty-four-grit sandpaper. I pull my hat down and tilt my head away from her.

  “Well, okay, then.” And she’s gone.

  “See what I mean?” Brody asks, leaning against the wall.

  “No, sorry. I don’t.”

  “Come on—”

  “I gotta go. See you later.” I scramble toward the exit. I need to get out of here.

  “Later days, man. See you on the battlefield.”

  * * *

  My face is all over my blog. I scroll through post after post of photos of me and Cooper. Most of them don’t really look like me, my features masked by layers of face paint and wigs. But every now and then there’s a selfie, or a photo of me working on a build. If you’ve seen enough of them, you might recognize me. I never thought someone in Eugene would have stumbled across it. This town just keeps getting smaller and smaller.

  There’s been some pretty harsh backlash to my most recent post. My one attempt to stick up for myself. I’ve tried to avoid it, but the post keeps getting passed around, commented on, and torn apart. It’s hard to ignore. I try to find the nicer comments, tucked in between the STFUs and the images of Cloud getting impaled. There are a few saying that the sword came out amazing, and how Jen’s Aerith costume is gorgeous. I focus on those, because Jen’s costume did turn out gorgeous: I took five yards of pink raw silk and some red denim and made magic. She looked perfect. I miss her.

  A familiar avatar scrolls past, and my heart sinks. I told Liv not to say anything. I didn’t waffle; I wrote that post! She shouldn’t have chimed in. Now they’re all going to come after her too. I click on her post, and there she is. Posing like a superhero in the most amazing shirt I’ve ever seen. PINZ HAS A POSSE is written in Sh
arpie across her chest.

  LISTEN UP YOU PLEBS!! I have shit I gotta say on this matter. First off, I asked Pinz to make those costumes for Seattle. I’ve played enough FFVII for the both of us. So back the fuck up and think before you type. Nextly, y’all need to accept the fact that girls aren’t going anywhere any time soon. We play games, we read comics, we like nerdy shit. Your attention has NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. Get over it. Because if you think we get off on your dick pics and death threats you’re fools. FOOLS. And Imma bring it home with this: If you’re not one of these wart-covered trolls, leave my girl some love. Show her what’s up. Let her know she’s not alone.

  #pinzhasaposse

  * * *

  “Wait, wait, wait.” I break character and stop the game. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s our first big in-game battle. We are all kicking ass and having fun, and Brody pulls this? “This isn’t what Tiffani would do. Is it?”

  “Obviously,” he scoffs.

  “Why? How is this fun for you?” I ask. Everyone else is silent, no doubt wondering what the hell I’m doing. No matter how badly I might want to deny it, Brody and I sort of bonded the other day, and it doesn’t feel as scary to call him out.

  “It’s hilarious! It’s not like you guys can’t handle it. It’s just an orc.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more fun to help?” I keep going.

  “Yeah, if I was playing a ranger or paladin. But I’m playing a girl, so…”

  “But you chose fighter as her class!”

  “I always choose fighter,” he counters.

  “I just don’t understand why you’re treating her like a joke instead of actually playing.”

  “Cam. What aren’t you getting? She’s a chick. She’s a whiner.” Brody isn’t mad at me; he’s dumbfounded that I can’t seem to follow his logic. I glance at Cooper, who’s covering his mouth to keep himself from laughing or giving something away. Why doesn’t look up from his character sheet.