Chaotic Good

by Whitney Gardner

  Picturing her scrambling up rocks and jumping into Qiris Spring in a gown tickles me. And I unlock the key to designing her costume. Wear and tear. A rough and ripped hem. Dirt stains, scrapes, burns. She’s a girl on a mission, and she’s been through the ringer. But she’s never looked more fabulous.

  The only scissors I have in my room are ancient, orange-handled Fiskars. If I try to cut the satin with them, they’ll ruin the fabric in an instant. Satin demands sharp scissors. But I know there’s some aluminum foil stashed under my bed, so I don’t have to creep back down through my old man’s game.

  I learned how to sharpen scissors with foil when my mom refused to buy me that fifty-dollar pair I ended up saving a jar full of quarters for. In a pinch, it works wonders. I pull out a shiny silver yard of the stuff and fold it over and over again until it’s a nice square stack. Carefully I cut into it. Using the whole length of the blades, I snip, over and over, turning the aluminum into fringe. It gets easier each time, the blades becoming sharper with every cut.

  Once the scissors are sufficiently sharpened, I turn the satin, pointing a corner straight at me. If I cut on the bias, diagonally across the weave of the fabric, it will fray less. I know I’m going to fray it myself later, but I want total control. I want it to fray on my terms. The scissors bite and slice into the fabric and make the most satisfying sound in the universe.

  shiik shiik shiik

  First, I will make Tiffani’s bodice. Off the shoulder, but not too revealing. Pleats: many, many pleats. I want the satin to ripple like water. I fold in a few and pin them down; I’ll sew later. I hold up the front half of the bodice to inspect. It’s pretty, but missing something. A tough element. Tiffani is a badass when she actually wants to be.

  I need some black leather. I can’t remember the last time I bought any, because it’s expensive as all get-out, and it’s not like I have any new clients banging down my door. I accidentally jab my finger with one of the pins. The bodice falls to my feet, and I pray, with my finger in my mouth, that I didn’t get any blood on the satin.

  I wonder if I do have any new business. I can’t avoid my inbox forever. I’ll have to turn on my phone; I’ll have to face them. But I don’t know what else there is to say. Hey, could you stop harassing me? Kthanxbye. Yeah, that’ll go over really well. I grab a thimble off my shelf and power up my phone.

  I see all the texts I’ve missed from Cooper. Nothing all that urgent. Just typical stray observations and emojis. As soon as it picks up the Wi-Fi, it chimes and beeps and vibrates like crazy. My inbox is overflowing, my voice mail is full, and I have some texts from unknown numbers. I open one without thinking. It’s a dick pic. I batch delete the rest without opening them. These jerks are relentless; if someone wanted to hire me, I would never know. Their message would be lost in the sea of hatred.

  Who is this girl they think they’re smearing? It’s obvious from their comments that they don’t actually know anything about me. They just needed someone to hate. Someone to fill the endless hours of their empty lives. A villain to make them feel like heroes. I don’t bother going through any more. I have better ways to fill up my time.

  There’s a seam ripper in my pencil cup, and I decide to put the thing to work on an old pair of pleather pants I bought back in my monthlong punk phase. There should be enough to work with here. My portfolio is more important than pants anyway. I tuck in strips of leather between the folds of satin, and I’m pleased with the way the different materials play off each other. They’ll be a mega pain in the ass to sew, but worth it.

  There is the slightest knock at my door, and I swivel around. Lincoln is standing outside my room; he sticks his hands in his pockets. Nervous.

  “Oh no. I’m interrupting.”

  “Of course you aren’t.” I drop the bodice, studded with pins, onto my lap.

  “If I didn’t come up here”—he looks around my room—“you’d keep working. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably, but—”

  “See. Interrupting. It looks beautiful.” The blue of the fabric reflects in his brown eyes, making them look purple and enchanted.

  “It’s for Tiffani.” I hold it back up for him to see. One of the strips of leather falls out from the folds.

  “Ack!” He gasps and lunges for the scrap. “Is it going to be okay? I didn’t screw it up, did I?” He looks so anxious, worried that he’s set me back hours of work. It’s so adorable it hurts.

  “Calm down. Here.” I have him hold up the bodice while I slip the leather back in place, pinning it more securely this time. “Crisis averted.” I put my hands on his; they’re white-hot. He hides behind his hair, still embarrassed about nothing. “Seriously. Look. All better.”

  “I should go.”

  “Don’t make me jab you.” I brandish a pin in his direction. “Sit. You can keep me company while I finish—how’s that?”

  “Better.”

  “Good.” I take the bodice away from him and lay it out. I start making more pleats, slipping in some leather where it feels right.

  “It’s like magic,” Lincoln whispers.

  “Painstaking magic.”

  “I like your room,” he says as he leans against the wall. “Good and messy.”

  “Are you a fellow slob?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  “Then why would you—”

  “Dunno. The mess suits you. It feels like it’s yours.”

  “I’m not a mess.”

  “I didn’t say you were. You have priorities. Bigger dragons to slay. Obviously.” He waves his arms at all of the fabric spread out around us. “Are those all dice?!” Lincoln shoots up to his feet and tiptoes over to my thimble collection. “Oh, they’re those finger things.”

  “Thimbles.”

  “Right. I should know that.”

  “Why?”

  “Nan. She’s got a whole cookie tin full of them. Fools me every time.”

  “I bet she’s got some beauties.”

  “I’ve never seen so many in one place. I like this one! So tiny.” He picks up a thimble and holds it out to me, resting atop his pinky finger.

  “That”—I take it from him and slip it over my own pinky—“is the first one I ever got.”

  “Wow,” he marvels without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I can hear my dad saying goodbye to his friends, and I realize just how open my bedroom door is.

  “Can you help me bring all this to the studio?”

  “Of course.” Lincoln holds out his arms and waits for me to fill them. It takes all the strength I have not to wrap myself up in them. Instead, I carefully fold up the satin and drape it across his perfect, waiting arms.

  * * *

  The sun set hours ago, but it’s still warm outside. Summer is my favorite season by far. If I could live in sundresses full-time, I would. I’m tired of oversized jeans, oversized shirts. Tired of hiding. Lincoln carries the fabric like it’s precious cargo. Like it’s worth a million dollars. So careful not to drag any of it on the ground.

  “Hang on a minute,” I ask him. He turns on his heel to face me. I walk him through Dad’s garden. It looks enchanting at night, almost unreal. The artichokes are already taller than I am. His rosebushes are still new and small, but I can picture them, next year, when they’ll wind up the arbor and shade a bench Dad has placed underneath. It truly is the garden of his dreams.

  “Sit with me?” I sit and pat the bench. He obliges, and I feel the warmth of his leg against mine. Just like that night he walked me home. So much has changed since then, and yet so much is exactly the same. I look up at the moon. Link ever so carefully drapes Tiffani’s dress over the back of the bench. I take out my phone.

  “How are the trolls treating you these days?” Lincoln asks.

  “You tell me. You’re the Dungeon Master.”

  “No, I meant—�
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  “I know what you meant. I just wish—I wish people didn’t call them that. Trolls.” I swipe patterns into the grease on the screen.

  “It’s what they are, though.”

  “No it’s not. They aren’t mythical creatures. You can’t look up how to defeat them in the Monster Manual. There are no critical hits, no saving rolls. They aren’t make-believe. They’re real. And they’re assholes.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I’m so close to finished with my portfolio. I can feel it. And if I keep letting them get to me, I don’t know how I’ll ever—” And speaking of the devil himself, my phone lights up and starts ringing. Unknown caller.

  “Don’t answer it,” Lincoln says.

  “You know what. Screw this guy.” I jump up and hit accept. “Hello? Who is this?” There’s a pause on the line, and then, like thunder, the caller clears his throat.

  “Uh, is this Cameron Birch?” his dry voice crackles.

  “Yeah? What do you want?” I ask. My knees are shaking; my hands are shaking. Keep standing—you can keep standing.

  “Did you know your phone number is, like, all over the Internet?”

  “Yes. I’m aware.”

  “Um, well…”

  “What do you want?” I repeat, not just to him but to every stupid rando that’s decided I’m the target of the week.

  “Sorry,” he croaks out, and disconnects. I can’t believe it. He just hangs up. No threats, no name-calling, just an apology. I can’t stop looking at my phone. Is that all it takes, letting them know you’re real? I feel more real standing here, standing up for myself, than I have in weeks.

  “Are you okay?” Lincoln whispers.

  “I think I am.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cam. You don’t deserve it.”

  “No one does.” My fingers curl around my phone. Tight. Tighter. It’s not fair. I bet most of the anons haven’t given me a second thought. To them, I’m just a name on a screen; the idea of the real Cameron isn’t enough to keep them from harassing me. And here’s Lincoln, apologizing for something he didn’t even do. And here I am, obsessing, cross-dressing, letting them into my head. I have work to do; I have people to impress; I have a boy to kiss; I don’t have time for second-guessing and their pathetic attempts to sabotage me. They don’t get to win. Ever.

  I lift my phone over my head and Hulk-fucking-smash it right into the ground. I can feel my skin turning green, my muscles ripping apart the seams of my boy outfit.

  “Whoa!” Lincoln laughs. I pick up my phone; the screen is broken, but the rest is still intact. I wanted to smash it into a thousand pieces. The one spidery crack running across the front isn’t doing it for me. I hold it out to Lincoln.

  “Want a turn?”

  “I think it’s already dead.”

  “Then we should bury it.” I kick over some dirt underneath one of Dad’s tomato plants.

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Why not?” I smile up at him and nestle my phone in the mulch. Rest in pieces, anons.

  I spread the dirt on top of it, feeling overjoyed, free. So happy that I pull Link right down in the dirt with me.

  * * *

  The ground is cold, but my skin warms with every touch of Lincoln’s hands. We crawl, lips connected, behind the screen of plants. I worry, only for a moment, that Mom or Dad will spy us splayed out under the heirlooms, but the moment is over the minute Lincoln whispers my name into my ear. Everything else fades away, far away, as if we are the only two people left alive.

  His heartbeat is everywhere. I can see it in his neck, feel it in his chest. A slow, sure, and steady beat. My own feels erratic, threads catching in my bobbin chamber. Jumpy. I breathe slowly, trying to find a rhythm, but my heart just thumps over and over. More, more, more.

  I lie down and he follows, pressing my back into the dirt. Our legs weave together, alternating. His, mine, his, mine. His arms, my waist, his hair, my fingers. He pulls us closer together, just slightly at first. I push my hips into his; he pushes back. My entire body shivers; we lace our fingers together.

  I open my eyes; Lincoln’s skin changes colors with the solar lights. The stars, the smell of the tomato vines, the heat of his breath, surround me. A small brown leaf clings to his hair. My lips part and our teeth clink together. I have to stop smiling, but I can’t. I’m overwhelmed. Dizzy and happy. I start laughing. The laughs turn into cackles; Link rolls off, giving me room to breathe, but I can’t. I’m so happy I could burst. He joins in, small chuckles at first, but he too can’t seem to stop himself. We lie there with our sides split, but I’m too busy cracking up to sew us back together.

  * * *

  “He’s my soul mate, Cameron. I’m serious. Are you listening to me?” Cooper says in his singsong voice. He’s talking about Why while I’m ripping up the hem of Tiffani’s gown. Putting on the finishing touches. She came out even better than I had imagined. I’ll sew on a few more seed beads, and she’ll be complete. All four of them will be. I’m running low on time, but I know I can bust my ass and get the final two costumes in under the wire. I just need to figure out what they will be.

  “We recorded a podcast together for two hours. Two whole hours and not one awkward pause. Even though he’s not super into arty stuff—I don’t know—he makes me feel like less of a snob. Like we can both just like what we like and have fun talking about it. I swear I could have made out with him right then and there.”

  “Maybe you should have.”

  “I’m nervous. He’s dorky, but he makes me nervous.”

  “Shouldn’t you be writing?” I ask Cooper. I stare down the back of his laptop. He may not have made it into the NYU summer program, but he still has his own work to do to prepare for applications next year.

  “And, oh my God, his dimples. He’s the one.”

  “I’m going to start the timer if you don’t knock it off,” I scold.

  “Like you weren’t tongue-deep in Lincoln last night. I saw you two in the garden.”

  “Gross.”

  “Girl, get yours,” he says, and starts hammering away at his keyboard. We fall into a flow, no music, no talk. Just the sound of typing and thread pulling through satin. Working away. I take a step back and look over the collection. It’s epic. Everything fits; all the pieces seem cohesive, like they’re about to go out and storm some craggy, ancient castle together.

  “It’s your mother-flipping masterpiece. Take a picture!” My hands reach instinctively for my pocket, but my phone isn’t there. It’s outside. In the ground. This might be a problem. How am I going to afford a new phone, and how long can I survive without one? I can’t tell Cooper I smashed it—he’ll ask why. If he got through seventh grade without a mile-wide path of destruction, through all the taunting with his head held high, I should be able to handle this with the same decorum.

  “I—I lost my phone.” The lie comes out before I realize I thought of it.

  “Shit, where? The mall?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know.” I feign annoyance and look around my workspace.

  “You have to find it; Mom’ll kill you.”

  “Right. Right.”

  “And how else are you gonna tell Why?”

  “Tell Why what?”

  “You’re joking, right?” Cooper takes out his phone, sets the timer for thirty seconds, and goes off. “Enough is enough, Cameron! I don’t understand why you’re keeping up the charade at all anymore. You know for a fact that Wyatt isn’t going to judge you. Lincoln is certainly smitten with girl-Cameron. And I hate to say it, but what you’re doing is super selfish. You get to have your guy, and I don’t get to have mine? Grow up.”

  I wonder if he practiced that speech; it’s punctuated perfectly by the beeping of his timer. I snatch the phone straight back from him and set a half minute for myself.
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  “You have no idea what it’s like to be a girl, Cooper. None. But I would have thought that if any boy on earth was going to understand…it would be you. My brother. My flipping twin! When you went through all that shit, did I tell you to just grow up? No! This isn’t about Lincoln or crushes or boys. This is my life, and sometimes it’s scary!” I get cut off. Cooper takes his phone back and retaliates.

  “Oh, poor girl. Poor you. You’re so naive, Snip. Sitting up here sewing your magical-fantasy-world clothes. Making cosplay outfits for video game characters? Damn right I’m telling you to grow up. You have an opportunity to make art, and you make wizard robes?”

  “Snap!” I cut him off before the timer does. I can’t listen to this anymore. “What the hell?”

  “You think I’m kidding? Look, I love comics and video games and all of that. But it’s a hobby, Cam. Not a career.”

  “What about—”

  “Save it. I don’t want to hear about superhero reboots, or Hollywood, or any of that garbage right now.”

  “Garbage? Seriously? You know who you sound like right now, don’t you? Why did you and Farrin ever bother breaking up? You’re perfect for each other. Snobs.”

  “Screw you.”

  “You too.”

  * * *

  “Oh, I’m naive, huh? Poor girl has no problems at all, right?” I yell at the door below, even though I know Cooper can’t hear me. I open my laptop; I may have smashed my phone, but there’s more than one way to check out the vitriol that piles up in my inbox. I read five new messages just to prove him wrong.

  Tonight, one post sticks out among all the others. A familiar face in an avatar next to a long rant.

  Oh my god I hate cosplay as much as the next guy but stop giving this chick the attention she’s obviously after. Don’t you see you’re playing right into what she wants? Seriously. They keep doing this fake stuff because we keep giving them attention. Of course she didn’t know who the fuck she was cosplaying as. That shit doesn’t matter to these girls, as long as they get the attention and clicks and dick from whoever they want.