Chaotic Good

by Whitney Gardner

  “The comic shop where I live, it’s…not like this. I wish it was. How’d you do it?”

  “You have to show up and put in the work if you want to make any kind of change anywhere. You can’t be afraid.”

  “That’s a tough one.”

  “You should work there,” she suggests.

  “What? Why?”

  “It might be a good way to get more girls through the door if they see one behind the counter. Just a thought.”

  “Heh. Maybe.”

  “If anyone could do it, it’d be Dazzler.”

  * * *

  Jen and Liv head home, and I pull the suitcase up the street, my other hand crammed in my pocket with my keys snug between each finger in makeshift brass knuckles. I feel better after spending the morning with my friends, but the minute I’m alone, it’s impossible to forget that someone out there found my old address. And that anyone out there could use it. Thankfully, I make it to the school without incident.

  “Last name?” the girl behind the registration desk grunts. She’s obviously here for class credit or some sort of punishment.

  “Birch. B-I-R-C-H,” I spell for her.

  “You’re here to see someone from CalArts?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Here’s your tag—take a seat over there.” She points to rows of benches lining the hall before the auditorium. I join a group of other hopefuls. No one else is wearing a costume, and I feel a little foolish. Then again, the girl to my right must be a professional goth, right down to the Mohawk and black lipstick. I guess I fit in after all.

  I try to peek at everyone else’s work, but there’s nothing to see. I’m the only one here dumb enough to actually show up in costume. Every now and then the auditorium door swings open and someone exits. If they’re lucky, they leave the room with a smile, though there haven’t been many of those. Too many people leave the double doors and make a beeline for the bathroom, eyes red and puffy. Some leave pale and quivering, looking like they’re going to be sick. I wonder what I’ll look like after I meet Gillian.

  Time drags on. I bounce my leg up and down, trying to relieve some tension, but it doesn’t work. I want to pace, but I can’t risk leaving my suitcase unattended. I fiddle with the zippers on my jacket and snip off a loose thread with my teeth. I spit the thread into my hands, and that’s when they finally call my name.

  The wheels of my suitcase squeak, disrupting the reverent silence of the auditorium. College reps look up midsentence from the students they’re judging to watch me roll down the aisle. It would embarrass anyone, but dressed like Dazzler, I’m mortified.

  “Hi, I’m Cameron. I’m here for Gillian Grayson,” I tell the lanky man behind the CalArts table, putting on my best impression of confidence.

  “She couldn’t make it. I’m Bill. Let’s see what you have.” He points to the table and crosses his arms.

  “Um, what do you mean?”

  “She’s busy.”

  “But I thought—”

  “She’s not the only costume designer in the school, you know. You do want to have your work reviewed for CalArts, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Let’s see what you have.”

  His abrasiveness throws me for a loop. Should he be talking to students like that? I want to find out what happened. Why Gillian blew off the biggest day of my life. But this Bill guy isn’t going to tell me. And Gillian or not, it’s still what I’ve been working for all summer. I heave the suitcase up on the table.

  “I made all the costumes with—”

  “You were supposed to bring photographs.”

  “Oh, I thought it was an either-or situation.” I swallow.

  “You need to make sure you pay closer attention to instructions,” he grumbles.

  “Right. I’m sorry.” I unzip the suitcase and reveal the costumes. “My original designs are based off of a—”

  “Lay them out here,” he instructs. “One at a time.” I do as I’m told. I start with Jade, then Wizzy, Clover, and Tiffani. I leave the cloak for last. He inspects each one quickly, flipping over sleeves and hems to check my seam work. “This one moves when you wear it.” I run my hands through the frayed fringe of Wizzy’s robes.

  “I can see that” is all he says.

  “This is my last piece from the series.” I drape the cloak over the table and flip up a corner so he can see the lining.

  “Cute.” His comment slices my heart. Cute? That’s all he has to say? Hours of painstaking quilting and embroidery and he boils it down to cute?

  “Where is your redesign?” he asks, and I unzip my jacket and tie on my headband.

  “Right here.” I put my hands on my hips. “I reimagined Dazzler.”

  “From the X-Men?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Mmm, I see. Have a seat, Ms. Birch.” We sit down opposite each other. All the summer’s work splayed out between us.

  “I can see you’ve worked very hard. Your skills are apparent.” He looks over Tiffani’s gown again, flipping the fabric. We may have had a rough start, but this is it: I’m going to be one of the smiling people when I leave the room. I inch closer to the edge of my chair. “But, the designs. They’re very feminine, a little old-fashioned. I’m not sure you were really pushing yourself.”

  “I—I—”

  “I think that you would make a fine seamstress. But you have a ways to go in the creativity department. I know you chose Dazzler because she’s in Gillian’s movie, but Gillian isn’t here. In my opinion, you’ve made her too pink; no one would take her seriously. People want grit; they want drama.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “I’m sure you will find success with one of the other schools here. But I have to wonder if you’re ready for our program.”

  “I know I’m ready. I know I can work hard and prove that I can—”

  The timer on his watch beeps and cuts me off.

  “That’s all the time we have for now. Good luck.” He shakes my hand and watches me pack up my designs in silence. Thankfully, the wheels squeak the whole way out; he doesn’t get to hear me crying.

  * * *

  “You’re sure?” I beg the girl behind the registration desk.

  “There’s no time whatsoever. You should have registered for more than one time slot.”

  “But I have to see another school—I have to.”

  “You can submit your portfolio by mail like everyone else.”

  “Great. Thanks,” I snarl, and wheel my suitcase into the bathroom.

  How dare he say my Dazzler is too girly to be taken seriously. She’s Dazzler! She’s a disco singer, for crying out loud. I wipe some of the runny mascara from my eyes and take a deep breath. If he’s a teacher at CalArts, I don’t want to go there. Screw him. Screw Gillian Grayson for sending that ass here to replace her. Screw Cooper for steamrolling my apology and screw every last doxing shithead on the Internet. I look badass. Actually, I am badass.

  I don’t have the photos Katie took at Books with Pictures, but Dad’s phone has a crummy camera. It’ll work. I take a step back, hold up his phone, and point it at the full-length mirror. I flip CalArts the bird and take the shot. Dad doesn’t have my blogging app, but he’s got a data plan. I log on via the site and start another post. This time, under the photo, I do my best to quote the hero herself.

  “I didn’t ask for this. But I wanted something more. I wanted to amaze. I got way more than I bargained for, though. I thought I had to be one or the other. I gave it that power. I made some bad decisions. I lost myself. I let myself be the label. The mutant. The has-been. The joke. But the greatest realization I made in all of this is that it doesn’t matter how everyone sees me. I’m not just a mutant. Or a singer. Or any one thing…All of this is me.”

  —Dazzler
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  I make it out of Portland without trouble from anons, at least not in person. I feel silly about being paranoid, but I was legitimately scared. I spend most of the ride back down to Eugene trying to figure out how I’m going to break the news to Mom. She’s going to be so upset. I’ll tell her we can mail in the portfolio, just like the girl said. But it won’t be this one. This one is going in the trash. I’m starting over.

  Dad’s phone starts quacking. I dig through my bag searching for it. It’s a text. From Lincoln. Dad has his name plugged in as Lincoln the DM.

  I open the thread and read the chain between my dad and my would-be ex-boyfriend, if we had ever bothered to make it official.

  My thumbs hover over the screen, ready to reply. From my dad’s phone, so he will actually pick up. But Lincoln made himself pretty clear: we’re over. Over before we even got the hang of it. If I call him now, from another number, it’ll only make it worse.

  My bobbin of a heart is barely spinning. I ruined both of Link’s campaigns. I’m not getting into CalArts. I’m heading to South High this year utterly friendless. Even Cooper is done with me. Maybe I’ll just stay on the train. Hide out in the bathroom and ride this beast as far as it will go. The phone quacks again.

  “Oh my God! It is you!” A girl appears from behind and plops down in the seat across from me. “Pinz and Needlez, right?”

  “Uh…yeah,” I manage. I don’t recognize her until she pulls her curly hair over her ear and I see her undercut. It’s Brina. Brody’s crush. As if I wasn’t feeling bad enough, I’m reminded of the last time I saw her. When I laughed at her.

  “You look amazing! I really love your blog.” Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to recognize me from that day.

  “You can have it,” I scoff.

  “Brina.” She sticks out her hand, and I take it.

  “Cameron.”

  “Did you just get back from a con or something? I was up in Portland for an indie game jam.”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes I like to program games, and once or twice a year there’s this challenge where you try to make a whole game in forty-eight hours.”

  “Jeez. That sounds tough.”

  “It is, but it’s also a lot of fun.”

  “Do you live in Eugene?” I ask her.

  “Yep. For a few years now. My folks opened up a doughnut shop.”

  “Wait. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen. I’ll be a senior at South next year.”

  “You’re kidding. That’s where I’m going.”

  “Ha! Awesome.” She smiles.

  “Wait. You’re seventeen and you make video games?”

  “Oh, it’s just dorky little side projects, but it can be tough. It’s the best, and also the worst.”

  “I feel you.”

  “I was thinking about going to Rose City Comic Con in September. We should go.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I don’t really know how I feel about cons lately.”

  “I think we’d have a great time. You should dress up. I mean, look at you! You’re so cute!” I try to hide my grimace at the use of the word “cute.” I tell her I’ll think it over, and she grabs her shimmering pin-covered bag before joining up with her friends. It’s for the best. Brina seems nice and all, but I’m not in a nice mood. The last thing I need is for someone to call me cute right now.

  * * *

  I don’t remember the suitcase weighing this much. Every pull of the handle moves the luggage an inch. I get it up the gravel driveway, but it’s a struggle. It’s holding me back. I kick it to the ground and unzip it. I pull out each costume, one by one, and chuck it into the trash bin. The only one I can’t bring myself to throw out is Lincoln’s cute cloak.

  I have no idea how I’m going to start over, or what I’ll even make this time around, but Bill seemed to hate them enough. They’ll never see the light of day again—that’s for sure. I leave the suitcase where it fell and head up to my bedroom and crash. Using Link’s cloak as a blanket, I close my eyes and finally sleep.

  “Cameron!” Cooper is shouting and shaking me. “Cam, get up!”

  “What do you want now?” I rub my eyes; everything is dark. I must have been sleeping for hours. I’m thrown off balance. “What time is it?”

  “Have you checked your notifications today, thimble girl?!”

  “Snap, no. You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t—”

  “Good things happen when I check it!”

  “There is nothing good in my inbox. Nothing.”

  “Almost nothing.” Cooper climbs under the cloak and puts his head on my shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me? You tell me everything else, and you’re not going to tell me the Internet is raining a shit storm down on you?”

  “I felt bad. It’s my drama. You went through so much on your own, and I didn’t want to—”

  “That’s just it—I wasn’t on my own. You helped me so much, through all that shit, and Farrin! You didn’t think I could help you?”

  “I didn’t want to bother—”

  “I’m your brother!” He shoves me a little. “That’s why you kept the boy thing up for so long?”

  “I wanted to tell Wyatt; things just kept coming up and getting in the way, and I liked not having to be myself for a little while.”

  “I should have checked your blog sooner. I should have asked you what was wrong. I was being selfish. Not you.”

  “Maybe both of us.”

  “Your dreams aren’t garbage. They’re the greatest.”

  “You’re not a snob. At least, not in a bad way.”

  “You know I didn’t mean…I just got carried away.”

  “We both did.”

  “Well, you kicked fucking ass today.”

  “I wish.” I bury my face in his shoulder. “She wasn’t even there. It was some other jerkwad, who hated everything I made. Every last piece.”

  “But your post!”

  “What post?”

  “The ‘fuck yeah I’m a badass’ post? You put it up today.”

  “That was more of a ‘fuck you—I am what I am’ post.”

  “But that Gillian woman tweeted it!”

  “Excuse me, what?”

  “Here.” Cooper sits up and grabs my laptop from my desk and hands it to me. And there it is. In between all the hate is one little tweet.

  Consider me Dazzled—may have to take a few notes from this one.

  I ignore every other message and comment. I click the little heart and favorite her tweet.

  “You should message her!” Cooper urges.

  “Maybe. I think this was enough. For now. I’m sorry for everything, Snap. All of it.”

  “Me too. And please. This was nowhere near as dramatic as that time we both wanted to play Cinderella in fifth grade.”

  “Actors,” I scoff. “Glad we gave up on that dream.”

  “No kidding. Plus, you ended up doing me a favor anyway.”

  “Ruining your horrible out-of-season button-downs?”

  “I got to give Wyatt a shoulder to cry his very cute tears onto.” Cooper pats the shoulder in question.

  “I hope I didn’t screw that up too badly.”

  “We’ll see,” he says with a knowing grin. “Maybe at the next game I’ll make a move.”

  “There’s not going to be another game. It got way too complicated for that. Why and Lincoln aren’t you. They’re not going to just forgive me.”

  “I think you’re blowing all of this way out of proportion.”

  “Can we drop it?”

  “It’s dropped.” We doze off, crammed together in my twin bed. Only waking up every now and then to make sure that tweet from Gillian was real, and that we’re still okay.

  “Are you gonna write me a movie soon, or what? I need
five new characters to outfit.”

  “What happened to the D and D ones?”

  “Garbage.”

  “They aren’t garbage.”

  “Yes, they are literally garbage. Just promise me you’ll write something.”

  “Promise me you’ll stop keeping huge secrets from me.” We drift off to sleep, connected by our pinkies.

  * * *

  “Cameron Rose Birch!” Mom howls from the kitchen over my alarm. “Enough’s enough! Get up!” I roll out of bed. Cooper must’ve left for work a few hours ago. I slept through it. I lumber down the short set of stairs into the kitchen still in Dazzler’s shirt.

  “We need to talk,” Mom says. My heart drops into my stomach when I hear those four words again. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, next to Dad, my smashed phone between them.

  “I found this when I was weeding the garden yesterday,” Dad explains, and gestures for me to join them.

  “I’m sorry, I just—”

  “No excuses, have a seat.” Mom cuts me off.

  “But coffee?”

  “Sit.”

  I do as I’m told and attempt to steel myself for whatever’s to come. I know she’s mad that the phone is broken. But God knows why they’re turning it into some sort of family meeting.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Dad asks, his eyes wet.

  “Because I should have been more responsible. I’ll earn the money and buy a new one; you don’t have to—”

  “Not about the phone,” he continues, “about this.” He presses a button, and the phone turns on. The screen is cracked and dirty, but it still works.

  “All those messages.” Mom shakes her head. “Degenerates.”

  “You went through my stuff?”

  “I just turned it on to see if it was still working, and all of these…comments kept popping up.”

  “Oh God.”

  “You should have told us,” he sighs.

  “We could have helped you,” Mom adds.