Glimpsed

by G. F. Miller

  I twist the tea bag string around my finger, then slowly unwind it, not sure what to say. The fairy godmother doesn’t have friends. Friendship is messy and murky. I need to stay above it all. But the thing is, I could really use a friend right now. Somebody who actually knows what’s going on with me and makes me tea and asks me about my life.

  I smile. “Friends sounds good.”

  We go silent again, probably because we don’t know how to interact if we’re not at war. After six seconds of that, Noah says, “All right, I think standard operating procedure here is a totally platonic ‘now we’re friends’ hug.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Ooh… I don’t think that’s a good idea, because I threw up before, and I haven’t showered in two days, and I think I stink, and I’m not really much of a hugger, and—”

  Ignoring my protests, Noah leans forward with his arms out, gesturing for me to meet him in the middle. “Come on. Bring it in.”

  “Oh. Um. Okay.” Also, I didn’t say this one, but I’m not wearing a bra. Because why would I be? So I give him the most awkward forty-five-degree-angle, only-shoulders-touching hug. There’s the Old Spice smell again. And something like cheap strawberry candy. I turn my nose into his hair and sniff. “Did you use your sister’s conditioner or something?”

  He pulls away and straightens his glasses. “Well, you said I needed to condition.”

  I give him a noogie, which frizzes out the hair I’ve been working so hard to convince him to tame. “Looks great. But—and I’m saying this as a friend—you smell like the love child of the Old Spice sea captain and a Strawberry Shortcake doll.”

  He grimaces.

  I smile encouragingly. “I’ve got you covered. Go in my closet.”

  Noah obediently rises and crosses the room. He opens the bifold closet doors. His head cocks to the side in slow motion. I count to eight Mississippi.

  He slowly turns to look at me, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling shelves of hair dye arranged by shade of ROY G BIV. “You are a freak.” I raise my eyebrows. He seems to realize he violated our truce and adds, “—ishly well-prepared person. It looks like Rainbow Brite is stockpiling an arsenal in your closet.”

  I let it go. I mean, what’s there to talk about? “Conditioner is top left. I recommend Curl Commando.”

  He retrieves the bottle. “Uh? Thanks.”

  “What are friends for?”

  * * *

  The next day is more sleepless, lethargic, headachy monotony. Noah texts me sporadically throughout the day.

  7:09: Running sucked. I think my left lung just collapsed. No Holly.

  7:26: Feeling any better?

  8:23: A bird somehow got inside the school and everybody lost their minds. I almost got crushed in the stampede in the humanities hallway.

  9:16: Guess where I am? He drops a GIF of Neil deGrasse Tyson doing jazz hands.

  I hadn’t responded to any of his other messages, even though I read them with huge smiles. But this time I text back: Practicing your sweet dance duet with Neil?

  Me: On the moon?

  Me: Again?

  Noah: You just about got me kicked out of physics for laughing out loud.

  Me: You know there’s an acronym for that, right?

  Noah: YJAGMKOOPFLOL

  I was referring to the last three words, of course. LOLing for real, I reply: Nailed it.

  By midmorning, I turn on my tablet and find myself watching a crusty old episode of Star Trek. It is so hokey and sexist that I almost turn it off after five minutes. But I really want to know what Noah sees in this cringe-fest, so I leave it on. I quickly realize that the guys in the red shirts get killed on every mission. If someone in a red uniform leaves the Enterprise, that chump is not coming back. So now I know why Noah’s whole family picked red for me to wear. It hurts that they hoped I’d get offed by an alien. But I guess I deserved it.

  Six episodes in, it starts to kind of grow on me. I like how Bones and Spock can’t stand each other, but actually they’re space besties. Captain Kirk has these unexpectedly deep moments. And Spock is a genuine badass.

  Sean texts me after school: Where ARE you? I’m adrift in a sea of purple hair and yin-yang tank tops.

  Technically, now that Sean’s and my Cindy collaboration is done, I should go back to not answering texts and keeping conversations on the level of sports and weather. But using the f-word with Noah seems to have given me a taste for it. I can’t quite make myself push Sean away again.

  I text back: Sorry. Home sick. I drop an exploding head and a green nausea emoji. Then I really cross the line and send: I miss you, though.

  He texts back immediately: Miss you too. Feel better.

  My heart races like I just proposed and he accepted. I tell myself not to make it a big deal and go back to watching Star Trek.

  * * *

  Wednesday night, my headache finally breaks, and I sleep for fourteen straight hours. I wake up, eat everything in the kitchen, binge ten more episodes of Star Trek, and go back to sleep. I also decide something: it’s not enough just to do better from here on; I need to fix anyone I’ve broken. I’m going to talk to every single Cindy, find out if their HEAs are on track, and do whatever I can to clean up any messes I’ve caused. I just hope I haven’t scarred anybody for life.

  While I get ready for school on Friday morning, I review the list:

  Vindhya Chandramouli—Voted homecoming queen.

  Carmen Castillo—Made the Poms squad.

  Holly Butterman—Went to junior prom with Kade Kassab.

  Sean Slater—Let his inner ballerina out.

  Teresa Saint Clair—Reunited with best friend, Tammy Trent.

  Olivia Chang—Cast as Adelaide in Guys and Dolls.

  Sara O’Rourke—Divorcing parents got back together.

  And then there are the ones Noah doesn’t know about because they were pre–high school.…

  Bryce Sayers—One kiss from his secret crush before she moved away.

  Kelly Bodworth—Adopted Juggernaut, the slobbery puppy.

  I put on extra makeup—armor for today. I’m a knot of emotions. Reviewing what the Cindies and I accomplished together still gives me the warm fuzzies. But it’s mixed with anxiety over what fallout I may have caused. And determination to start making amends by doing whatever I can to help Vindhya get back on her feet, which is really diving headfirst into the cesspool of collateral damage.

  A text swoops in, and I pause with the eyeliner to check it. It’s from Noah: The jogging paid off.

  He ran into Holly. I should feel like The Boss for making it happen. But it’s too soon. We just agreed to be friends, and the end is already barreling toward me. I overcompensate with a perky text back: You won the presidential fitness award already?!

  Noah: Yuk it up, Tinker Bell.

  I smile, because I guess I’m glad that we still get to call each other names now that we’re friends. I text: Want a ride to school? You can tell me all about it?

  Noah: You can be seen with me now?

  Me: We’ll park far, far away.

  Noah: ok.

  * * *

  Noah slides into my car thirty-five minutes later and greets me with a huge, dorky smile. My heart does some kind of gymnastics, which I had no idea could happen from a friend smile. I still have a lot to learn about friendship, I guess. I smile back, but it comes out way more eager than I meant for it to be, so I recompose my features to my standard placid professionalism. “Okay, you have nine minutes, and I want details.”

  He makes his voice deep. “Captain’s log, stardate 76173.8: I saw her across the park by her house, so I set a course for intercept.”

  I don’t flick him, but I give him a platonic punch in the arm. “Tell me like a normal person, please. What did she say? What did you say?”

  He sighs. “She said something like, ‘I didn’t know you were a runner.’ And I said, ‘I just started torturing myself every morning and night hoping I’d run into you.’ ”

 
There’s a stop sign ahead, and I hit the brake too hard. “You came right out and told her that?”

  He shrugs. “Well, yeah. I mean, I might as well be honest now instead of having to cover it up forever or fess up later and creep her out.”

  I go, “Huh,” because who’s that honest? Then I concentrate on driving better. “Okay. Keep going.”

  “We just talked, which was fine, and ran, which still sucks, and then at the end I asked if we could jog together again tomorrow, and she said yes.”

  My reaction is delayed by that same twinge of sadness I felt when I got his first text this morning. I actually like being Noah’s friend, and the closer we get to fulfilling his wish, the sooner that friendship will end. This is the problem with getting attached to a Cindy—the nature of the relationship is short-term.

  “Charity? It’s good, right?”

  I throw my whole heart into my smile. “It’s awesome. You absolutely nailed it.” Then, to prove to myself that I want this HEA, I add, “We’ll need to think about exactly the right time for some strategic nudges.”

  Noah grimaces. “No way. Neither one of us even knows what that does. What if you’re permanently messing up people’s brains or something?”

  “Friends don’t accuse friends of giving people brain damage.” I try to make it sound like I’m joking, and I tell myself that my heart doesn’t hurt at all.

  He adjusts his glasses even though they’re perfectly straight. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’d just rather know that whatever happens is real.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” I pull into the school parking lot and park in the farthest space from the building, behind the dumpsters and a huge magnolia tree.

  He rubs his hands together. “So, speaking of real… I feel like maybe I should kiss her. You know? Break out of the friend zone. Get the spark back.”

  “What?” I turn to him, appalled. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  I sputter, “Because… she’s still with Kade! That makes you the ‘other guy.’ Bluch. Besides, there should be no kissing until after the Grand Gesture.”

  “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

  I inhale bracingly and recite with absolute authority, “In the Grand Gesture, one person declares themselves in a dramatic way to the other. Common elements are (1) finally putting to words previously unspoken feelings, and (2) seeking forgiveness for sins of both omission and commission. The Grand Gesture must be directly proportionate to any wrongs committed in terms of personal risk, public self-effacement, and strength of language.”

  “Hold up. Are you planning to make me do something I have to grandly apologize for later?”

  “Not necessarily. In the rare event that there is nothing to apologize for, the Grand Gesture is a dramatic and creative way to profess your undying love.”

  Noah looks at me like he’s waiting for me to say, Just kidding. I look back, expressionless and unyielding. He scoffs, “You’re serious.”

  I continue to stare him down.

  “As your friend, let me just tell you that is the cheesiest and most far-fetched thing I’ve ever heard. And I watch 1960s-era sci-fi.”

  I crinkle my nose, like, Your opinion’s not valid. Then I revert to strict professionalism. “Regardless of how you feel about the Grand Gesture as a concept, kissing the girl is strictly prohibited.”

  He’s going to ask me why. He never simply accepts my advice for the sagacity it is. I mentally scramble for a good enough reason to convince both of us. After a moment’s hesitation, I say sensibly, “Wait for her to kiss you. Be elusive and hard to get.”

  “But I already told her I was literally running around the neighborhood looking for her. Now I’m going to be hard to get?” He opens his door.

  “It adds to your mysterious appeal. You’re Spock, not Kirk.”

  He freezes halfway out of the car and turns back to me with a look like, Have we met before? He opens his mouth, but it takes a few seconds for words to come out. “You watch Star Trek.”

  My eyebrow twitches without my consent. “Well, I mean, I’ve seen Star Trek. It’s really not the same thing.”

  He swallows, pushes up his glasses, and looks at me for four more seconds. Then he climbs out of the car.

  When I get out, he’s waiting for me. I wave him on with a resigned sigh. “Go ahead. I’ll hang out here a minute so it doesn’t look like we came together.”

  He shakes his head, like I’m a big disappointment, hefts his backpack, and walks toward the school.

  19 So, About Those Happily Ever Afters…

  I find Vindhya after school in the same room where we first met nearly three weeks ago. She’s reading a magazine. Her hair is in a devil-may-care braid—the kind a girl studies hair tutorials to master. I step into the room and close the door behind me.

  “Hey, Vindhya, can we talk?”

  She shrugs without looking up from the magazine.

  I clear my throat. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I had no idea something like that would happen, and I… I never would have—”

  She meets my gaze finally. She is stone-cold. “What is this? Do you need closure so you can feel better?”

  I shift my purse strap on my shoulder. “No. I want to help. Is there anything I can…?”

  Her mouth drops open, and she laughs one silent, mirthless ha. “I think I’ve had enough of your ‘help.’ ”

  “I’m just trying to—”

  “Stay away from me.”

  It stings like a slap, but I force myself to hold her gaze. “Okay. Well, if you change your mind, the offer stands.”

  She determinedly looks down at her magazine.

  I walk out the door, head high.

  So. That could have gone better.

  * * *

  Ten minutes after leaving Vindhya with her magazine, I pull Carmen aside in the girls’ locker room. We hang back while the others file out to the gym for practice. As soon as the door swings closed, I dive right in. “Carmen, are you happy?”

  “Huh?” She looks like I just handed her a brand-new phone that may or may not explode in her face.

  I try again: “Is your life better now than it was before you made it onto the squad?”

  “Oh.” She looks down at her sneakers, clicks her heels together like, There’s no place like home, and looks back up. “Sure.”

  “That lacked conviction.”

  Her eyes crinkle. “Well, I mean, I love dancing. So that part’s great. But.” She shrugs.

  “What?”

  “I guess I thought I would automatically be besties with the whole squad, you know? But I feel like an outsider still. Nobody’s mean or anything. I just…” Her head ticks to the right. “Okay, like, I know Surya Agrawal is having a party over fall break, and I’m the only girl on the squad who hasn’t been invited.”

  I can hear the warm-up music. We’re officially late for practice, which means we’ll be running sprints afterward. Carmen clearly registers that fact too, because she darts a mournful look at the door. But I need to finish this. I say, “Is there anything I can do? I want you to be happy.”

  She hesitates. She opens her mouth and closes it. Bites her lip. Finally she murmurs, “They all follow you, Charity.”

  I cringe a little, because ouch. She didn’t come right out and say that it’s my fault the Poms haven’t embraced her, but that’s the gist, right? I’ve been keeping my distance, so everyone else has too. I press my finger between my eyes to ease the tension there. “Carmen, starting right now, we’re friends. Okay? Real friends. And I promise you’ll get an invite to that party. I’m on it.”

  She smiles, but her eyes are puzzled. I put my arm around her and push through the locker room door so that everyone gets an eyeful of how tight we are. Coach doesn’t pause practice, just waves us into the formation.

  * * *

  An hour and forty minutes later, I drag myself to my car, still sweating from topping off an hour of dancing with ten minutes
of wind sprints. Plus my arms are buzzing from nudging Coach to let us leave halfway through our punishment. Noah is leaning against the Fit playing with the flip phone he had the day he sent me that first creepy text.

  He glances up. “ ’Bout time.”

  I pop the hatch and throw my dance bag and backpack in. “What are you doing here, and why the flip do you have a phone from 2005?”

  “You’re kinda my ride, genius. And it’s a communicator.”

  I raise an eyebrow. He holds the “communicator” out. I slam the hatch closed. He says, “Actually, it’s a Bluetooth. Check it out.” He flicks his wrist, and the thing unfolds with a chirp. He says into it, “Scotty, call Charity.”

  It chirps again, and a second later my phone rings. I answer it, even though Noah is standing three feet away from me. “Hello?”

  He grins at me, still talking into his communicator, “Hey, is this the Fairy Godmother Hotline?”

  I snicker and cobble together a quick slogan. “We glimpse it, we grant it. For girl troubles, press or say ‘one.’ For all other wishes, press or say ‘two.’ ”

  He says, loud and overemphasized, “One.”

  I can’t seem to look away from him. His eyes are mostly green in the late-afternoon sun. They sparkle with teasing humor. I keep talking to him on the phone, possibly leaning in a tiny bit to get a better view of his pretty, pretty eyes. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, there’s this one girl. I’ve loved her as long as I can remember, and I thought I—” His eyes change. More blue. More longing.

  Suddenly I don’t want to play anymore.

  Listening to Noah gush about Holly is like running my knuckles across a cheese grater. I lower my phone. “Sorry. The hotline’s closed. Let’s go.”

  I open the car door and slide into the driver’s seat. Noah gets in. To the glove compartment he says, “You okay, Charity?”

  “I’m fine. I just…” What is wrong with me? I love love. I want Noah and Holly to get their fairy-tale ending. It’s gotta be this whole crappy day that’s making me irrational. I say, “Carmen isn’t happy. Vindhya is miserable, and she won’t even talk to me. I mean, what if none of them are happy? I’m trying to fix my mistakes, but—” I back the car out and head toward the exit. “Anyway, it’ll be fine. I’m sorry for whining.”