Glimpsed

by G. F. Miller

  Noah pushes his glasses up. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. I’ll handle it.”

  He sounds a little exasperated. “Charity, we’re friends now. Remember? All you have to do is ask for help.”

  I stiffen my spine. Leaning on someone who will be out of my life so soon is like setting fire to the garbage pile I’m already in. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

  “Say ‘Help me, Noah.’ ”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Ayúdame, Noah,” he says in a near-perfect Dora the Explorer impersonation.

  I roll my eyes.

  “HIQaH,” he barks.

  “I feel like I should flick you right now. Is that a real language?”

  “It’s Klingon for ‘help me.’ ”

  I reach out to flick him, but he grabs my hand. I tug it until he lets me go. Eyes on the road, I say, “There’s nothing you can do. It’s my problem.”

  “Oh.” He heaves a dejected sigh. “I guess I shouldn’t have gotten the DL about Vindhya from my friends in Robotics Club, then.”

  I practically yell, “You have friends in Robotics Club?!”

  “I just spoke Klingon. How would I not have friends in Robotics Club?” He crosses his arms smugly.

  “Yeah, come to think of it, why aren’t you in Robotics Club?”

  “I’m more of a theoretical physics man.”

  I have to think hard for a response to that, and eventually come up with “Cool.”

  “But don’t try to change the subject. Do you want my help?”

  “Well.” I glance his way. I won’t get used to it, I tell myself. I won’t depend on him. But it would also be ignorant not to tap into this underutilized resource. I clear my throat. “Okay.”

  He gives me an I’m waiting for the magic word face.

  “Please.”

  “Vindhya missed some Robotics Club meetings the past couple of weeks. When some people called her on it a few days before homecoming, she quit. Without her they have zero shots at medaling at the regional robotics meet.”

  I groan.

  “Basically, you took a future NASA programmer, turned her into a walking Barbie doll, and submarined the entire robotics program in the process, more or less destroying the scholarship hopes of a couple dozen kids.”

  “Give me a freaking break. I already feel bad enough.”

  “Come on.” He chucks me in the arm. “You’re the fairy godmother. I’m Spock. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Yeah.” It lacks conviction.

  There’s an awkwardly long silence. Eventually Noah breaks it with “Hey, isn’t there a football game tonight?”

  “It’s away. Poms don’t do away games. We have a competition in the morning, though.” We stop at a red light.

  “Seriously? Like, who can shake their pompons the—”

  “Don’t. Make me hurt you.” I stick my pointer finger in front of his face. One little inch more, and I could play connect-the-dots on his freckles. Totally platonic friends probably do that. The light turns green. I put both hands firmly at ten and two.

  Noah motions zipping his mouth shut.

  A couple minutes later we pull into his driveway, and he climbs out, shouldering his backpack. Before he closes the door, he leans back in and says, “Good luck in the morning.”

  “You too.”

  He looks confused, like he completely forgot about his wish or something. So I clarify, “Good luck with Holly.”

  “Right.” He straightens up. “Holly.” He closes the door and gives me a wave. “See ya.”

  * * *

  By the time I’m smelling stale sweat on the school bus after the competition on Saturday, I have a text from Noah: Who shook their pompons the bestest?

  I bite down on a laugh. I mean, he’s a sarcastic pain in the ass. But on the other hand, he’s kind of checking in on me, which is really… kind of… nice.

  I’m tapping a reply when Scarlett’s voice accosts me: “Wow! Who has got our Ice Princess making goo-goo eyes?” She leans over the seat in front of me, trying to get a peek of the phone.

  I lock the screen faster than you’d drop a hot pan. “Nobody. Sean, actually. I’m just texting Sean. And also, my eyes don’t goo-goo.” To make it legit, I unlock my screen and fire off an invite to Sean for breakfast tomorrow.

  Scarlett looks like I have liar written on my forehead. “I know you’re up to something. Or someone.”

  I don’t flinch. I stare her down. Eventually she turns back around.

  Carmen gets on the bus, and I wave her over with a “Carmen! I saved a seat for you!” She shoots me a grateful smile and scoots in across the aisle.

  I finish my text to Noah: Meh. We got third in our category. How was running? Please tell me the damsel twisted her ankle and you carried her home like Prince Charming.

  Or don’t. Maybe don’t.

  Noah: Her ankles are intact. But she laughed so hard she got a cramp in her side. At the end she gave me a hug. It was… sweaty.

  For just a second, I think, Holly, you cheating little skeezer! I tamp it down, appalled at myself. This is how the fairy tale is supposed to go. Noah gets the girl, and they live happily ever after. I reply: Love is in the air. Won’t be long now.

  * * *

  The next morning Sean and I sit side by side at the counter at Inland Empire Bakery.

  My bagel sits untouched, while I twist the paper sleeve around and around my cup of orange juice. I already, for once, remembered to ask him about dance stuff. Now we’ve lapsed into silence. I clear my throat and dive in. “Sean? Is your life better since… you know, since you met me?”

  He pauses with his cream cheese croissant halfway to his mouth. “Charity? Are we soul-searching?”

  I pick at my bagel. “I guess you can call it that.”

  “Because of what happened with Vindhya?”

  “Kind of.”

  He sets the croissant down and drags his fingers across the napkin in his lap.

  I press him. “Are you happy?”

  He takes a pensive sip of his latte. “Happiness is complicated, Charity.”

  I lean in. “You have a million admirers, you set every trend, you’re JLHS’s It Boy. You must be happy.”

  He swirls his cup and watches the foam churn. “My father has also never been to a single one of my performances. Every person I meet assumes I’m gay, and—you know, not that it matters, but the majority of male ballet dancers are hetero. And even though what I do is just as intense as any other sport, not a single person—apart from maybe my mother—considers me an athlete. Since I don’t handle a ball, what I do doesn’t count. I don’t count. So… yeah.”

  As he talks, my throat gets tighter and tighter. It takes all my willpower to keep it together. I’ve put a wedge between Sean and his father. I subjected him to stereotypes and prejudice after he worked so hard to get away from them. And I’ve acted like his details don’t matter, just like everybody else.

  I eke out, “I’m so sorry. You deserve to be a hundred percent happy.”

  Sean takes my hand. “It’s okay, Charity. I wouldn’t change it. I have to be me and let other people deal with their stuff. My father will come around. Or he won’t. But it’s still better than him loving somebody that doesn’t really exist.”

  I lean into him, and we wrap each other in a hug. He smells woody and minty—it’s the cologne we picked out together before the talent show. I tighten my grip on him now, my head on his shoulder. After a long moment, I muster the courage to whisper, “I never told you this, but… you’re my real friend.”

  “I know, sweetie. You’re my real friend too. And I don’t have many of those.”

  20 Rock Bottom Is Way Farther Down Than I Thought

  Mom gets home Sunday evening. In honor of the occasion, I add indigo streaks to my viridian hair. I think it looks like the ocean in a storm. She walks in with her roly bag, her suit-and-sneakers outfit, her airplane-limp hair, and flaking mascara. She gi
ves me a long, tight hug, crooning, “Oh, honey, I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you too, Mom. So much.”

  She pulls back to arm’s length, taking me in with a smile. I brace myself for her exit speech, but she says, “I’m starving, and I want American food.”

  Thirty-five minutes later, we’re unboxing a freshly delivered pizza. We scarf it together while she tells me funny stories of cultural confusion and language faux pas between the delegates at the convention. Turns out, getting people from four continents together in one room is a recipe for zany comedy. Maybe UN meetings are secretly hilarious.

  This is the most time we’ve spent together in recent memory. I let myself be happy. I let myself hope that, whatever my mom has been chasing, she found it in Belize.

  Rookie mistake.

  “Charity, the exciting thing is that the T. C. Barrister Foundation invited us to submit a proposal for a three-million-dollar grant! It would be the largest private grant we’ve ever received.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “It’s going to mean a lot of late nights and weekends for the next few weeks to pull it together. But it’s worth it if we get this grant.”

  I nod. I mean, I get it. It’s a three with six zeros. I just can’t seem to find my words right now.

  She yawns and pats my knee. “Okay. I’d better hit the sack. I’ve got to start bright and early tomorrow.”

  She retrieves her roly bag, kisses the top of my head, and makes a beeline toward her bedroom. Right before she disappears, she calls back, “Lock up.”

  She never did notice my hair.

  * * *

  At 7:04 a.m. Noah texts: You know what’s better than running? Literally everything.

  I’m already pulling into the parking lot at school, getting ready to stake out marching-band practice so I can talk to Teresa (Cindy #5). I don’t know what comes over me, but after I park, I text back: You know what’s worse than running? When your mom leaves for work at 6:30 a.m. after being in Belize all week.

  Ugh. Could I be any whinier? I start to type: Please disregard—

  But before I can recant, Noah’s response appears: Yeah, that’s worse. I’m sorry Want to borrow my mom for a few days?

  I look at my phone for too long, unable to come up with a witty reply. After a minute Noah texts again: If you act now, we’ll throw in a fat, antisocial cat at no extra charge.

  Now I have to smile. Not only does he know exactly when to inject a cat joke, but he also didn’t call me out for whining. I had no idea how good it would feel to just let someone see the messy parts and be my friend anyway.

  Don’t get used to it, I tell myself firmly. Only friends till the wish ends. Hmmm, that’s pretty good. Maybe I’ll DIY that onto a piece of driftwood or something.

  All this touchy-feely stuff is costing me precious minutes. I straighten up and text back: Gotta go. I’m on a fact-finding mission, investigating an HEA.

  Noah sends a GIF of a very wrinkly, gray-haired Spock doing the Vulcan salute and saying Good luck.

  I put the phone away and head to the band room. Last year I helped Teresa and her best friend, Tammy, reunite after a wicked fight. My plan is simple: find Teresa and ask her how things are going. Ultimately I don’t need to even do that much. I can hear her and Tammy screaming at each other before I even get inside the band room. It’s like:

  “Why do you always do this to me?”

  “Like it’s my fault! You started it.”

  “I want my friendship necklace back.”

  “Take it, you backstabbing piece of—”

  “You’re such a hypocrite!”

  “Screw you!”

  Et cetera.

  One more fairy tale demystified. Four to go.

  I head to English lit, where I cross-examine Olivia Chang while we’re supposed to be discussing Crime and Punishment. She’s Cindy #4, a wisp of a girl with a singing voice twice her size. She’s been the star of every school play since I helped her get her big break freshman year. Whatever pleasantry I ever possessed is a distant memory at this point. I just want to tear off the Band-Aid and get it over with. I hiss, “Does your life suck?”

  “What the—”

  “Since I granted your wish, have you been in, like, a spiraling depression or something?”

  “No?”

  “Do you wish you never got Adelaide?”

  Her eyes shift left, then right. “I mean, I love the shows, but… It’s complicated.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. My parents think I’m not focused on school, and sometimes it’s just a lot of pressure. Plus I still feel guilty about what you did to Clara.”

  Clara was the senior shoo-in for the role of Miss Adelaide in Guys and Dolls when Olivia was the freshman upstart. And I’m deeply offended by Olivia’s accusation. I whisper-yell, “I didn’t do anything to Clara!”

  “You took her to that party the night before auditions, got her trashed, and then plastered it on Facebook, so the director saw it and banned her from the show.”

  Ouch. I’d kind of buried that memory. But also I’m not as evil as she makes me sound. I cross my arms defensively. “I acquired an invitation for her, but I didn’t make her go. And nobody held her down and poured alcohol down her throat. She did that to herself. Also, I’m not the one that posted the Facebook pictures. Logan What’s-His-Face was.”

  She makes a face like she’s got soap in her mouth. “Why are we having this conversation, again?”

  “We’re not.”

  We both go back to Dostoyevsky.

  * * *

  I spot Surya during passing period and chase him down, grabbing his arm to get his attention. “Dude, the hell? Why didn’t you invite my friend Carmen to your party?”

  “Carmen who?”

  “Carmen Castillo. She’s on Poms.”

  “Oh, uh, I don’t really know her, I guess.”

  I nudge him a mental image of her, along with some positive vibes.

  His face registers recognition. “Oh, right! Carmen! Yeah, sure. I’ll invite her.”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re the best.” I grace him with a winning smile.

  “I am?” He waves his finger between us. “So maybe you could be my date to the party?”

  “Still no.” I extricate myself with a wave and a smile.

  * * *

  At lunch I locate Noah with a quick scan of the courtyard. He looks like he’s in one of those rom-com movie scenes where the heartbroken guy gets surprisingly deep advice from the bartender while simultaneously getting blitzed. Only he’s sitting at a round plastic table instead of a bar. And instead of whiskey, he’s drinking Rockstar. And the part of the bartender is being played by his two AV Club friends.

  I don’t have time to find out what has Noah looking so dejected. I can’t afford to slack off on meet and greets. I speed through them so I can go back to tracking down Cindies. I haven’t seen Bryce (Cindy #2) since he graduated last year, but I still have his number in my phone. I sit in my car and make the call, then bounce my knees furiously while it rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Bryce. This is Charity Keller. Do you remember me?”

  “Yeah, hey, Charity.” He sounds hesitant, possibly suspicious. Is it because we spent an intense summer before his freshman year chasing around a girl together? Or because I never spoke to him again after that? Probably a little of both. But it’s not my fault. It’s the way of the fairy godmothers.

  I clear my throat. “So, um, I’ll make this quick. Do you remember that girl… what’s her name? Eun-Ae?”

  He laughs. “Oh my Lord, that was, like, forever ago. I was ride or die for her.”

  I laugh along. “Yeah. Remember how she kissed you behind the moving van right before she had to leave forever? That was… so romantic, right?”

  He laughs again, but this time with an edge of bitterness. “Yeah. But you know what wasn’t romantic? That kiss totally gave me mono. I
was sick for a month. My spleen ruptured. That was literally the worst year of my life.”

  Are you freaking kidding me, Universe? Is this what you’ve been using me for? This is sadistic.

  I can’t force air into my lungs. I manage to rasp, “Sorry. I… I’ve gotta go.”

  I tap end, chuck the phone onto the passenger seat, drop my forehead onto the steering wheel, and scream. High and piercing and long, until I run out of air. Then I suck in a ragged breath and scream again. Hopefully my car is soundproof. Otherwise, people are going to think someone is performing Civil War–style battlefield amputations in the parking lot.

  When I’ve screamed myself out, I turn back to my phone. I have to finish this. I have to find out if anybody had a happy ending. I need to know the depth of my sins.

  The problem is, I can’t find Kelly Bodworth. Not on Insta, not on Insta… not anywhere. If someone doesn’t exist online, do they exist at all? I start to imagine the dog I foisted on her ripping her throat out in her sleep… mauling her whole family to death.… Finally I find a Facebook account for K. A. Bod Worth that looks like it might be hers. (Seriously? Is she forty?) The profile picture is of a big black-and-tan dog. But it’s so locked down that I can’t see anything else. I take a chance and send a PM:

  Kelly, Is this you? This is Charity Keller. Do you remember me? I was just wondering how you and Juggernaut are doing. Is he being a good dog? Are you still glad you got him? Write me back, okay?

  I hit send and check the time on my phone. Lunch hour is over. I have to face trig and the final Cindy.

  * * *

  Sara O’Rourke (Cindy #3) is in my trig class. Unfortunately, she gets to class right at the bell, and then the teacher promptly announces a pop quiz. So interrogating Sara will have to wait until after I find the freaking area of a quadrilateral using Heron’s formula.