Chapter Text
Monday. January 31.
“You okay?” Vicky asks.
I make a strangled sound, not lifting my head from my hands.
“...Okay. What’s all this?” She steps into the dining room and picks up one of the many pamphlets scattered on the table in front of me. She sets it down just as quickly. “Um?”
“Mom,” I explain.
“Oh.”
I make another noise, whimpering more than strangled. With Vicky’s schedule necessitating I get picked up from the hospital, Carol decided that today would be the best day to pass along that ‘literature’ she said she’d get me: half a dozen pamphlets and booklets on girl-on-girl sexual education she got from one of the few local queer organizations in town.
“Did she give you a whole ‘nother Talk?” Vicky asks.
“No,” I groan, “just this stuff.”
“Well, at least there’s that.”
“I don’t even need this stuff though! Like” – I grab one at random and wave it around: a booklet on the importance of dental dams and other protections against STDs – “I literally can’t even get an infection, and even if I could, I’d fix it before I did anything. This whole thing is just stupid, and I don’t even know why Mom thought she had to force it all on me. It was just awkward and… ugh .”
Vicky lets out a little laugh which abates at my glare. “Hey, I’m with you on that. Is it offensive if I say I’m glad I’m not gay, just so I don’t have to go through that again?”
I scoff. “I don’t even care if it is.”
She picks up another pamphlet and flicks through it absently. “Looks like good info, at least. Not that I’m really an expert.”
“Yeah you’re not, but I am,” I groan.
Vicky raises an eyebrow at me from over the literature. “Oh? You are, are you?”
I feel myself blush incandescently, realizing too late the implication. “Not like that. Perv.”
She laughs and I have to look away, holding onto my anger to keep at bay how gorgeous she looks in her cream tennis skirt and light blue, sleeveless dress shirt that perfectly matches her eyes. Her immunity to seasonal weather puts other girls to shame, able to wear whatever she feels like, unmoored by trivialities such as cold. She looks unreasonably good.
“I just mean that I already know all of this stuff. I know more than any doctor. I’ve seen gonorrhea in places you can’t even imagine. It’s dumb that Mom is making me worry about it when it literally doesn’t matter to me when I’m never going to get an STD.”
“I’m with you on that,” Vicky says. “STD-less sisters, woo! Wait, no, that sucks. Also it sounds like ‘D-list’ which also sucks.”
“Mouth herpes counts as an STD,” I tell her, tired.
“I’ve never gotten mouth herpes though.” She sounds confused.
“Yes, you have. I fixed it before you were symptomatic, but you’ve had it.”
“What? When? How?”
“Herpes, last September I think, and probably from kissing Dean. That’s where most people get it.” I blink. “From kissing, not from Dean.”
"Where the heck did he get it?!”
“I don’t know,” I tell her, exasperated. How the hell would I? He’s the last person I’d ask about the sex life of. I don’t ever want to hear what he does to Vicky. Paradoxically, he’s also the first person I’d ask about the sex life of, because getting the chance to learn what Vicky’s like in bed is enticing. I don’t ask after many people’s sex lives.
“Wait,” Vicky stops her pacing. “September? You said this was in September? We just got back together in September.” Righteous rage consumes her face and my heart beats faster. “Did he cheat on me?! He did! That– That asshole!” She pulls her phone out of her pocket, then takes a deep breath that’s almost more of a growl than an inhalation, visibly fighting to be calm. She glances at me, frowns, and leaves the kitchen.
I watch the empty door for a moment and wonder…
“So. Dean. Guess what Ames just told me,” Vicky says from the other room, presumably into her phone, audibly restrained.
“Well then make time. This is important.”
A moment passes, and I can imagine Vicky pacing or tapping her foot in irritation. I lean a bit to try and glimpse her, but she’s out of sight.
“She just told me something… interesting .” The word is a subdued threat. “She told me that, somehow, I got mouth herpes from you back in September. And I know it’s from you, because I haven’t kissed anyone else. So. I am asking. Where did you get it? Did you kiss someone?
“ Yes in September. Was there another time?!” She rolls back on the anger almost immediately. I can hear her breathing now, even from the other room. “I’m calm. I’m calm. So just tell me. Who.”
Being privy to only one half of the conversation doesn’t obscure as much as one might think, especially with this sort of thing not being novel. I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening, but it’s hard to believe I did this, indirectly and accidentally.
“ EMILY?! ” Vicky screeches. “You cheated on me with Emily?! What the fuck?!
“ And you think that makes it okay?
“So we can just kiss whoever we want when we’re on a break and it’s okay? Is that what you’re saying? As long as there’s a technicality, it doesn’t matter?
“No shit I’m upset. You kissed Emily . Why the hell would you kiss her of all people?
“And you were obviously sooo torn up about it. That’s why you waited until now to tell me -- OH WAIT, YOU DIDN’T. Amy was the one to tell me because you didn’t even have the guts to fess up.”
I’ve fantasized and dreamed of causing this to happen, though usually in my fantasies Vicky is either casually telling me she’s done with Dean or popping his head like a grape and kissing me as the body cools. I rarely imagine it this yelly, though that’s reality.
“Oh that makes me feel so much better!” Vicky says sarcastically, dripping sweet venom. “Why didn’t you just say that your kisses mean nothing in the first place? Then I wouldn’t have any reason to be mad. Obviously.” The last word is a threatening growl.
“You don’t understand? Hey Ames,” she calls to me. I know better than to respond. “He doesn’t understand what a lying, cheating jackass he is; can you believe that?” I don’t answer, smart enough to not place myself in her current warpath. She returns her attention to the call. “Don’t worry Dean, I’ll help you understand. I’ll make it real clear why I’m upset. How about we take a break, and then maybe I’ll find a guy to fool around with, and then in five months, I’ll tell you who it was, or if I even kissed him in the first place? How does that sound, Dean?
“Oh don’t you even try to be cute,” she snarls. “Bye.”
She hangs up. Fortunately, the next sound I hear is an inarticulate, wordless growl and not the crunch of Vicky closing her not-a-flip phone. And just like that, they’re done, again. Dean and Vicky broken up for, if I’m lucky, a month, all because of something I said.
Vicky comes back into the kitchen, red-faced and carrying tension across her entire frame. It’s not fair how even now she looks so good. She’s the kind of attractive that Hollywood wishes it could imitate, crying the sort of cry that’s neither unattractive nor unbelievable.
“Can you believe him?” she rhetorically asks me, starting a rant that I know from experience will take an hour at the minimum as she moves from anger to insecurity to melancholy, then back to anger, tears spilling all the while.
I silently sigh, so as to prepare myself without making her feel like she’s bothering me, stand, pour her a glass of water, and lead her by the hand up to her room. Once there, I sit on her bed, pull her to join me, push Mr. Stuffles the purple polka-dotted bear-dog-racoon-thing into her arms, and ready myself to listen and support her. She doesn’t stop venting the whole time, smack-talking Dean in ways that I can’t agree too wholeheartedly with. Agreeing without seeming too eager to agree is a dangerous but familiar routine, risking either invalidating Vicky’s current feelings or putting a barrier between us when/if they get back together.
I can’t even be happy about the breakup because– Well, actually I can be and am happy about it. Pleased as punch, honestly. I shouldn’t be, since it’s a happiness borne of Vicky’s misery. It’s one of my many, many guilty pleasures. Usually, that’s all these breakups are to me: a guilty pleasure and a fleeting chance to revisit fantasies of Vicky finding someone else to date, someone who would treat her better, who knows her better than anyone else and could make her happier than Dean ever could if she’d just look my way.
But this time, I’m more tired than elated. The guilt remains at a steady level, at least. I frown at nothing as I silently ask myself why I couldn’t have mentioned this last week and saved Taylor and myself the trouble of planning around Dean for Friday. I’ve apparently, ignorantly been sitting on this Deantoria self-destruct button for months.
My whole life is a cruel god’s sick joke.
<3 <3<3
“I wish you would have told me about this earlier,” Taylor says to me. She pulls her book bag’s shoulder straps up, to rest more securely on her frame, her thumbs hooked under the straps.
“It was kind of last minute,” I tell her. “Vicky only asked me about this like an hour ago.”
“Still.”
I frown. “You said you wanted to do something today.”
“And I thought we had planned to go for a walk, not dinner with Victoria.”
“I thought you’d be happy with this. I mean, you keep talking about doing stuff in new contexts or whatever. This might be our only chance to have a double date with Vicky where we can… y’know ?” I raise my eyebrows for emphasis.
Her eyebrows furrow in retaliation. “Are you even going to be able to do this in front of them?”
“Please,” I scoff. “I’ve been using my power for way more complicated things for years. Making some hormones is baby stuff. I could do this in my sleep.” Not literally, thank fuck. I’ve had that nightmare, of waking up to see that I’d created horror, enough times to seek reassurance that power incontinence of that sort of scale doesn’t develop spontaneously.
“I more meant: are you going to be able to follow through with your sister watching?”
“You’re asking if I’ll get stage fright?” She nods. “I’ve used my power in front of Vicky before, dummy.”
She doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t protest further. I think she might want to. I’d hold her hand – the only visible spots of her skin other than her face – to get a better read and maybe help her relax or something, if I could. Physically, I can do that, obviously, but we haven’t specifically discussed muscle stimulation so that would be bad, I’m pretty sure. If she’s uncomfortable, though, I could trick her nerves into not sending those discomforting signals, but to do that I would need to touch her skin and her hands are in an awkward place for holding. And it’d be weird to ask.
“Hey, thanks for waiting up,” Vicky says from behind me.
I turn to see her approaching with a guy in tow. She’s dressed to the nines, at least as much as she can get away with at school without looking overdone, in jeans with embroidered clouds and a yellow top that hangs off her shoulders. The guy with her is tall, with a load of freckles all across his hairless face, and has short, dark hair mussed up with gel. He looks kind of familiar, in a vague way, like maybe he was one of the guys Vicky tried setting me up with. He fits that mold of supposedly attractive boy.
“No problem,” I say back to her. To the guy, I give a courtesy, “Hey,” because I might as well be nice. There’s a slim to none chance that this guy will replace Dean for a while and I’d like to stretch that if at all possible.
“Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Taylor,” he says back. He sticks out a hand for a fist-bump and I wonder if my earlier courtesy will make up for me not touching him, or if that would turn him away. With an internal sigh, I bump. When he moves his fist to bump Taylor’s, she just stares at it and leaves him hanging. It’s kind of funny how long he waits before dropping his hand to his side.
“I’m Amy, and this is my girlfriend, Taylor,” I introduce us.
“Yeah, I’ve heard. Kind of funny we share a name, don’t you think?” the other Taylor asks with a laugh. My Taylor doesn’t reciprocate the joviality.
I blink, then give a Look to Vicky, silently asking if she did this on purpose.
Her lips press into a thin line, sheepish. She didn’t. A shoulder lifts, to say that he’s just the best she could get in such short notice that’s still hot enough to make Dean jealous.
I raise an eyebrow, asking if she’s really that shallow. I know she only had the school day to set this up, but still.
Her eyes dart away, then back to me with a slight frown, asking me to just go along with this so she can save face and not embarrass herself in front of Dean. Even though he’s not here, this would get back to him. That’s most of the point of this date for her, for him to hear about today and be tortured with shame and regret. For that, and for my totally platonic and familial love for my sister – and I could just wiggle with joy about that, even still – I suppose I can be nice to Vicky’s Taylor.
This whole silent conversation moves at the speed of sisterhood, taking only two or three seconds.
“So where did you say you wanted to go?” I ask, and Vicky’s smile gets decidedly more relieved.
“There’s this new diner that just reopened a couple weeks ago that I’d been wanting to check out. It’s supposed to be this cool, retro, historical place. I figured we could go there?”
“How can it be both new and reopened?” my Taylor asks.
“Well, it shut down way back in the ninety’s, but never got repurposed. Someone finally bought it a few months back, did some renovations, and opened a couple weeks ago. I heard they kept a lot of the original decor to, so it’s supposed to be super authentic.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
“I could go for a burger,” Vicky’s Taylor says.
All eyes turn to my Taylor. After a weird moment, almost but not quite long enough for one of us to comment on, she says, “Sure.”
We all file over to straight Taylor’s car, a punch buggy convertible, toss our backpacks in the trunk, then pile in. Taylor and Vicky take the front, of course, and Taylor and I shuffle into the back, Taylor behind Vicky and myself behind Taylor. He starts the car, pulls out of the lot, and gets us onto the road. Traffic isn’t too bad for being Tuesday afternoon. I think. I’m not often in a car in the afternoons, only really riding them to school or from the hospital when Vicky isn’t the one to pick me up.
The air is filled with the sounds of the city, muted by the radio and by the conversation in the front as Vicky and Taylor talk about mutual friends. I watch as we move further into the city, veering away from downtown, towards the trainyards.
Something bumps my arm and I turn. Taylor’s getting my attention, holding her phone out to me, angling the screen my way. I look, and she’s got her notes app opened.
The screen reads, Can we not do the same conditioning thing as yesterday?
I start to ask why, but she presses her phone into my hand, glancing pointedly at those in the front seat. Using the painstaking four-presses-of-7-to-get-an-S method that makes me wonder how she can stand to be so grammatically precise with such a handicap, I type out, whzP that? yMu likf it , and show it to her.
She takes back her phone, takes a moment to decypher my text, then types something out herself to show to me. It was distracting. I don’t know if I’ll be able to act normal in front of people if you do.
I smile at the idea of turning her into a blushing, distracted mess and her not being able to hide it. I frown at the understanding that that’s a terrible idea in public and that Taylor’s right. I smirk at the realization she thinks she’s ever acted normal in her life. are we Nt doGng thir then?
You said you could do hormone stuff too, right? If so, do you think that would be less obvious? If so, we could do that.
I think for a moment. Hormones are responsible for a lot of the body’s functions, so it’d be stupid to say their effects aren’t obvious, but I suppose they are slower and more subtle than direct stimulation. that couJd wnsk
I pass the phone back to Taylor, but as she types out her next note, Vicky calls out to Taylor, “Hey, I thought you said you didn’t have a phone?”
Taylor snaps her phone shut at the question, looking like a deer in the headlights.
“You don’t have a phone?” guy Taylor asks. “Who doesn’t have a phone?”
“I have a phone,” my Taylor says defensively. “I didn’t earlier, but I do now. Amy got it for me last week.”
Vicky’s grin goes wide, almost scandalized, as she turns her attention to me. “Oh, she did, did she?”
I squirm uncomfortably under Vicky’s knowing gaze, like a bacterium with a broken flagellum. “It’s not like that,” I defend. “It was just weird she didn’t have one, and it made stuff harder than it needed to be.”
“Uhuh. Yeah. Sure.” Vicky is unconvinced.
“I’m serious.”
“I believe you’re serious,” she says in a leading tone. “…Serious about Taylor.”
“It’s just a crappy phone,” I protest. “Don’t read into it.”
“Okay, not reading into it,” she lies. “I just think it’s sweet how much you two wanted to keep in contact.”
“I just–!” I let out a sound, one like a dying antelope, muffled by closed lips. This is so embarrassing.
“You need to lay off,” my Taylor says, gaze a hair short of a glare. “You’re making Amy uncomfortable.”
Vicky looks more confused than chastised, shooting me a searching look.
“It’s fine, Taylor. I’m fine,” I tell her.
She reacts only by looking away from Vicky. The tension is thick. Vicky’s turned back around to face forward, and what little I can see of her face makes me think she’s replaying the conversation back to figure out what set Taylor off like that. I’d help her if I was sure of the answer. I would guess it’s something about her time being bullied at Winslow, but Vicky’s the furthest thing from a bully I can imagine. She’s a little absentminded, and sometimes she presses boundaries too far, but that’s enthusiasm, not sadism.
“Any of you going to the game?” Taylor asks in what I suppose he thinks is a valiant attempt at breaking the tension.
“What game?” I ask when neither of the others do.
“Basketball. We’re playing the Wildcats on Friday. It’ll be a good game – They’re a strong team, but I’m pretty sure we’ll take it. Not to brag, but I’m leading in assists in the division, and the rest of us aren’t slouches.”
Oh god. He’s a jock. That must be how Vicky knows him. I try not to judge him too harshly, but it’s not easy. Sports are almost as bad as hard drugs and gun violence, at least in regards to how often someone tries to see me for healing. On the plus side, sports injuries are rarely life threatening, instead mostly just debilitating and leading to life-long complications, but on the flip side, too often do they come part-and-parcel with concussions. Still, talking sports must be better than talking to Dean, so I give it a shot.
“Wildcats are East High, right?” I ask. I think I remember Rose mentioning that. Vicky gives me a little smile, seeing my olive branch for what it is.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Taylor says. “Like I said, their team’s pretty strong, but rumor has it their point guard has been off his game since his dad got shot last week, so we’ve got this in the bag. Er, not that we wouldn’t if he was at the top of his game, but you know, we’ve definitely got it now. Still, it’ll be good.”
“I might have to swing by, then,” Vicky tells him, coyly promising nothing in case this one-off date causes Dean enough suffering, or if it goes poorly. Or if she has anything better to do then, which is most likely.
Vicky’s Taylor pulls into a parking garage and finds a spot a few floors up. We make the rest of the journey to the diner on foot. Sign declaring it “Molly’s Diner,” it’s wedged between a sports store on the left and an indeterminable, closed store on the right. We’re in a weird part of town where the only condition to having a location is someone being dumb, rich, and desperate enough to try to start a business outside of the boardwalk or downtown, where the villains have less of an influence. Or this is a money laundering scheme. I wouldn’t ever come to this part of town alone, but with Vicky here, we’ll be safe.
“I thought you said this was an 80’s diner,” the feminine Taylor accuses when we step foot inside.
“Maybe 50’s diners were in style in the 80’s?” Vicky guesses as we all look around.
And it really does look like a 50’s diner, with eye-searing pink and cool-car powder blue upholstery, lots of big, chrome check marks underlining words, and what’s probably old-timey pop music playing out of a legitimate jukebox. The only things that marks it as not explicitly from the 50’s are the pair of modern television sets in the upper corners and the framed newspaper clippings dating to the 80’s – specifically when this diner was originally open, I assume – filled with stories about the city and its history, including what looks like a copy of the first print of Scion’s discovery.
I peel my eyes away from the image of the golden ur-hero as a waitress skates – I do a double take and yes, she’s wearing roller skates – our way. She’s not much older than us and kind of pretty, with wheat-blonde hair done up in a high ponytail and tanned skin, with a mole on her cheek. Her uniform is flattering too, the same pink with blue accents the whole place is done up in.
“Hey there,” she greets with a slightly southern drawl. “Just the four of ya today?”
“That’s right,” Vicky says, taking the lead. “We heard this place just opened, so we wanted to check it out.”
“Alrighty! Well my name’s Cheryl, and if you’ll follow me, I’ll get y’all situated. Booth or table?”
Vicky requests a booth, and the waitress grabs a handful of menus from a pocket on the wall nearby and leads us to a booth: a three-quarter circle of seating around a round table. We take our seats, Vicky and I sandwiched between the two Taylors, each next to our respective dates. I sidle up against Taylor, laying my hand on hers on her thigh.
Her hand moves minutely, almost tensing, but not in any sort of nervous way but in the way that happens when someone is focusing their awareness on a body part. Her lips press ever so slightly together as she looks my way: a sign that she actually is a bit nervous, which is oddly a bit relieving. I’m not the only one feeling trepid about this. I take a minute to just take stock of her. Her body is more familiar than anyone’s other than family’s, at this point, but if I’ll be adjusting her hormonal balances, I want to have a refreshed baseline for it all.
The waitress frowns, giving Taylor and I a brief, odd look before re-injecting customer service pep into her demeanor as she hands out menus and takes our drink orders.
When she leaves to get our drinks and give us time to come up with our orders, I take a chance to give the place a better once-over, feeling weird about the waitress. Carol’s reminders of situational awareness echo in my head, to keep an ear out and my eyes open. She’s gotten more insistent about those, the last few days. There’s another two waitresses out on the floor, and they’re both white too. I can’t see into the kitchen, obviously, so I can’t tell if the staff there is at all diverse. The decor doesn’t reveal any points against or for this being Empire-y, I think. It’s the wrong side of town, but…
“What’s wrong?” my Taylor asks me.
“The waitress gave us a weird look,” I murmur, trying to be subtle.
“Oh.” Taylor looks to where our waitress disappeared into the kitchen.
“I don’t think she looked at us weird,” Vicky remarks.
“No, ‘me and Taylor’ us,” I answer.
Vicky’s eyes narrow as she realizes what I’m saying. She looks around the diner and reaches similarly inconclusive conclusions. Voice low, she asks, “You think she might be homophobic?”
“The waitress is homophobic?” other-Taylor asks, looking around too. He looks wary.
“Not sure,” Vicky tells him, then turns back to me. “We can leave, if you don’t feel safe,” she offers, even though she was excited for this.
“No. Maybe later, if it gets bad,” I answer, not wanting to make a scene when it’s just a suspicion. It’d feel like Carol or the Empire was winning, if just a frown is enough to make me run. I’m not going to give Carol the satisfaction of thinking Taylor and I were scared off at the first sign of maybe-trouble, and I’m definitely not going to let the Empire win by forcing us to hide. Even if I would really really rather not have to deal with this. Fuck them though. It’s enough that Vicky’s here and taking it seriously. No one in their right mind would mess with us with her around, and no one in their wrong mind would live long enough to do much messing.
Our waitress comes back with our drinks and passes them out. A milkshake for Taylor and Vicky – the second straw in it is almost enough to make me smile, the novelty of my lack of jealousy not yet wearing off – coffee with cream for me, and iced water for Taylor.
“Y’all ready to order?” the waitress asks, resting a pen on her pad. Her eyes linger on Taylor and I and she flashes us a smile. Is she smiling to cover up her discomfort? I know some nurses who do that, put on a customer service face to deal with unruly or annoying patients.
“I think we’ll need a minute,” Vicky says, “but could we get a plate of fries for the table in the meantime?”
“Curly or straight?” the waitress asks, and her eyes flick to Taylor and me yet again. I stiffen. Was that a threat? Asking about straight fries? Is she telling us she knows? Does she not even care that she’s in Glory Girl’s reach? Backwards hick: she should know she can’t do anything.
“Curly sounds good,” Vicky answers.
“Alrighty, I’ll be back with that quicker ‘n you can spell jambalaya,” she says before skating back to the kitchen.
“What if we can’t spell jumbolayah?” the masculine Taylor asks when the waitress is gone, seemingly genuine concern on his face. “Do we still get to eat?”
“No, I think it just means there’s not a timer,” Vicky answers. “But are we eating here?” she asks us.
“It’s fine. I’m pretty sure Cheryl’s gay,” my Taylor answers simply.
Vicky, Taylor, and I blink.
“Wait, seriously?” I ask.
“Mhm. She was trying to let us know.”
“How could you tell?” straight Taylor asks.
“Uh. Variety of ways. I just…” Taylor trails off.
“Taylor has a scary good gaydar,” Vicky explains to Taylor, which I suppose is one way to explain her power. “Like, she figured out Rose was gay before she’d even talked to her.”
“Oh. How good?” he asks Taylor.
“Good enough,” she responds.
“So you uh…” straight Taylor looks at Taylor warily.
She waves him off. “Yeah. But that’s none of my business.”
Vicky puts it together a moment before I do, turns to her Taylor and asks, “Wait, you’re…?”
“Don’t tell anyone? Please?” straightgay Taylor pleads with us all.
“Of course we won’t,” Vicky says.
“Like I said, it’s not my business,” my Taylor agrees.
“I honestly don’t give a shit what you are,” I tell him.
He laughs at my response, a few huffs. “Cool. Thanks.”
The waitress comes back with the fries, putting our conversation on momentary hold.
“Got your orders ready yet?” she asks.
“Can I get a number three, with extra sauce and extra cheese?” gay Taylor asks, somehow having picked something out while we were talking.
I glance at my menu and order the first thing that I see when I open the menu. “Number four, no mustard.”
“I’m good with just the fries,” my Taylor says, even though I can tell how hungry she is.
“It says to ask you about the daily special,” Vicky says. “What’s that about?”
The waitress starts to explain the special, and her and Vicky get to talking about the different specialty options the diner has on different days of the week. I tune it out in favor of focusing on why Taylor’s lying about this. I lean in to whisper in her ear,
“Why aren’t you getting anything? I can tell you’re hungry.”
She turns and murmurs into mine, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hard not to.” I squeeze her hand for emphasis. “You need to eat, if we’re going to…”
She purses her lips, frustrated, then admits, “I don’t have enough to get anything here.”
“Wait really?”
“I thought we’d be going to the park, not a restaurant. I only brought a couple bucks for a brät.”
“Oh. That’s no big deal. I can cover you.” I pull out of her shoulder crevice to order for her when she squeezes my hand uncomfortably hard, her whole body getting tense.
She leans in. “Don’t. I’m fine, okay? The fries are enough.”
I stare at her with as much insult as I can muster, because she’s being dumber than usual. It’s not a hard concept: if you’re hungry, eat. Some people overindulge, but I’d rather heal them than the typical emaciated, undernourished dumbasses the practice seems to attract as patients. It gives me more to work with, and if I’m going to be using my power on Taylor, I’d rather have some extra to work with, even if hormones are inexpensive.
“Honorary doctor’s orders,” I whisper to her, then louder and to the waitress, I say, “Actually Taylor changed her mind. She does want something.”
The waitress awkwardly stops in the middle of a story about her hometown in Alabama or Missouri or something that she was telling Vicky, her service smile faltering before reinstating to address Taylor. “Alright hon, what’ll it be?”
Taylor’s jaw tightens. She scans the menu. “I’d like the kid’s cheeseburger, please.”
I glance down at it. It’s only for kids younger than thirteen. It’s also the cheapest thing on the menu. No. “She’ll have the number four too. Extra mustard.”
The waitress hesitates, but when Taylor doesn’t fight me, jots it down. “Alright, so that’s a number three, wet and cheesy, two number fours, one no mustard, one extra, and…”
“The house special sounded great, Cherry,” Vicky says.
“Alrighty, I’ll get those out to ya as quick as we can,” the waitress says with a wink. She gathers our menus and skates away.
Taylor glowers at me, but I’m right.
“You two okay?” Vicky asks.
“Yes. We’re fine,” Taylor responds immediately, breaking eye contact to stare down my sister. She needs to chill.
With a small smile, I remember that I can help her chill. I give the area a once-over, just to be sure no one’s looking at me. Even though I can’t imagine anyone would be able to see what I’m about to do without a few hundred thousand dollars in medical equipment, it still makes this a bit easier. With nary a movement and only a thought, I make Taylor’s body synthesize some serotonin and feel as it spreads through her bloodstream to be deposited elsewhere. It’s not immediate, but after a moment she starts to relax, slightly, tension buoyed by her mood’s inertia.
Vicky’s gaze lingers in hers for a bit before she turns to the other Taylor and asks, “So if you’re… y’know, why’d you say yes to this?”
He looks around at us, chewing his cheek as he deliberates. “Keep this a secret too?” he asks and we all agree. “A couple of the guys on the team have been getting suspicious, and I really don’t need my dad finding out. When I heard you and Dean had broken up again, I figured asking you out would be a good way to make people think I was…” He shrugs. “I didn’t actually expect you to say yes.”
“I guess I’m a little miffed you’re not actually into me,” Vicky says, taking the news graciously, “but it does take some of the pressure off. Why would you think I wouldn’t say yes though?”
“Well. Dean,” Taylor answers simply.
Vicky blinks, eyes stormier when reopened. “Did he say something?”
“No, or at least not to me, but you two are pretty exclusive, even when you’re on breaks. Aren’t you?”
“You would think, wouldn’t you,” Vicky says with a heavy heaping of unpleasant irony.
Gay Taylor frowns at the sudden downturn in the conversation and looks to my Taylor and I for help. Taylor’s uninterested in helping, and I’m not sure I’m able. Receiving nothing, he asks Vicky, “Is this break different? You’re getting back together, right? Because I kind of asked you out thinking this wouldn’t be an ongoing thing.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you go out with me if you don’t want to,” Vicky assures mildly.
“Yeah, she only does that to me,” I try to joke.
“You could have said no,” Vicky says, not feeling up for joking, based on her tone. She turns back to gay Taylor to answer him. “But if you must know, he cheated on me. That dickhole kissed another girl and then gave me her mouth herpes.”
Vicky sounds righteously angry, and underneath that anger is hurt, and underneath that hurt is much, much more anger. I kind of wish Dean would walk in the door right now. He might get his chest caved in, if that happened. I’d have to fix him, but it would be at least a little bit funny until then.
“I heard you two were on a break when he kissed the other girl,” my Taylor interjects.
“That’s still cheating,” Vicky insists.
“Then are you cheating on him now?” I expect her to sound aggro, but Taylor sounds actually calm. Not even that fake calm unfeeling thing she does, but gently calm. I increase her dosage as a little reward.
“He did it first, so it’s different. I mean, how would you feel if, the day after you broke up with Amy, she was making out with Rose?”
“Can we not bring Rose into this?” I ask. “Things are weird enough with her already.”
“Oh. Sorry Ames. You wanna talk about it?”
“Not really. Maybe later. It’s just, she wasn’t there last Saturday, and she’s one of the only people at Games I actually like.”
“You miss her.” There’s not a hint of jealousy in my Taylor’s voice, though there should definitely be. She’s too calm. Since she’s pretending to be my girlfriend, she needs to at least act a little jealous when we’re talking about another girl who apparently has been crushing on me. Can I make her jealous? It shouldn’t be that hard. I’ll just…
“She’s fun is all,” I answer as I create some cortisol to stress her out. That should make her a bit moodier, I think. To be safe, I get rid of most of the dopamine and serotonin in her bloodstream that could counteract it. “No one else can give me a worthy or interesting match, certainly not you. I have half a mind to ban you so she’ll come back.”
That gets a reaction from her, the accelerated heart rate and widening nostrils aren’t much, but it’s proof I’m having an effect. I did that. I’m doing this. “If you’d rather be a jerk with her than spend time with me, then fine. Do that.”
Wait no, she’s not supposed to do that. Maybe she needs more stress hormones? A touch of adrenaline – a little goes a long way – to get her mad. “You’re okay with that? Even if she tries to steal me away? She does like me, after all.”
Her whole body tenses at my taunt – perfect – and she glares at me. She’s a fury, in this moment, her face made of deadly angles and elegant lines. She stares me down like a bobcat intimidating its frozen prey, and I’m a fawn, barely able to stand on my own legs. My heart quickens, loud in my ears.
“Are they always like this?” the other Taylor whispers to Vicky, just barely audible.
“I’m not entirely sure what this is,” Vicky murmurs back.
“If you choose to do that, then I obviously messed up somewhere and assumed you were as serious about this as I am, and if you’re not, then we need to talk about us,” Taylor says, ignoring my sister and her Taylor. “And this time I do mean it like that.”
This isn’t right; I want her to be jealous, not distant or angry. I want her angry at Rose, if anyone. Not me. Why the fuck isn’t this working? This is baby-tier stuff! I make more hormones to relax her in preparation to try again. “You’d seriously dump me just for that?”
“No,” she says, suddenly sounding as tired as I was yesterday and just as done, “I wouldn’t dump you for that. But I have half a mind to dump you for having fun messing with me like this.”
“That’s so not fair,” I protest. “If that’s grounds for dumping, I’d’ve already dumped you.”
“Hey maybe let’s not break up?” the other Taylor says. “Take a minute to chill?”
“Shut it, you. Don’t tell me how to talk to my Taylor,” I snap and he blanches. I’m trying to get this working right. If he wants to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, he deserves to get bitten for it.
“Suddenly I’m yours again?” my Taylor asks sullenly. Her heart beats fast, and she’s sweating, ready for action, but she doesn’t even look up when she asks.
She needs reassurance, I think, so I give it. “Duh.”
I wince as her fingers bite my hand, but otherwise she doesn’t react.
“That’s kind of cute,” Vicky throws in, trailed by a lighthearted laugh. “And I guess it is a bit confusing to have two Taylors here, so you know, it makes sense. You’ve got one, I’ve got one.” She leans against hers with a smile and he balks at her. “Maybe we could use nicknames? What’s your middle name?” she asks hers.
He balks at her, but answers, “Uh, Anthony.”
Vicky’s smile stays perfectly in place, but eyes pinch at the corners, giving away her stress. “That’s funny! Other Taylor’s middle name is Anne, isn’t it?”
“It’s not that funny,” my Taylor snaps, shattering the bit of levity Vicky had forced back into the group. I can feel all of Taylor’s muscles tense again, tight and eager to leap from her position at rest. Her frumpy clothes cover all but her face, which is a hair shy of a glare.
“I just mean how it’s kind of odd how both of you practically share a name,” Vicky says. “I don’t mean anything bad by it.”
Cortisol and adrenaline rush through her veins with neither my beck nor call. I try to counter them with more dopamine and serotonin, but it doesn’t work, she doesn’t relax. Before I can try something else, I lose the chance to.
“Don’t do that!” Taylor snarls. “Don’t try to play this off as nothing when you– you–” She makes an inarticulate sound of fury, gripping my hand tight enough to make me hiss, grabbing the attention of the entire building as she stands to shout. I fucked up, and try to reel in my fuck up through the pain. If I make her tired, she can’t keep yelling, right? I dose her with melatonin while flushing her adrenaline and stoppering the source.
“You are just like Emma,” Taylor continues in the meantime, “always playing these mean, petty, childish games because– Because what? Because you don’t like me? Because you don’t want Amy to be happy? Because you’re bored and think it’s fun? Well it’s not. It’s sick, and petty, and mean, and just shows how much of a absolute, unrepentant bitch you are that you can’t get over it and just communicate and act like a reasonable, human person. I didn’t even do anything but you just can’t let it go and leave me alone.”
“Taylor, I–”
“ Don’t, ” Taylor interrupts Vicky. “Don’t you start. We both know what you’re really doing, and I… I won’t let… let you talk your way… out of…”
She falls back into the booth, melatonin finally taking hold, almost knocking her out and definitely relaxing her. I pull my hand from her limp grip, shaking it to toss off some pain and get blood flowing again.
Taylor Anthony is boggling at Taylor Anne, like she’s an escaped asylum patient, and Vicky is splitting her worried attention between Taylor and I. She looks hurt and bewildered. The last time I saw such an expression on her face was when she’d tried to catch a jumper, over a year ago. He died in the air, in her arms. I look away.
Our waitress aggressively skates our way, frowning. I think fast and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Sorry!” I call out. “Her new meds aren’t settling well.”
My explanation reaches everyone’s ears just in time for the waitress to make it to us. Her expression shifts, more understanding than ‘regretfully, I have to ask you to leave’ now. That regret doesn’t fully leave, though.
“Is she going to be okay?” the waitress asks.
“Yeah. Yeah, she’ll be fine. One of the side effects of dartmarthilexitropimine is mood swings, and it must have been delayed for her,” I bullshit, making up a drug that sounds vaguely realistic.
“Oh.” She hesitates, stuck between sticking around to help and retreating back to her other patrons. She looks to the kitchen, where a man in a buttoned up shirt is shaking his head. She frowns. “Is there anything she needs that I can get her?”
“I think the best thing for her is to just sleep it off. Could we get the check?”
“Of course, hon,” she says with obvious relief. “You want your order to go?”
I nod and she leaves, promising to be right back. A wide glance reveals that most people have stopped paying us much mind. A few looks linger or momentarily return, but interest is mostly gone. I almost breathe a sigh of relief, but hold back for the expression of hurt and concern Vicky still has, like she can’t discount the whole thing as some sudden, inexplicable, weightless explosion of insanity.
She purses her lips and nudges her Taylor. “Would you mind getting the car? We’ll meet you out there.”
“Yeah, no problem.” He leaves like he’s grateful to get away and I don’t blame him.
I fucked up, that much I’m absolutely sure about, but Taylor’s beef with Vicky and Emma is her own. Where the fuck did she even get the idea that Vicky’s like her old bullyfriend? I might have accidentally shaken those feelings loose, but she got them lodged in there all on her own.
Cheryl comes back with the check and to-go boxes. Vicky excuses herself to go pay, and I gather the leftovers. We barely even got to eat before everything happened. With Mark’s mood in a downswing, that’s a bit of a silver lining, I guess: decent leftovers instead of microwave dinner. I shouldn’t be happy about that.
Vicky’s at the register, likely apologizing and explaining things to that guy in the button-up – the manager? – and he at least seems to be warming up to her, not frowning as intensely as he was when I spotted him earlier. That’s good; she’ll be a minute. I nudge Taylor. She’s stabilizing, but still out of it. I want to ask what the fuck all of that was about, but… this isn’t the time nor place.
I settle for trying to help her to her feet.
“What did you do to me?” she mumbles against me.
My throat is tight. I can’t explain here, now, that I messed up. “Let’s get you to the car.”