xLoupxGaroux: Then where’s the story going? She’ll just start and end the same way? That’s kind of dull.
Scarface: She’s literally one step up from a love doll. She’s not his OTP! JESUS. Check yourselves, guys.
xLoupxGaroux: Um, is your DivaCup stuck in you or something? Why are you so worked up about this?
DavidaTheDeadly: when has John ever given us a character that was totally expected? literally 0.00 times; that’s what makes him so good.
MorwennaWraith: Made him so good. Ugh ugh ughhhh I hate thinking about it.
DavidaTheDeadly: he’s not dead.
Scarface: tbh you guys are kinda pissing me off.
xLoupxGaroux Gchats me privately.
xLoupxGaroux: OK. I need to know WTF is making you so upset about this. And don’t tell me you’re not.
Scarface: Uh . . . idk.
xLoupxGaroux: Seriously, I’ve never seen you snap at anyone before, even that time people commented on one of your Grecca fics that you stole the concept from Supernatural.
Scarface: FOR THE SEVEN MILLIONTH TIME, SIRENS ARE UBIQUITOUS GREEK MYTHOLOGY THEY’RE NOT ONE PERSON’S “CONCEPT”
xLoupxGaroux: You need a rabies shot.
Scarface: Ugh. Haha. God. I, whatever, I guess I’m weirdly invested because—they’re kind of, a tiny bit, based on people I know? Not entirely. I mean, there are no robots in my life, that I know of, so it’s obviously not the total truth, I’d say uh—it’s the truth massaged quite thoroughly.
xLoupxGaroux: You’re kidding.
Scarface: TBH I really wanted to keep us together! And writing! And this just seemed easier, as a starting point.
xLoupxGaroux: So, Gideon’s a real person??
Scarface: Uh
xLoupxGaroux: YES AND YOU’RE OBSESSED WITH HIM
Scarface: Maybe.
xLoupxGaroux: Do you really go to a private school?
Scarface: HAHA. I wish. I go to a public piece-of-shit school. Inside it’s all gray or burnt umber, like a jail. Has anybody in the history of education intellectually flourished inside a “burnt umber” building? I feel like, no. There’s always some big asbestos calamity that seems to travel around the building so we’re constantly relocating classes—it’s the worst.
xLoupxGaroux: Sounds atrocious. Where do you live?
Scarface: New Jersey.
xLoupxGaroux: That explains it.
Scarface: I know, right? What about you??
xLoupxGaroux: I’m in NYC.
Scarface: NOOOOO
xLoupxGaroux: Yeah!
Scarface: Cannot believe this! I go there all the time! You should give me your cell number, we should hang out next time I’m there! Right??
(xLoupxGaroux is typing . . .)
xLoupxGaroux: yeah def!!
Scarface: I think I’ll be around sometime this month (and hopefully after I graduate, for the rest of my life), what times are you usually free??
(xLoupxGaroux is typing . . .)
I hear the front door open, then slam shut, then hushed giggles: Dawn is home with someone. She’s whispering, tipsy, but the apartment’s small enough for me to catch some of it. “[Something something] not wake her up [something].” More giggles. It’s, like, ten. She thinks I go to bed at nine thirty because by then I’m in my room with the door shut, with no idea I’m on the forum until one or two A.M. every night. Not that she’d care, since I’m not a balding Sears manager who’ll pay for her Sea Breeze and mozzarella sticks at Arby’s.
As I hear them awkwardly shuffle into Dawn’s bedroom, my phone vibrates. It’s Ave.
bad news for you
gideon just asked ashley to the
pls don’t
I try to remember that this kind of stuff doesn’t really matter. I will not ruin everybody’s lunch period tomorrow by repeatedly questioning the fairness of the universe. I will be mature and understanding, gracious and Zen.
I check my Gchat tab. There’s still no answer from xLoupxGaroux.
, I text to Ave.
Chapter 10
I GRAB MY BOOKS AND HUSTLE TO SOCIAL STUDIES, WHERE Mr. Kercher has already started droning hypnotically about Napoléon. I slide into my seat behind Mouth-Breather Leslie, hoping I remain invisible. Jason, Dylan, and—ugh—Gideon have taken to being a little more vocal in class lately. Over the last few weeks, Gideon has grown less startled and quizzical about why the Populars suddenly pulled him into the fold. When I watch him walk with Ashley down the hall, or make some messy ketchup-mayo-mustard concoction out of boredom at lunch with Jason and co., he’s undeniably happy. He’s one of them now.
“. . . few days after he married Josephine, he did . . . what?”
Dead silence.
“He . . . left . . . Paris . . . to . . . ?”
Still nothing. Mr. Kercher is one of the few teachers who still bothers with this spaced-out-words “hinting” business in the hopes that someone read the textbook chapter assigned for the day. It is excruciating.
“Take . . . command . . . of . . .”
Imagine what would happen if he had a home intruder. (“Hi . . . 911? There’s a . . . man . . . in . . . my . . .”)
He was young once, which is weird. Maybe he wanted to be an astronaut.