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I nod. “Still at my house.” It’s weird. I’ve never shied from bringing anyone over to my family’s place, but I like keeping Willow to myself and far, far away from my parent’s unwanted opinions.
17
willow moore
Playing video games with Garrison Abbey is like sharing one milkshake with two straws. I wear an uncontrollable smile that hurts my face. The kind of smile I’ve tried to suppress, but it’s becoming fruitless the longer we play Streets of Rage in Galactica Arcadia.
I can only remember feeling this way one other time, when I imagined Tom Hiddleston (AKA Loki, Thor’s brother and foe) running into me at Superheroes & Scones. He’s never actually been to the comic book shop, but sometimes dreams are better than reality.
Except this reality. Right here and now, my cheeks are sore from the amount of times they’ve stretched towards my ears. We laugh. We curse when the game bosses arrive, and he helps me when I fumble with special combinations.
I may be better at everything comic-book-related, but Garrison is an absolute pro at gaming. I think he’d be able to work both joysticks and buttons with relative ease.
Time slips by fast, and when we run out of quarters, we come to a stop.
“New high score,” Garrison reads the screen. We’re second to someone who typed in the three initials: SUX.
“Not very clever, is it?” I say, pointing at the SUX scoreboard leader. It’s the go-to initials for one-time players, really. Lots of machines probably have at least two sux in their records.
“I never really am that clever,” Garrison tells me, catching me off guard.
“Wait…what?” My mouth falls. “This…is you?” I gesture to SUX, and as he nods, I want to collapse on the star-patterned carpet and bury my head. I just insulted him.
On his birthday.
What kind of friend am I?
My new eulogy: that turd, Willow Moore, she’s a “whatever” kind of friend. You should’ve left her while you had the chance.
Garrison isn’t looking at my downtrodden features. He’s scrolling through letters to lock in the initials: GPW. I barely hear him say, “Garrison Plus Willow.”
If he’s not hurt over the comment, then I shouldn’t agonize over it either, but for some reason, I zone in on this awkward part over every other great one. I wish I wouldn’t do that. I rub my face beneath my glasses and then fit them on again.
“You okay?” he asks, not even noticing what threw me off. I’m making something out of nothing. Before I say yeah, his gaze travels to the glass entrance, and he curses, “Shit.”
A scruffy older man lingers outside the arcade, his phone positioned towards us like he’s using the camera. He must be playing the part of “coy paparazzi” today. I’m not sure if cameramen are allowed inside the mall or not, but I’m certain he’s here because of me.
“I’ll go to the bathroom,” I say, “and when I come back, he’ll probably be gone.” I think I’m pretty boring compared to the Calloway sisters, and if I’m not with them or my brother, only one or two cameramen usually trail me during a whole week. It’s not even a daily occurrence like it is for them.
“I’ll wait here.” Garrison keeps an eye on the older man.
I depart and find my way through the rows of arcade machines. The bathroom is lit with a neon sign that says Relieve Yourself. I grab the doorknob to the girl’s bathroom.
“You’re Loren Hale’s cousin,” someone says behind me, the male voice more accusatory than questioning.
I glance over my shoulder. A preppy guy waits outside the boy’s bathroom. Collared shirt, khaki slacks, combed blond hair, twenty-something-years-old—he looks like a walking fraternity ad. Except for his face.
His angular features hold more contempt than I’ve ever personally met. He knows Loren Hale. And he hates him. It’s the only conclusion that makes sense.
I instinctively shrink and refuse to answer the preppy guy. I just slip into the girl’s bathroom. A sickening feeling descends to the bottom of my stomach.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I mumble and reach for my backpack.
I freeze.
I left my backpack with Garrison. I have no phone. “Okay,” I whisper to myself and exhale a short breath. I’m making up something out of nothing again. That’s what this is. At the sink, I remove my glasses and splash water on my face.
People say, trust your gut.
They also say, step out of your comfort zone.
So which one is this? Just a regular bout of anxiety or a real threat? How do I even determine the difference?
Using a paper towel, I wipe dripping water off my face, slip on my glasses, and look into the mirror. That Willow Moore. I’ve lost color in my cheeks, and my flyaway hairs stick to my forehead.
I swallow. “Step out of your comfort zone,” I tell myself.
After tossing the paper towel, I exit, hoping the person has left. The minute I swing open the door, I’m met with two preppy twenty-somethings.
