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Prologue
Life is a Mountain
I’ve been staring at my ceiling for hours now. I take in the shallow fissure that runs through it, the darker rectangle in the corner that I never got round to painting, the small stars scattered across it of which most I kicked beneath my bed when they fell, and the splotches of bluetack from where I’d tried to secure my The Maine band poster and given up when it kept falling on me during the night.
It does nothing to drown out the ruckus downstairs, but if I stare hard enough, my thoughts repeat the ceiling’s appearance back to me. Sometimes the sounds prolong so long into the night that I find myself glancing at other things in my room. Sometimes I stare long enoughthat I fall asleep. And then my anxiety wakes me because I’m worried something terrible has happened.
Tonight, I am running out of objects to look at and pick apart, so I return my gaze to my ceiling, but I don’t find anything new or different because I’m always looking for the same flaws. My eyes droop when my phone pings.
Who would text at this hour? Cassie always calls when she has a boy dilemma, and I don’t have any other friends.
I swear, if this turns out to be a promo code for Pretty Little Thing...
I flip onto my side and squint at the cracked screen. It’s from a number I don’t recognise. Frowning, I open the message.
Who even likes cucumber?it reads.
I sit up against my headboard and read the text again to make sure I’m not going insane.
A part of me wants to ignore the message, because it’s clearly a prank. But my curiosity wars with reason.
Me:Depends which context you’re referring to.
I could have answered with something generic likeWho is this?orHow did you get my number?but if I’m being honest, I’m a little offended that this person hates cucumber.
My text is read as soon as I send it, as if whoever is on the other end of this line is waiting for my reply. Three dots appear to let me know they’re typing, and I immediately lock my phone. I don’t want to appear too hasty.
I bite my lip. I should just switch my phone on silent and go to sleep. I have to be up in three hours for school—
The screen lights up, and although every part of me wants to leap to read it, I hold back a couple minutes so I don’t look like a weirdo.
Please tell me you don’t like cucumber.
For some reason, I imagine this person is a guy. I’m not entirely sure why—maybe I just hope it is. The thought makes me smile. I want to question it, but I’m worried my sudden shift in topic will sabotage the current flow of random conversation.
I like random conversation. Questions I’ve never even considered pop up and make me think deep and hard about things, and I’m so lost in thought I forget where I am for a while.
Me:Cucumber is elite. It’s just so crunchy and tangy if you dip slices in vinegar. What has cucumber ever done to you?
Three dots appear, and then disappear.
Him:I’m intrigued yet disgusted by the vinegar thing, but something tells me you’re not ready for that conversation. You cucumber folk are always so adamant to face the truth about cucumber.
Him:Bet you have an android.
I gasp at the audacity and sit up straighter.
Me:Bet you hate pickles.
He doesn’t reply for several minutes, but my message has been opened and read. Maybe that was too mean? It didn’t feel like it was when I typed it, but maybe I was too forward. I hate the way my stomach plummets at the thought of this conversation being over.
The silence stretches on, and reality begins to seep in. Something shatters downstairs—
Ping ping!
Him:Are you kidding??!? Pickles are elite!! I would happily eat all your pickles if you have any.
Him:Ordered a chicken wrap and specifically asked for no cucumber OR tomatoes.
