𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞

L U C Y

With Charlie in the hospital, so close to her surgery date, I find myself more and more on edge, the slightest inconvenience is all that it takes to push me over it.

"Aw. Better luck next time," I hear from over my shoulder and grit my teeth. That melodic voice somehow grating in my ears. I slowly, carefully fold my graded review paper in half and shove it into my shoulder bag, away from prying eyes. Only Christina would realize how annoyed I am with a grade of 93%, when our teacher previously announced that the highest is a 94%. I don't have to look at her score to confirm who beat me for the top spot, and she knows that.

Christina stands much too close, close enough for me to smell her perfume. She smells like a fucking vanilla coffee, bold and somehow sweet at the same time. "If you need any help next time, let me know." She's wearing her hair down today, and I hate how good it looks that way, her curls brushed out and pinned back out of her face.

"Right, because I'm desperate enough for your help."

She puts a hand against her chest and my eyes follow it unintentionally. She's got a ring on every finger, the metal resting against her collarbone, her smooth skin bared in an off-the-shoulder top. She looks annoyingly good in yellow. "Oh, I wasn't offering my help. I just thought it would be fun if you admitted you needed it."

I brush past her on my way to my next class, eager to get out of the studio that suddenly feels too small for the two of us, let alone the thirty other people sharing it.

Once I'm out of her vicinity and outside, I take a deep breath of fresh air. The smell of fresh-cut grass and ocean air on the wind calms my senses, but there's a trace of something sweeter lingering in my memory. She's not here but my anger follows me wherever I go that day. There isn't enough art theory in the world to calm my bitterness, not with the piece of paper in my bag, haunting me about how I could always do better if I were just a little more like her.

"I think it'll be good for the both of us," Reed says as she digs through my closet. I want to ask what brought on this change in her the past day or two, but I don't want to mess with a good thing. She deserves a night out, a night of distraction. Maybe her new therapist is a miracle worker.

"I think you overestimate me."

"And I think you underestimate you," She retorts, turning and raising an eyebrow at me. "If you truly don't want to go out, I won't push you. But you look like you're just itching for something to do," She says and she's right.

At the moment, I have absolutely nothing to complete. Nothing to do except worry about my friends in the hospital, worry about my parent's perception of me changing, worry about my sexuality and my future. Nothing to do but worry about every little thing.

My shoulders slump, whether in defeat or relief I'm not sure. "Yeah, alright. I'm yours for the night," I tell Reed and her eyes light up. She goes back to my closet and purses her lips.

"We have more in common than I thought," She says. She must mean our tomboyish wardrobe and tendency to wear looser items of clothing for comfort or athletic activities because that's what she'll find in my wardrobe.

"You're looking in the wrong place, you won't find anything in there," I tell her honestly. Instead of a dejected look, the one that takes over her face is more mischievous. I narrow my eyes.

"I know someone whose closet is not currently in use, who won't mind you borrowing something for the greater good."

"The greater good," I deadpan and she nods enthusiastically. "I'm still asking her first," I say, pulling out my phone to message our friend. I'd feel guiltier if I didn't know Charlie better.