avocado toast & other stories

ii.

The world is purple and Yuriko Fujji watches as she drops her arm to the side. Springtime follows in a haze of honey and sweetened lilac, bits of glazed pollen sticking to the edges of her palms, yellow and tawny. The air still has a leftover bite from the aggressive winter a few weeks ago. Things should be: okay.

But they are: wilting.

Yuriko feels her chest tighten uncomfortably, the invisible claws dragging down along the lines of her stomach and stopping just above her hip bones, the cause of stressed stretch marks. And this is—ugly. It uncurls and uncurls and uncurls before it drops to the ground and stains her skin an obnoxious shade, leaving Yuriko to wonder what is wrong with her, what went sideways, what is twisted?

Maybe it is her. Maybe this is the answer, but Yuriko has always been too stubborn to look at her own faults because as long as she avoids the mirror, things can be covered in velvet.

Across from her, her lips contort in distaste with the sound of Jake's laughter. He's not—he's not supposed to be here, because the walk home has always, always consisted of Yuriko and Gwen, not the three of them. She hates it. Her skin burns crimson. The grudge is completely irrational, she supposes, but dark water fills her stomach nonetheless and clogs the base of her throat, turning it an off variation of violet.

But when she peeks at Gwen's face from underneath her lashes, Yuriko's chest loosens just a little bit—just enough for her to breathe. She looks how's always looked: auburn hair wild, cheekbones flushed, hazel-eyes bright. Pretty. Gwen is wearing a new outfit today (Yuriko would know, because they practically share the same closet at this point) and is that eyeshadow smeared on her crease? Are her lips usually this glossy, or is it just the trick of the light?

"Is seven o'clock okay?" he asks confidently, shoulders sliding subtly. "I'll probably take the car and pick you up around then."

Gwen grins. "Sure," she agrees easily. "Seven sounds fine."

Seven o'clock is not fine. They were supposed to watch all of the Harry Potter movies together, but Yuriko hadn't technically asked yet so she can't get upset. This is—upsetting. She's upset. While Gwen is sitting on the couch with a teenage boy, Yuriko will be in her room with old rock music blasting and light purple bed sheets she's too attached to actually throw away.

For the entire walk home, they get ice cream at the local shop and Gwen hands her a few more dollar bills than usual, which Yuriko actually debates throwing it away (but that would be a waste of money) and decides against it. She frowns as tufts of grass brush along the skin of her ankles.

"So," Jake starts, licking his ice cream. "How long have you guys been best friends?"

Yuriko sniffs. "Seven years now," she tells him quietly, voice resembling blades. "A long time."

Longer than you.

Gwen nods in affirmation and lets the Japanese girl lean her head on her shoulder, still a bit on the shorter end due to their two year age gap. She smells of cherry blossoms and those mints in the back of her cabinet, a little cold but strangely comforting, like her mother's floral perfume and worn pillows.

(If Gwen notices how Yuriko subtly tugs her to her side, she doesn't say anything about it.)

"That's cool," Jake responds casually, licking the side of his cone to catch the dripping ice cream. "I can't imagine having my best friend in ninth grade, actually. Does it get weird when, like, you're hanging out with kids our age?"

Gwen blinks. "What?" she asks. Yuriko wants to curl up and scream—she feels so small, small, small. Unimportant. Invisible. "What do you mean?"

Jake runs a hand through his ordinary brown hair and shrugs. "I'm not trying to be rude, but we're juniors. We're applying to college, getting drunk, stuff like that. Freshmen usually—don't. It's a different crowd, that's all I'm saying."