See You in the Morning

17 // Serenade

Michelle ducks her head down as she bikes against the assailing, icy wind.

The brittle cold seeps through the layers beneath her old bomber jacket as she rides through her neighborhood, narrowly avoiding strips of ice along the way. Houses on both sides of the street boast holiday decorations of all sorts, from flying reindeer on rooftops to blow-up snowmen anchored precariously to wet patches of dying grass. The cartoonish faces on the festive inflatables contrast the sullen and grinchy way she feels inside.

She bikes on despite the growing loss of feeling in her fingers and cheeks.

It wasn't as though she was born yesterday. In a school of nearly two thousand students, the chances she'd know someone who was gay is likely higher than she should expect. There'd long been rumors that Jack Flora, the captain of the Marbleton Varsity Track Team is gay. And she'd witnessed Jackie Meier lock lips with Samantha Kirby beneath the bleachers once or twice. But being gay isn't something most high schoolers would want to be known for, given the likelihood of becoming even more of a pariah than they probably already felt they were.

Michelle could care less that Ezra was gay. What she did care about was the fact that his assumption of her knowing said fact led her to misread his kindness for mutual romantic attraction. The entire situation would be comical if she weren't so embarrassed.

Why is she so bad at love and friendships?

Friendships should come with a contract in which both participants sign an agreement to tell each other the truth no matter what. If that had been the start of her and Ezra's unusual camaraderie, she would not have to suffer such a disgrace.

Her front tire hits an unexpected puddle deep with slush, effectively drenching both her legs with icy, wet muck.

"Dammit!"

Michelle hits the brakes and throws an aggravated look up into the cheerless sky.

"What do you want?!" she shouts upwards. "What must I do to get your ceaseless, almighty fingers to stop meddling in my pitiful, unhappy life?!"

For a minute, Michelle nearly expects a thunderclap to smite her right then and there. But there is no response, only a blank silence and the low whistle of the wind.

I'm an idiot, she thinks glumly.

Shivering, she clumsily maneuvers herself around. With heavy reluctance, she starts to pedal back the way she came.

Cold, numb, and dripping wet, Michelle parks her bike in the garage before peeling off her nasty Chuck Taylors. Her muddied feet squish pathetically across the concrete floor as she trudges towards the door leading into the house.

She pauses as she approaches the neat row of shoes lined near the step in front of the door. Her father's loafers and tennis shoes are side by side, and next to those are a pair of smaller (though, not by much), thrifted black leather Chelsea boots that have been repaired a few times. These belonged to Josie, who had slipped in late last night for the Christmas holiday.

Michelle squints at the black boots, feeling spiteful and sorry for herself. Smirking deviously, she shakes the dirty water from her shoes onto her sister's boots before dropping her Chuck Taylors carelessly onto the floor.

Feeling pleased with herself, Michelle steps daintily over the dank shoes and enters the house.

An herby aroma of rosemary and cloves mingled with pork and apples wafts into her face as she steps into the hallway. Michelle wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes, despite the reflexive growl of betrayal from her stomach.

"Michelle? Is that you?" Josie's voice calls from the kitchen. "Wanna give me a hand with dinner? I could use your help."

Classic Josie, trying to manipulate me with her cooking, Michelle grouches in her head.