"DAMN THIS STUPID poem!"
Ruby glances over as I stab my pen into the table before shooting up, hands flat to wood, breath coming out heavy.
"What's wrong this time?" She sounds like an exhausted parent.
"This thing—" it's a conspiracy, "is coming out all wrong. I've been at it for hours, and it's still garbage."
"Cleo, I don't think you're capable of creating garbage."
"Oh, don't flatter me, Rubes." I begin to pace back and forth, running over ideas and words in my mind. They roll like tides, crashing into each other before dissolving at the shore. "I can't focus."
"Something definitely happened the other day," she says, no trace of doubt in her voice. "The stairwell. Dane Anderson. You've been jumpy ever since."
Oh if only she knew.
"I told you: I'm fine. This has nothing to do with Doggy."
"Doggy?"
I ignore the question before plopping back down at my desk, snatching up my pen.
"Well, while you're having a mental breakdown I'm gonna go pick us up some breakfast, okay?" Ruby stands up from her desk, grabbing her wallet and adjusting her cardigan. "Burrito sound good?"
"God, yes, just tell them to make it extra bacon-y please?"
"You got it."
She's out the door in an instant, and I tug at my nearest curl, pulling it down until I can see the splotchy blonde at the end. My roots are starting to grow out and it's starting to look more and more ratchet. My pen trails over my poem, writing the word hair dye in big block letters before I can even process what I'm doing. "Frick."
I ball up the sheet, tossing it into the trash can before kicking my socked feet up onto the table and letting out the greatest sigh known to man.
All my drafts thus far have come out as vague expressions of envy. The typical green feeling, the glowering, want for power, money, adoration.
They weren't about anything I felt deeply about, and so they'd been irrelevant to me—meaning they'd ultimately gone to the bin. Except if all my poems kept ending up in the trash, I'd have nothing to turn in for the assignment. Nothing to let me rank on that leaderboard above Dane.
I flip to a new page of my notebook, mind wandering back to the room across the hall. Would he also be working on his poem?
Would he also be thinking about me?
A shudder runs through my body at the thought before I shake my head. Ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous.
"Who do I envy?" The words inhabit the silence of the room as I tilt on the back two legs of the desk chair.
People with the world at their fingertips, who are smart enough to plan ahead so they don't end up out of high school with nowhere to go like me, people who can easily make and keep friends, with so much confidence they don't second guess themselves in the face of others' uncertainty.
People who are good at writing.
Like Dane Anderson.
God, it always comes back to him, doesn't it?
At least I can say he's failing, much like me, in the other departments of my envy—except for maybe confidence. He has a little too much of that to be honest.
Focus, Cleo.
"So that's it then? I'm really going to base my poem on a guy I can't stand?" Even as I question it out loud, I know it's going to end up being the case. "I must be insane."
With Dane, being green with envy isn't that sickly shade of puke. It's more...botanical.
My pen slides across the page, shoulders relaxing as words start to seep into the lines.
Sometimes envy has fangs—a Venus flytrap. She catches flies' mistakes and crunches them up, savoring the bitter medicine with a swallow. Perennial cycle of grief.
Sometimes envy's the color of a rose's thorn, so pretty, she laughs while pricking. The bloom swells beautifully, shadowing her knife. Sweet fragrance clogs up her victims' senses until blood is trickling through their fingertips, soaking into cashmere—
I'm not exactly sure how long I spent writing, but before I know it, Ruby's back, tossing my burrito at my head as she sits down.
"Well, you look calm. For once."
"Funny." I tear off the aluminum foil before taking a big bite of bacon, egg, and cheese, moaning loudly, "Man, this hits."
"I can tell," she says, snorting. "Kindly never make that sound in my presence again."
"Shut up," is my response as I settle back in my chair. "You're the enabler."
My phone rings just as I've begun to grow intimately acquainted with the best breakfast burrito I've ever had, making me jolt out my fantasies. I cut my eyes at it before leaning forward to check the caller ID. Then I perk up when I see who it is.
"Hey, Roselyn, what's up?"
"Cleo!" The excited voice of my employer floats through the phone, and I immediately find myself smiling. "I was just calling to check up on you, see how the program's going."
"It's going pretty good, thanks for asking. You'll never guess who's here though."
"Brad Pitt?"
"Now, Roselyn," I huff out in my best disappointed voice. "Don't you think I'd at least send you a picture if I met your celebrity crush?"
She chuckles at my response, and I can picture her shrugging. "A girl can dream."
I shake my head silently before saying, "Unbelievable."
"Well, hurry up, and tell me who. I'm not gonna be alive forever."
Smothering a laugh, I quickly launch into the story of how I ended up at Fish Tank with Dane Anderson for what seems like the hundredth time in the past day, enjoying the gasps of disbelief and surprise from the other side of the line. Once I'm down, I take a satisfied bite of my burrito.
"It's fate, see? That handsome boy and you are meant to be."
I stop chewing, satisfaction immediately dissipating. "What? That's your takeaway, Roselyn? Really?"
"I told you there was probably a reason why he came back to the shop. He could have taken up the complaint with me over the phone, but he wanted to see you again."
"I've essentially just described him as my mortal enemy. Make it make sense."
"When I liked a boy when I was your age, I'd enjoy nothing more than making his life a living hell."
"We are not the same."
"No, but maybe he is."
"Alright, that's enough of this conversation."
"You're young, sweetheart. I'm supposed to tease you—not really that I'm teasing you now so much as making a commentary on fate—but anyway, he's a valued customer. When this is all said and done, if there's any way you can get him back over here—"
"Speaking of customers, what's going on with the shop?" I interrupt, thankful I'm in a different state so she can't flick me for 'disrespecting my elders.'
"Fine, Missy, I'll let you off the hook this time. If you must know about the shop, your mother has come by three days unprovoked now. I think she's lonely at home without you."
I snort. "Really? I guess I should give her a call soon then, huh? She's probably just upset that I'm not there to cook dinner."
"Whatever it is, the woman's driving me nuts. She tried to organize the glass shelves and has broken not one, not two, but three piggy measuring cups! She's a certified menace."
I let out a theatrical gasp. "Not the piggies. See, I told her you would rather let the shop run into the ground than ever hire her while I was gone."
Roselyn sighs in agreement on the other end of the line, a little too convincingly to be just a joke. "At least she means well."
I snort again.
"Well, I know you're busy, dear. I just wanted to see if you'd adjusted yet, but you seem to be in great company over there."
My groan is only half-hearted, and I can tell she knows it. "Enough, god, please. Bye, Roselyn, have a good afternoon!"
"Mwah, you too, Cleo!"
I mimic the sound before polishing off my burrito, turning toward Ruby as she opens her mouth.
"Who was that?" Her own burrito's also demolished.
"My boss at Crafty Corner." I get up from my seat to start laying out my clothes for class in an hour. We're on an afternoon schedule today.
"Wow, I can't believe you work at, like, a Hallmark store. That's so cool." Then looking at the outfit I've just laid out she adds, "And unexpected."
My gaze strays to the black minidress with her before I hold it up to the light, surveying.
The halter-neckline curves over the chest perfectly, holding everything secure while also adding a little oomph, if you know what I mean. Stretchy fabric hugging tightly around the bodice before flaring into something like a tennis skirt that stops at the tops of my thighs.
It's probably a bit too much, but I'm known for being a bit too much, so screw it.
I'm a woman on a mission.
***
there's so much going on this week, but u know i still had to update :) cleo over responsibilities all the time, i don't make the rules
ALSO somehow we hit 3.5k? that is insaneee
Q: what's your favorite breakfast?
mine's probably french toast and bacon or something else sweet and savory lmao