JUNE 2ND, 2014 – 11:55 AM, EASTERN STANDARD TIME
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
THE SAVANNAH GAZETTE HQ
The Savannah Gazette is run by two small town shopkeepers by the names of Lula and George, a pair of remarkably close and remarkably old twins, both of whom are absolutely shocked to find that two teenagers are interested enough in the printed word to march all the way through the hot, Savannah sun to ask for an ad in their paper (a notion they thought had been lost among the youth since that “damn Angry Birds came out.”)
The notion seems preposterous, they both must admit. It must’ve been ‘99 – no, ’97, Lula reminds her brother – since they last posted a “help wanted” ad. We don’t get many interested folks, he had said. People don’t really care for local newspapers anymore, now that everything’s digitalized.
“Well, this is very important,” Emme insists diligently, sliding over the envelope with the ad inside, along with the required $20.15 it costs to print it. Spencer stands dutifully at her side, though he could be thinking of eight million things he’d rather be doing. They could be in their favorite coffee shop right now, air conditioned and breezy, sipping cool drinks from brightly colored straws – but no. Emme’s seemed to make it her mission to locate this Darin McDowell, whoever he might be.
Lula smiles and eyes the envelope from her graciously, “Thank y’all so much. I’ll be sure to print this in next week’s paper, now, all right?” She says in a patronizing sort of way, her voice slick with a heavy Southern drawl.
Emme’s eyes widen briefly, her fingers clutching desperately to the counter, “Um, no. I think there’s been a mistake. I need this printed ASAP.”
“Oh, ASAP?” Lula says, alarmed. She looks towards her brother, “Looks like that’s gon’—”
“—Be an issue, darlin’,” George finishes sorrowfully. “We’re usually daily, but we just don’t got the money. Nobody’s buyin’ from small, local businesses no more.”
Lula looks towards the sky in prayer, “Lord, strike that Obama where he stands!” She whispers.
Emme frowns, already made slightly uncomfortable; yet, she doesn’t flinch. “And I’m sorry. But isn’t there any way that we could get this out earlier? It’s very important that I get a response as soon as possible.”
“Well, you never know with these things, darlin’,” he sighs. “Depends on the person who’s readin.’ What kinda ad are you puttin’ out, anyway?”
“I need three people to drive to San Francisco with me and my friend to find my pen pal,” Emme says, her face remaining stolid throughout. The moment after her words leave her lips, she’s immediately met with a look of concern. She sighs, “He’s missing,” she attempts to justify.
Trying not to judge, Lula’s face still nearly screams with disapproval, the creases in her forehead cutting into her skin like knife marks. “Well, hon, a response to that could take ages. I don’t know many folks—”
George’s lips are set in a stark look of worry, “—Who’d be willin’ to make that trip.”
Spencer, who’s remained silent up until this point, lets out a monstrous sigh, grabbing his friend by the arm. “Emme, can we just go? I knew this wouldn’t work out,” he says, though he’s immediately met with fervent resistance on her end as she nearly rips her arm clean out of its socket.
“I’m not leaving,” she tells him, insistent. Her eyes lock onto the shop owners like heat sensing lasers, “I can’t emphasize how important it is that I do this.
Lula sighs resentfully, “I’m not doubtin’ ya, hon, but I’m tellin’ you—”
“—That this is one hard fish to catch,” George remarks.
But she’s unflinching. “Well, I’m going to put my faith in this,” Emme says to both Lula and George, whose look of disapproval has seemed to melt away slowly into pity, and it’s really the last thing Emme would’ve like to see. “Okay?"
“Oh, honey,” Lula says with a sigh, reaching to just brush Emme’s hands on the counter. “Y’all don’t need to tell us about faith.”
“I’ve got faith in a lot of things, sure,” George goes onto say. “I’ve got faith in my Lord. I got faith in this here shop, and those trees out there, those flowers, and that sun up above us. And I’ve got faith that the world will keep on spinnin’ long after I’ve left this planet, and long after you two as well – but you know what?” He laughs, smiling in a heavily sad kind of way, “I ain’t never put much faith in people.”
Emme and Spencer both frown, the hardened creases of her face softening. Emme’s heavy eyes fall on his, and all she can manage to do is push the envelope on the counter further towards him to where it’s teetering on the edge.
“I’ll be expecting this next week, then,” Emme says softly, nodding towards the two. And with that, she turns on her heel and grabs Spencer by his wrist, marching back out into the heat before anyone could convince them otherwise.
✎
Emme’s done her best to appease Spencer after a long few minutes walking back from Lula and George’s by stopping in their favorite coffee place for a much needed respite. They get their usual, sit in their usual spot, and make their usual chit-chat before Spencer breaks out into either: a) an outrageous rumor he’s heard through his mother that can’t possibly be true, or b) an outrageous rumor that he’s started. This time it’s the latter.
“Yeah, so before school ended, I’d heard Francesca Smull say that my clothes made me look like a poor man’s Prince – which is totally untrue, I mean, you know that ruffled shirt has style.”
But Emme’s not really listening this time, because she’s instead staring out the window, wondering where Darin might be and how she might get there. Spencer certainly wasn’t thrilled about the prospect, and her entanglement with the police was now out of the question since her confrontation with Freddie Symanski – an experience which she’s kept secret from Spencer – and it didn’t seem as if anyone really had much faith in her plan at all.
But it wasn’t very much like she had a choice whether or not to seek out Darin. She felt a compulsion to; an obligation to.
“So I may or may not have told Madilyn D’Agostino that she was pregnant. It was just a joke, but the other day when I was in town and saw Ricky – you remember Ricky, he’s my ex from Hilton Head last summer – he knew about it. Emme. Ricky goes to school in South Carolina,” he says, immediately collapsing into laughter. Emme nods in response, taking a long sip of her iced tea before looking back towards the window. Spencer sighs, bumping her leg under the table. “Emme. What’s wrong? Talk to me. Usually you’d find that hilarious."
Emme sighs, gazing down at her cup, watching intently the swirls and patterns that exist in the intricate world of its own. She bites down on her lips, hard, “Don’t you get tired of coming here all the time?"
“What do you mean?”
She sighs, “We come here, like, every day. We order the same thing, like, every day. And every day, you gossip about people from our school – but I’m so tired about hearing about people from our school.”
Spencer rolls his eyes, “This is about Darin, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s—"
“—Of course it is, Emme,” he scoffs. “You’re obsessed with finding this guy. You’re going to the newspapers, putting out Help Wanted ads. It’s not normal – you don’t even know the guy!”
Emme scowls, looking back down at her iced tea, nauseated. “I’m sorry for wanting to do something for once.”
“You wanna do something?” Spencer exclaims, laughing now. “Then let’s do something! Let’s go to a club. Let’s get fake IDs. Let’s take a trip to Hilton Head – we can stay at my beach house. Let’s do anything except cross the country for this guy!”
But she shakes her head, “I’m not negotiating this with you. I’m going to find Darin, whether you approve or not.”
Spencer curses under his breath, burying his face in his hands. “You’re crazy, Emme Foss,” he chuckles under his breath. “Absolutely crazy."
And that sets off a spark deep inside her, and immediately she feels like she has to get some air. Before she can say why, she’s already on her feet, about ready to head for the door when she finds herself collide with another body, sending each other spiraling to the floor.
“Emme!” Spencer shouts, and immediately he’s helping her up as she tries to regain her footing. “Fuck. Are you okay? You hit the floor like Christian Slater’s career.”
She shakes her head, wincing in pain, “Yeah, I’m fine—”
“—God dammit, you fucking crushed my muffin,” A familiar voice gripes, gasping.
Emme looks up to the girl in question only to see a very recognizable – and somewhat frightening – face. Bea Barnes could be recognized from a mile away, with a tower of red coils sitting atop her head, her face splayed with freckles with eyes wide and innocent looking as a China doll’s. Though, anyone who knew her would know she’s far from such a thing.
“Oh, God,” Emme gulps nervously, “I’m sorry, Bea, I didn’t mean to—”
“—Also, Beatrice,” Spencer pipes up, wincing, “just saying that you might want to rephrase that sentence in the future. It can be misconstrued in a multitude of ways."
Beatrice scowls, her nose crinkling in disgust. “Oh, go fuck yourself, Birch. Don’t you have someone else to go bother?” She grumbles, reaching down to pick up the crumbs remaining scattered across the floor. Bending down to assist her, Emme begins to sweep them up with the palm of her hand.
“I’m really sorry, Bea, honestly,” Emme says. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Obviously,” she grumbles. “That was for my dad. Now I’m going to have to get him another one.”
“Oh, heading to the repair shop, are we?” Spencer asks, leaning over his seat to watch with wide eyes. “I’d just love to swing by. You know how I love the smell of oil and grime.”
Bea looks up at him, smiling menacingly. “You know, I’d just love that. Wouldn’t it be a nuisance, though, to get all that oil and grime under your nails?”
Spencer only nods in agreement, “You’re right. It’d be absolutely heinous – but a small price to pay for your company.”
She rolls her eyes, and just as she and Emme could sweep up the last of it, she throws them out in the garbage can, grabbing her things. “As thrilling as this meeting has been, I think I’ll just go get him something from the coffee shop down the street.”
As she marches away dramatically, her stick figure legs sounding like a thunder clap, Spencer waves goodbye to her with a napkin, blotted with grease from his croissant. “See you later, Beatrice! Don’t be a stranger!"
The moment she leaves the shop, Emme turns around to meet Spencer, glaring, “You don’t have to be so mean to her."
“You’re too goodhearted, Emme,” Spencer laughs, smiling smugly as he reclines back into his armchair. “That’s why you can’t go out into the world looking for skeletons under rocks.”
✎
JUNE 8TH, 2014 – 3:15 PM, EASTERN STANDARD TIME
TYBEE ISLAND, GEORGIA
THE SYMANSKI RESIDENCE
“That poor, poor, crazy girl,” is what Freddie overhears his mother, Shanti, gossiping to her best friend, Barbara Pabst in hushed tones on the porch once he’s finished his chores for the afternoon. Her accent is heavy and clings to her words like fretful ivy as they sip iced tea in whicker furniture underneath one of the coolest days they’ve seen yet this summer. She flattens out her copy of the Savannah Gazette on the glass coffee table, sighing, “It’s those parents of her. They let her roam around the island on that lousy old bike of hers without supervision. There’s no boundaries in her life.”
Freddie doesn’t have to think twice about who they’re talking about. There’s only one girl who rides around endlessly on her bike, and there’s only one girl he knows who even the parents around town have dubbed as “crazy.” Freddie also has to admit he’s been thinking about Emme, trying to strategically work around some form of apology, but he’s not yet summoned up the courage to find her and do it – but hearing his mother and Barbara speak about God knows what in the newspaper concerning Emme is just enough to possibly prompt him to do so.
“I agree,” Barbara sighs. “Do her parents even know about this? This sounds awfully dangerous – I mean, a cross-country road trip? She’s only seventeen.”
“And I doubt either William or Marjorie know a thing about it,” Shanti sighs, shaking her head. “I’d mention something to them, but I simply don’t know them well enough.”
“Does anyone, really?” Barbara scoffs, “I mean, the people are recluses. They spend all day in that ugly old station wagon and drink those disgusting herbal smoothies…”—Barbara pauses, looking around to check if Shanti’s husband might be around before she leans in to whisper—“I bet they even do the pot."
Shanti laughs into her drink shamelessly, “I don’t think there’s a person in this town that hasn’t come to that conclusion, Barb,” she laughs, before her tone grows solemn once again. “I just can’t help but feel so sorry for their girls. Emmeline is obviously in need of some stability, and I haven’t even heard from Ramona since she was a little girl.”
“A damn shame,” Barbara says sorrowfully, shaking her head.
And at this point, Freddie doesn’t think he can stand another moment of silently listening to his mother and Barbara go on and on about Emme like she’s a test subject, so he walks in nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t heard anything at all. When Shanti sees him walk in, her eyes grow wide and she reaches out to take his hand, “Oh, Alfred! I’ve been looking for you – say hi to Barb, will you?”
Freddie nods towards her, forcing a smile, “Nice to see you, Mrs. Pabst.”
Barbara smiles widely, “Oh, you’ve just gotten so big, Freddie, I can’t believe it. You’re so tall, just like your father. But you really do look just like your mother.”
He nods, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Shanti smiles, squeezing his hand, “Are you headed to Miles’s house, then, beta?"
Freddie nods, though he hasn’t quite considered it. If anything, it’s a good excuse to have come through the porch. “Yeah, I was just coming to say bye,” he says, and the moment the words leave his mouth, his hungry eyes catch sight of the newspaper sitting on the coffee table. He can just make out the Help Wanted section, but his eyes can’t make out the miniscule writing.
“Well, don’t keep Miles waiting – and tell Mrs. Jones I said hello, would you?” Shanti asks, smiling.
Freddie blinks, vaguely disoriented. “Oh – oh, yeah, I will,” he says. After a moment, he points to the newspaper, “Hey, do you mind if I take that with me?”
His mother looks at him, confused. “Since when do you read the paper?
Barbara butts in, eyes expressively pitying, “He’s probably just concerned about his classmate,” she says, directing her attention to Freddie. “It’s a troubling matter, isn’t it?”
“Um, yeah,” Freddie says nervously. He looks back at his mother, “Also, um, the comics are pretty funny.”
Shanti smiles wanly, reaching over to grab the newspaper and hand it to him, “Well, all right – take it,” she says.
“Thanks, mom,” he says with a smile, headed immediately for the door. Before it shuts behind him, he bids goodbye to both women as he makes his way onto his lawn. Immediately, he unfolds the paper, his eyes scanning the Help Wanted section for Emme’s ad. Once he finally finds it, his eyes are alight – it’s small, pushed into a corner without any photos or embellishments, but the words definitely belong to Emme.
It reads:
WANTED: THREE PERSONS TO TRAVEL THE COUNTRY IN SEARCH OF THE MYSTERIOUS, MISSING DARIN MCDOWELL. JOURNEY IS FROM SAVANNAH, GEORGIA TO SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. WE WILL NEED A CAR AS WELL AS SOMEONE TO DRIVE IT. WE ALSO HAVE A VERY SPECIFIC SET OF CHARACTER TROPES THAT MUST BE FULFILLED – STARRY EYED OPTIMIST AND SELF-ABSORBED GAY GUY ARE ALREADY TAKEN.
REWARD INCLUDES THE OUTSTANDING COMPANY OF YOURS TRULY, EMME FOSS. BRING SNACKS.
IF YOU INTEND ON EMBARKING ON THIS PERILOUS JOURNEY, PLEASE CONSULT EMMELINE CLAUDETTE FOSS AT 201 ARCHER WAY, OR AT 555-1082. SHE WILL BE EAGERLY AWAITING YOUR PARTICIPATION.
THE WEAK HEARTED ARE ADVISED TO STAY AT HOME.
✎
When Miles is done reading the ad, all Freddie can see are his black eyes peering over the top of the newspaper, glaring at him skeptically.
“So…this is for real?”
“Are you surprised?”
“Absolutely not.”
Miles Jones’s room is an absolute catastrophe, from the scattered clothes to the untidy, unfinished scraps of food, drink, and empty, hidden beer cans stashed away under his bed. It’s an absolute wonder as to why Mrs. Jones hasn’t thrown him on the street yet, because Freddie can smell the odor wafting from halfway down the corridor. And yet, Miles still seems to find heart in teasing Emme.
“Maybe Bitchy Barbara Pabst is right. She does seem pretty insane,” he says, his eyes skimming over the article. He throws it to the side where it falls off his bed, onto a pile of clothes to be forgotten. “She scares the shit out of me, too. Every time I see her biking by, she gives me the single scariest evil eye I’ve ever seen – it’d make stronger men shit themselves.”
Freddie frown, picking the newspaper back up, eyes glancing over the ad. “She seems pretty desperate. She sounded pretty desperate when I talked to her.”
But Miles is more entangled in his own thoughts, and soon the conversation is more of a monologue than a dialogue. “I mean, does she actually think that anyone would do this? I mean, how does she even know that this guy, Darin, isn’t a serial killer, or like, someone who kills people and feeds their remains to their next victims?”
“First of all, you watch too much Criminal Minds,” Freddie says, glaring. “Secondly, I don’t think that seems fair.”
Miles frowns, shooting him a straight on look, cold and critical as ice. “Hold on – weren’t you the one who called her crazy to her face just last week?”
Freddie instantly remembers why he regrets regaling Miles with the story of how he made Emme Foss, a perfectly nice girl with a perfectly awful reputation, wheel away from him at the speed of sound. He draws in a sharp breath.
“Yes, but it’s not like I meant it. I was annoyed and in the moment.”
“Well, she seems pretty insane to me,” he scoffs, gesturing to the newspaper. He looks back at Freddie who’s got that look on his face, a look he knows all to well as one of guilty contemplation, “Wait – you can’t tell me that you’ve considered talking to her about this?”
Freddie frowns, gazing down at Miles’s carpeted floor, stained with years of Mountain Dew and nacho cheese. “Well, I mean…”
“Oh, come on, man!” Miles exclaims, collapsing onto his bed like an imploding star. He kicks his legs up, his arms gone flying to his sides like debris from an atom bomb, “You have got to stop doing this kind of shit.”
Freddie grimaces, “What kind of shit?”
He scoffs, peering up at him, “Where you become obsessed with the idea of someone. You know – in love with what they represent. It’s some real Gatsby shit, man, and I don’t like it.”
“I do not do that.”
Miles rolls his eyes, “Dude. Come on. You joined the track team because you had a thing for Delia Frank in the cross-country uniform. You became the Vice-President of the AV club because you thought it’d be cool if you met a book smart girl. Hell, you literally got that shit job at Putt Putt Palace because Lisa Ponderosa worked there last summer and you liked the idea of having a summer fling. Like, in the eighteenth hole, if you catch my drift—”
“Good God, Miles, just stop while you’re ahead—"
“—What I’m saying is you don’t even know this girl,” he says, sitting up, leveling his eyes with Freddie’s, serious for once in his seventeen years of life. “You always do this thing where you’re quick to give people the benefit of the doubt. And while I kind of admire that, you’ve got to be careful.”
“Thank you for your heartwarming sentiments, but I’m fine,” he snaps. “Besides, I thought you’d be up for something like this. Haven’t you always said you wanted to get out of Georgia?”
“Not like this, man!” He says, almost laughably. “I’d rather leave in a body bag than with Emme Foss.”
Frowning, Freddie can only shake his head, “I think you may be over exaggerating.”
“Try under exaggerating,” he retorts briskly, twisting his lips into a frown. “Besides, do you think Savannah Chief of Police Lyndon Symanski would like having his seventeen year old son running around the country with some girl who everyone thinks is nuts?”
Freddie shakes his head, “I don’t care what my dad thinks. That’s just it. I don’t want to be around them – my dad is an ass, my mom’s uninvolved…I just want to leave. I’m fucking fed up.”
Miles smirks, “So that’s it, then? You don’t care about this Darin guy. You just want a fucking adventure,” he says, amused just by the thought. “Well, news flash – Emme Foss is a taskmaster. She’ll work you to the bone trying to find her friend, and once she’s done with you, she’ll toss you to the side.”
Freddie looks up at his friend. For a long moment, there’s a pause – one that can fill up rooms and skeletons and expand, ever growing, through space and time and everything in between that’s been lost in the cracks. And they lock eyes, something inexpressible glimmering like gemstones in his gaze.
“Well,” he sighs, dusting off his shorts and leaping from Miles’s bed in one swift jump. “I say we ask her ourselves.”
✎
JUNE 8TH, 2014 – 6:47 PM, EASTERN STANDARD TIME
TYBEE ISLAND, GEORGIA
Emme rides her bike around the island everyday for roughly thirty minutes in the morning and thirty minutes at night. It’s become habitual, really, in part because she enjoys it, and also because in part, it’s the best way to get around Tybee, even if she’s got nowhere to go.
The journey is one she takes by herself – far away from pestering parents, nitpicking sisters, and otherwise worldly problems. When she’s alone, just at the time when the sun kisses the horizon in a burst of celestial sorbet, she feels at peace. She feels secure.
“Emmeline Foss! Stop right where you are!”
At least, she had up until this moment.
Emme glances over her shoulder momentarily to see what it is that’s so intent on stopping her. Running to catch her are two familiar figures in the distance, panting and waving to try and flag her down.
“Emme, we want to talk to you!” Freddie shouts after her, now only a good ten feet away.
But she frowns, turning back around, quick to accelerate speed. “Sorry – I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Oh, come on, we all know you don’t!” Miles howls, sweat dripping from his forehead as he tries to keep up with Freddie, who’s picked up speed.
Emme curses under her breath, slowing down enough so that they can catch up, but hesitant to stop on the breaks entirely. Freddie and Miles pick up next to her, jogging alongside. She glances at them, “Alfred Symanski. Miles Jones,” she notes solemnly, nodding her head.
Miles cringes, muttering under his breath, “Jesus, why do you have to do that, it’s creepy as shit—”
But she’s unfazed, leaving Miles’s comments to bounce off her leather skin. “What is it that you two want?”
“I saw your ad in the paper,” Freddie says through quick, uneven breaths. He wipes the sweat from his brow.
“Believe it or not, I didn’t crumble into defeat after you rejected me, Symanski. I’m a big girl, and I can do things on my own,” she snaps back, eyes focused straight ahead. Slowly, she begins to pick up speed again, and Freddie scrambles, trying to think of something to say that might ease the tension between their two universes.
“But that’s just it!” He says, gasping for air. “M-Miles and I want to help. We thought…oh, Jesus Christ, I have to get more exercise…we, um, well we thought we could be of service to you.”
Miles quickly buts his head in, frowning, “I’d just like to say that I am not committed to this wild goose chase in the slightest and that anything Freddie assigns me to is not binding”—he frowns, cowering—“Also, you still kind of scare the shit out of me.”
The edge of her mouth twists into an involuntary smirk. Slowly, she begins to slow down, and Freddie seizes his opportunity hungrily.
“Look – I know I turned down your offer before, but that was because my dad would never go for it. I did some thinking, and I’m not opposed to helping you find Darrell.”
“It’s Darin.”
“Darin! Yes, of course. Good ol’ Darin,” Freddie exclaims fretfully. “It’d be a pleasure to help you find him. Really.”
Emme frowns for a moment, but her eyes are wide and sincere. Almost immediately, she backpedals, and the wheels stop with an outstanding screech. Miles collapses onto the pavement, lying down and panting heavily, whispering prayers under his breath as Freddie tries to catch up.
“You’re being serious?” Emme asks, solemn. “You’d actually help me?”
Freddie nods, hands gripping at his knees as he gasps for air, “Absolutely. One-hundred percent.”
“And you haven’t got any sort of weird ulterior motive?”
Freddie shakes his head, holding his palms out, “My motivations are pure. I can assure you.”
Emme purses her lips, in thought. She nods her head towards Miles, looking nearly like a corpse on the asphalt, “And him – what about your friend?”
Freddie looks at him, then quickly back to her, smiling hopefully. “I’m positive I can sway him.”
Slowly, a small grin breaks out on Emme’s face. Freddie wonders if it’s the first one he’s ever seen.
“Well…okay, then. That’s that,” she says.
He nods, smiling eagerly. “So…what now?”
“Now,” she says smugly, “we have a world of planning to do – and you’re going to help me.”
He gulps, nervous. Paling, he wonders exactly what that means, “How so?”
Without warning, Emme reaches out to grab his hand. For someone with such a small stature, her hands are nearly the size of his, but they’re still soft and without callouses. And Freddie’s a bit lost for a moment, but all is made clear one Emme reaches into her pocket and manifests a thin tipped purple sharpie marker, beginning to scribble something on the back of his hand in illegible chicken scratch. He watches her write, noticing all at once that her skin is covered in writing, from numbers to reminders to small little lists that sprawl up and down her forearms.
“This is my address – it’s written in the ad, but I figure I’d give it to you anyway,” she says, capping the marker and putting it back in her pocket at once. “Come by my house tomorrow at noon, sharp”—she smiles—“lemon squares and tang will be served.”
Freddie nods, slightly intimidated. “Y-Yeah. Noon sharp – got it.”
“All right, then,” Emme says, readying herself. And she’s about to head off, but that’s before Freddie stops her, quickly blurting out a cluster of words that meld together in his head.
“B-By the way, Emme,” he says quickly, sorrowfully. “I’m…I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry about calling you crazy before. I was…I was wrong.”
But Emme just stares at him in objective kind of way before she bites down hard on her lip, nodding. “Don’t worry about it,” she says softly. “I’m not offended by that kind of stuff anymore.”
Freddie wants to ask her about what she means by that, but she’s quicker than he could ever imagine, swiping his turn to speak from underneath him, “I’ll be expecting you two at noon sharp tomorrow – don’t be late,” she warns.
And almost immediately, she’s off, before a single syllable can leave Freddie’s mouth. And she leaves both friends in the dust, standing quietly behind her theatrics, the crew of a major production that she’s the star of.
Almost having forgotten Miles, lying on the ground, Freddie looks down when he hears him whistle.
“Tread carefully, man,” he laughs all of a sudden, eyes plastered to the pink and purple melting sky above them. “Tread carefully.”
---
A/N: OKAY SO LIKE I DIDN'T GET INTO THE PENCIL PRIZE BUT IDC HONESTLY, I'M STILL SUPER PUMPED 2 WRITE THIS. HOPE UR EXCITED 2. CATCH U ALL ON THE FLIP SIDE BUDS