After a short pause, she asks softly, “What’s someone like me?”
I think about it for a second. “…a girl.” I feel bad even saying it, and I realize that my perception of people isn’t what it should be. Maybe no one’s really is. We can’t really know who people are until we meet them.
“I’m not the only girl who likes video games,” she says. “And I’m definitely not the only one that likes Tumblr.”
“That I know,” I say, more than curious about how she uses Tumblr. Quickly, I reblog a couple gif sets from Supernatural. “What’s your username?”
She fixes her glasses. “I can’t say.”
I raise my brows. “What is it, some secret?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of,” I repeat with an uncommon, growing smile. “Can I get a hint?”
She gives me a knowing look. “So you can break into my account? No.”
“What’s your first pet’s name?” I quip. “The city you were born in?”
She shakes her head at me like not working. I didn’t think it would, but she’s less nervous to meet my eyes. Hers are pretty: brown but a little hazel near her pupils.
“For the record,” I tell her, “I don’t have a ton of friends…” at least not anymore.
“It looked like you did,” she mutters.
My stomach turns. I decide to change the subject back to the lighter one. “We could message each other if you share your username with me.”
She thinks hard again. “You really want to know it?”
Do I want to know what she’s like online? What kind of things she’s into? Yeah, I do. “I wouldn’t be asking again if I didn’t.”
“I’ll tell it to you, but only if you fill out a questionnaire on Tumblr first.”
I frown in confusion. “Why?”
She tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve filled one out recently, and I don’t like deleting things…”
It hits me. She doesn’t want me to see her answers, at least not without jumping into the same boat she’s floating in.
A questionnaire.
I try to stifle a laugh that almost escapes. It’s probably one of those things you tag your friends in and they tag other people—I don’t do those. Ever.
She begins to recoil from me, and I immediately want to punch myself in the face. Shit. I set a hand on hers, and she jumps.
“Sorry.” I let go. “I’m not trying to be an ass. I just…you really want me to fill out a questionnaire?”
“Only if you want my username.”
I give her a weak smile—I’m not good at smiling, to be honest. I can’t remember the last time I was happy enough to reveal my teeth in one. Maybe never. I bet I was a morose, assholish baby. “Alright.” I commit. “I’ll do it.”
She shows me a link to the questionnaire. I vaguely skim some of the questions, zoning in on really personal ones. If I end up doing this, it’ll mean opening up to Willow…and Willow opening up to me.
What do you say, Garrison?
I say that I’ve never done that to anyone before.
This will be a first. And I’m surprised I have some of those left.
8
willow moore
Garrison said he’d fill out the questionnaire later. Maya came in and doled out duties for us before he could even start. Most of the day I spent checking inventory, and she made Garrison clean coffee machines, mop floors, and bus tables.
I don’t see him when I exit Superheroes & Scones at 5 p.m.—though I can’t stop thinking about him. He seems like trouble, like someone I’d stay a thousand feet away from in Caribou, Maine. If my suspicions are right, his friends were the ones that broke into Lo’s house.
He seems characteristically bad.
I’m just scared he’d pressure me to do something I wouldn’t want to do. I’ve never had friends like that, but he seems the type, doesn’t he?
I approach my gold Honda on the curb, knowing that I’m judging him.
But I’m judging him off prior actions.
I can’t make up my mind. In fact, my mind really hurts even trying to place Garrison in a category. Maybe I shouldn’t try to place him at all.
I crawl into my car and then start the engine. It lets out a whiney noise. “No…come on.” I turn the key again, and smoke suddenly plumes from the hood. “Crap.” I climb out, and in haste to check beneath the hood, smoke rushes out, so hot that it burns my arm.
I drop the hood and it clatters down.
“Hey, Willow!” The concerned voice drives nerves throughout my body. Oh my God, Garrison is sprinting over to me, his hoodie wadded up in one hand and his car keys jangling in the other.
“Hey,” I say, pressing my reddened arm to my chest, the sting lessening. I’m shifting so awkwardly that I probably look like I have to pee.
He wafts the smoke above the hood. “What happened?”