Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sasha is twelve when she has her very first extravagant birthday party, and she’s been given permission to invite all the children of Cinderbrush Hills to attend. It was, like most things she did even at this stage of her life, a strategic move to secure her crown.

The best part of the deal is that her parents are still abroad, so they don’t even have to be there. She doesn’t want them anywhere home during her special day anyway—never had, not since the disaster during her ninth. But she digresses.

About a hundred and twenty children came. That’s sixty less of the actual number of the entire grade school population, as such in small towns like this in the middle of nowhere, Arizona. Sasha is nevertheless thrilled that her many friends attended, and that she’s once again at the very heart of the festivities, providing not only fun and comfort but also luxuries that none of them has experienced before until today.

Mother imparted they should always give back to the less fortunate, for to nurture a charitable spirit immediately gets one in people’s good graces. Father emphasized that these charitable debts that the townsfolk of Cinderbrush Hills would acquire should weigh like helpful reminders of their family’s status, so that these folks won’t ever forget what the Murasakis stand for and what they’re capable of—and what Sasha would become in the near future, especially. And it all starts here on her twelfth birthday.

After an hour passes of non-stop merry-making and the occasional gossip in which Sasha would hover from one table of cliques to the next—amassing information and admiration like nectar—the birthday girl wanders back inside the mansion and towards the huge carpeted staircase. She must have been either bored or tired at this point that she needs to recuperate before she faces her captive audience once more.

The carpeted mahogany staircase was the most obvious symbol of luxury in their household. Mother usually kept each room and hallway modest even though the décor she chose remained sophisticated and very pricey. The Murasakis are the type of rich who don’t flaunt their status through what they own. Too many displays of wealth are just tacky after all, and Father instead wants their power and influence to come out in the subtlest ways. Sasha will soon learn and utilize these ways herself, in time.

The orange glow emanating from the decorative electric lanterns which hung beside each door seems to compensate for the natural coldness that this deserted hallway is engulfed in. There were five rooms in total; a master bedroom, two guest rooms, Sasha’s, and a spare one for Mother’s hobbies. (They don’t talk about that room. Never will.)

As soon as the birthday girl turns to a corner to reach her room, she freezes at the sight of an open door. Someone is inside, probably. One of the maids? Could be, but they follow a strict schedule for cleaning duties, so they should all be at the garden right now, in alternating stations that serve food and drinks.

Sasha isn’t intimidated. Garbed in a figure-fitting silver-blue evening gown no twelve-year old would select (yet she did), mostly to call attention to the fact that she’s already hit puberty this year, the Murasaki heiress was taught never to be afraid of the uncertain. She should embrace it, Father said, because hitsuzen, the inescapable, was not for humans to control. This way she’ll be more free to make better use of her time anticipating events that she could influence. In time, again, she would learn this craft.

Once Sasha steps into the threshold of her spacious bedroom, she places one hand on her left hip then walks forward whilst crossing one foot over the other. Head held high, Sasha knows she’s a vision. She’s made sure her posture and poise were perfect even when she’s alone, so that not a single strand of long dark hair strays, nor do her silver dangling earrings shake.

She makes a beeline from the doorway to the closet in no time, knowing that the intruder must be hiding in there. It’s a walk-in closet, which was her favorite part of her room, and was one of the few places in the mansion that had shoji. These were hardly conventional doors, since they’re merely thin barriers that slide across the floor. Sasha’s version, however, resemble the very first shoji she saw in an old film from Japan.

The translucent sheets across a lattice frame have ornate designs of black and gold butterflies accompanied by words in shūji. These words belong to dead poets from some era long ago. They stand out like a frozen slice of nostalgia that wasn’t even hers.

Still, Sasha thought they were glamorous even in their simplicity, so she convinced her parents to have ones commissioned for her. Mother complimented her good taste. That was much, much sweeter. (The older female Murasaki is sparse in her compliments.)

“Come out,” she commands, adopting the same authoritative tone she often witnessed her father speak in, regardless whether in Japanese, German, or English. “Come out now or I’ll make sure you regret it. You don’t want to stay locked in a closet forever, do you?”

Figuratively, of course, because this one doesn’t have locks, but that can still be arranged. Sasha, on instinct, takes a few steps back, as if to anticipate the intruder’s surrender. She was right; the shoji slides open with a rustle, and out comes what she could only describe as a pretty little thing in one of her baby-doll dresses.

“Well?” Sasha crosses her arms. She knows, too, that’s it a boy, regardless of how pretty he looks. But that’s not what she takes issue with. He’s wearing something she owns. Like, how dare he? With a sigh to downplay her impatience, she retorts, “Borrowing something without permission is still considered stealing, Jameson Wrenly.”

She says each syllable of his first name with an exaggerated enunciation.

They were in the same grade but attended only a few classes together. She also knows him by reputation. Not only is Jameson Wrenly notoriously freaky, but he’s also a stubborn shit who would dare go head to toe with the biggest boy in the playground. He’s almost admirable in his grit and foolishness. Lucky his mom’s a cop and all that.

“You sneaky little thief,” Sasha smirks while she assesses him with a pointed stare. “Is this how you’re going to show gratitude after I opened my home for you, Jay-mi-son?” Again with the enunciation that’s borderline coquettish.

“That’s not my name,” he quips as he raises a hand to twirl his (manicured?) fingers around loose ringlets of shoulder-length blond hair. “It means ‘son of James.’ My dad’s name isn’t even fucking James.”

“Right,” she herself runs her dainty fingers through coal-black smooth hair before she subtly tugs her gown in another attempt to put forth her budding breasts that’s held snugly by the fabric. Jameson notices but looks unimpressed.

“I suppose we should call you ‘Gregson’ instead.”

“Fuck that,” the boy in the baby-doll dress starts fuming. He’s only two inches shorter than Sasha, with skinny smooth legs that made her think of a ballerina. There’s also a flush now on his cheeks. “I’m nobody’s son. Got it?”

“You certainly aren’t,” she giggles. Honestly, this tiny debate is getting ridiculous. Sasha gestures lazily at him, adding, “Not while you’re wearing that, no.”

Jameson’s eyes narrow. The blue in them holds no sparkle at all. Something about his expression reminds her of how adults would scrutinize other children they do not favor as nearly as they do Sasha. Coldly, she realizes she never wants to be at the receiving end of it, so she steps forward and in a challenging tone she says, “What? You want to say something else, right, princess?”

“Don’t call me that either because I didn’t put this on to be labelled in the same category as your pampered ass,” he protests, fists curling around the fabric of the dress he wore without Sasha’s permission. She grimaces at that unexpected comment, and before she could say anything, Jameson moves away to plop himself over the edge of her fluffy bed. Legs swinging, he smiles at Sasha with the kind of smile that hints a secret she could never hoard.

The irritation is still present, but the birthday girl is also intrigued. To get back the upper hand, she comments, “You are very pretty in my dress, you know.”

He isn’t embarrassed at all and instead takes it as a genuine compliment. “Why, thank you, darling,” he speaks in a faux-English accent, “Thank you for noticing.”

Sasha gapes for a second or two before she laughs. It isn’t her usual laugh coded in cruel meaning; the one she often throws casually to those in the lowest rungs of the school’s hierarchy. Jameson senses it somehow, and he grins at her. He looks relaxed in her presence. Sasha doesn’t like it when anyone gets too comfy, but for now she’ll allow it.

“Have you ever tried putting on make-up?” This time it’s just a question with no intent to mock or bruise. Again, the boy picks up on it so he nods.

“That and nail polish?” she looks at his hands, “Show me?”

Jameson offers them after a beat and she takes them. She becomes vaguely aware that she’s never held a boy’s hands like this before. Sure, Sasha did crook her fingers around a boy’s collar or belt loops a few times, but it’s mostly with boys like Cameron Solomon who was handsome, athletic and elite and therefore worth her touch.

But then again she was more concerned of Jameson’s nail polish, so maybe she should just treat him like he would her gal pals. Isn’t that why he played dress-up? ‘cause he’s one of those ‘queers’ she heard parents talk about in hushed whispers sometimes?

“It’s a little uneven, but applying nail polish on yourself does take practice,” Sasha releases his hands and then gingerly starts running her fingers through his soft curls.

He doesn’t move away, but she could detect he’s nervous as he darts his gaze back and forth from her face and to the closet behind her. Sasha ignores that in favor of walking towards the dresser where she grabbed one of her combs. She chooses the right one so as not to ruin Jameson’s golden ringlets as soon as she starts brushing his hair.

But the boy stares at the comb as if she might as well have brandished a weapon. Scooting right into the center of her bed next, he folds his legs underneath him so that the yellow dress spills against the sheets. He looks so much like a flower, and when Sasha hovers above him next, he raises his hands to fight off her advances with the comb.

“Quit it!” she says between breathless giggles, “I just want to make you look prettier!”

“You’re so dumb! And I’m not your kid sister, Sasha, so get off me!” he looks so serious for a moment as he grabs her wrists but afterwards he cracks a smile and tries to wrestle her. Sasha lets out a squeal as soon as he’s on top of her, tickling her around the waist. She forgets in those precious several seconds who they both are—that this isn’t proper, that she’s a Murasaki, and he’s an odd duck she’s not supposed to befriend.

She feels truly like a twelve-year old for the first time, a child who doesn’t have to masquerade as a woman just yet. And once she has successfully pushed off Jameson and the two end up lying next to each other—breathless and giddy from that excursion—Sasha turns to look at him.

“You like me, don’t you?” she says in a mild tone, and for once she isn’t feigning coy cuteness. Her hand fondles the sash along the yellow dress’s waistline. Everyone likes Sasha. They can’t help but fawn over Sasha. No one would dare prove otherwise.

Jameson is looking up at the ceiling but he answers, “Not really. You’re kinda mean.”

She giggles, like it’s something to be proud of. “I know.”

“I only like the clothes you wear. You’re the most stylish girl I’ve ever seen. It’s annoying.”

Not only does that earnest admittance flatter her, but also the fact that he’s envious about it, which for Sasha is much, much sweeter.

“By the way, I’m only mean because people want to be around you more when they believe you are better than them. Makes them want to please you. That’s what Mother told me. And Mother knows best. I’m sure your mom has some advice for you too.”

“Oh, yeah,” he replies in a bored tone. “Like, ‘don’t wear a girl’s costume on Halloween’, or ‘you can’t use your cousin Jane’s cooking set to do voodoo stuff anymore’. And my personal favorite…”

He turns to stare coldly back at Sasha. He imitates what she assumes is his best impression of a concerned mother: “’James, promise me you won’t kiss a boy again. You’re only thirteen, and you don’t know what you really want. People talk in this town, and I can’t always protect you’.”

“She sounds like she knows better though,” Sasha offers consolingly enough, to which he only responds to with a derisive snort.

“Does Mommy Murasaki always do? Because I think parents talk bullshit all the time,” He moves away from her and goes back to staring at the ceiling moodily. “They make up things on the fly just to control you. Mine never do things for love. I know that. They tell me things out of fear. And they think I’m supposed to let them get away with it.”

“But you are only twelve,” she’s far too amused to let him rant freely without a second opinion. “You shouldn’t kiss boys or act like this is your whole life already, Jay-mi-son.”

“Says the girl who’s dressed right now like she’s in a pageant contest. Besides, I’ll be thirteen next year in January. That’s only eight months from now.”

“My life is kinda like one,” she replies belatedly, “A pageantry, that is.”

“Yeah?” He sits up and glares. “Who decided this for you?”

It seems easy to reveal these things to one another. Suspiciously too easy. But perhaps they’re just so starved for some kind of fleeting connection, that they would rather readily snatch it in small crumbs than wait for something more filling yet not within reach.

Outside Sasha could hear the muted celebration below them. She wonders if anyone took notice that she wasn’t even there anymore. Maybe everyone’s too enraptured by the colorful treats and prizes from the hired entertainment that everyone also forgot this was supposed to be one particular little girl’s special day. Dimly, she doesn’t think it would be so bad, not while Jameson’s question lingers, who decided this for you?

Sasha remains on her spot on the bed and watches what little sunlight coming from the blinds on the far left corner of the room sifts through Jameson’s nest of blond curls, entrapping it there, snuffing it out. She doesn’t answer the query because it’s pointless (it’s hitsuzen), and what she can control right now at least is her next action.

“Jaay-mee,” she drawls while rising in the same manner she’d seen the scantily-clad actresses in soaps do when they want something and are preparing to strike. It’s times like this when she acts out her sexuality that she feels older and more in control.

Based from the snippets of conversation she would overhear during Father’s meetings behind closed doors, control is the one thing no one in the world should take away from you. Or you’ll be nothing. Nothing.

(‘You’re nothing once your beauty fades, Sasha-chan,’ Mother’s voice is thin and icy, like the blood in her veins, like the blast of water on Sasha’s face as she was held down on the sink. ‘So better pull all the strings before the time comes, or you’ll end up just another puppet. And then you’re cast aside!’)

Jameson blinks then after she says his name and the previous expression of taciturn severity falters once he recognizes the scandalous hint in her tone. Sasha reads boys so easily like that, and she doesn’t care if this one’s in a dress—he counts the same for her regardless.

(‘If you have an opening, take it,’ Father lectures her during a game of chess. ‘Bid your time if this is poker. You can bluff then as long as you got an ace up your sleeve. It’s different when the confrontation is out in the open like this, with all your pieces on the board. So take, Sasha. Lure your opponent then strike,’)

“I think you should kiss me instead of the other boys.”

Sasha smiles and prepares for her next move. He looks as if he’s considering it thoughtfully as he gnaws on his bottom lip. Finally he gives in and says, “Sure. Whatever.”

“Is this hard for you?” she leans closer while keeping her implanted elbow steady as one hand grazes the hemline of the yellow dress in a teasing, repetitive caress. “Kissing a girl for the first time?”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t kissed girls the same way I kissed boys,” Jameson’s gaze falls to her chest next and on instinct she puffs it out. With another snort, he comments, “You’re wearing padding, aren’t you?”

Rude. “Nope. I’m just an early bloomer.”

“Well,” he grabs a nearby pillow and surprises her when he covers her chest with it, insisting, “I don’t care if you want to start modelling for a barely-legal swimsuit issue after this, Sasha. Besides, it feels wrong to see it. For me. But mostly for you…I think.”

A hint of embarrassment makes his eyes look moist, but he grinds down his teeth and that emotion is gone in an instant. “For a kiss, I’m gonna want something in return.”

”Sure,” she complies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You can have that dress. I outgrew it anyway.”

“Not that,” Jameson glances over his shoulder towards the closet. His voice takes on a weird ominous edge, which doesn’t settle right for someone so young. “One day, years from now, you will give me one item from your wardrobe just because I asked for it…” he looks back at her, “As barter for the kiss. I get to choose, and you don’t get to refuse.”

And just like that, Sasha’s mask of sweet neutrality drops. Her eyes flash with anger. Again, how dare he? She tosses the pillow away and says, “Really, Jaay-mee? You think you can just take something of mine ‘one day, years from now’ and for what? A measly kiss? From an insipid, insignificant loser-freak like your queer ass?”

Jameson doesn’t quiver in the way she expected. In fact, he seems to relish her reaction, like he wanted her to be this harsh in the first place. She doesn’t understand. Mostly, the others would cower and try to appease her the second she reveals her teeth. Sometimes they even get shell-shocked and cry. She’s pretty sure her mocking words would suffice this time around too. There is some grain of truth to them after all. He is a freak. A loser. A ‘queer’ whom she knows is a very bad thing to be in this town. So why is he smiling like that at her? Why is he so comfortable in that stupid baby-doll dress that used to be hers but is now tainted with his cloying confidence?

“You will give me what I want,” he explains as-a-matter-a-factly. “And you will get what you want too. It’s only fair.”

“You think I want to kiss you?” she almost screeches (or retches, more like), “Maybe I was just being charitable. Maybe I thought you needed the pity.”

“Darling,” he does the accent again without any shame, “I’m not the one with my chest out and acting like a bargain-store Marilyn.”

“No, you’re the silly boy in a dress that doesn’t even flatter him!”

“And yet it fits just right. Maybe you’ve just gained weight, you fat cow!”

“It’s called having curves, fuck-face!”

They halt as soon as they realize they’re both screaming nonsense at each other, with petty words that are so not their style. Jameson disengages first by turning his entire body to face the closet while she composes herself through a breathing exercise her Father taught her since she was five (and he wouldn’t put up with her childish tantrums anymore). Silence like this isn’t peaceful between them. She senses he knows, too, that this is a temporary retreat before they clash swords again.

“So?” he demands a moment later as he whirls to face her once more, all curly-blond aggression and steely blue-eyes. “Are we doing this shit or not?”

The response he receives is a provocation from Sasha’s lips as they ascend to meet his from her seemingly position of repose seconds before he got under her skin. Oh, how achingly does she delight in it as soon as his breath hitches! And by the time she changes the angle—turning her head to the other side—Jameson is already pulling away like the goddamn coward she’s pegged him as. Sasha has gripped him by the thighs nevertheless, French-manicured nails digging into the yellow fabric of her dress on his shapeless body.

“What’s wrong?” she pouts, condescension dripping from her next words as she rubs those thighs. “I barely got tongue, gay boy. Wanna try again?”

“Idiot!” he retorts and takes another pillow to throw at her, “We were supposed to count to three first!” A beat. “And I am not—!” he groans in frustration, ruffling his hair. “I am not a boy! Gay, sure, whatever, but not a boy all the time, okay?”

Laughter erupts from Sasha. She selectively ignores his last statement. “What the fuck?” she shoots back, “What are we, nine? Who still counts before a kiss?”

Jameson looks horrified. “You had your first kiss at nine?”

But she doesn’t dignify that with an answer. She instead recalls the emphasis when he said moments ago ‘I am nobody’s son’, and files it away at the back of her mind.

“Doesn’t matter,” he wipes his mouth as he gets out of the bed next. When he looks at Sasha, he appraises her with such razor-sharp vehemence that she almost recoils. Almost.

“We have a deal. You will honor it when it’s time,” Jameson puts a hand on his hip and once again twirls his fingers through his hair.

“Fine!” Sasha kicks her legs to the edge of the bed, almost ripping through the slit of her evening gown. But she doesn’t rise from where she’s perched. Not yet. Instead she goes quiet as she tries to get something out of this stupid deal other than that forgettable kiss. The idea occurs to her soon enough, and Sasha practically purrs.

“I would need a favor from you, Jaay-mee.”

At first she thinks she’s just imagined it, but this was the third time she shortened his name and elongated the two syllables needlessly, and it seems to her like he may have liked how it sounds. It was this look he got in his eyes each time. She can’t describe it, because maybe it’s more of a sensation in her gut rather than a visible sign. Sasha doesn’t dare make the discovery obvious, so she won’t say it again. Not anytime soon at least.

“A favor?” He doesn’t sound entirely opposed. A smirk graces his lips. She remembers tasting cherry-flavored lip balm on it, the cliché that he is. “This better be worth the half-hour I’ve wasted coming to this party of yours.”

“One day,” she cocks her head to the side and primly interlaces her fingers together, as one would do in prayer. She says the words in a mockingly slow manner the entire time, “…years from now—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

She pushes through his interruption. “You will invite me to a place you consider a sanctuary, and I’ll pick one item from that place and you shall give, just because I asked for it…” she shrugs innocently, echoing his earlier words almost verbatim, “In exchange for my silence. Because I could just say you lured me back into my room and threatened me. I can scream right now and make a big fuss.”

“You wouldn’t.” There was no disbelief in his voice. Just a warning.

But Sasha doesn’t back down either, even though she detects that he meant her ill will after he said those two words. So does she, which was unfortunate enough for them both. The birthday girl at last slides off her bed in a most graceful movement of silk and veiled contempt, and stands before Jameson with a hand outstretched.

“I get to choose,” she levels her stare to meet his darkened own that’s such a chilling contrast from all that yellow and milky white, “…and you don’t get to refuse.”

Jameson doesn’t even blink as he reaches to clasp her hand. The firm grip is simultaneously reassuring and dangerous. Sasha can’t help but wonder how someone dressed in the least intimidating outfit ever could turn it around to his favor.

He releases her hand and grins. In a flash he looks cherubic again even as he declares, “Well, it’s on, bitch.”

They’re nothing but children playing a very grown-up game, but they won’t always be children, and one day years from now this uncomfortable situation of barbed words and twisted motives between them can actually prove fatal.

To Sasha, however, it’s another thing she can look forward to—this shiny new toy that she doesn’t get to unwrap until another birthday comes.

Chapter Text

「There are different ways to skin a cat」

You text back to Sasha during an uneventful Biology class.

It’s been raining non-stop this week, and it’s your kind of weather, all murky puddles and petrichor in the aftermath. Winter break just ended too, and in eight days you’ll finally be fucking fifteen.

You chose the farthest chair in the corner per usual. Meanwhile, Sasha is at the end of the spectrum, directly ahead and at the center. She’s mildly detached yet inquisitive enough to ask questions at the elderly teacher, who lectured on and on about food webs. For once you pay some attention, particularly when she explains the importance of decomposers in the circle of life. It’s in the middle of this when the princess texts you.

「Same time. Diff place. You pick」

The book on your desk is open to a page about man-made wetlands in Phoenix. It’s a long way to travel, but it’s also the only closest swamp in this state. You haven’t saved enough money, but you got your eye on this scooter since last year. Still, you doubt using one is the best mode of transport to Phoenix, but you are a persistent and very resourceful pain in the ass, and maybe that’s one of the very few things you have going.

A quickly snapped blurry photo of Tres Rios Wetlands makes it way to Sasha’s phone in response.

「Where is that?」

「Phoenix」

「You’re shitting. With our curfew?」

「Bitch you’re not going. Just feel like showing you my next adventure」

「And what about ours???」

You shrug and sigh a little before looking towards the closed windows on the right where the condensation outside has fogged the glass. Melancholy is a scarf around your neck, easing you into cozy warmth, and at some point in this solace you text Sasha again.

「Solomon quarry. But push it an hour after the usual」

Your eyes land now on the back of her head, even with the several chairs of separation between you.

「So you ARE curious about me and Cam」

「Tossing a bone cos I know you been DYING to talk about him」

「With YOU? You wish」

The biology teacher Mrs. Leroy is handing out pieces of papers next. “Now, I want you to write on this sheet your own detailed understanding of how several food chains contribute to a larger web in an ecosystem. Start with an apex predator of your choice…” in a timely fashion she locks eyes with Sasha before that same gaze notices the phone.

It’s no surprise that the woman doesn’t scold Miss Perfectly Perfect about it. Instead she looks towards the end of the row and spots you, “…and down to the decomposer. Scavengers do count, by the way.”

Sagely, you nod. She nods back with a tepid smile. It’s a weird yet comforting acknowledgement, and certainly more than what most of the teachers spared you day in and day out. Probably meaningless to the old woman all the same though, but you’ll take it.

You tap your pen on the worksheet as you peruse through paragraphs on the book until you find the text about scavengers, because, eh, why the hell not? Apparently these fuckers are called detritivores.

‘By feeding on sediments directly to extract the organic component, some detritivores incidentally concentrate toxic pollutants.’

“That’s cool,” you mutter under your breath as you make your food web. Fuck the predator; you instead start at the very bottom of the page where you choose to draw Mycena Interrupta (otherwise known as the ‘Pixie’s Parasol’) as the decomposer. It’s not even an indigenous fungus in the States, but you think it was quite pretty in its blue luminescence which stood out from the otherwise dreary gray of the book’s pages. Blue just happens to be your favorite color. Even if you wear mostly dark clothes to school, there’s always a splash of it somewhere on your person.

A fanciful mood seizes you halfway while you do your seatwork, as if your worksheet suddenly became a canvass, so that you manage to etch three food chains with monstrous depictions of the animals using only a finely pointed black pen. At the very bottom—after all these monsters had killed to feed on each other—is ‘Death’s Parasol’ (you named it that in bold letters plus a whimsical skull beside it).  It’s an art project now.

Your phone buzzes from inside your jacket. Before taking it out, you cross one leg over the other at first, and the skin-tight fabric of your black leggings stretch further to reveal a hint of ankle where a jewel-studded chain is wrapped around it, just above a high-cut black boot. The blouse you chose today is a nondescript maroon one without sleeves but with ruffles along the neckline. Its slim fit is covered up by your large denim jacket with folded cuffs, showing off your left wrist with a dozen black rubber bracelets, two or three of which look like thorns.

(Honestly, you would have also worn a short skirt like Sasha, if only you have shapely smooth legs like hers. But until you figure out how to wax…)

What you see immediately as you stare at the screen of your phone are three emojis: a robot, a puking one, and a punching fist. You squint as you think to yourself, ‘Ah, so she wants to talk about the Lexi thing again.’ The fucking Lexi thing. It’s not even your problem, but apparently Sasha wants it to be. Immature sociopathic bitches.

Hastily, you reply with an emoji eye roll, dancing girl, and poop.

Sasha comes back seconds later with a spider web, scorpion, and cherry pie. You can’t help but smile. When it comes to how you feel about her and her stupid shitty problems, the pendulum swings across mild inconvenience, begrudging interest, and cold resignation. It may linger on one spot, but it still swings and swings and never lands.

That probably explains why you could never truly shut her out, even if you operate on different frequencies.

You send her a kite emoji.

Her next response is an actual text: 「I should bury her where no one else can find her」

Mrs. Leroy has been walking around to make sure everyone’s doing their work. When she reaches the last row with you at the very end on the farther right, you let her see the pet project that is your gothic food web. The old woman doesn’t say a word and merely exhales. It’s only when she’s trekking back to the earlier rows that you respond to Sasha.

「Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not even high school yet」

「I don’t want her to last that long」

「You’re being emotional」

「Well I’m not like Lexi. My passions define me」

「Maybe it’s time to find new ones」

「Jamie」

No response. She’s one of the few people in school who consistently calls you that. You don’t go by James anymore, and certainly not motherfucking Jameson. It’s just Jamie. Not Jaime either. Jam-IE.

She follows up with:

「Halloween last year. You OWE me」

Fuck.

You shove your phone inside your jacket again and focus on your sheet.

While gnawing at the cap of your pen, you look up, expecting to see more of Sasha’s enviable perfect hair, but instead she’s glancing over her shoulder to stare back at you. The moment of understanding that passes is like touching a live wire by accident. But since you’re a bit of a masochist, you don’t pull away from her dark gaze just yet. It’s only when Mrs. Leroy asks Sasha if there’s something wrong that you two disengage at last.

There’s only fifteen minutes left before the bell rings. To her credit, Sasha leaves your non-response alone, and by the time you look up again you see that she’s risen from her seat to submit her work. Mrs. Leroy smiles and no doubt compliments the worksheet Sasha accomplished ahead of time. It makes you look at what you have so far on your own paper.

Three mushrooms all named ‘Death’s parasol’ are colored brightly using a pale blue gel pen, one whose ink even shimmers. Not that this shitty seatwork and Mrs. Leroy deserve the extra sparkle, but the splash of blue against the dark is an instinctive choice, almost. This makes you reach out for the pendant around your neck; it has a small sapphire stone. Your mother bought it for you last Christmas.

Meanwhile, you chose a bear, a wolf, and an owl as your apex predators for the three separate food chains. In your gory depictions of their consumed prey, there is no blood. The allure of death has never been in the violence but in the closure.

You take out your phone and send Sasha a text just as she’s walked back to the chair. Her back is turned to you again, but you can just imagine that slow-curling sly smirk upon her lips as she reads:

「I’m in」

「I bet you are. Plans?」

You imagine Lexi Wemble sitting in one of the classrooms on the floor above you. Sympathy is reserved for those you could feel sorry for, which was not the case here. Lexi may have never personally bothered you, which puts her somewhere in the neutral pile among a hundred more faceless strangers in school who are stacked there already—but she’s got a target on her back now. You got shit to do with your own pile, but god forbid Sasha had to cash in another favor. Fine, fine, the other pile can wait. You do owe her, as the bitch is quick to remind.

This other pile in question belongs to those who have wronged you. You’re  a big believer that vengeance should be slow but steady, akin to a trickling flow of water before the dam ultimately breaks.

「I want to taste her suffering」Sasha texts, eloquent in her desires as always.「I’m getting kind of turned on just thinking about it, Jamie」

Briefly, you wonder if she even permits herself these confessions when she’s with Cameron Solomon. Probably not.

「You’ll get your climax. One way or another」

「Tell me what we have to do」

You cast an introspective look towards the windows as soon as Mrs. Leroy opens one of them. Several students sitting close by tug at their sweaters more tightly, as every brain-dead cheerleader’s favorite fuck-boy Jesse Zimmerman zips up his jacket. He notices you and whispers something to the other piece of shit next to him.

Your compact mirror is inside the purse that’s resting on your lap. The sudden impulse to check your eye shadow and mascara becomes almost impossible to ignore as those dumb fucks continue to talk and snicker. But you dismiss it; not your fault that they can’t appreciate how much work it took so you can walk into school looking like a masterpiece.

Which reminds you; you need to come up with a better excuse for this week’s PE again. Coach Summers was a nice enough dude who only looked at you with pity and not contempt when you first told him you’re not comfortable sharing a locker room with the others. But there’s a strict policy of not allowing students to leave the school just so they could shower at home. Summers allowed you to do that twice (and someday if and when he needs a favor, you will have his back), but you are not expecting a third. He’s been surprisingly considerate enough.

After shading the curve of a full moon that’s next to a menacing owl swooping down to decapitate a bat mid-flight, your food web is complete. The smudged ink on the edges of the paper has given your drawings a more haunting, dirty look. You’re almost proud.

You admire the intimate carnage of your choice of predator for a bit until your eyes trail down to the bottom of the page where the three parasols await to catch what’s left of the bat’s remains.

Some time later before the bell rings, you reply to Sasha again.

「There are different ways to skin a cat」

She sends three hearts emojis immediately and then a kiss one. Right under those, she says, 「Knew I can count on my best pal」

Mrs. Leroy gives a meaningful look but says nothing as soon as you turn in your worksheet. She sits there on her desk, almost dazed. Meanwhile, you give her a little wave before you march out of the classroom.

It’s only later during lunch that you text Sasha again. She needs to acquire a few things first before you could meet tonight at the quarry.

˚✡☽

Four days Later

It’s Sabbath.

Of course you want to do this on a Sabbath. Just a Saturday like any other, named after a Roman god and a planet that happens to rule Capricorn, the sign in your sun, ascendant, Mars and Jupiter, making it a stellium. But whatever—it’s not like it mattered that much to you (kinda).

Sasha’s already waiting outside on the curb by the time you arrived after picking up a few things for the meeting. She had put her hair up in a high ponytail and wore a pink cotton blouse with tight denim shorts just inches above the knees. She almost matched you in your (shorter) dark denim shorts and red halter top. Her appraisal doesn’t escape your notice, and you suddenly feel self-conscious of the freckles on your pale shoulders and your freshly waxed legs (that you, of course, were so eager to parade all over town. Fuck the haters).

Giving her a stiff nod in greeting, you then unlock the front door.

There’s no one else in the house at this hour; your mom had been called for an extra shift at the police station just after lunch (which will last until eight in the evening), while your dad left a while ago to meet a few old friends so they can unwind for the weekend.

“This is the first time I’ve ever visited your place, Jamie,” she comments as soon as you two pass through the ordinary set-up of your family living room and finally up the staircase.

“Well, don’t get cozy or anything because this isn’t the clubhouse,” you reach the second floor and then immediately head to a spot where you can pull down a folded metallic staircase from the ceiling.

“Oh, cool,” she arches an eyebrow, “You got an attic?”

“Yeah,” you gesture for her to climb up first and she does. “It’s where my room is, actually.”

Sasha is halfway through the thin stairs when she shoots you a look, “Um, it is sanitary up here, right? Like, no rats or anything like that?”

“Are you gonna get precious on me now?” you retort with hands on your hips. She says nothing. In exasperation, you add, “Fucking hell, I’m not a savage! It’s clean, alright? Now move your ass already!”

She laughs, satisfied yet again that she has needlessly annoyed you.

Your room in the attic was mostly made of wood panels and red brick. Various band posters and other promotional materials coated the walls including newspaper clippings and the rudimentary sketches pertaining to your occult interests. Most are definitely indecipherable while others are there for the aesthetic. At the very center of the ceiling hangs a small chandelier you bought from a bargain store, its red bulbs creating the ambiance that you prefer over anything practical.

There’s a lamp shade by your desk where you pretend to study for school work when half the time you’re instead researching on topics your parents would ground you for, if only they knew what you’re really up to during odd hours at night. Someone claustrophobic may find this sanctuary of yours in the attic less than ideal, but it’s your world and no one’s allowed in unless you permit it first. Still, you won’t put that much importance on the fact that Sasha was the very first person who’s set foot in here.

She’s a rather—dare you say—vital associate. And until you could find a more neutral ground (the clubhouse by her side of town is definitely out of question), you suppose the attic would do.

(And if you decide to dwell on the fact you have the hottest girl in school in your room without parental supervision, then you might as well be just another stupid guy. Your hormones are not the boss of you—you are.)

Once she’s done running her fingers across book spines on your shelves by the left corner, Sasha picks a black leather bean bag to lounge on and tucks her legs under herself. “I brought snacks…among other essentials.”

The coyness in her tone only earns a noncommittal hum from you.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still hang up on my choices, Jamie.”

“Look,” you level your gaze on hers, “Cori Brooks, I understand. I actually think it’s fantastic. She’s lit as fuck. But Zimmerman, really? That cunt?”

“Language,” Sasha muses while she blows air into her newly painted nails.

“Whatever,” you drop your bag on the table and keep staring at the princess for a few more moments before you spread your hands to the sides, going, “Well? Did you get all the items I asked you to fetch?”

Sasha groans and uncrosses her legs. “I procured them, yes. Not fetched.”

“If you want to discuss semantics, there are far too many skeletons in our closets which we can do that to,” is your sarcastic reply, heavy with an implication you know she would pick up on.

Briefly, you glance at the large window located just below the sharp peak where the roof meets in the ceiling. You walk over there and then step onto a high stool so you can reach the sill and duck your head out.

On the left side of the window was a branch where you’ve spotted a nest. It had been perching on that spot since last week. You counted four eggs by now. Soon you may need to take one of them, for a purpose you won’t name just yet.

Back in the room, Sasha speaks again, “I know you have a bit of a personal grudge against Jesse yourself, so I’d like to believe I’m doing you another favor by selecting him for this.”

“Oh, golly gee, thanks.”

She snaps her fingers at you, “Don’t give me that attitude, Jamie. Didn’t you say that whatever shit you’ll cook up would be a more suitable punishment for Lexi? Well, I want to throw in Cori because she’s definitely a trophy I want on my shelf. And Jesse because, well, he’s loaded and has dirt on almost every girl in school who’d been fast and loose with the bases they let him reach.”

With an exaggerated pout, she quips, “The poor babies…”

“The dude’s not all that,” you’re already rummaging through the cabinets as you listen to Sasha prattle on. The set-up will take a while, so you need to do this first. “He’s a living proof of the argument that the male gender is disgusting and represented by the worst people imaginable.”

“Thank god we have you to balance that out, don’t we?”

You’re not sure what point she’s trying to make, and you’re in no mood to find out. Instead you walk over to the bean bag and toss a medium-sized plastic box on the ground in front of her.

“Get them all in there.” You meant the items—the tokens. “And I hope you told your parents an air-tight excuse where you’re going to be for the rest of the night because this is going to take a goddamn while, darling.”

Four days ago

If anybody thought it unusual that the most beautiful and popular girl in tenth grade is walking around with you along the town square, they kept it to themselves. You may be a freak foremost, but you’re also a cop’s kid second. It’s your mother’s upstanding role in the community that makes it easy to excuse you merely as a “troubled kid” rather than an outright delinquent who needs a more aggressive approach for rehabilitation.

Adults can easily shrug you off in public while they probably warn their kids at home not to mingle. The bold ones would disobey and do the time-old tradition that all small-minded bigots honor, which is something you tell yourself not so much as to make light of the bullying but more to diminish the long-lasting impact it might otherwise have on you.

You’re not about to allow the fear and ignorance of others to govern your damn life. Not at almost-fifteen or ever.

You’re Jamie ‘I got more important shit to do’ Wrenly.

At some point you glance back at your companion just to get a read on her temperament. She’s jovial in a way you recognize only compensates for the cultivated aggression that belied every word and act that passes through her. Sasha’s got a talent for appearing harmless until the very last moment when the unsuspecting party would turn away their head or cease to read the warning signs in advance.

Even you are on your toes when she’s around, which is…well, impressive because not even the most physically expressive homophobe could get under your skin the way this bitch could. And all she had to do is—there! Right fucking there!

She’s looking straight at you now, and you hold it. Neither of you say a word, just two assholes watching one another. Sasha smiles. You scoff.

Her dark hair is thick and luscious like a fountain of darkness, cascading down her waist reminiscent of horror movies except that that’s where the comparison ends. She shimmers even in this gloomy weather, her pale skin slightly bronzed with this new foundation she bought two months ago.

(She showed you at the clubhouse a few nights ago, as you compared notes, swapped tips, and you even let her brush your hair for a bit…)

It’s beyond irritating that this singular cosmetic product accentuated everything that’s right about her face and neck. Not that you’ve particularly looked—okay, fine, you did, but only because she’s the gold standard of beauty not just in school but in your envious mind too.

Sasha suddenly steps into your personal space while you’re crossing to the next lane so she can slide her arm to lock around yours. This wasn’t the first time she got too familiar, so all you could muster was a sideways glance and a lazy tone as you ask, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What do you mean? There are cracks on the ground and I don’t want to fall in and get my new shoes wet, Jamie.”

“Do I look like a gentleman to you?”

“You don’t look like anything but Jamie.”

That answer makes you shut up for a few seconds. It seems that Sasha is getting better at saying things that you want to hear.

“Whatever,” you let her have this, just once. As soon as you make it to the next street and you notice that the pavement has improved, you immediately pull away from her. Sasha says nothing and flashes a smile instead at the few people who passed by. They recognize her and ask about her parents plus other pleasantries. You don’t even pause walking so you can wait for it to be over. She’ll just have to catch up.

The local quarry in Cinderbrush Hills belongs to the Solomon family and is located at the outskirts of the town proper. There’s a shortcut through a series of alleyways westbound that would save fifteen minutes of walking time from a total of half an hour. You could use the exercise especially under such favorable weather conditions. The damp air, the gloomy skies above, the utter silence—you feel more at home with this type of solitude than in the company of crowds you know would never get you.

Sasha, as it turns out, has other plans.

“We don’t need to take that shortcut,” she says just as you two reach the intersection leading to the pile of crates half-obscuring the alleyways in question. You shoot her a look and find yourself wondering if traveling through this path bothered her especially since there’s a more scenic, straightforward route. That walkabout would be far too tiresome though.

“I don’t want to spend time with you any more than I have to,” you tell her point-blank. “So yeah, we’re taking this shortcut.”

You aren’t being callous, and even if you are, Sasha had been in the receiving end of it enough that she never tried to hold it against you. It’s part of your personality, just like her calculating attitude that’s only concealed by the cloying sweetness of her outward behavior.

People easily latch onto façades. Yours is way more unpleasant than it has to be, but it’s also more reactionary than intentional.

“What I mean is that I found someone to drive us there so we need not to tire ourselves out with a walk, Jamie.”

That sours your expression in an instant. “Oh, don’t you tell me—”

The rest of that question gets drowned by the sound of a car coming into view. It takes only less than several seconds before it stops across the pair of you, with tires screeching to a sudden halt right before the passenger side of the window rolls down. Blaring rap music of some kind cues at the same time, enveloping the interior of the vehicle. You don’t even see the older man in a uniform, wearing a pair of dark shades by the wheel.

No, what you see first is Cameron Solomon grinning at Sasha in an unusually adoring (maybe even undeserving) way as he says. “Hop in, princess, and let me show you the world.”

Whatever the fuck this is, you don’t want any part of it.

Vile and acid fill your lungs and throat as the words lurch forward before you could help yourself, “The quarry is not a whole new world, and this isn’t a goddamn Disney movie.”

You hear Sasha chuckle in the background as you zero in on Cinderbrush’s poster boy for nepotism and easy living.

“Oh, hey,” his grin falters only for a second before he recovers gracefully and brushes a hand through his blond hair that’s a brighter shade than yours. “Sasha told me you’re coming. It’s, uh, Jamie, right?”

The emphasis, though well-meant (because Sasha more likely coached him in advance) makes you put a hand haughtily over your hip while the other fiddles with the brooch on your denim jacket.

“Yeah, so what? If you insist on this ridiculous gentleman act, then might as well open the damn door and let’s get this fucking over it, shall we?”

“Um,” Cameron looks over at Sasha, “Does he also talk to you like this?”

“Asshole!” you hiss as you whip off the brown aviator shades you had on (you’re not sold on the look; still picking-and-matching styles at the moment). “I’m right here. Say your bullshit to my face!”

In truth, you also want to say, ‘Are we the same? Do I look the same as you that you’d consider me remotely just another guy?’

But you grind your teeth down instead and turn to Sasha to say in a quiet tone that doesn’t undercut your annoyance: “Do whatever you want with this dumb jock. I’d rather walk.”

And you’re off before either can get in another word. You dig your nails on the sling bag over your shoulder the entire time as you stomp away towards the crates so you can slip through the alley. With the overcast above, the alley is now cloaked in dim lighting, turning it almost foreboding, but you’d rather deal with the shadows and more mud on your boots than endure unsavory company.

Just as you have put the shades back on, Sasha comes upon you without missing a beat. The only warning are the wet sounds of another pair of feet trudging through the puddles. She reaches to grab your back so she can prevent you from taking one more step. You could smell her perfume as soon as she swaddles you in an unexpected embrace that makes you feel like you’re both twelve years old again.

“The hell?!”

“Shut the fuck up, you shitty little shit!” she hisses right into your ear as she tightens her arms around your waist where she has your back pressed against her chest, reminding you of that part of her anatomy that you’d rather never get acquainted with. But the shift in her tone and demeanor actually makes you do as she says, only because this is the Sasha you know so well and—sickeningly enough—prefer more.

“I want you to meet Cameron since it’s important. He’s important to me. I plan on losing my virginity to him maybe a year or two from now. I haven’t decided when yet, but I know that it has to be with him.”

“So much for not talking about him with me.”

You curl your hands into fists once you feel heat rise to your ears and cheeks. What does any of this have to do with you?

“I just don’t want to lie to you. I’d lie to everyone but you.”

A snort. “You’re not gonna make me watch, are you? Because I know you’re a twisted bitch but hardly the perverted sort…” you shakily place your own fingers around her wrists that now serve as shackles; they make the tremors on your hand burn not out of fear but of anger.

“God, Jamie,” she tiptoes and leans more firmly against your back so she can exhale into your ear. The hot breath makes you grip her wrists in warning, but she only chuckles. “You still don’t get it, do you? Cameron is special to me. And so are you.”

“Gross,” you declare, “I don’t want to be anything to you.”

(The growing bulge in your leggings protest otherwise.)

“You don’t get to decide that, I’m afraid,” Sasha starts kissing the side of your neck, until those lips, sticky with gloss, trail across the spot where your pulse starts beating faster. The next flickers of her tongue send you reeling.

You don’t stop her—even if you could—well, you can. You’re much taller now and still growing, so this physical disparity between your bodies would still put you in an advantage.

But you don’t want to stop. Not yet.

That masochistic part of you wants to see how far she will take it.

And how far you will let her.

“Jamie…” she tries now to loosen her grip around your waist but you hold her wrists in place. She laughs softly and spreads her fingers across your stomach next, massaging. Even through the fabric, you can feel the warmth, accompanied by the pooling in your gut you recognize is hell.

(It happened in the clubhouse the first time. You remember the crisp sound of the candy wrapper; the sight of the lollipop going in and out of her mouth; and then before you knew it you felt one of her hands rubbing your thigh under that skirt of hers she allowed you to try on.)

“Hmmm, Jamie…” she says your name now like she did then.

(She had asked next if she could touch, and you saw she’d been nervous and afraid that you would use this against her. You couldn’t have—never would have—so instead you took her hand and guided it upwards the skirt. You hissed and crooned as her cool fingers clutched around your vulnerability. She squeezed and tugged. Again and again and again.)

“Jamie, please…” she whispers directly into the shell of your ear before she gives it a little nibble.

You almost, almost, say her name too but you instead bite the insides of your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut. After you finish counting from one to five in your head—all while you ignore the distracting way Sasha’s chest heaves against your back—you say, “Fine.”

“So you are getting in the car with us, sweetie?”

Hot breath coming through your nose in intervals has fogged up the shades as your nails dig painfully into her skin, making her whimper into your ear in a way that shouldn’t have excited you. So you shout again, “I said fine, dammit!” before successfully stepping forward and away from her reach as she, in turn, releases her shackles. Sharply, you whirl towards her direction to shoot her a scandalized glare. “Just fuck off!”

To your horrified realization, Sasha looks just as messed up (the same way she did back then at the clubhouse during that delirious night).  The shine in her long dark hair which flows like curtains past her waist has become lackluster. She rakes her fingers through it in frustration next, and the strands get entangled through the spaces in between.

“God, Jamie,” she quips as she eyes you with slight revulsion. “You’re fucking Satan, you know that, right? I wish you would just give it up and stop acting like you don’t want any of this too. You hypocrite!”

You march forward and she doesn’t cower even after you yourself close the gap between your bodies once more. Glowering, you spit out, “What was that? Didn’t you just say that—” it’s Cameron you want more?

“I know what I said, and I don’t mean that.”

Sasha grabs the sides of your face before those demanding fingers slide through your unkempt dirty blond hair. The original plan was to shave half of your head and dye the part you want to keep. But as she curls her digits into your hair, all you want to do is to get rid of everything now—anything that she can hold onto each time the tension becomes unbearable that you both only want to touch and hurt one another.

“What I want from you, Jamie,” she whispers and you get lost in the abyss that are her dark eyes, “…is far more intimate than sex.”

Then what the fuck was that back in the clubhouse? How much more intimate do you want to get?

Blinking, breathing heavily—with every exhale punctuated by a concoction of feelings, each one more unpleasant than the last—you grab her by the hair too. The words hurt to say but you mean them with acidic intent.

“I’m not your prey. I’m something else. You can bite and chew and spit the rest out, but you will need me for more than a plaything to sink your teeth into and gobble.”

She hums and flutters her eyelashes, “You’re telling me? Like, I’ve known you and me are something else since the first day, Jamie. Now get in the car with me and Cameron.”

(Something else. You and me. Since the first day, her words echo.)

You finally stop clawing at each other like wild animals, and the heat of conflict dies down for a while but not nearly as extinguished.

Sasha fixes her blouse and skirt before combing through her hair a few times. You gather your own bearings too and refuse to look at her again; not even when Cameron makes a timely entrance into the alley. He glances quizzically at either of you for a while. He must have figured out something went down just now that even his stupid little brain could have picked up on it judging by the aftermath alone.

Still, ignorance is bliss, and the jock says nothing. He merely offers his hand to Sasha and asks, “So Jamie’s in, right? We can go to the quarry now?”

The rest of the ride to the quarry is mostly permeated with rap beats in the background, whose volume Cameron thankfully lowered as soon as you and Sasha made it inside the car. Not that it mattered to you, because the music is less insidious than the sneaky glances the jock seems to think he’s disguising well from where he’s seated on the passenger side.

Ten minutes pass of terse silence before he directs a question at you, “So, uh, Sasha said you and her had been friends since that birthday bash she had three years ago. You remember that? That was legit tight. But, uh, I didn’t really…like, I didn’t see you there.”

“Oh, he was there. Remember the blonde angel I was holding hands with during the cake-cutting? In a yellow dress?” Sasha brightens in a way you haven’t seen before. It seems like a natural response whenever she looked at Cameron or is anywhere near him. She’s behind him at the moment, with her legs crossed so the hemline of the skirt hikes up to expose one of the frilly garters of her white thigh-high socks. You kinda want to puke your lunch at the sight of it, but there’s also this impulse to reach forward to pull and snap the loathsome thing.

“That was Jamie?” Cameron’s delighted incredulity makes you turn your face forward. You squint your eyes as if trying to discern what his expression looks like even though the angle makes it impossible to.

“Mad respect for being you, by the way,” the jock adds in a good-humored tone. “When Sasha first told me, and that she said she wanted us to meet, I was, like, nervous as hell because you didn’t seem friendly at first. But now, I guess, you’re just very protective of Sasha.”

Smirking, you quirk an eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”

Cameron shifts in his seat, something you read as discomfort, though he’s able to carry the conversation in the same amicable manner anyway as he adds, “Well, yeah. I mean, you’re like…almost sisters, right?”

(Sasha was on her knees between your thighs; her discarded lollipop in your own mouth; the little ball so wet and syrupy against your tongue.)

“First off,” you spread your hands over your lap, “Be careful with gendered assumptions, especially if you’re going to be so quick about coming into conclusions about someone’s preferences. I dress like this not because I want to be seen as ‘female’, so I don’t appreciate you calling me and Sasha ‘sisters.’ Secondly, I don’t mind being perceived as a boy first, as that perception will be corrected promptly. Harshly, even, depending on the time of the day or if I’m particularly feeling unfriendly…”

“Jamie—” Sasha tries to get a word in but you brush her off and continue.

“Secondly, identity doesn’t equate orientation. I may not identify as a boy exclusively, but I can find anyone attractive regardless how they identify or swing one way or the other. That includes you. Even Sasha.”

You pause dramatically to let the implication sink in. Satisfied that you left a mark, you lean from where you’re sitting so that your chin is almost touching the top of the front seat where Cameron is currently frozen.

“So no, I’m not ‘sisters’ with your girlfriend. A word of advice too: maybe you should start seeing me as competition because at this point the person who knows Sasha the best is not you, honey. Not you at all.”

(She caught all of it and didn’t know what else to do so you offered a cupped hand towards her and she spat it out on your palm. You both shivered in disgust and ended up laughing uncontrollably afterwards.)

The driver turns into a bumpy section of the road next, so the car gives a few jolts as it goes across it. Apparently this prompts Cameron back to reality even if the recovery isn’t as graceful as he would have wanted.

“Yeah?” he clears his throat and turns his head so that you and he have locked eyes instantly. “You saying you’re into Sasha? That you want to be her ma—something that’s equivalent to a boyfriend in your terms?”

No response. He doesn’t leave it as that and presses forward. Your faces are far too close for your comfort, but you refuse to be intimidated.

“Sasha’s one of a kind,” he tells you in a tone that assumes that you know it too. “I ain’t giving up easy if competition is really what you’re after. And even if she likes hanging out with you and stuff, I don’t see that threatening at all. Because, like, I know where her heart lies, and I know it’s with me.”

“Oh,” you snort then pull away just in time before you burst out laughing, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Solomon, really? Really?” The secondhand embarrassment makes you cringe visibly as you glance towards Sasha, expecting her to find the whole thing just as absurd.

She doesn’t. Her cheeks have colored in an impossible shade of pink that makes her almost vulnerable-looking. You blink rapidly before whipping off your shades just so you can blink some more.

“You’re so sweet, Cameron,” she looks at her fingers like her nails have suddenly become interesting, but she sounds absolutely enthralled nonetheless. Meanwhile, the jock shifts in his position so he can face her and reach to tuck his hand under her chin.

“Hey,” he murmurs until she’s met his earnest gaze. “You know I’m in love with you, right? Like…for real? I don’t know how else to put it. Or where else to but…in your own heart—this, uh, love for you.”

Oh, goddammit. Goddammit, that is it!

“Are we almost at the quarry?” you call over to the driver. “Because I’m pretty sure it takes only fifteen minutes to get there by car so…?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the two stupid fucks kissing like they’re just living their movie-perfect romance with thoughtless disregard of the other party forced to put up with its farce. You’re just about to consider grabbing the door handle on your side and jumping out of the moving vehicle when the driver mercifully pulls over towards a vacant lot that’s thirty feet across the quarry itself.

“Sweet Jesus, thank you,” you mutter under your breath and pull out a cigarette stick from one of your sling bag’s many pockets.

“Oh, I’d love some of that if you got more in there,” Cameron flashes you what you assume is a triumphant smile. He seems satisfied that that put you in your place and squash any doubts where Sasha’s affections truly lie. You decide you don’t care. He and Sasha can both fuck off and never include you in their tawdry bullshit ever again.

(She didn’t ask for you to return the favor but you wish she did; then you wouldn’t have to suffer through the torment of your imagination since as it came up with fantasies in which you were on your knees beneath her.)

You nod towards the driver first, but Cameron only shakes his head as a confirmation that it’s a not a big deal. So you give him a ciggy before also passing the lighter so he can enjoy his smoke. You roll down the windows on your respective sides. Sasha abstains, though she looks almost relieved that the three of you have reached some kind of accord. Sort of.

“Cameron,” she grazes her fingers across his jawline, “Can you wait here? I’d rather it’s just me and Jamie today. We got things to talk about.”

The brief moment of fearful concern on the jock’s expression causes you to smirk. Guess he isn’t so confident about where he stands with her in all this after all. Maybe you do present a threat, given that there are things she would never tell him in confidence and only confess to you.

“Well, okay, babe,” he concedes anyway, “Text me if you need anything.” Afterwards he shoots you a glum look. “Nice meeting you, Jamie. See you around, and don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You inhale deeply until the tip glows a very bright orange from your cancer stick. Cameron just smiles in resignation and does the same.

˚✡☽

Four days Later

Sasha doesn’t complain for the first three hours, but you can see she’s sorely tempted. A glint in her eye also reveals that she suspects you may have done this on purpose to see if she can be patient. You won’t deny it’s somewhat true; a few things can bring you satisfaction these days, and one of them is showing Sasha Murasaki she’s not always the boss.

“They always fast-forward through this mundane shit on TV, don’t they?” she looks you over from the bean bag, with her chin tucked under one hand; this forever gorgeous entity splayed across the black leather far too comfortably that if you were just like the boys in school, you would have just gawked and drooled all over her. But you’re not. And you won’t.

“With what you’re getting out of it, you shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it as mundane,” you retort without making eye contact. You’ve been busy, alright, alternately working among the stuff that’s laid on the table: the secondhand store-bought cauldron, your work-in-progress grimoire, mom’s chopping board where the various ingredients were laid out and, of course, the tokens Sasha fetched for you in the last three days.

You know how this all looks like—typical witch-y bullshit, totally unoriginal. Sasha has her reservations about it too, seeing as how worried she’s beginning to look the more excruciating time you took just perfecting the set-up first and getting all the important pieces together and in the right sequence. One would think that the bitch would have more faith in you by now, knowing that what she saw you wield firsthand last Halloween was as real as shit could get.

But what you’ve learned and channeled so far is still small potatoes; this ritual, on the other hand, is a higher form that demands more tokens and at the end must temporarily siphon the life force of the one who would cast it. For a trained expert, it’s a necessary inconvenience, but for you it could become fatal.

This will be your first attempt, and the truth is you don’t know why you’re going out your way to do this for Sasha. Fucking Sasha, of all people.

Except you do know. This has less to do with her and the Lexi thing and more about your ego. You are eager to move to the big leagues, and magic is a gamble. If you don’t place your bets and cast the dice, how would you ever beat the odds and earn your winnings?

“Get your lazy ass here. I need to show you something now.”

“Finally, Jesus!”

Four days ago

The quarry is always desolate-looking, even displaced out of time, whenever there aren’t any men and machinery around. You dig the eerie vibe; such complete isolation calls to you, and in that moment you forget you’re still just a child—with problems back at home and school, so silly and benign—as nothing else mattered but being here.

Granted, Sasha’s also here, but you’re not about to let that get you down. The truth was a sick, cloying part of you is indeed glad she’s here because you’ve almost reached the end of your self-restraint, thanks to that dumb jock and his even dumber love confession. He actually dared to love Sasha Murasaki when he knew so little of what she looks like—tastes like, feels like—without the glamorous yet ultimately hollow mask.

“This will do,” you abruptly turn to her as your eyes latch onto hers without another word uttered next. The mine’s entrance is just right behind you, and the dark contrast no doubt bleeds across your angular frame.

At times like this, you wonder what Sasha sees when you both openly stare at one another without the security of a classroom or the questioning glances of strangers in town.

“So,” she says blandly.

”So.”

Sasha cheekily grins and tugs at the ribbon around her collar.

“Did you hear what he said to me in the car, Jamie?” Her blush is unexpected but understandable. Without warning, she practically squeals and leaps into your arms next. “He said he’s in love with me! I mean, I already know that, but it just feels so good to hear Cameron finally say it.”

You don’t touch her (not yet), not until she lifts her face from where she’s buried it seconds ago on the crook of your shoulder.

“Yeah, bitch, I was there. And I wish I wasn’t. It was so tragic...”

“And I have you to thank for that…” she punctuates her point by grinding against you as her hands brush through the locks of your hair before settling on your shoulders. “You have a way with people, you know. All it takes to sway them is your presence, while I have to swindle them into giving me what I want. It’s hardly fair, Jamie…”

The sly provocation shakes something loose in your chest that you end up grabbing the sides of her thighs as you push back, slamming against her from just the right angle. She almost purrs. With the tight leggings you have on, Sasha would most likely feel the persistent hard outline of your crotch. She laughs and shoves you forward to a nearby wall. In return, you keep her balanced on your lap while standing, as your sharp nails burrow into her skirt. You scratch as hard as you could.

“You didn’t have to tease him like that though,” she watches you carefully, devoid of any outward reaction as to what’s going on beneath your bodies. To name it, to call attention to it, would ruin everything. It’s better to just let it happen, to ride out the tremors of the earthquake.

“He’s a dope,” your hands move now to cup her bottom so you can urge her to keep moving in the same rhythm as you.

“Nah-uh! He’s sweet and he loves me,” Sasha wraps her hands around your throat (just the way you like it). “You will understand someday when someone you love loves you back too, Jamie. It’s not too late for you.”

“Fuck you.”

“No!” she whips off your shades and tosses them to the ground. “Not yet. Oh, not yet, baby. Not until Cameron has me first. It’s him…him I want more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life…” Sasha squeezes her eyes shut and moans. “But this—with you—will do.”

“Shut up,” you lift her up some more until she at last wraps her legs around your torso. Though your faces are only inches apart, neither dives for a kiss.

If you don’t kiss, it allows room to deny that any of this is even real. Sasha wouldn’t count this as cheating on her boyfriend, and you wouldn’t count this as mildly addictive as you question—like you do now—how much you can despise yet still desire the same person over and over again.

The barrier of fabric only contributes to the friction, to the irregular rhythm that was the discordant dance of your inexperienced bodies learning hate and passion without caring to separate one from the other.

It always starts like this lately whenever you’re alone. Sometimes the littlest things can be the trigger. In this case, it’s seeing that wretched Cameron Solomon with his blue, blue eyes and thick eyelashes and the ever-so suave way he would brush his hand through his hair. It’s hearing him proclaim how much he loves Sasha, like one would expect from the world’s biggest idiot—and the electric shock of its honest admittance makes you soften in places that you thought couldn’t possibly thaw.

A strained groan escapes you next, much to your horror, but you pretend it doesn’t happen and just focus on the image in your head of Sasha and Cameron coming apart together, and somewhere in the mix of those peeled off clothes and sweaty sheets between them was you.

“More than anything, you say?” Your breaths are ragged as you smirk with terrible intent at Sasha. Your hands still keep her in place as you bent down to whisper into her ear: “More than bringing down Lexi Wemble?”

“That’s different,” she laughs as her thrusts slow down long enough so she can descend and plant her feet back on the ground. “See, Jamie, I have varied appetites that hardly ever coincide unless I allow them to.”

“Don’t I fucking know it?”

You release her willingly and bite down the frustration of not finishing. Sometimes that feels good too; the agonizing pain that comes from the lack of release just as you’re so close to losing it all. Your hands tremble even worse as you slowly command your body to forget about it. There’s more important shit to do right now than succumb to a quick orgasm.

It’s while she’s in the middle of fixing her skirt and hair again that you step away to head towards the mine’s entry.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she calls out.

You barely glance back at Sasha and instead keep your eyes fixed upon the mouth of darkness. “I don’t want anyone overhearing what we will talk about. You know, in case your boyfriend decides to drop by later to check up on us because he’s probably still insecure about things.”

“This macho bullshit is beneath you, Jamie. So rise above it, please?”

“I don’t want to hear lip from someone who has never gotten her hands dirty,” you snap at her once then take several steps forward until you are swallowed by the dark. Naturally, she follows after you. Where else would she go but forward in the ruins and just right behind you?

“I always leave the grunt work to you. And if this thing works out the way we both want it, then you don’t have to worry about being on-call with me as often as you’ve been. I’ll have other people to do the bidding.”

“I do this for you and we’re even, right? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Sure,” you can hear the amusement in her tone, “Until next month or much sooner after that. Depending on the stakes.”

“Goes both ways, darling,” you retort as you’re curiously calm about that arrangement. “You’ve always needed me. You will always need me.”

The tunnel is tar-black and seemingly endless. You’re not intimidated, for this kind of darkness is a friend and confidant. There’s a reclining slope by the tracks, and on instinct your hand reaches to warn Sasha of the steepness. Her fingers securely hold onto your wrist and, together, you descend through this passage you know only too well.

She speaks after two minutes of utter silence. In a hushed tone you almost don’t hear, she says, “You need me too, Jamie, but rarely do you understand exactly what it is you need half the time.”

Shaking your head, you pull away from her grip, almost as if to prove otherwise. “Well, right now I need you to walk faster before we lose daylight. Come on!”

And that’s when you fish out the flashlight from your bag to guide the way before you disappear into an unknown corner down the mine.

Sasha would have no choice but to do the same.

You gave up trying to understand this thing with her a long time ago. It’s a labyrinth with a Minotaur, which you may slaughter one day, as she holds the other end of the thread that serves as your only way out. But then again, this doesn’t have to be the rest of your life.

For now at least, Sasha’s here, and she’s beautiful and terrible and everything you can’t get rid of in Cinderbrush. So you’re going to have fun in the meantime, whether or not it entailed screwing things up for some deserving people along the way.

It might be that her will is more imposing, but it’s still your call whether you heed it or not.