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Sitting down waiting had always been Sasha’s specialty.
Of course, there are also rules for that. Knees drawn; back straight. Don’t hunch, it’ll make you look unprofessional, weak. Keep your head up, look calm and content - smile and nod if anyone passes by. They’ll notice. Every bit of you. You want them to think the best of you, don’t you?
If a nice looking adult comes for you, don’t fall for them. She’ll crouch down to her knees to level your eyes, talk to you nicely, in a manner that doesn’t belittle you - see, that’s all a trick. They want you to trust them, make you forget your defenses. In the end, the choice is up to you, really - who you’d rather be with. But I don’t think you’d prefer following your father and leaving everything you’ve ever known behind you, hm?
Those were the rules of the courthouse. When nobody’s around, Anne calls it “a sad attempt to win her over”. Sasha somewhat agrees, though she knows better.
“Wanna know a secret?” Anne whispers to her one sunny day as they hang out in front of the courthouse, sitting cross-legged on the warm sidewalks. The nice lady gave them chalks to draw with, and that’s what they were doing, scribbling smiley faces on the pavement like little kids.
“Oh, we’re telling secrets now?” Sasha raises her eyebrows, smirking. “Spill it.”
Anne looks embarrassed, and a small part of her is saying, finally, finally, she’s admitting her crush on a boy. A part of her had always hoped that she’d lose to whichever school jock Anne had placed her crush on like every normal twelve-years-old would, because maybe then, it would have hurt less. But Sasha doesn’t want to bother thinking about it - it’s weird and foregein and confusing and that’s not really what she needs right now. So, she pushes the voice away, just like she always does.
“C’mon, what is it?” She teases instead, trying to rub chalk on her face as Anne laughs and dodges her hand. “Tell me!”
“No, it’s just - you might get mad.”
“Oh?” Well, that’s a surprise. Sasha rolls her eyes and adds, “I won’t, pinky promise. Just tell me already!”
“Okay, okay - “ Anne rubs on her shoulder and whispers, “I don’t really like your mom.”
The shock caught her and she laughed. “Yeah, that’s great, ‘cause it would be very weird if you do.”
A blush took over Anne’s cheeks as she leaned forward to slap her gently, “Sasha! You know that’s not what I mean!”
She laughs harder. “ Oh , Anne - am I dreaming? Finally, the goody-two-shoes Anne, admitting something criminal!”
“It does feel like it,” Anne groans. “Please don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret, just the three of us, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” Sasha assures her. “Wanna know my secret?”
“What?”
“I don’t like my mom either.”
Anne gave her a smile, just this time, there’s a tiny bit of sadness in it. And Sasha knows, because she always knows. “Yeah, I know.”
“I really like yours, though,” she shrugs, averting her gaze and pretends she’s focused on her chalk drawings instead. “Your mom, she’s nice. And she definitely cooks with more spice than mine, so bonus on that.”
Anne laughs at that and shakes her head. “Wanna have dinner at my house later?”
Something warm blooms in Sasha’s chest when she hears those words. “Yeah, of course.”
The next time they’re sitting on the pavement in front of the courthouse, there were no jokes or laughter involved. The box of chalk sits abandoned on their side, and then there’s only her, Anne, and the silence between them.
It’s like this, sometimes. And it’s okay. Anne tells her that it is, between the clasps of their hands, her fingers between hers. Tells her that she doesn’t have to be so goddamn strong and fearless all the time. Her mother would have disagreed - “my girl has to be strong,” she’d say. Once upon a time, Sasha would hear those words and feel determination and pride. Now, she just wonders if her mother is really talking to herself.
The grand pillars on the entrance make them feel so small - Marcy’s stated her discomfort about it a hundred times (only to fall into an infodump about giant prehistoric creatures). Anne agrees with her, but Sasha secretly doesn’t. Being small is good, it feels good. Of course it would, when you’ve been the center of attention in a room no child should be in - and not the good kind, either. The kind that makes her want to crawl out of her own skin; the too-nice smiles, the pitied gazes.
“Wanna know a secret?” She spoke up, a finger tracing the rough pavement, hoping they would hurt. She doesn’t know if Anne is listening - she doesn’t want to. Yet she could still feel the other girl’s gaze on her, burning on her skin. “Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should just, stop existing, you know.”
The way Anne lets out a small gasp almost breaks her. (Almost).
She continues anyway.
“I mean - my parents clearly want me to be gone. It would save them time and money and the fucking burden . They kept saying their whole marriage was a mistake, so I’m probably one of those mistakes they were talking about. If I stopped existing, maybe then they wouldn't have to spend so much money and time deciding who gets to keep me when none of them even wants me and I really, really wished I would disappear one d - “
“ - don’t,” two hands grabbed on her shoulders, squeezing them so tight it almost hurts, forcing her to look up. And Anne was there with teary eyes, an angry blush on her face. “Stop. Don’t say that.”
Whatever Sasha had expected Anne to respond, it isn’t this. “Anne…?”
“Don’t you think I want you?” Her angry frown turns into sobs. “What do you think Marcy and I will do if you disappear one day?”
Sasha shakes her head - this, this scares her. Not Anne’s anger, but her affection. The way she’s saying don’t you think I want you? What do you think will I do without you?
The thing is, Sasha doesn’t know where to put her affection. She carries it around like a burden; she’s mean and horrible and filthy and Anne is a goddess - too good for her, too kind, too clean. Everyone knows that. So, she shakes her head and and tries to laugh it off nervously, “Anne, hey, I was just - it was just a stupid thought, okay, it’s not a big de - “
“No!” Anne exclaims, and it shuts her up. “I don’t want you to wake up everyday thinking that you’re a mistake, okay? You’re not a mistake, you’re important and loved and I need you. I don’t - I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”
Sasha swallows thickly, biting her tongue to prevent her for fucking up even further. You don’t mean that. You don’t mean that. “Okay. Okay, I - “ she shakes Anne’s hands off her shoulders because it burns and she couldn’t stand it, “just stop crying, okay? It was stupid.”
Anne sniffs and wipes away her tears. “No it’s not.”
“It is,” it’s her turn to hold Anne’s shoulders and shake them off. “It is.”
She gave Anne a small smile. The girl smiles back.
“Wanna pull Marcy out of the library and get boba?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Great!” Sasha offers Anne her hand. “C’mon, then. Up and away.”
Anne laughs, scrambling to wipe her tears off her face. I shouldn’t have said that. Now look at what you’ve done.
“Hey, it - it really is stupid,” she shakes her shoulders one last time as they helped each other to get up to walk away. “I mean, I say dumb things all the time, right? Forget what I said and smile, okay?”
Anne wipes the last bit of tear away from her face. “Okay.”
(She doesn't.)
Sitting down waiting had always been Sasha’s specialty.
The grand, empty corridors of the courthouse. The detention classroom, the principal’s office. The hot pavement driveway in Anne’s house, full of chalk drawings, the warm afternoon sun and the laughter that follows.
Now, sitting down waiting has brought her to the front porch of Anne’s house, a finger between the pages of a book that belongs to a girl who’s half-alive.
Marcy isn’t the only one who’s half-alive in this place.
For a second, Sasha thinks about it. If there was anything the A-plus student Marcy Wu has in common with the problem child Sasha Waybright, it’s that they both have always been half-alive since who knows when. Perhaps it was the moment they realized they weren’t worth anything unless they bring something good to the table, something shiny and precious for the sake of their parents’ pride. Perhaps it was the moment they realized that they couldn’t live without the other two, yet couldn’t stop sabotaging their relationships like they were made for it. Like they were made to break things, to be broken. To be alone.
Alone.
Marcy just didn’t want to be alone.
(Neither did she.)
It’s raining, and Sasha’s had gone through the Californian weather enough to know that it’s turning into a storm, lighting and thunder coming for them in the distance. It used to scare her. Dark, gray clouds, looming above the whole city - the cold howling wind, the way she’s always been alone with no arms to give her warmth.
Now, Sasha wants to walk forward and approach it herself.
No. Not want - an urge. There’s an urge for her to do it, for her to get up from her seat and walk down the stairs of the front porch, leaving Marcy’s book on the stairs as she steps into the rain. That book, that goddamn book - she’s never seen Marcy with it. Yet it’s always there, in her bag, waiting to be discovered. Marcy had always been the sappy type - nobody would have guessed. But Sasha knows, of course she does - she’s seen it in the girl’s eyes. Every book resume in English class, every school play, every history class where they teach you about fictional mythologies, the greatest love stories of all time. Romeo and Juliet, Orestes and Pylades, Orpheus and Eurydice.
Sasha says it’s all bullshit. Fictions and myths, that’s what they are. Marcy says a girl can dream.
And that’s what she did. Dreamed of being loved.
The difference is, Marcy was brave enough to admit it. Sasha never does - not even to herself. Love isn’t such a terrible thing to hate when you’ve grown all your life seeing what kinds of horrible things it eventually brings. So why is she reading Marcy’s beloved poem book, over and over again? Why is she doing this to herself, going through every page and words and letters, hoping it would hurt more than it already does?
Page thirty-four, marked by a folded page.
Marcy’s favorite poem.
She takes a step forward.
(Imagine this: you’re driving. The sky’s bright. You look great. In a word, in a phrase, it’s a movie, you’re the star. So smile for the camera, it’s your big scene, you know your lines.)
She’s gone through these steps a hundred times before in her life.
( I’m the director. I’m in a helicopter. I have a megaphone and you play along, because you want to die for love, you always have.)
Coming over for dinner. Homeworks. Group projects. Sleepovers. They used to hang out on hot sunny afternoons, dusty chalk fingers, ice cream stains on their shirts.
( Imagine this: you’re pulling the car over. Somebody’s waiting. You’re going to die in your best friend’s arms.)
Where did it all go now? The greetings, the rushed footsteps against concrete, the laughters, the scraping of chalk against pavement. The way they say each other’s name with childish fondness, hello, I know you, you’re my best friend. I might love you more than that, but it’s not allowed. Where did it all go now, replaced with guilt and sorrow and regret? Where did that blue cloudless sky go, replaced with dark, gray skies?
( And you play along because it’s funny, it’s written down, you’ve memorized it, it’s all you know.)
Sasha feels the rain against her skin, her drenched clothes, angry and harsh. And she keeps walking forward, past the driveway they used to play hopscotch in, not knowing whether she would stop. Not knowing whether she can.
( I say the phrases that keep it all going, and everybody plays along.)
A blood-curdling scream of her name follows.
Anne had been in the living room when she looked out of the front window and saw a glimpse of blonde hair in front of her yard, in the middle of the pouring rain.
She stares at the carpeted floor for a moment, trying to comprehend what she had just seen, hoping that what she saw was just a quick flash of headlights and not what she thinks it is. And Anne doesn’t want to look again - she doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to confirm her worst fears. Yet she still looks out again anyway, because what if she’s wrong.
And she is wrong.
(Imagine this: someone’s pulling a gun, and you’re jumping into the middle of it. You didn’t think you’d feel this way.)
It was, in fact, Sasha, standing in the middle of the rain on the side of the street, like she’s in a trance, like she’s lost her mind - and Anne knows, she knows because she never forgets. Those words, the ones that came from the girl’s escaped thoughts of what if one day I just disappeared. What if one day I stopped existing. What then. Will they care? Will you care?
(There’s a gun in your hand. It feels hot. It feels oily.)
Yes! Anne wants to scream it a thousand times until it’s planted into the other girl’s head. Yes! Of course I will care! Of course I will!
Sasha kept walking forward, and she felt her heart jump to her throat. Every fiber in her body is telling her to move move move and she does, clumsy, hurried steps at a time towards the front door, swinging it open with a loud crash and come back please don’t do this I need you to stay -
(I’m the director and I’m screaming at you, I’m waving my arms in the sky, and everyone’s watching, everyone’s curious, everyone’s holding their breath.)
“SASHA!”
There’s screaming, footsteps splashing against the rain, and then a pair of strong arms pulling her back so suddenly that she fell on her back against the wet sidewalk with them, though none of it even matters anymore. She’s cold and wet and dirty and they both are, who - ?
Sasha looks around, and it’s Anne. Eyes red and brimming with tears, pale and horrified and concerned - “what are you doing?”
Anne doesn’t scream when she asks her that. She doesn’t even exclaim it. Those words were a whisper, shushed and quiet, like it’s a dirty secret. Like she’s afraid.
“I,” Sasha swallows thickly, feeling something hot trickle down her cheeks, “I don’t know.”
A sob.
Anne held her tighter.
“I’m sorry.” She doesn't even know what she’s apologizing for. Nothing. Everything. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” the other girl whispers, her fingers between hers. “I just - you should’ve - you should’ve talked to me.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
Sasha isn’t sure what “anything” is supposed to be. But then a thought flashed through her head, and she was too late to stop those words from coming out of her mouth. “Sometimes I wish I would die.”
This time, there wasn’t a gasp. Not even a surprised look. It’s like Anne knew, it’s like she always knew.
“I know.”
“Is it weird?”
“Yeah,” Anne answers honestly. “It’s not something anyone would consider normal. But I understand.”
Sasha turns to look at her. “How?” she asks, like it all would make sense if Anne would just answer. How are you so understanding all the time? How are you so kind, so good? How are you holding my hand when you’re a saint and I’m a sinner?
“You’re scared,” she replies, but she says it softly instead of degradingly. “You’re confused and lost and you’re scared. And that’s okay. Me too.”
“No you’re not,” Sasha hisses, but there’s no real heat in her words. “You’re always so strong and brave. All the time.”
“I try to be.”
“How?” she asks again, and this time, Anne truly answers it.
“I’m loved,” Anne whispers, “and you are, too.”
She doesn’t hesitate to scoff. “Bullshit.”
“It’s true,” her words are so soft, Sasha feels like biting her fingers off and crawling out of her skin because she doesn’t deserve it, I don’t deserve it. “You just have to stop running away from it."
From what? She wants to yell. What is there for me to run away from anymore?
"From me.”
Oh.
Anne pulls her closer into her arms, making her head lean against her shoulders, and Sasha doesn’t have the will to refuse even if she wants to. Stop running away. Stop running away. She feels like a wounded, feral rabbit whose mind is screaming run run run, but she doesn’t. Because she’s done running. And she’s staying, no matter how much the beast inside her is telling her to run and stay away.
She’s done doing that.
The rain feels softer against her skin, now. Anne kept pulling her tighter, closer, as if she was afraid that she’d run away if she didn't. Sasha wants to tell her it’s over. That she’s done running away, that she doesn’t want to run anymore. Instead, she says, “Crush, by Richard Siken.”
Anne listens.
“It was always in her bag,” she continues, “Marcy’s. She stole it from the library, I think. It’s a book full of, I don’t know, weird metaphorical poems.”
Anne lets out a small, breathy laugh. “And you like it?”
“Yeah,” Sasha confesses, a laugh escaping her chest, too. “Planet of love was Marcy’s favorite. She marked it.”
“What’s yours?”
She swallows thickly. “The miracle.”
Anne smiles fondly, and this time, the thought of her affection burns less on her skin. “Tell me?”
There's a while of silence before she remembers.
“In these dreams, it’s always you,” she breathes, raindrops on her face, “the boy in the sweatshirt, the boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me from jumping off the bridge.”
Anne runs her fingers along her arm like she’s touching a delicate piece of art. This time, Sasha succumbs into it. Head on her shoulder, feeling water dripping from her curls. They sat there on the sidewalk in the pouring rain, like they’re both crazy, like they’ve lost their minds. If they have, Sasha wouldn’t have minded it. She’s always been losing her mind, anyway.
But something tells her that she’ll be okay. They all will.
Anne caresses the faint scar on her left cheek with her thumb and presses a soft kiss on it. Noses against each other, knees drawn against their chests, Anne’s warmth keeping her safe. And Sasha could no longer tell if it’s raindrops or tears on her face, but it’s okay.
“Oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued,” she whispers. “Your jeep. Your teeth. That coffee you bought me.”
(This time, she feels like she might as well keep living for it.)