Archive of Our Own

“Tobey, dearie!” Granny May’s shrill voice carried high over the evening traffic and pedestrian mumbling. “Come on over here, sonny!” 

The boy in question rose one disinterested eyebrow, glancing across the street to glimpse a baffling sight. The villainess had set up shop in between two industrial skyscrapers, her little stand insignificant in size. She made up for it in glitz and allure, a delicate, golden-trimmed purple cloth draped over a few stacked crates. An elaborate sign draped between twin poles read Granny May’s Apothecary, the silk billowing in autumn’s chilly evening breeze.  

He was too far away to make out the items on the table, but if the sweet, buttery smell was anything to go by, there had to be some sort of baked good on sale. Tobey typically didn’t let such trivial things distract him from crucial matters - like getting home in time for supper – but he hadn’t eaten much all day, and the smell was rather enticing. He decided he’d give his senior the time of day and perhaps check out her inventory, should it include more desserts. 

Tobey wove through the crowd, clutching his notebook in one hand. Granny May beamed when his foot hit the sidewalk, immediately crooning at the sight of him. “Oh, Tobey – you've grown so much since the last time I saw you.” 

“The last time you saw me was three days ago,” he reminded her dryly, “at the monthly Villain Association meeting.” 

“Really?” she blinked her eyes rapidly, feigning an innocent appearance. “My, then it’s been ages . What are you now, thirteen?” 

Tobey resisted dragging a hand down his face. While he had a decent amount of respect for her, given that she was the most daring elder he’d ever encountered, conversing with her was a struggle. She seemed to flit between her docile, harmless persona and her actual behavior without any regard for her audience. Apparently, it didn’t matter if he was a fellow villain and knew of her nastiest crimes - May would still pinch his cheeks and gush about his extra inch of added height as if she cared in the slightest. 

“I’ve been thirteen for a while now, ma’am,” he managed, adjusting his glasses. Annoyance bled into his expression, but he refrained from saying anything that might get him whacked on the kneecaps with her cane. “Since winter.” 

“Oh?” She stroked the coat of her sagging cat, which Tobey thought looked like a rung out dishrag. “You’re growing into a fine young man, Tobey. All you need to do now is cut your hair.” 

He tugged at his unkempt blond locks, frowning. “What’s wrong with my hair?” 

“You’ve grown it out! You’ll start to look like one of those...those gangster rebels if you let it get any longer,” she insisted, sniffing in distaste.  

Tobey wanted to tell her that he probably already qualified as a ‘gangster rebel’ (well, he was a supervillain, with much more intelligence and strategy to be compared to those bumbling hooligans) when he smelt the sugary aroma from earlier wafting underneath his nose. On the far right of Granny’s stand was a silver dish piled with chocolate-chip cookies, the scent spreading through the air like spring jam on fresh toast. 

He cleared his throat, setting aside disdain for a gentlemanly politeness. “Might I have one? I’m simply famished after a day of strenuous school work, you see.” 

“Of course, dearie!” She lifted the platter and he eagerly took a cookie, parting his lips in anticipation. “They’re my own special recipe. Eggs, butter, sugar...” 

Tobey bit into the dessert and hissed in pain, tossing the biscuit onto the pavement. One hand cradled his sore teeth. “Cement?” he growled. 

Granny May tilted her head, appearing deep in thought. “I don’t think so, but you know me. An old lady is bound to be forgetful, with her delicate, aging memory.” Her eyes fluttered close with solemnity and he swallowed a snarl, crushing the confection – if he could call it that - under the heel of his shoes. He could’ve gone the whole day without this meaningless exchange, and yet he hadn’t even gotten something out of tolerating this daft woman. He scowled, turning to leave, when her lips quirked into a crafty smirk.  

The elderly woman’s eyes snapped open; a familiar spark ignited behind her amber irises. “Well, now that you’re here, you should certainly buy something.” 

“Really,” he droned. “If I wanted more of your horrendous baking, I would have asked.” 

Granny shook her head. “You should know better than to insult a girl’s cooking.” 

He snorted. “I’d hardly call you a girl. You’re ancient .” 

“And I’d hardly call you a man , you spineless brat,” she snapped. “Now, do an old lady a favor and buy something.” 

The boy – man - sputtered; rebuttal viciously assembled on his tongue when his wandering gaze drifted towards the boxes laid out on the silk tablecloth. Each container was padded with thick red velvet, and on the beds of velvet were glass vials filled with pale colored liquids in pastel hues of washed-out violet, cotton blue, and buttercream yellow; the flasks sealed with corks and wrapped with single strips of parchment embellished in inky cursive labels. The triangular bottles’ metallic, shimmering radiance bounded about his vision like a flurry of summertime fireflies, capturing his attention over the fragrant balms and creamy tinctures to his left.  

Tobey caressed one of the bottles, holding it up to the sun, where its golden rays melted through the transparent material and broke off into several separate bronze streams, iridescence wavering between the beams of light. A sharp, tangy shade of crimson that reminded him of pomegranate seeds sloshed about in the glass, rosy pink bubbles frothing at the lip. Warmth burnt through the gauzy paper wrapped around the phial. He squinted at the graceful black script written on it – Ludus . 

“Ludus?” he repeated. “What on Earth?” 

Granny’s eyes brightened. “Oh, that , my dear, is a potion especially made to help with matters of...” she winked, “the heart.” 

Tobey swished the blood-red fluid, unimpressed. Potions? What an absurd notion. There was no such thing. He, someone whose soul work consisted of logic, science, and rationality, especially knew this. True results of any form came from actual effort, but sorcery required only hope for things to spur into existence from happenstance, wild emotions. He was sure whatever was in the jar was some water and food coloring, perhaps glorified cranberry juice, but nothing more. 

Yet when he re-read the mysterious word scrawled on the flask again – Ludus – his heart skipped a beat. If he was certain that nothing would come from it, why did he find his hand reaching into his wallet? This was most undoubtedly a sales gimmick – and while that wasn’t really Granny May’s primary approach, there was nothing to gain from idly waiting near her stand when there were hot latkes awaiting him at home. Still, he itched to uncork the bottle and take a sip. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge just this once, to dip his toe into something less objective and more fanciful. 

There was no harm in wading out into waters of the wondrous and, frankly, impossible. He was, after all, a dreamer at heart. 

“What exactly does this do?” he inquired, peering at Granny May. Her posture had straightened considerably in reaction to the prospect of making money, though she tried to temper her enthusiasm.  

“Just as I said,” she replied vaguely, “matters of the heart, sonny! I know you youngsters can hardly handle bein’ around each other properly. Back in my day, men brought me flowers and chocolate! They offered to drive me home from my job at the diner!” She swept an indignant hand around the flooded streets. “Do you see anyone doing that, Tobey? No! They say some tommyrot about dating . Well, back in the good old days, it was courting, and you treated your partner like they were in court – like royalty! Nowadays it’s all, ‘will you go out with me?’ Where’s the thrill? Where’s the theatrics? Bah!” 

Tobey had to agree with her on the way people his age tackled romantic endeavors. It was all so mundane . They had no sense of creativity or passion whatsoever – everything was recycled: paper cutout heart, average box of rectangular, geometric chocolates, gestures that had been repeated over the centuries. It was partly the reason why he was determined to stick out amongst the others, so that Wordgirl wouldn’t lump him in with them . 

Despite his agreement on the subject, May had told him absolutely nothing he needed to know about the potion, instead going on a pointless spiel. “Yes, but what does any of that have to do with this?” 

The elderly woman sneered. “You weren’t listening – matters of the heart, I said! It’s a love potion.” 

He sighed. “I could tell that much, but what does it do .” 

“It makes your affairs of love less miserable.” She gave him a once-over. “If you have any affairs of love, that is.” 

And just what was that supposed to mean? “Okay,” he said evenly, gritting his teeth, “let me rephrase.” He was well aware that she would continue to play cat-and-mouse with him, and was determined not to be played the fool. Fine - he didn’t have to know how it worked, because it wouldn’t work – but there was still one thing he had to be sure of. “Will drinking this give me any health complications?” 

She leaned forward, one wrinkled hand cupping her ear. “What was that, dearie?” 

“Will I die , you infuriating crone!”  

Granny May held a shocked palm to her mouth. “That’s ma’am to you, young man. And why would I sell such a thing? How could you accuse me, a fragile, old woman, of a dastardly crime? I don’t want you dead that badly.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowing an acidic curse. "So nothing will happen if I drink this?” 

She let out a sweet, wilting sigh. “Unfortunately.” 

“Lovely,” he deadpanned. Then, in one swift move, he uncorked the bottle, sniffed the lip, and tossed the vial back. A saccharine, tart sweetness hit his tongue, hissing down his throat like airy pop. The potion swirled and fizzed in his mouth, conjuring up images of crushed, robust firecrackers and rock candy. Sparkles seemed to form before his lips, trailing out in plumes of effervesce smoke. This was what love tasted like; the sparks of a flame, the sourish undertones beneath honeyed nectar, an explosion blossoming with the grace of a flower in bloom.  

As quickly as it had started, the sensation dimmed significantly. Stunning, crippling emptiness took its place, a cold fog curling around his neck like a noose. He stifled a shiver, wondering how he could experience such chill when earlier he’d been burning on a phantom pyre.  

He also noted, numbly, that it tasted like cranberry juice. Then he shoved the thought away because he was supposed to be in a fantasy, living his nanosecond long dream of - well, whatever result this was supposed to have on him.  

“How dare you!” Granny May’s strident voice penetrated the thin dream like a bothersome needle. “You didn’t pay! Not a cent!” 

Tobey blinked, dizzy as the last wave of euphoria passed over him. “Hm?” 

“You stole from me! Swiped the potion like a naughty pick-pocket and swished it down!” 

“My most sincere apologies, Granny May,” he mirrored her docile smile. “I wasn’t as discrete as I should have been, and for that, I’m sorry.” 

“And…?” 

He smirked, giving her a sharp smile. “I’m still being sorry about it.” 

She tched. “Rapscallion. You didn’t have half the mind to properly rob me! Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” 

“What with your weak elderly senses, yes.” 

The woman guffawed, narrowing her eyes into beads studding her sunken skin. “Well, I never!” 

He brushed a few strands of blond hair from his eyes, deciding that he would let it grow out even more now that he had her disapproval. His heartbeat thumped a pace faster than usual. “I don’t recall you being this annoying during villain conventions.” 

“How-” 

“Stop right there, Granny May!”  a voice shouted, and Tobey nearly dropped the vial. There she was, the object of his everlasting hatred, levitating above them like an angel of death. The smallest part of him wondered if his drinking the elixir had something to do with it, though he knew it was most likely because two dangerous villains (one supervillain and one villain, more accurately) had congregated in public looking awfully suspicious.  

He tilted his head back to gaze at her and felt his words drift away, a million different emotions cramming themselves into the recesses of his head. Wordgirl always looked overwhelmingly beautiful – too beautiful to be his enemy. Despite that, there was something new about her look, like she’d been doused in specks of microscopic glitter that refracted light with every movement, as though she had just recently hatched from a supernova, glimmering like an uncut opal.  

Wordgirl’s warm brown skin shone like melted caramel, and her wind-swept hair cupped her face like a lush fur collar. The sun, in all of its evening brilliance, was weak in comparison to her luminosity. Its light brushed over the edges of her figure in a fiery corona, and she had a feisty expression to match - cheeks tinged red with irritation, dark eyes inspecting the scene in a way that made his knees weak, and her perky lips pursed upwards like a pitcher tilted to spill an arsenal of terms that would surely slaughter him. 

Fury suited her, he thought, and the organ in his chest tripped over itself in sync with that thought.  

“Wordgirl!” Granny May warbled, stroking her grey bun. “How nice of you to drop by.” 

“Cut the act, Granny May. I know what you’re doing!” 

The woman batted her eyelashes, conjuring crocodile tears. “Can’t a woman make a living? I’m only a poor, little old lady. My lovely Eugene -” she fished through her pocket and pulled out a wallet, skimming for photos - “only comes by on the weekends. I have a passion and only wish for others to see it, dearie.” 

“Right,” Wordgirl muttered, unconvinced. “A passion for breaking the law. This fraud won’t last any longer on my watch!” 

“Fraud?” Tobey mumbled. 

The heroine acknowledged his presence, cocking her head in bewilderment. “Wait...are you two teaming up?” 

He wrinkled his nose. “Heavens, no.” 

Granny May placed one defiant hand on her hip. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Wordgirl!” Tobey cried in delight, focusing his attention on more important matters. “How are you? When was the last time our paths crossed?” 

“A week ago.” 

“A lifetime,” he murmured, fiddling with his tie. “On that delightful Sunday evening at the Fair City Library, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes,” she said flatly, “when you were trying to destroy the e-book section.” 

He fixed her an accusatory look. “Wordgirl, dearest-” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“-dearest, you can’t tell me that the library made a rational decision in replacing the graphic novel section with -” he paused, miming a gag, “ e-books .” 

The heroine hesitated. “I’ll admit that e-books are horrible, but that’s not a reason to ruin public property! Even if they’re harder on the eyes for long-term reading, require technology, and don’t have the same nice smell, it’s no excuse to try and wipe them out, Tobey.” 

“Now that I think about it,” he mused, “you took quite a bit of time arriving to the scene of the crime.” 

“I- I was held up!” 

“Whatever helps your pretty little head sleep better at night, darling.” 

“Don’t call me that!” she repeated, rouge staining her cheeks from anger. “And pretty ?” 

“Oh, sorry,” he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Pretty is such a drab word. Would you prefer gorgeous? Exquisite? Incandescent?” 

He took a great deal of pleasure in the absolute embarrassment flooding her face. “First of all, no. Secondly, incandescent isn’t a synonym for pretty. It’s used to describe bright things – light.” 

“Yes,” he beamed, “exactly.” 

She may as well been a bulbous lightbulb with the way her skin was burning then. Her irises shrunk from a furious sort of flusterment and her eyebrows shot down like arrows trying to strike him with their boldness. His heart blustered again, kicking itself up like a rundown motor. It chugged ferociously, pounding against his ribs like a mallet, the rhythm pushing through his abdomen. The smug grin slid off and melted into a puddle beneath his feet. He clutched the space over the rampant organ and sucked in a breath, but then found that it vanished from his lungs faster than he could ever inhale.  

Wordgirl’s floating form was a red blur. His body felt like a deadweight, dragging him to the ground, and he fell. The pain shot through his bones for a quick second and dimmed. Reeling, he tried to lift his head, but it sunk instead, plunging downwards, and all the while, his heart continued to thud ominously.  

“Tobey!” a voice cried, but he wasn’t sure if it was Wordgirl’s - her speech was melodious, with a prideful lilt topping off her statements like a sour cherry on dollops of whipped cream. This, whatever it was, held a warped connotation. Gloved hands pulled him up, and his head lolled on stiff shoulders. Eyelids drooped, swallowing him in darkness for a few moments, his heart squeezing with agony. Wind soared against his face, brushing him with a sweet coolness that felt almost cruel, seeing as his heart’s screaming made the dim, blurry world shrivel.  

When Tobey was sure he would pass out, he felt something plush underneath him, and a conversation of hushed, quavering whispers. Eyes closed, his heart began to stutter, then retreat to a calmer, less homicidal beat. Oxygen surged into his body and he sucked in a grateful breath, gripping the softness – which, upon further observation, were his bedsheets – as he came down from the peaks of terror.  

After a few minutes of gathering his wits, Tobey managed to lean up in bed. The window was open, a frosty draft brushing against his legs. On his nightstand was a mug of steaming tea. He brought it to his lips, inhaling the warm, pinewood smell before tentatively taking a sip. Sitting there, he could almost be convinced that the whole thing was just a fever dream – Granny May, renowned villain, selling frivolous bottles of gunk on the streets. It sounded like a nightmarish hallucination.   

His heart was back to whistling its normal tune, like it hadn’t been panicking two minutes ago. He might have fallen asleep while working on something, but Tobey couldn’t persuade himself of it. 

When he reached into his pocket, his fingers struck something hard, angular, and cold. He drew it out. 

The vial gleamed in his palm, winking up at him. 

Tobey shoved it back in, not daring to look at its empty contents. So the entire hullabaloo hadn’t been some rubbish he’d dreamt. He wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that he’d practically collapsed in Wordgirl’s presence. She must have brought him home, and the thought of flying in her arms brought him the slightest crumb of comfort. 

His thoughts eventually circled back to the potion. It hadn’t done anything, except give him a minor heart attack. Scowling, he grasped the mug and took another drink.  

It was ironic, really, how he’d stolen something but got conned anyways. It was on him for even entertaining the idea of results from something that had been made on a whim.  

Matters of the heart, Granny May had said, and Tobey tipped the mug back, letting the scalding hot tea burn away any final remnants of tangy resentment lingering on his tongue.  

The next day wasn’t much better. 

Tobey sat in his seat, head down and buried in a novel that was supposed to compensate for the tremendous (yet expected) disappointment of yesterday's events. And, as usual, his classmates decided not to acknowledge the amount of silence it takes to fully immerse one’s self in a magical scenario, whispering amongst themselves and launching crumpled paper balls across the room in their teacher’s absence. Monkeys, the lot of them. 

He grumbled and shifted positions, opting to cover one ear and scrunch his eyebrows in an attempt to cancel out the noise. Scraps of flower-print stationary and miscellaneous glitter pens crossed the border from Violet’s desk to his, and he shoved them away. If there was one thing he’d hoped wouldn’t change between the transition from primary to middle school , it was the singular desk arrangements. Personal space was crucial to him, not just because he preferred being alone, but because his peers – if he could even call them that – had no sense of decorum whatsoever. They chortled and cavorted and had somehow grown even less tolerable now than they were before. 

Tobey had barely managed to keep from blasting their heads off in primary school, and that was when there’d been a good few inches between his area and theirs. Now all the desks were pushed together into quartets, where he was expected to not only occupy the same space as these people, but cooperate and work together with them, as if they weren’t all sharing one scintilla of sense amongst each other.  

He hated his table, to put it curtly. On the lighter, less aggravating side was Violet. The blonde was mild-mannered and knew how to keep quiet yet communicate her thoughts, even if half the words she said sounded plagiarized from some loopy poetry book.  

On the other side of the spectrum was Ming, who the others dubbed Scoops because of his extraordinary ability to stick his crass nose into other peoples’ business. Tobey was not exempt from this unique talent, and because the boy happened to sit right next to him, he was subjected to plenty of personal questions – why do people call you Tobey instead of Theo? How do you rebuild your robots so fast? Are you aware you have a small, niche fan club? Where’s your father? Is he dead?  

Is he dead. Todd Scoops Ming, the brilliant boy that he was, had asked Tobey in the most casual, unapologetic tone possible, if his father was dead. 

It had taken everything – every iota of willpower – for Tobey not to wring his neck then and there. It had taken even more for him to bite his lip and lean his head back, letting whatever nonsense was collecting in his eyes to fade away. 

Scoops was the very embodiment of daft, and Tobey was sure the only reason nobody seemed to point it out was because they too busy swooning over his stunning looks, as if he came to school in a three-piece suit and not jeans, a shoddy bowl haircut, and a shirt in the least appealing color of the rainbow. The worst part was that his number one fan sat diagonally from Tobey – Becky Botsford, infuriatingly smart and eternally irritating. 

Personally, he didn’t understand her infatuation with him. Clearly, he was attracted to Violet, as seen by their revolting eye-snogging and non-subtle hand-holding, and she knew that. It was exasperating, watching her pine after someone unattainable while they moved on with their lives, and no, he didn’t think that just because it reminded him of himself. Why, they were hardly alike. He simply found the exuberant shine in her eyes and creative wordplay wasted on an unappreciative dimwit like Scoops, that was all. 

When she wasn’t trying to appease him, Botsford wasn’t horrible to be around. She was the only one who could keep up with him in a conversation, and held herself highly. In primary school, that pride had been a source of annoyance to younger Tobey, but now he felt that it was almost deserved. She wasn’t as talented as him, of course, but she came quite close. Smart as a whip (literally; her words were ripely plucked from the lexicon) and stubborn to a fault. He fought with her on a daily basis, and though her stupidly justice-based ideology exhausted him, there was something about the way she debated with him, her eyes ablaze and rosy lips pursed with disdain, that made his heart twist ruefully. 

In hatred – that made his heart twist in hatred, yes. 

Speaking of her, she too had decided to take refuge in the pages of a book – Princess Triana and The Ball of Bards – her fingers deftly flipping away at it.  

The organ nestled between a cage of bones fought against its restraints, skipping a beat. 

Her chocolatey hair spilled over her shoulders in waves, each tress gleaming with luster under the fragmented sunlight weakly emitting from the windows.  

Thump went his heart, and the chaos of the unsupervised classroom faded away. 

Choppy bangs hung like a veil over her lidded eyes, where she devoured the fairytale with silent thrill. Her baggy green sweater hung adorably over her hands, the collar brushing against her throat.  

Thud. It sounded like his heart had fallen, and so had his breath.  

Every so often, she would smile softly, blink in shock, or frown in frustration, and he would mirror her expression, wishing he was closer so he could read, too, even though he’d read the bestseller twice already. 

Thud, thud, thud – Tobey only meant to peer up for a second, but his eyes couldn’t go back to robotics now that he’d seen her in this light. Becky was never fully calm, always animate and alive, even when winding down to read. Had he noticed this before? He had, perhaps, but back then there’d been willpower, the urge to look away and stomp down whatever thing was growing like a weed in his garden of prim blooms.  

ThudThudThudThud - ah, she looked up. Raised a bewildered eyebrow. “Is there something on my face?” 

“Yes,” he replied listlessly. “Beauty.” 

Her face blossomed with heat. “Wh - What ?” 

He wanted to say something – thud – but his heart was choking him as it spasmed uncontrollably. Becky stared at him, then away, then back to him, perplexed. He wondered if this was the first time he’d complimented her.  

Violet paused her nonsensical scribbling to gape at the two of them. Scoops quit yammering and was staring, eyes blown wide. If not for his rapidly decreasing air supply, Tobey might have slapped that stupid look off his face. 

“Tobey?” Becky’s voice was concerned. “Are you-” 

“I’m fine!” he managed, pushing out of his chair with urgency. “I - I assure you, Botsford, I couldn’t be better. There’s just an itch! An itch, down my back, that I really must take care of. You know how it is.” He smiled tightly. 

“An itch,” she echoed hollowly.  

“Yes - you know how they are. Monstrous little-” his heart lurched again and he struggled to walk towards the door, even though their table group was right next to it. The end of his sentence came out as a hiss - “ things.” 

He caught but a glimpse of her bewildered face before shutting the door, just as his heart had crescendoed through its erratic death symphony, slamming against the podium of his bones like a gavel sounding his utter doom.  

Then the concerto puttered out, and air swelled in his lungs. He coughed, sliding against the wood, legs trembling in a gelatinous fashion. The vial, still in his pant pocket, clinked against the floor.  

Tobey took in a large gasp of oxygen. After all, he wouldn’t know when it would be stolen from him again. This was the second time the turbulent beats had plagued him, and he wouldn’t let it happen thrice. Whatever this momentary condition was, he knew where it had started. 

This fraud won’t last any longer on my watch!  

The empty phial sagged, like he’d filled his pockets with pebbles. His tongue prickled with sparks. 

Blast it, that woman was going to pay . 

“You,” Tobey growled, yanking open the door to Granny May’s home. 

“Yes,” she murmured, reclining leisurely in her rocking chair. “Me. Have some respect, young man, and knock next time.” 

“Oh, there won’t be a next time,” he snarled, walking straight in. The interior was decorated in the way he figured it would – tacky orange wallpaper embossed with pictures of various cats (probably dead), her grandson Eugene, more cats (dead), Eugene, and a framed photo of her first Bingo win. An ugly pink couch with haphazardly-stitched blue flowers and crinkled lace doilies took up living room, with a coffee table nearby hosting ceramic kitty-themed tea cups and a tray of scorched pound cake. 

Barely taking any of this into account, Tobey marched up to her and slammed the vial onto the table. “What did you put in this?” 

“Now, now, Tobey,” Granny May tutted, waggling a finger. “Don’t damage my furniture, or you’ll have to pay for it.” 

“I’m not paying for a bloody thing. Now, tell me the contents of this rubbish before I reduce your little neon pigsty into dirt .” 

“Pigsty?” she cackled. “How dare you! I’ll have you know that I spent weeks picking out the furniture-” 

“Stealing.” 

“-long-term borrowing the furniture just for this very room! And oh, the colors, too!” 

“Really?” he asked, malice dripping from his words. “I imagine it was quite the task, having to choose between two equally horrible shades of the same horrible color.” 

“Rude,” she tsked. “That kind of behavior won’t get you anywhere, dearie.” 

“Playing nice never did anything for anyone, did it?” he leant in, smile sharp and crooked.  

“Of course not,” agreed Granny May, warily eying the remote in his pocket. “What was it you wanted, again? My memory isn’t as fine as it used to be, you know.” 

He rolled his eyes. “What did you put in this? The love potion you sold me yesterday?” 

“I don’t remember selling it,” she snarked.  

“And I thought your memory was unreliable?” 

“As I was saying,” she said swiftly, “I don’t quite remember. What was the name of the potion?” 

“Ludus.” He didn’t even have to think of it anymore; the name sprung to his lips at beck and call. 

“Hm...” 

“Trying to recall what kind of illegal drugs you’ve poisoned me with?” 

“Hmph! I would never do something that out of fashion, dearie. Besides, I didn’t make it. A friend from Bingo did – Loretta, she was such a spiffing gal before her home was ransacked by those cruel, cruel robbers.” 

“So, in other words, you.” 

“Who else, you knave? When I was searching, I found a few of the potions she made for her alchemy group. Ludus was one of them. I believe there was a note attached, too. I might have thrown it out with the Sunday sports newsletter...” 

“Granny May.” 

“Oh!” she cried in mock delight, patting her numerous dress pockets. “Silly me. It’s right here.” She grabbed a pair of oval glasses and pushed them onto her nose. “Ahem. ‘Ludus is a concoction that reveals matters of the heart. When drunk, the subject will experience rapid pulse increases around their one true love.’” 

Tobey gripped his sleeves, thinking back to yesterday, when he’d made eye contact with Wordgirl. It made sense then, for his heart to convulse in her presence, but that didn’t explain Botsford. He couldn’t have two true loves – he hardly even liked her, except for a few moments in class, or when she was giving those exhilarating debate speeches, or when she defined words with the utmost delicacy and -  

Oh. 

Oh.  

Granny May glanced at him, taking in his gaping mouth and slack posture. “Sonny, sit down. You look like you’ve been run over by a train.” 

Tobey didn’t have anything to say to that. He may as well have been run over, for his lungs nearly stopped when he made the fatal connection. He’d always suspected – even after she’d thwarted him multiple times, even after she’d proven with conviction that she was, quote, an ordinary, little girl.  

Becky Botsford was anything but an ordinary, little girl, with or without superpowers. And that in itself should’ve clued him in on her being Wordgirl. He’d never dwelt on his...opinions about her, but they were impossible to ignore now. 

When he’d first met her, he’d faintly acknowledged her. She was a teen who sat in front of him, had shiny brown hair and snappy red lips. She was fairly intelligent and handled herself well, if only she would cease targeting him with her treacherous moral compass. Still, he could pass over her. He could bury his head and pretend that she was just another human in the background. 

Now, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Now, she was highlighted, her every gesture’s importance multiplied tenfold, even if it was just her tucking a lock of russet hair behind her ears. Now, he subtly listened when she spoke, just to catch a whisper of her eloquent speech. It was a common occurrence to see her standing up, one hand on her hip, eyes narrowed and finger pointing at the accused while she neatly – but angrily – shredded their side of the story. And Tobey – Tobey found it – well, he found it entertaining. Amusing. Dare he say, endearing . 

Never in his life had he thought he would describe her like that. And really, it failed to encompass her thing as a whole. Rather, she was a flare, crackling with resistance, the sparks melting anyone who stepped too close, the sparks of which had already melted him. When Tobey had confronted her about her identity years ago, over a deadly boardgame and thunderous storm, he’d said: same sparkling smile, same ruby lips, same...  

He took it all back.  

Her smile did not merely sparkle , it shone with a wholesome luster. Her lips – which he had never stared at, only merely glimpsed – were not only ruby, but they broke apart like a ripe strawberry, sometimes sweet, sometimes terribly sour. And though he hadn’t finished his spiel out of embarrassment, there was so much he could say about her that he’d noticed throughout their middle school years and stuffed away into a cabinet of forbidden thoughts.  

The utter, red-hot defiance, the sarcasm she tossed her words in like bitter salad dressing, the way she drew everyone’s attention when she talked. Becky didn’t have to fly to attract a dozen eyes. All she had to do was use her words. Her words, which were acrid, piquant, selcouth, syrupy and everything at once. 

Her presence, her aura, her words, which above all else, were powerful . 

Wordgirl had been sitting in front of him the whole time, out of costume, out of mind. She’d been his classmate, his peer, at times his friend .  

And now she was making his heart detonate with just a flutter of her lashes. 

Emotions ran him over again in their makeshift train, cheering as the juxtaposition between hatred and admiration pulled viciously at Tobey. He wondered if this was how his robots felt whenever Wordgirl sent a fist through their chests, leaving only a smoking, smoldering hole behind. 

He’d come to Granny May’s house to regain clarity, and instead had fogged up the windowpane even more. He hated Becky. He knew that from the bottom of his rotten apple core of a heart, but the line between Wordgirl and Botsford was blurring, slowly disintegrating.  

He only thought Becky was smart, and funny, and cut - appealing at times. He still hated her. The mantra burnt itself into his skin, but Tobey felt nothing. 

He was mad as a hatter. He was off his rocker. He was...he was...

One true love.  

To bloody hell and back, he was in love with Becky Botsford.  

The world swayed. His knees gave out, and he plopped unceremoniously onto Granny May’s atrocious sofa. 

“Careful now,” she warned. “It’s an antique!” 

“My,” he snarked, voice weak. “Who would want to keep such a hideous thing for so long.” 

Granny May raised an eyebrow, gingerly folding her oval glasses. She was silent for a few seconds, then poured a cup of tea, added a generous helping of sugar, and pushed the saucer towards him. “Have a drink, sonny.” 

“Too sweet,” he mumbled.  

“Don’t pretend like you’re one of those dietary hooligans who take tea without sugar,” she snapped. “Now listen to your elder and drink.” 

Tobey was too tired to argue, lifting the cup to his lips. Earl Grey. Indeed, it was sweet. “I suppose you’d like me to express my endless gratitude.” 

“Did I ask for a thank you?” scoffed the villainess, stretching her limbs. “Pound cake?” 

“I don’t wish to die this early on in life.” 

“Yes, because your future is so promising,” Granny May reassured. Her tone then shifted into something gentle, a far cry from her grating, proud accent. “What, does your true love already have a beau?” 

“Why would you care?” 

“I’m offering tea and conversation, boy. Now hush up and talk.” 

He didn’t address her oxymoron. “To be frank, I’m lost. My true love is...” he trailed off. He didn’t know how much of his crush Granny May was aware of, but he couldn’t expose Wordgirl’s identity by saying my sworn enemy. “...a girl from class. I thought I hated her.” 

“Hate, love,” Granny May tossed a hand. “They’re the same thing, really.” 

“Are they now? This clarifies everything, then.” 

“Why do you youngsters make everything so complicated?” she complained. “Shouldn’t you be happy? You’ve found the one for you!” 

“I don’t talk to her much.” he admitted. “I know her, but I also don’t. How can I love someone I don’t know?” 

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. This girl – maybe I’ve seen her? Blonde hair-” 

“No,” Tobey cut her off. “She’s a brunette, with a bob haircut, and a hairband. She’s got these alluring eyes, and such an aggravating smile, and-” He stopped abruptly. “And that’s mostly...that’s mostly it.” 

Granny May slapped her knee, roaring with laughter. He sunk into the couch, nearly wishing the unseemly thing would swallow him. “See! You do know her. At least, you’ve tried to learn as much as you could by just watching her. You know what that means?” She leaned in. “It means that you, McCallister, secretly want to know more, and the best way to do that is to talk to her.” 

“I - I can’t!” he stammered. “How could I talk to her? I don’t - I can’t - she would turn me away in an instant.” 

“Why so? You might give people too much lip, and perhaps you’ve smashed a good house or two in your day, but you’re a charming man nonetheless.” 

The compliment didn’t reach him. “She would turn me away, just as I’ve turned her advances away. It would be...” he peered down at his teacup, the dark pool of tea glistening with his wavering reflection. “Less than I deserve.” 

“Hm,” she hummed. “Don’t be an idiot.” 

“What ?” 

“You heard me! And I’m supposed to be the one hard of hearing, not you.” She refilled her cup and blew on it. “You don’t get it, boy. If you live your entire life depriving yourself of things you think you don’t deserve, you’ll be miserable. Take it from me.” 

He swept a look around the house’s gaudy décor and nodded. “This does look miserable.” 

“That’s not what I meant, you fool! I could’ve had a mansion, but no . Only for my darling Eugene, I chose to stick to this nowhere town instead, where they don’t even see the effort I put into my crimes!” She took a quick swig of tea like it was a shot of whisky and snarled. “Outrageous!” 

Tobey blinked. “How does this-” 

“I’m getting there! See, this girl, whoever she is, has tried to be your acquaintance for God knows why-” 

“Hey!” 

“-stop interrupting me, foozler! Can’t you see? If she tried, it means she wants to be your friend despite your one-hundred an’ one faults. She’s willing to give it a go, and it’s only insulting to yourself and her that you won’t try. Put your self-pity aside and get to know her. You won’t understand your love if you don’t spend time with your love.” 

Your love . Hearing those words sent a ripple down Tobey’s spine. “She isn’t my love.” He took a dainty sip of tea. “Yet.” 

“Atta boy,” cheered Granny May. She tenderly set down her teacup and gave him a warm smile. “Now, get out of my house.” 

“You look marvelous today, Botsford. Is that a new sweater?” 

She shot him a suspicious look as she slid into her seat the next morning. Violet pretended not to have heard him, ducking into her sketchbook. Scoops spat out his water, spraying it all over his desk. Across the room, a girl sighed giddily. 

“I wear the same sweater every day,” Becky reminded him cautiously.  

“And you look good in it, every single day.” 

She blushed and scowled – a favorable combination. “Tobey, are you okay?” 

“Wonderful,” he grinned. “But it’s nice to know you care.” 

“I don’t,” she replied quickly, in the same way Wordgirl often turned down his proposals for ice cream. Her rejection only invigorated him. “I just think you’re acting strange, that’s all.” 

“I can assure you I am not – I simply happened to notice that green looks lovely on you. Have you, by any chance, tried red?” 

“...No?” 

“Pity. I think it would suit you.” 

“I - Tobey, are you...sick? Do you have a fever?” 

He snorted. “Can’t you take the compliment, Becky?” 

She tugged at the ends of her locks, a nervous tic he’d seldom seen. “But you never compliment me – well, except for yesterday, and last week during our group project...” 

Tobey smirked, though a small part of him relished the fact that she’d remembered the compliments he had given her, as if they were rare things to cherish. Then he immediately felt guilty about it. “Well, I’ve decided that now’s as good a time as any to start. I should make up for every time I didn’t give you one, hm?” 

Her arms flailed. “Wait, what? You don’t have to do that! Really!” 

“What, scared of a compliment?” 

That obstinate expression graced her face, a flame dancing on a stiff wick. “How can you be scared of a compliment? That’s not possible.” 

“Is it now? Well, then – Becky, you are the golden stitching between constellations, the nimble thorn of roses, the muse of all muses-” 

“ Tobey !” she hissed, face aflame. He didn’t want to think about what his own face looked like. “This isn’t funny.” 

“Who said I was joking? I can continue, you know, but I’ll unfortunately have to recite lines from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet to meet the quota. Although you’re more Portia from The Merchant in Venice than a Juliet...” 

“Of course,” she sniffed, then froze. “I mean, don’t recite Romeo and Juliet! And stop complimenting me!” 

He let out a dramatic sigh. “I thought you adored compliments, Botsford, but I see the attention is making you feel guilty. You may now compliment me in return.” 

She scoffed. “In a million years.” 

“I think my brilliance would age well, don’t you? If you’re struggling, there’s a thesaurus over there.” 

“First of all,” Becky began, rolling her eyes, “I’ve never needed a thesaurus in my life. Secondly, not a word in the dictionary could describe how I feel about you.” 

"Really? I'm sure there's a synonym for roguishly handsome somewhere in there." 

She pretended to consider. “Actually, there is – hobbledehoy.” 

“I’m inclined to believe you made that up on a whim.” 

“Nope!” she piped. “A hobbledehoy is an awkward teenager, one who is perpetually ungainly and uncertain. For instance-” 

“I can do without the example, thank you,” he said an octave higher than usual. The smug smile on her face set his honor to the stake, yet he felt a few shreds of morosis-fueled happiness at the familiarity of it. “I believe it’s my turn now – endearritating. Take all the time you need to decipher that one, Becky.” 

It seemed she hadn’t registered his taunt. Instead, she asked curiously, “you think I’m endearing?” 

A wobbly smile. “Sometimes. Not all the time, mind you, but once in a blue moon. Occasionally. Ever so slightly. In between bouts of irritation.” 

Becky crossed her arms, the baggy sleeves cushioning her now relaxed posture. “The feeling is mutual.” 

“O-Oh, is it?”  

She covered her mouth, a grin breaking through. “Sure, Tobey. My turn – logophile. It means to be a lover of words.” 

“And we’re describing me here, not you?” 

Now she laughed, and it was a rambunctious sound, far from docile or wind-chimes. He loved it. “You have a pretty spiffing vocabulary. And good taste in books.” 

“Princess Triana and The Ball of Bards?” 

Her eyes glowed with enthusiasm, and she hastily brought the novel out of her backpack. Her fingers caressed the intricate, glitzy illustrations on the cover. “I’m almost done – I'm at the part where Indra is leading Triana through the Storm of Sonnets.” 

“That’s my favorite part, actually. The verse written is wonderful, but Indra-” 

“Indra keeps trying to shoot the ghosts with her crossbow!” 

“Exactly! Half of her decisions make no sense at all...” 

Tobey wasn’t sure when their conversation about the book had slipped into the next period, or when he’d shakily asked if he’d like to join her for lunch so they could further discuss it. He didn’t recall her saying yes, yet there she sat, under the flowering dogwood tree in Fair City’s middle school grounds, animatedly recounting chapter thirty-four of Triana’s endless plight. 

While her avid voice drifted through his ears, he watched as passion swelled in gestures, her eyes glistening with emotion, her hair’s waves bouncing with boisterous movements. They dissected the whole novel in the shade, before her lively voice eventually died down into silence, the occasional breeze flitting through. 

“Hey, uh, Tobey?” she murmured, her head against the bark. “Why did you say all those things this morning? I get you needed a preamble and everything, but you could’ve just said Princess Triana and I would have talked.” 

“I didn’t say that so we could talk about the book, as engaging as that’s been.” He knelt against his knees. “I just needed to capture your attention.” 

“Oh.” 

He scrambled to correct his mistake. “And because I believe it all to be the utmost truth, of course! You, er, do look lovely in green?” 

She blushed. “Uh - thank you?” 

“You’re welcome. Yes, um.” 

“I meant everything I said, too,” Becky said quickly. “I mean-” 

“I understand. Vaguely.” 

“Oh. I mean, good!” 

“Good.” 

“Great.” 

“Spectacular.” 

“Excellent.” 

“Favorable.” 

Tobey brought a finger to his lip. “Acceptable?” 

They glanced at each other before bursting into peals of laughter. He held a hand to his stomach, the joy ringing through him, and her own silliness echoing in the autumn wind.  

She wiped a tear from her eye. “Our grade is a bunch of hobbledehoys, aren’t they?” 

“You can count yourself amongst them, Botsford.” He straightened his tie and felt a ray of sun burn through his cheeks when she chuckled. For once, he felt happy to have made her laugh, instead of angry that he was embarrassed – though he was definitely still angry, obviously. How dare she. 

“Right,” Becky joked, nudging him. “I’m a bit thirsty – I’m going to go get some drinks. Iced tea?” 

“Only heathens drink tea cold,” he grunted. “I’ll take an apple juice.” 

“An apple juice?” 

“Not a word, Botsford.” 

“Nothing worth commenting on,” she said playfully. “Besides, I was going to get one, too. Be right back!” 

“Do hurry up!” he called as she rushed into the building. “I’m not sure how long I can last without your guidance!” 

She turned around and flashed him a bubbly grin, then disappeared through the doors, feet brushing against the ground like she was a dandelion seed about to take liftoff- 

It was at that precise moment Tobey remembered she could, in fact, fly like a dandelion seed about to take liftoff, because she was Wordgirl.  

She was Wordgirl, his apparent one true love, and he’d forgotten about it. He’d forgotten about everything, really, while they’d been talking. Then he realized that during the duration of their conversations, his heart hadn’t contracted even once. Did that mean the love potion had worn off, or that there had been some sort of special stimulus he hadn’t met this time around, or that maybe fate had rewired itself and Becky wasn’t in it anymore? 

He shoved every thought to the side, a rather risky move. His organ was still under the influence of something that was either kooky magic or cherry-flavored water, and he didn’t know when his heart would spontaneously try to kick itself out from his chest.  

But when he saw Becky walking towards the tree, two bottles of sweetness in hand, he couldn’t find it in him to care.  

Their hands brushed as he took the drink from her, and his heart, traitorous until the very end, skipped a beat.