Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the time Sasha and Anne have gotten Marcy to stop crying, it’s sunset. The pre-summer air has chilled, and the cloudless sky is awash with tie-dye streaks of pink, purple, and orange.  

The three of them are sitting in the hollow underside of a slide built to look like a brontosaurus’ neck. Some annoying kid keeps climbing up and sliding down it, and the sound of his light-up Sketchers thunk, thunk, thunk-ing up the metal stairs is starting to give Sasha a major migraine.

Next to her, Anne croons soft, encouraging words into Marcy’s ear and rubs firm circles into her back. Occasionally, she reaches up and brushes away the tears streaming down Marcy’s cheeks.

Anne is the perfect emotional support friend. The exact thing that Marcy needs right now.

And Sasha... well, Sasha is there, but she’s elected to take on a more detached role—sitting off to the side and doing her best to look at anything but Marcy’s glassy eyes and snotty nose. Her gaze wanders from a pair of squirrels chasing each other on the powerlines to the faded wooden sign christening the playground as “KNUTZ PARK.”

(Sasha had once graffitied the words “in your mouth” between the KNUTZ and the PARK. Not her finest work.)

Sasha would love to help, she really would, but there’s not really a point in trying to soothe Marcy when Anne has clearly Got This. Besides, she’s kind of fucking awful at dealing with criers. Even when—no, scratch that—especially when the crier in question is one of her best friends. There’s just something so second-hand-embarrassing about someone older than ten being overwhelmed by their own emotions.  

After a few more irritatingly sweet words from Anne, Marcy eventually settles down enough to speak. “Thanks, guys.”

Translation: “Thanks, Anne.”

Marcy wipes her runny nose against her hoodie sleeve. Sasha doesn’t bother trying to hide the grossed-out look on her face.

“So, are you finally going to tell us what anime character died?” Sasha asks.

Anne shoots Sasha a look. “Sasha! Dude, be sensitive-,”

“Uh, I am? When’s the last time Mar-Mar’s cried over something that wasn’t a TV show or a video game?”

Anne has nothing to say to that. She rolls her eyes and huffs before turning her attention back to Marcy. “You ready to talk about it yet?” Anne’s voice is impossibly gentle—like she’s afraid that Marcy’s going to shatter into a million tiny pieces if she isn’t coddled.

Marcy nods, sheepishly digging the heel of one of her loafers into the woodchip-covered ground. “So, my dad got a new job. It’s in Washington. We’re... we’re moving.” Marcy’s face twists in pain. She squeezes her eyes shut, rubbing at them furiously. “Sorry, sorry! I thought I was done crying. It’s just... saying it out loud makes it feel so real.”

“Marcy...” Anne’s voice comes out strained. “Oh, man.”

Marcy’s lower lip trembles. Her hands fly out, gesturing wildly as she speaks. “I-I told them that they were ruining my life—our friendship—but they didn’t care.” She flashes a bitter smile. “Hey, at least I’m crying over something real this time though, right?”

Anne laughs weakly at the half-hearted attempt at a joke. Sasha finds no humor in it.

“You’re not serious,” she says.

Anne balks. “Sash, Marcy wouldn’t joke about something like this-,”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Boonchuy.” Sasha’s voice is ice cold. For the first time since they got to the park, she meets Marcy’s eyes. “Marcy. Tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was. We move at the end of June.”

“Bullshit.” The word passes Sasha’s lips before she can stop herself. “That’s bullshit, Mars. They can’t just split us up.” Something in Sasha’s gut tenses, and it becomes agonizing to sit still. She rises to her feet, clenching her fists until she feels the sting of her fingernails biting into the fat of her palms. “There’s gotta be something we can do.”

“We can... we can still text,” Anne supplies, her voice faraway. Sasha can tell by the distracted look in Anne’s eyes that Anne is having a crisis somewhere in the back of her mind. Yet, in typical Anne fashion, she’s pushing it down to stay strong for Marcy. “And we can video chat. Oh, maybe we can even visit? How much is a plane ticket to Washington?”

While Anne scrolls through flights on her phone, Sasha tries her best to stay calm and composed. Keep your shit together, Waybright, she thinks. She can feel Marcy’s coal-dark eyes fixed on her as she paces back and forth, and she knows that it’s a silent request for her to take the lead.

Marcy’s not a follower—not like Anne is. But her boundless intelligence goes to waste if it isn’t being directed, and that’s where Sasha usually comes in.

Unfortunately, Sasha’s drawing nothing but blanks right now.

In her defense, it’s hard to think clearly when your life is falling apart right before your eyes.

Sasha knows that once Marcy moves away, what’s left of her relationship with Anne is going to crumble.

Ever since Anne started to push back against Sasha’s lead a few years ago, things between them have been... complicated. It’s like their friendship is a game of Jenga, and every so often, one of them will pull out a block, leaving the tower just a little more fragile than it was before. They stick together now for Marcy’s sake—a situation-ship that reminds Sasha all too much of how her own parents used to be—but with Marcy gone, their tower is bound to topple.

Or worse: Anne will throw the game.  

It's not like Sasha would be alone if she lost Marcy and Anne. She’s pretty, she’s charismatic, and she’s rich—and this little trifecta of circumstances makes it practically impossible for her not to be ridiculously popular amongst her peers. But Marcy and Anne are the only people that she’s ever trusted enough to let in. The only people who she’s ever allowed herself to really be seen by.

Sasha could have all the friends in the world, but without them, she might as well be alone.

A tight, constricting sensation finds its way into Sasha’s throat. Her cheeks flush, and she grits her teeth to fight the stinging burn of hot tears behind her eyes.

“Sash? Are you okay?” Anne asks.

Sasha Waybright is many things. But she isn’t a hypocrite. She turns away to spare Marcy and Anne the burden of having to watch as she splinters. “I... I have to go,” she mutters, her face burning with fury-fear-humiliation.

She doesn’t even bother with a lame excuse. She just starts running.  

She can vaguely hear Marcy and Anne calling her name over the blood rushing in her ears, but neither of them tries to stop her beyond that.  

Sasha doesn’t expect them to. She’s learned by now that you can’t count on anyone to chase after you once they’ve chosen to let you go. No matter how badly you might want them to.

#

By the time Sasha makes it back to her house, it’s almost nine.

Anne had once joked that “house” was a grossly inaccurate term for what was clearly a mansion—but it was hard for Sasha to agree when every other home in her development was just as obnoxiously grandiose, if not more.

Now, the property on the northmost edge of the development—that was a mansion. Sasha, Anne, and Marcy had egged it two Halloweens ago because the owners had had the audacity to give them toothbrushes, and five cartoons of eggs had hardly covered half of the place.  

There’s only one light on in the house when she walks in, and it’s the overhead lamp in the dining room. Her dad sits under it, working at his laptop with a half-full pot of coffee and his electric self-heating mug positioned dutifully at his side. Sasha is pretty sure he doesn’t even wash that mug—he just keeps on refilling it whenever it gets low.

He glances up to look at her—but it’s only for a moment before his eyes are glued back to the blue glow of his laptop screen. “Do the words ‘school night curfew’ mean anything to you?” He shakes his head and sighs. “What am I saying? You’re sixteen. Of course, they don’t.”

Sasha’s voice is flat. “Hi, Dad.”

It’s not like Sasha and her dad have a particularly icy relationship—but even she can see that he’s a total enabler. He’ll do anything if it means she doesn’t impede on his very important business. Usually, this works in Sasha’s favor. But every so often, she wonders if it would really be so terrible for him to be a present force in her life.

“Your plate’s in the fridge,” her dad says. “Come, sit down at the dinner table for once.”

Sasha feels too sick to even think about eating, but her dad closes his laptop and folds his fingers together in front of his chin, and so she’s inclined to try. After heating up a plate of salmon, quinoa, and green beans, Sasha takes a seat next to him and pokes at her food with her fork.

“So, tell me about your day,” her dad says.

It was shitty, Sasha thinks.

“It was fine,” she says. “How’s work going?”  

“Work’s the usual.” Her dad chuckles as if there is anything funny about ‘the usual.’ “Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Oh. So that’s why her dad is suddenly giving her attention. Sasha’s jaw tightens.

Her dad doesn’t seem to notice. “I know things have been a little quiet between you and your mother-,”

“She’s not my mother.”

“Sasha.” Her dad’s voice is firm. “I was at the hospital when she had you. I saw you crown. She’s your mother.”

Sasha gags. “Gross.”

“Back to what I was saying. You shouldn’t not talk with her just because of something that happened four years ago. Don’t you think it’s sad that you don’t have a relationship with her?”

“Not particularly,” Sasha says.

She casts a sideways glance towards the den, trying to remember what life was like before her parents’ divorce. Before her mother’s cheating came to light and ruined everything.

Sasha’s dad pours some more coffee into his mug. “Well, I was thinking—I’m going to be in Shanghai for the summer on international business. It’s not fair to leave you alone, so I’ve talked with your mother-,” he laughs awkwardly, “well, I’ve talked with her lawyer. And we think that it would be a great opportunity for you to reconnect with her.”

Sasha narrows her eyes. “You just don’t want to pay for a nanny. Dad, I’m practically an adult-,”

“Not in the eyes of the state. Sweetheart, won’t you at least consider it? I can set you up with an AMEX card, and I’m sure your mom will let you commandeer the Jeep.”

Sasha grimaces. “The bright pink camo-print one?”

“Well... she has other cars, too.”

“Whatever. That doesn’t change the fact that she lives in Sacramento, and all my friends are here.”

A traitorous voice in the back of Sasha’s mind whispers, not for long.

Her dad sucks in a breath. “Well, it’ll be summer. Maybe they can go with you?”

Sasha perks up.  

They can go with you.

She can practically see the lightbulb flashing to life above her head. She puts on a slow, practiced smile. “Yeah...” she says, “Maybe that could work out.”

“Yeah?” Relief washes over her dad’s face.

Sasha shrugs. She can’t look too eager. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s my girl.” Her dad offers Sasha a smile that almost feels loving. Then, he squanders it by opening his laptop again and turning his attention back to his work. Sasha finishes a quarter of her meal before throwing the rest in the trash.

Anne and Marcy have expressed equal amounts of mortification at Sasha’s habit of tossing out perfectly good food.

“There are starving kids, and you’re just going to throw that away?” Anne would say.

Sasha would just roll her eyes and fire back without hesitation: “Yeah, and there are also people who go without clean water. Doesn’t stop you from taking hour-long showers.”

Without saying goodbye to her dad, Sasha slips up the stairs, and heads to her room.

Thanks to an unlimited budget and the help of an interior designer, Sasha’s room looks like it’s been ripped straight from an Architectural Digest magazine. Her walls are a stark white, decorated with monochromatic prints featuring her favorite bands and movies. Fake monsteras in hand-crafted ceramic pots sit in the corner of her room, shielding a vintage Gibson acoustic guitar behind their evergreen leaves. A cherry red Pro-Ject record player sits on her dresser, the needle still down and halfway through One For The Road.

Sasha’s room looks good, but she can’t help but hate it. It’s too clean. Too curated. An over-aesthetic reproduction of what an interior designer envisioned an edgy teenager’s room to look like.  

It makes Sasha feel like a capital P ‘Poseur.’

Sasha flops down on her king-sized mattress, pulling out her phone and tapping into the group chat she shares with Anne and Marcy.

One new message from Anne lights up her screen.

Anne, 8:24 PM: Let us know when you’re home safe Sash.

Sasha’s jaw clenches. Sometimes, she wishes that Anne wasn’t such a caring friend. It makes her feel like a shitty person by comparison. Huffing, she pushes the feeling aside, and types back:

Sasha, 9:43 PM: i’m home.

Sasha, 9:44 PM: can we meet up after school tmrw? i need to talk to u two. 

Marcy, 9:44 PM: Of course!! What about??

Sasha chews on her lower lip. A half-baked idea has started to form in her head—one that just might fix everything. It’s the craziest scheme she’s ever thought up, but between Marcy’s intelligence and Anne’s compliance, it just might work. Sasha’s never had trouble getting either of those things in the past.

So why is she so nervous about it this time?

The realization occurs to Sasha that she could call the whole thing off now before it even begins. It wouldn’t be hard to backtrack—to tell Anne and Marcy that she doesn’t need to talk with them after all.

But she won’t. That’s a coward move. And Sasha is not a coward.

Four years ago, Sasha learned that there were some things in life that she just couldn’t control. Like natural disasters. Or freak accidents. Or her parents’ divorce. That’s why when things go spiraling, she tries to focus on the things that she can control. Which mostly boils down to what she thinks and how she reacts. The way Sasha sees it, she can either let her emotions paralyze her, or she can get ahold of herself and fucking do something.  

This is no different. Marcy’s parents may have decided to move, but Sasha’s made a decision, too: she’s not going to let Marcy go. This idea may be the wildest, most dangerous thing she’s ever considered. But if it keeps her from losing the only people she’s ever cared about, then, well...

Sasha types out her reply one painstaking letter at a time.

Sasha, 9:49 PM: you’ll see.  

Chapter Text

In Marcy’s humble opinion, there are a lot of benefits to being a scholarship kid.

First and foremost, nobody messes with them. It’s not wise to pick on the smartest kid in school when they could potentially be your lab partner later on and secure you an easy ‘A’ for the semester. And anyone who does try to pick on Marcy is usually shut down with a snide “daddy’s money” joke.

This kind of social immunity is invaluable when your mere existence is a bullyable offense. Marcy doesn’t want to be self-deprecating, but they are the openly gay, Taiwanese, captain of the chess club. High intelligence, low constitution, and pitiable charisma. By all accounts, they should have spent their high school career enduring swirlies and being shoved into lockers. Instead, they’ve remained relatively unscathed.

(They have been featured a few times on the ‘UGLIES OF SJH’ Instagram, but so has Sasha. And Sasha’s the most jaw-droppingly beautiful girl that Marcy has ever seen, so it’s not like they’re inclined to hold the account’s opinion in high regard.)

On top of that, Marcy’s teachers tend to be almost condescendingly forgiving when it comes to their performance in class. If Marcy’s science project looks rushed, it’s because they suffer from a lack of resources at home—not because they were sucked into yet another playthrough of Vagabondia Chronicles. If Marcy falls asleep in the middle of a lecture, it’s because they’re exhausted from dealing with the unbearable stresses of being lower-middle-class—not because they pulled an all-nighter binging Link/Sidon fanfiction.

But arguably, the best part of the entire Scholarship Kid Benefits Package is the free stuff.

Twice per year, Saint James High holds a donation drive, and each grade competes to see who can donate the most stuff. The donated goods are eventually sent to a charity and processed as a fat tax write off—but before that happens, the school allows its low-income students (see: Marcy Wu) to pick through the donations and take what they need.

Sasha had once tried to dissuade Marcy from taking the donated goods, claiming that it was “embarrassing” to pick through other people’s leftovers. She had even offered to buy Marcy brand-new stuff with her father’s credit card.

What Sasha didn’t seem to understand was that most of the donations were brand-new. Pristine—still wrapped in plastic with the price tags attached.

It’s not that Marcy is particularly proud to be accepting handouts. It’s just that new is not something that they get to enjoy often. Eastern Asian frugality runs deep in Wu blood. Other than the donation drive, Marcy’s life is supplied solely by thrift stores, flea markets, and garage sales.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with getting things secondhand. But sometimes, it’s nice to pick out a shirt without having to worry about a stain left on it by the previous owner.

Marcy snatches up a box of Prismacolor pencils as they browse through the tables of donated goods. On the other side of the gymnasium, Anne scrolls through Tik-Tok on her phone while simultaneously picking through a rack of SHIEN dresses. She must be looking through a specific hashtag because it’s the same audio clip at full volume repeating over and over again.

“Almost done, Mar-Mar?” Anne asks, pausing the video she’s on. “Sasha said that she was cool with waiting, but I don’t want to keep her too long. You know how she gets.” Anne’s voice trails off, like she’s waiting for Marcy to jump in and agree.

“Almost!” Marcy assures her, careful to keep their voice chipper and unassuming.

They peer into a box, and two leather-bound journals catch their eye. One of them is plain. The other has a nautical design embossed into the glossy cover. Marcy holds both journals up. “Opinion, please! Which of these notebooks would work better for my next Creatures and Caverns campaign?”

But Anne has already turned back to the rack of clothes. “Uh-huh, yeah, Marbles. That’s cool.” Anne pulls one of the dresses from the rack and rolls her eyes at it. “Ugh. It should be illegal to donate stuff from SHIEN. This thing is falling apart, and I bet it’s never even been worn.”

Marcy sighs. “You’re not listening.”

“What?” Anne glances over her shoulder.

A smile strains over Marcy’s lips. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it, Anna-Banana.” They look over the notebooks again before finally settling on the one with nautical embossing. “Okay, I’m done.”

Anne frowns. “Oh, dude, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to rush you or anything.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Marcy insists. “I probably shouldn’t take more stuff anyways. The Wu Family Heirloom can only carry so much.”

Anne cracks a smile. “Good call.”

The Wu Family Heirloom is an affectionate name for the crinkly blue IKEA tote that Marcy’s mother stole all the way back in ’02. Nowadays, it’s more duct-tape than bag, but Marcy’s mother refuses to throw it out, always insisting that it’s “still good for one more use.”

Anne pockets her phone to help Marcy pack everything away. It’s a tight squeeze, but thanks to Anne’s wicked Tetris skills, the two of them manage to get everything to fit.

Marcy reaches for the bag’s handles, but Anne pushes them away. “Dude, this thing looks heavier than you are. Let me carry it.”

“Anne, no, you don’t have to-,”

Anne pays no mind to Marcy’s protests, lifting the bag and fixing the strap over her shoulder with an undignified grunt. “See?” Anne says. “I got this.”

“Thanks, Anne,” Marcy says flatly.

Marcy can’t tell if Anne is smiling or grimacing as she replies: “No problem, Mar-Mar.”  

#

Anne’s car is a 2009 Volkswagen Beetle named ‘Bessie’ that she bought off of Craiglist last summer. Bessie is Barney the Dinosaur purple and only has three out of four hubcaps. Her rear bumper is mostly rust, and her AC blows out exclusively lukewarm air. A collection of quirky vinyl stickers decorates the trunk, with sayings like “Bee Kind” and “Brake for Critters” and “Hot Girls Hit the Curb.”

Marcy climbs into Bessie’s passenger seat, gingerly crushing a layer of crumpled fast-food bags and empty cups under their loafers.

Anne passes them the AUX. “No video game music,” she warns. “I want something I can jam to.”

Marcy nods, hooking up the AUX to their phone and tapping into their friend-approved music playlist: a tame mix of K-Pop, top 40’s, and Disney musicals. Anne hums along as she puts her car in drive and pulls out of the student lot.

Sasha pokes fun at the way Anne drives—never breaching the speed limit, and always with two hands on the wheel—but Marcy likes it. There’s something comforting in the care that Anne takes to ensure that her friends make it from point A to point B unharmed.

“So...” Anne says, dialing down the volume. “Moving. Have you guys started packing and everything?”

Marcy bites down on the inside of their cheek. “Kind of. My dad’s been trying to convince me to get rid of a lot of my stuff, so that’s not great. He says that it’s because he wants to make sure everything will fit in the U-Haul, but really, I think he just wants me to stop being interested in-,” Marcy rolls their eyes and makes air quotes, “-childish things.”

“Man, that sucks. Do you think you guys could compromise or something?” Anne asks.

Marcy shakes their head. “I don’t want to compromise. I want him to respect the things that I like. Even if they are kind of stupid.”

Part of Marcy is reaching for validation—hoping that Anne will push back against their dismissive tone and say something encouraging, like, “No way, Mar-Mar, your interests aren’t stupid. They make you happy, and that’s all that matters.”  

Instead, Anne merely shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s just doing what he thinks is best... but yeah, that’s frustrating.”

“I guess so,” Marcy says. They reach forward and turn up the volume on Bessie’s speakers, leaning back to let the punchy beat of a BLACKPINK song drown out their thoughts.  

When Marcy and Anne arrive at the Starbucks that the trio had agreed to meet at, they find that Sasha has already staked her claim on a couch in the back corner of the café. Sasha lazily sips on an iced coffee as she scrolls through her phone, sprawled out on the couch as casually as she would in her own living room.

With the afternoon sun beaming gently over her legs and her father’s oversized flannel draped across her shoulders, she looks like something out of a movie. Marcy tries to commit the sight to memory. Maybe they’ll put their new colored pencils to use and recreate it later.  

After placing and receiving their orders, Anne and Marcy sit down on a set of cushy chairs opposite Sasha.

“About time you two got here,” Sasha says, locking her phone and tucking it beneath her thigh.

“Whatever, Sash. What did you want to talk about?” Anne asks.

“Us,” Sasha says. A flicker of blink-and-you’d-miss-it anxiety crosses her face, but she covers it up quickly with a coy grin. “I was doing some thinking last night and... I think the three of us need to stay together.”

Anne’s brows knit. “What do you mean? Obviously we’re going to stay together. Is this about Marcy moving?”

“Yeah, kind of,” Sasha says. Her jaw stiffens, and she gives Anne a smoldering look. “Anne, are you really planning to just sit by while they take Marcy away?”

“Dude, do you think I want Marcy to move away or something? Sash, I’m as upset as you are, but it’s not like we can do anything about it?”

Marcy should feel offended that Sasha and Anne are talking as if they aren’t right next to them, but they are too distracted by the subtle flexing of Sasha’s jaw muscles as she clenches and unclenches.

Sasha shifts her gaze, and suddenly, they’re making eye contact. The intensity of Sasha’s stare is enough to make Marcy shrivel, but they can’t bring themselves to look anywhere else and so they are forced to bear it until Sasha all-too-soon breaks the moment, her focus flickering back to Anne.  

“What if I said that there was something we could do?”

Anne’s eyes narrow. “Sasha, where is this going-,”

“We could run away.”

Anne breaks into a laugh. It takes her all of five seconds to realize that Sasha’s expression hasn’t changed even a little. “Oh, shit,” Anne breathes, “you’re serious.”

“Run away?” Marcy breaks in, “like, without telling our parents? I-I mean, obviously without telling our parents, duh. But you know what I mean, right?”

“Don’t worry, Mar-Mar. I know,” Sasha assures them. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but trust me. I have it all figured out. All you two need to do is follow my lead. Simple.”

Anne snorts incredulously. “Simple? Sash, we can’t just run away.”

“Why not?”

“We... we have our families to think about. Our friends. Our lives-,”

“Marcy’s a part of your life too, isn’t she?” Sasha asks.

Marcy’s chest tightens. Anne casts a sideways look at them, her expression torn. Her voice comes out tight, “I mean, of course, but-,”

“Then act like it,” Sasha sneers. “I mean, come on, Mar-Mar. What do you think?”

“Um...” Marcy cracks their knuckles joint-by-joint, mind racing as their eyes dart between their two best friends. Logically, they know that running away is a drastic idea. Not to mention the logistical variables they’d need time to consider, like money, safety, and the ubiquitous question of what would come after.

But the idea of running away—the idyllic mental image that Marcy has just now conjured of all three of them packed into a van, driving across the country, and sleeping under the stars—makes their heart pound with adrenaline and desire.  

And wasn’t it Anne who always insisted upon the importance of following one’s heart?

Marcy dry-swallows. “Well, I think-,”

“Don’t let her pressure you, Marcy,” Anne snaps. She gives Marcy a look that says, let me handle this, before shooting a glare in Sasha’s direction. “Look, I know you’re going through some personal stuff or whatever right now; but running away isn’t the answer. I mean, did you even think about our parents? They’d be worried sick.”

“Your parents, Anne. Your parents would be worried sick,” Sasha says darkly. She exhales a shaky breath and rises to her feet. “Whatever. I knew you’d act like this.”

Marcy frowns. “Guys, wait, let’s just talk-,”

“Don’t bother, Mar-Mar,” Sasha says, her expression softening by a fraction of a degree. “And Anne? Feel free to give me a call when you decide to start giving a shit about this friendship, okay?” Sasha tosses her half-full drink into a trashcan and storms out of the café.

As soon as she’s gone, Anne sighs, her head slumping into her hands, fingers tangling into her curly brown hair.

“You okay, Anna-Banana?” Marcy prompts, reaching out to touch Anne’s shoulder.

It’s like Marcy’s fingers have sent an electrical shock up Anne’s spine. She straightens, the ghost of a grin possessing her. “I’m fine! Really. It’s just...” her expression wavers. “Be honest, Marcy. Am I a bad friend?”

“No,” Marcy answers automatically. “Of course, not.”

#

When Marcy walks through the front door of their house, their mother is cooking at the stove, and their father is sitting on their hideous flannel couch watching TV and nursing a bottle of Tsingtao. Marcy greets their parents as they slip off their loafers, placing them neatly on the wire shoe rack next to the door.  

Their father regards them with a curt nod. “That pimply guy at the game store said he’d take all of your Game Box games for two-hundred dollars. Not bad.”

“GameCube, Baba,” Marcy corrects, “and no way. Double Dash alone goes for like, eighty bucks on eBay.”

“So, sell it there.”

Marcy groans. “I’m not talking about this with you. I already said that I’m not getting rid of my stuff.”

“Watch it, young lady.” Anxiety stirs in Marcy’s chest at their father’s tone, “I know that Waybright girl is allowed to disrespect her parents, but I don’t tolerate that kind of attitude in my house.”

It’s not even your house, Marcy thinks, it’s a rental. Through gritted teeth, they apologize. “Sorry.”

“Promise me that when we move, you’ll make friends with the right people this time,” their father huffs.

Marcy’s parents have never tried to hide their disapproval towards Sasha and Anne. “Sasha,” Marcy’s father had said once, “Is a spoiled brat with too much freedom and too little regard for others. She’s going to end up in prison one way or another—it’s really only a matter of whether she’ll be an inmate or the warden.”

Anne is usually spared from these kinds of venomous comments, though Marcy’s parents have at times expressed that they think Anne is a waste of a private school tuition.

“Meihui.”

The sound of Marcy’s Chinese name snaps them out of their thoughts.

“I’m talking to you,” their father says. “Don’t you ever listen? God, it’s like something’s wrong with you.”

“Sorry,” Marcy says. “What did you say?”  

“I said that dinner’s going to be ready soon.”

“Oh. Okay,” Marcy says.

Marcy only gets halfway across the living room when their father speaks up again: “And you’re selling all that junk in your room, do you understand me? You’re fifteen years old. It’s time to grow up.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Marcy grumbles, eyes stinging as they drag their IKEA bag of school supplies down the hallway and into their bedroom. Marcy doesn’t slam the door. They may be too old for all the dorky things that they enjoy, but there is no age of maturity for the wooden spoon.

Usually, Marcy’s room is their refuge. It’s a small space, made even smaller by sheer the volume of stuff that Marcy has managed to cram inside it: plushies from their favorite comfort medias, merch from the cons that they’ve gone to, retro video games, manga, and art supplies—all acquired over a series of birthdays and Christmases and friendiversaries.

It’s all precious, treasured stuff—but right now, the only thing Marcy wants to do is go and dig out their little league softball bat from the garage so that they can smash it all to bits. Because it all feels so childish. It all feels so stupid.

Marcy doesn’t want to be the kind of person that suppresses their hobbies and interests to fit someone else’s definition of normal. Deep down, they know that their parents’ opinions—that Anne’s opinions—shouldn’t matter.

But right now, it’s so hard to look around their room and see it as anything but a monument to the gigantic disappointment that they’ve turned out to be.  

Years ago, Marcy had learned through a conversation with an intoxicated aunt that their parents had never wanted children. They’d had other dreams: Marcy’s father had wanted to travel, and their mother had wanted to write. But instead, they’d had Marcy—because apparently refusing to have a child was akin to hocking a big, fat loogie on the family name.

Marcy’s parents had never outright blamed them for the way that their lives had turned out, but sometimes Marcy sees them together when they think they’re alone, and it’s like witnessing a whisper of the people that they could’ve been had they never been saddled with parenthood.

It’s these moments that make Marcy feel like an intruder in their own family. A little parasite that only knows how to take, take, take. A Leech Seed draining their parents’ hit points bit by agonizing bit.

A tapping sound at Marcy’s window momentarily distracts them from spiraling. Curious, Marcy clambers over their stiff twin mattress to peel back the curtains. They nearly scream when they find themselves face-to-face with a pair of glimmering blue eyes. Sasha’s eyes.

“Let me in,” Sasha mouths.

Marcy nods, pushing open the window and unhooking the screen frame with a practiced deftness. They jam the frame between their mattress and the wall as Sasha takes off her combat boots and climbs into their bedroom.

“You could’ve texted,” Marcy sighs, closing the window back up.

“Yeah, I know,” Sasha says.

She sits in the middle of Marcy’s bed, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. Her eyes are glossy, stuck in the purgatory between crying and not. She’s clearly upset about something—but Marcy knows better than to ask.

“It’s going to suck when I can’t do this anymore,” Sasha says, laughing humorlessly.

Marcy sits down on their carpet, looking up at Sasha. From this angle, the gibbous moon hangs right behind her head like an off-kilter halo.

For a while, Sasha doesn’t say anything. When she finally does, it’s as if she’s read Marcy’s mind. “Do you ever feel like your parents would be better off without you?”

A lump grows in Marcy’s throat. “All the time,” they confess.

“I wasn’t kidding about running away.”

“I know.”

“And?” Sasha looks at Marcy expectantly. “Would you want to? If we could?”

“I... I don’t know, Sashy,” Marcy admits.

Sasha nods, seeming to consider this. She takes a heavy breath, grabbing an axolotl plushie from Marcy’s nightstand and running her fingers along the soft pink fabric. “Anne is never going to understand. You know that, right?”

“Understand what?”

“Us,” Sasha says. She clenches her fingers around the plushie, squeezing it aggressively.

Marcy winces. “Um, Sasha-,”

Sasha looks down at the manhandled toy. “Really, Marce? It’s not like it can feel this-,”

“Sasha.”

“Okay, okay. Whatever,” Sasha’s grip loosens. “But anyways, it’s not like it’s Anne’s fault for not understanding us. I mean, she’s got the perfect life. The perfect family. She doesn’t get what it’s like to feel unwanted. She doesn’t get what it’s like to feel... to feel...”

“Alone,” Marcy finishes.

Sasha flinches. “Yeah. Alone.” Her lip twitches. “You know, there’s a reason I always come to your window, Mar-Mar.”

“Because Anne’s room is on the second floor?”

Sasha rolls her eyes, but it’s with good intention. “Wow, you’re like, so smart, Marbles.”  

Marcy snickers. “Aw, I try.”

From the other side of the house, Marcy hears the muffled voice of their mother: “Meihui! Dinner!”

Marcy stands up, smiling apologetically. “Sorry, Sash. I’ve got to go.”

“It’s cool,” Sasha assures them. She grabs Marcy’s hand, and it’s like every single one of Marcy’s nerves have been set ablaze. “But look, I need to know tonight... are you in?”

“To run away?” Marcy asks.

Sasha nods. “Yeah. With me.”

Marcy wants to refuse. They want to rattle off all the ten-thousand reasons that a plan like this could never possibly work. They want to tell Sasha point-blank that she is being irrational. That running away won’t solve a problem that was never meant to be fixed.

But these wants are meaningless—because Marcy has just been asked by the girl that they’ve been in love with since kindergarten if they’ll run away with her, and more than anything, Marcy wants to follow Sasha to the ends of the earth.

Marcy’s answer leaves them with frighteningly little resistance. “I’m in,” Marcy says. “But... what about Anne?”

“Don’t worry about Anne. I have a plan that’s going to win her over,” Sasha promises. She pauses for a beat. “But if we want it to work, I’m going to need you to follow my lead. Can you do that for me, Mar-Mar?”

Marcy feels like they’re signing away their soul, and it’s scary how little they care about the consequences of doing so. Their voice comes out small, but sure: “Of course, Sashy. Whatever you say.”