Chapter Text
The first time she and Paige have a sleepover isn’t really the first time at all. Yeah, it’s the first time they tell Mom (“Paige is my friend, too,” she has to say, and when Mary pinches both their cheeks and calls them the most darling little pair, almost like sisters, Missy grimaces) but that hardly counts for anything. Mom doesn’t know about a lot of things.
For instance:
The day they spent skipping school so they could cruise around in her dad’s truck, Van Halen rattling the old speakers, their hands joined loosely over the dash between them, the journey nothing but sweet freedom and barren road.
Or the time they set off fireworks behind the public library, back by the dumpsters, where they could duck and hide or dare each other to light random, discarded bits of paper on fire.
Or how on Paige’s fourteenth birthday, they’d found a gas station that didn’t card nearby and gotten a dirty magazine to look at. Paige went for about the raunchiest one they had in stock. It wasn’t even a swimwear catalogue but a real life Playboy, which they flipped through together furtively — arms looped, heads bowed, bodies squeezed close outside, two girls against the world, giggling beside the broken beer bottles and trash cans.
All of those moments are secrets kept purposefully.
(Every moment she’s had with Paige has felt like a secret. Paige never announces herself before she arrives. She slips in, unnoticed, and smirks when you jump.)
The sleepovers they’ve been having aren’t a secret, really, more an accident: Paige comes over seeking out Sheldon, which basically means she comes over seeking out Missy. They’re twins. Sheldon has always been a (bizarre, annoying, strange) extension of her. He says he likes peas, and everyone forgets that she likes broccoli. She asks for them to take a trip to the beach, and Sheldon develops a sudden sunscreen allergy. Paige calls his number, but Missy ends up being the one to wipe away her tears. Paige crawls in his bed first, but she falls asleep in hers. Such is the curse of twins.
What would you expect her to do? Cut Sheldon off at the hip? Trust her, she’s tried. Mom and Dad won’t stand for it.
They’re, like, obsessed with ruining her life, which is why she isn’t allowed to watch R-Rated movies and why they still give her a bed time, even when she has company over.
“Sorry my mom’s lame.” Missy says to the carpet.
They’re getting ready for bed at eleven o’clock. She feels pathetic.
When they ate dinner earlier — a mix of her mom’s famous fried chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, and then broccoli, because Paige was a guest and she asked for it — they stole small sips from Georgie’s glass of wine, passing it back and forth beneath the table. (Her parents were now of the opinion that Georgie was an “adult” and could dip his toe into trying adult things. Her parents were idiots. It was Georgie. He would still be a child at ninety.) Drinking with Paige made her feel more adult than anything, even if it didn’t really count as drinking drinking. It wasn’t a beer or anything, but it still put a twinge of excitement in her gut, stronger than when she’d bought a non-training bra or gotten her period for the very first time.
Everyone else treated her like a little kid, no matter what. Everyone except Paige (and, admittedly, her grandma on occasion). There was something special about doing this with Paige specifically, testing the new, rich flavor together, rather than apart. She didn’t want them to be apart. She liked the idea that their mouths were sharing the same taste at the same time. It felt as if they were connected. Joined, almost.
(I have no friends, Paige had told her once, which was a lie and — her mother’s voice — a sin.
Idiot, Missy said in return. You have me.)
They held each other’s eyes over the centerpiece the whole time, smiling discreetly as they hid swallows, mischief weaved right into every look. Dinner with just her family was normally a huge bore but with Paige there, things were different. With Paige there, things were fun.
“It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
”It’s embarrassing.” Missy groans.
”There are worse things that can happen.” Paige replies in that damp sort of voice that always seems to come and go. The one that says she’s lulling into sadness, residing on the edges of it.
Sometimes she’ll get quiet, in spots — random pauses, blank stares — and Missy will feel a familiar itch begin to eat her from the inside out. Don’t run away, she’ll think desperately. Come here. Stay here with me. She’s had a lifetime of being overlooked. People only seem to need her when they want someone else, and usually, who they want is Sheldon. He’s the genius, she gets that. She also gets that Paige will always be drifting from her in some capacity: if not literally leaving then receding into her own head. Paige is always talking about going away to sunny California or New York City or Moscow, and she’s got what her dad calls follow through. She’ll slip out the window in the middle of the night if they have a hard conversation before bed or randomly disappear from school for days at a time, leaving Missy to worry. She just picks up and goes. There one second and gone the next. Off into the shadows, like one of those comic book villains Sheldon’s so in love with.
It should make Missy panic — it does make her panic, imagining Paige out there, all alone, gorging herself on whatever trouble she can find — but she knows that if she holds her breath long enough, Paige will come back. If not for her, then for her brother. Every time Paige runs, she eventually shows up again with a new problem for Sheldon to fumble, and every time, it’s Missy who saves the day. She’d call herself a hero, but she thinks capes are dorky.
“I guess.” Missy shrugs, finally.
Sheldon is at college playing D&D with his nerd friends for the night, so they have the room free.
Both of the beds are made — hers done normally, his miraculously tight and meticulous. She immediately starts fussing with it, pulling the sheet loose, so there’s room for an actual person in there.
”What are you doing?” Paige asks.
”Don’t worry. I’m almost done.”
”No, I mean, that’s Sheldon’s bed. I thought we were sharing?”
Missy pauses. Okay, so they’d shared a bed before, but she’d assumed that was on account of the fact that there was only one available. Usually, across the room, Sheldon was snoozing, uncharacteristically silent but still there with them.
Now, he isn’t. Now, they’re alone.
”Okay. Sure. Cool.” Missy says, slowly. “We can do that.”
”Cool.” Paige nods.
”Cool.”
Missy goes to collect more blankets.
The other problem is that there’s always a “Sheldon” between them, even if he’s not necessarily there himself. Some of the kids in her class have started dating, which is cool but also awful because Missy isn’t them. Paige is. She’s obviously not in the same class as Missy, but that just means she has access to college guys. She’s brought a few of them along with her already, most of them older, Georgie’s age or higher. Losers who drop tons of cash buying them six packs and cigarettes, all so they can drag Paige off and kiss her sloppily in a dark corner somewhere. (“I don’t know. It’s weird, it’s really… wet.” Paige says, in response to Missy’s prodding about how Frenching feels.) Missy is pretty sure at least some part of what they’re doing is illegal. Probably all of it. She’s definitely sure that it’s gross.
But then, sometimes while watching them slip away, she gets a sick feeling. Paige isn’t actually doing anything out of the ordinary. In fact, she’s just doing what teenage girls are supposed to do: flirting with boys, making out, dating. That makes Missy the one that’s falling behind. That makes her the loser.
God. What if Paige thinks she’s lame or a prude or something? What if she doesn’t want to hang out with her anymore? What if she’s here out of pity?
Getting an idea, Missy paces into the kitchen. She finds Georgie lent against the counter, chewing a ham sandwich. ”Hey, Missy. You hankerin’ for a midnight snack? I’ll make you one. Dad fixed the toaster, so it’s makin’ the cool grill marks again.”
”No.” She pushes past him. No help. “And it’s eleven, not twelve.”
He shrugs. ”Eleven, twelve, close enough.”
“Whatever. Do we still have those cherry popsicles Mom bought for the Fourth of July?”
”Think so.”
She yanks open the fridge and spots them thrown into a crushed box at the very bottom of the freezer.
”I got the blankets. And something else, too.” She announces once she strolls back into her bedroom, lifting her hands to show Paige the haul.
Paige looks up from her position, where she’s seated neatly on the bed, and grins. “Nice, popsicles. You’re spoiling me.”
”They’re cherry.” Missy informs her because she doesn’t know what else to say to that.
You’re spoiling me is what her mom coos at her dad whenever he surprises her with flowers.
”Great. I would’ve vetoed anything else.”
Missy slows as she’s setting the blankets down, eyeing her uncertainly. “Really?”
“No.” Paige laughs. “Of course not. I’d eat whatever.”
A sly smile creeps onto Missy’s face. ”Really? Even a cockroach?”
Paige sits back on her palms, a teasing glint lighting in her eyes at the apparent challenge. ”Yep. Even a cockroach.”
“Even a scorpion?”
”Definitely.”
”Even Georgie’s dirty underwear?”
”Well…”
”You said whatever.” Missy reminds her.
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean that. Gross. I’d die.”
She snorts out a laugh at that, deciding to spare Paige, instead switching her focus to getting them situated. She takes the sheets and blankets with her when she crawls into bed, throwing them over not only herself but Paige, who takes the initiative to move. (Missy likes that about Paige. Her intelligence isn’t the annoying kind. It moves with you, not against. It doesn’t exist to push others out.) After she flicks the light off, they burrow in deeper, side by side, getting comfortable. There was no way she could wear her Beauty and the Beast pajamas in front of Paige, but her sweats are still pretty warm, so she can’t complain.
Paige reaches out to touch the collar of what she’s wearing, unlooping the string from it and rolling it around her knuckle. Missy’s stomach does a similar motion, taking a tumble as she watches Paige tip further into her space. Paige is so pretty, is the thing. Pretty and smart. Of course boys like her.
She’s got such arresting eyes, too — daring blue, neon exit signs flashing chase me, like if you caught her, it might just be the best damn thing of your life.
“I like feeling you breathe.” Paige admits to her out of the blue, shifting her hand so it presses flat to Missy’s chest. Missy inhales. “Is that weird?”
The admission is shy, one of those fragile ones that tends to creep out from Paige like a timid animal.
“Yeah, but like — good weird.” Missy assures, not wanting to scare her away. “I like that you like it.”
Paige smiles, small. “Good.”
Missy feels a faint flutter in her chest.
”Don’t actually die.” She says as an afterthought, seemingly just as out of the blue (Paige gives her a little look). But it’s not — out of the blue, that is. At least not in her family, where you can never trust anyone not to have a heart attack or a baby or a fresh crisis that week. She looks at Paige and has a feeling that’s normally reserved for new toys, like she needs to squirrel her away before someone breaks her.
”What?”
“Just don’t.”
”Okay. I won’t.” Paige responds incredulously, raising her eyebrows in thinly-veiled amusement. She lets her gaze flicks meaningfully over Missy’s face. “You don’t either, then. Promise?”
Missy lays her hand on Paige’s chest, mirroring her. It feels right to her somehow. Something Sheldon said about symmetry.
”I promise.” She whispers, agreeing automatically. Whatever Paige wants. She pulls her hand away a second later when familiar self-consciousness creeps in, causing her to rush for space between them. “You want that popsicle now?”
”Sure, thanks.”
They eat the popsicles.
”These are good.” Missy says conversationally.
”Yeah.” Paige responds noncommittally, and Missy internally twitches. Think of something fun to say, buttwad! But of course, Paige beats her to it: “We should smoke later.”
”Okay.” Missy agrees without thinking about it. She never says no when Paige asks. If Paige is on her doorstep, it’s a yes. “But you’re gonna reek when you go home next morning.”
(Against all odds, she wound up trying cigarettes before Paige, a fact that never fails to please her. She’s not an expert at it or anything, but she’s glad she’s not wading into unknown territory whenever Paige drags her into an alleyway and brings out her lighter — or alternatively, whenever they have to walk miles away from the air conditioning and TV, just so they can find somewhere to sneak a smoke without her mom interrupting. Paige has started to ask for one maybe two or three times a week. She’s good at it instantly, no coughing. Missy’s still not totally sure what you’re supposed to like about cigarettes, but she knows Paige looks cool smoking them. Like a blonde, female James Dean, dangerous and striking enough to make any magazine cover. You know you’re becoming kind of a babe, right? She almost asks her, a dozen times, watching her laugh or step through the door or simply shake out her hair. It’s not fair. Missy’s hardly growing these days, but Paige looks more adult each time she sees her. Meemaw says that that’s not always a good thing, though Missy doesn’t know how that could be. All she knows is that she’d kill to be half as pretty as Paige. All she knows is that she aches for it.)
”Eh. Who cares about home?” Paige shrugs, leaning over briefly to put the popsicle wrapper and stained stick on the nightstand. “I’m basically already there.”
It’s the kind of sentimental thing Paige normally hides into the nape of her neck or the curve of her shoulder. Throwing it out there so flippantly is a form of protection on its own. A defense mechanism: she doesn’t have to look Missy in the eye when she does it.
Missy catches it, anyway. Holds onto it.
Who cares about home? I’m basically already there. Over and over, warmth blooming inside of her body. Who cares about home? I’m basically already there.
Before she can think too hard about it, she takes her cold hand and puts it on Paige’s warm cheek. Paige leans into the touch, eyes sliding shut. Sweet girl.
One thing Missy has learned about people is that they’re actually really easy to read, if you try. You just have to be patient and look them in the eye long enough for them to show themselves to you. Paige shows herself to Missy in that moment, and what she sees is not the brazen rebellion she’s used to but a vulnerability so precious that it reminds her of Georgie’s newborn. She slides her hand along Paige’s face, over her pale brows and up the slight bridge of her nose, slowly, charting all the details, before finally fitting the pads of her fingers to her jaw.
This time, Paige is the one to inhale. Missy calls it a personal victory. It’s usually so hard to phase her.
The reaction spurs her on a little. Missy keeps a hand on her face, quiet, contemplative, thinking.
“You’re getting really pretty.” Is what she decides on breaking the silence with. Paige blushes — another victory — then frowns, confused.
”Getting pretty?”
”Well, you always have been, I guess. But I mean with puberty and stuff. That’s why all the boys want you now.”
Paige’s face sparks up the way it usually does when her brain is turning on. Missy feels a little wary, watching the gears begin to churn. She’s pretty sure Paige is smart enough to figure out anything. There are certain things she wants kept secret.
“You’re pretty.” Paige says because she thinks the big secret is only that Missy’s jealous.
Missy rolls her eyes. “Don’t placate me.”
“I mean it.” Paige laughs and reaches out to touch Missy’s face in a similar way. “You’re, like, really gorgeous.”
The laughter splutters out.
And then they’re both just lying there, each with a hand on the other, and it’s weird except it’s not. It’s weird except Missy wants more of it.
Don’t run away. Come here. Come closer.
Paige is giving her a look like she’s privately holding her breath, and that’s what does it, the lodged air, the waiting mouth, the expectation. She sees Paige wants, so she gives:
A quick, breathless press of lips, clumsy from the wine and sweet from the popsicle. A single kiss. A simple thing.
She doesn’t think too hard about it when she does it. She just does it. (Though later, she’ll definitely freak out. Seriously, she kissed a girl — she kissed Paige!)
Missy has heard what some of the other kids whisper about “the queers” when teachers aren’t around, and she’s heard all of Pastor Jeff’s rambling sermons, and she knows she just acted on what most would call a bizarre urge — one that she’s not too crazy about examining — but she’s not thinking about any of that in the moment. She’s only thinking of Paige and her wide eyes and how closely they’re watching her as she leans away, absorbing every motion.
“You kissed me.” Paige points out, no discernible emotion in her voice other than the shock.
“Yeah.” Missy tilts her chin up. It comes out sounding defiant — and why not? She’s not sorry, she realizes. She wanted this. “Yeah, I did. Problem?”
She waits for an answer, heart ticking in her chest.
“No.” Paige breathes, processing. “Just… why did you?”
Because I wanted to. Because I know you wanted me to. Because I know you needed me to. Because you’re not alone. Because you’ve got me.
“Because I thought it would be fun.” She responds, honest as anything. “Why else?”
Paige looks like she has more questions — a million of them, really — but they slip away as she stops short, then falls quiet, going ever so slowly.
”Okay.” She accepts, seeming to settle down some.
”Okay?” Missy prods. That’s it? “Did you like it?”
”I thought it was weird.” Paige replies, and Missy panics for half a second before she registers the hand grabbing her own beneath the covers. A smile cracks Paige’s lips. “Good weird.”
Missy smiles back.