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Elphaba’s dark eyes rolled under their own volition at her roommate’s predictable response.
Galinda sat up from lying flopped horizontally over her bed with a gleefully scandalized gasp.
Monotone just barely tinged with annoyance, Elphaba told her, “That’s not the secret.” She sighed as her words proceeded to spill out of her mouth uncontrollably, as they so often did. “The secret is, he”—a lump rose in her throat, thus temporarily blocking it—“The secret is, he has a good reason. It’s my fault.”
The blonde approached her and asked, “What? What is?” without a trace of her usual playfulness, let alone, mockery. Galinda even sat down beside Elphaba, not quite touching her but close enough to share the heat of her skin.
Don’t trust her; don’t! You know what will happen if you do! played louder than ever in Elphaba’s head. But one look into earnest, blue eyes had her admitting, “That my sister is the way that she is.”
Another boulder of a pause stymied the stream of speech flowing from full lips. It was quickly overcome as the brunette poured out the story of how a newborn ended up handicapped and its mother, dead.
“None of which would ever have happened if not for me.”
Verdant hands grasped the glass bottle between them tightly, throttling it like their owner wished she could strangle herself. Straight white teeth gritted and a stern spine stiffened further in preparation of the inevitable.
Here it comes. You fool! You just handed your worst enemy the most potent weapon against you! Now, she’ll- Elphaba froze. Not having seen Galinda look at her with kindness rather than scorn, she had not expected her arm and shoulder to be squeezed in sympathy.
Then the other girl did something even more shocking and softly said, “That was the milk-flower’s fault, not yours.”
Elphaba nearly gave herself whiplash wrenching around to look her roommate in the face. Greater warmth than she had ever known spread from her arms inward. Her jaw dropped as she found her searching gaze ensnared by soft, pale hands that contrasted her own unnatural, uneven skin tone.
She barely picked up the murmured, “That may be your secret, Elphaba, but that doesn’t make it true.”
Memories flashed like a nickelodeon on the canvas of a reeling mind. Grimacing servants handling Elphaba only when absolutely necessary throughout her early childhood. Being made to be self-sufficient way too soon. Always trying to catch her mother’s eye, never remembering either’s color because they refused to look at her. The fury in her father’s face and gloved hands as he nearly drowned his little girl in cream and scrubbed her raw over and over to try and make her normal; force-feeding her milk-flowers too, even after what happened to his wife, hoping that his elder daughter might go the same way as her mother if the bleaching didn’t take. Perfectly porcelain Nessarose cringing from her, only tolerating her sister’s care because she had no other choice. Classmates throwing rocks at Elphaba to keep her at bay and to see what color she’d bleed. A pox-covered toddler going to poke her arm before being jerked backward by his big brother who warned the boy could catch “the freak’s” disease too. Herself wishing every day that it would rain as she jumped in big puddles of mud, covering herself in the stuff, and for a fleeting moment, looking just like everyone else. Only to earn herself more painful scrubbings.
No one had ever willingly engaged in or even endured physical contact with Elphaba before that moment. Wide eyes could not tear themselves from the rarity.
Galinda pulled the green girl from her reverie with a perkiness she couldn’t help but appreciate for once. “Oh, look! It’s tomorrow!”
Images of the last memory, of a tiny, dirty child cowering and crying against surgically clean tiles, flickered and died. In its place grew the brightness of Galinda’s smile, hope sparking in the darkness of Elphaba’s heart.