Stork Magazine Issue 31 (Fall 2021)

STORK Fall 2021 ISSUE • VOLUME 31

Stork Magazine is a fiction journal published by undergraduate students at Emerson College. Initial submissions are workshopped and discussed with the authors, and stories are accepted based on the quality of the author’s revisions. The process is designed to guide writers through rewriting and provide authors and staff members editorial support and an understanding of the editorial and publishing process. Stork is founded on the idea of communication between writers and editors— not a simple letter of rejection or acceptance.

We accept submissions from undergraduate and graduate Emerson students in any department. Work may be submitted at stork.submittable.com during specific submission periods. Stories should be in 12-point type,double-spaced, and must not exceed 4 pages for the “flash fiction” issue. Authors retain all rights upon publication. For questions about submissions, email storkstory@ gmail.com Stork accepts staff applications at the beginning of each fall semester. We are looking for undergraduate students who are well-read in contemporary fiction and have a good understanding of the short story form.

Copyright © 2021 Stork Magazine Cover design done by Amy Yang and Katherine Fitzhugh Illustrations done by Amy Yang and Katherine Fitzhugh Typesetting done by Haley Brown and Eden Ornstein

MASTHEAD Editors in Chief Chloe Aldrich Sadie Hutchings

Managing Editors Emma Kaster Taylor McGowan

Design Team

Amy Yang Eden Ornstein Haley Brown Katherine Fitzhugh

Head Copy Editor John Newton

Copy Editors

Anna Carson Taylor McGowan Maggie Lu

Prose Editors

Amy Yang Michelle Moroses Kate Rispoli Jade Edwards

Staff Readers

Abby Love Brianna Jackman Mackenzie Denofio Maya Meisenzahl Nina Powers Ryan Forgosh Sam Kostakis Sara Fergang

Social Media Manager Anansya Latka

Accessibility Coordinator Emma Kaster

Audio Issue Team Eva Harari Austin Burkett Abby Love

Letter From The Editors

Stories can serve as a form of escapism while also reflecting reality and giving us insight into our own lives. This is why many find so much comfort in fictional narratives. This collection contains four incredible short stories that demonstrate the ability of imaginative tales to connect to real-life scenarios and situations. Each story takes us on a new adventure, introducing us to new characters to identify with and new worlds to explore. These pieces touch upon the themes of authenticity, selfdiscovery, and navigating the ups and down’s of relationships (whether they be romantic, familial,

or friendships). These common threads are a wonderful way to highlight one’s individual journey of discovering their true self while navigating the world around them. We want to thank our amazing team for all the work they put into this issue. It has been a joy to work with you. To our four authors, thank you for trusting us with your stories and for sharing your talent with us. Our gratitude extends to each and every person who submitted their work to us this semester and to everyone who applied to work on the magazine. Thank you. To all of our readers, we are so excited to share this issue with you. We hope you will love it as much as we do!

Sincerely, Chloe Aldrich Sadie Hutchings

Fall Fiction 2021

CONTENTS 14 26 42 58

Twin Stars, Set to Explode

By Kate Rispoli Illustration by Amy Yang

Burgundy Lipstick and Wine

By Lauren Everhart-Deckard Illustration by Amy Yang

In All Her Beauty

By Abigail C. Ross Illustration by Amy Yang

Welcome Home

By Annie Rinaldi Illustration by Amy Yang

Twin Stars, Set to Explode

by Kate Rispoli Illustration by Amy Yang

ia was a lot of things, undoubtedly, (“beautiful” according to her handful of ex-lovers; “brilliant” according to a number of her professors; even “brunette” worked) but oblivious was not one of them. No, she was fully aware of how she stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of the crowd of party-goers— even though she had the same champagne flute in her hand as everyone else, the same party hat strapped on her head, the same feather boa tossed around her neck. The deep scowl on her face was what nobody else seemed to share with her. Putting on a face would have been best to keep from drawing attention to her sulky self, but the scowl stayed permanently as she beelined through the crowd to the closed door at the end of the hallway.

If her brother was anywhere in the jam13

packed apartment that they shared, it was as far away from the crowd as possible. He had agreed to let Gia host the party with one condition: that he be fully left alone. Actually, two conditions, the second being that no one had sex on his bed, but that one didn’t count because it was beyond her control. What wasn’t beyond her control was breaking condition number one.

She climbed out of the opened window with a tipsy sort of grace, still balancing a champagne flute in her hand, and landed at Jasper’s side atop the fire escape. Composure came first; she tugged down her sequined skirt and closed the window with a delicate thud. The city’s silence was jarring to her, especially compared to the boisterous raging she had left behind.

For a second, Gia took in the silence.

Only a second though.

“What did you do?” she snapped, batting her hand against Jasper’s arm.

“What did I do?” he had the audacity to ask.

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Then what is he doing here?” Jasper waved a wild hand to gesture towards the apartment.

His eyes were as wide as those of a deer in headlights and the vein that ran down the front of his forehead had taken the spotlight. She would have laughed at his distress, given how 14

unflappable he usually was, but not now.

“What is Mom doing here?” She tried to keep herself from outright screaming at him. She was sober enough to restrain herself, but anger bubbled too close to her brim for her to keep a lid on it for much longer.

“I asked you first!”

“Um, no, you didn’t!”

Jasper’s attempt at any retort died before slipping off the tip of his tongue. For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, not willing to back down. His forehead vein was still popping out. Her champagne-holding hand was quivering.

Then he relented. He always did.

“I just—” he sighed, and scrubbed his face with his hand. If he had the option to never speak again, she knew he would take it. Words weren’t really his thing, and Gia could see the empty thought bubble forming above his head as he tried to string together some sort of explanation. “I just figured, you know, if it’s all true… it can’t end without you talking to her.”

If it were all true. The end. It was almost strange that he believed it—he was always the skeptic between the two of them—but he wasn’t the type to doubt science. That made the med student part of her proud.

Predicted by ten of the top scientists 15

around the world, whose names evaded Gia, was the end. At 4:38 a.m., Eastern Standard Time, a meteor shower was doomed to turn into something far more fatal, eliminating an estimated ninety-seven percent of human life on Earth. The other three were probably tucked away in their emergency doomsday shelters.

That’s why Gia had thrown the party. No better way to go out than with a bang, she firmly believed. If a meteor were to kill her, she preferred it to be the version of her dressed up in a sequined mini dress with a sparkly boa thrown around her neck. The news had been official for over a decade by then, and though she had cycled through the stages of grief a number of times, she had settled on acceptance. Most of the world had.

If there were only a few hours of life left, anger might not have been the best choice, especially as guilt tugged at her heartstrings. She crossed the fire escape to stand behind him and propped her elbows against the rusted metal of the railing. It wasn’t the most comfortable place, with the med student in her re-evaluating all the ways she could get tetanus, but it was the sort of thought she definitely didn’t need to dwell on.

“I, um…” Gia dodged any eye contact and instead looked up at the gold-streaked New York City night sky. She wasn’t ashamed of what she 16

had done. In fact, she probably would have done it even if the world had not been ending, but now she was just a bit embarrassed. “I invited Jamie here.”

Jamie, one of the many drunken party goers raging to EDM in their tiny kitchen. Or Jamie, Jasper’s co-worker with the dazzling smile and the glowing personality. Or Jamie, the guy whose presence sent Jasper sprinting through the whole apartment to hide away outside.

“Okay, and you did that, why?” His tone was measured, but still, the vein had yet to disappear.

“Jasper!” she jabbed an elbow into his bicep, exasperated. “You clearly like him! You talk about him all the time, like “oh, he’s so funny,” or “oh, he always comes to my cubicle to talk to me,” or “oh, I just want to adopt a bunch of babies with him—” “Really?”

“C’mon. You know, if it’s all ending tonight, why wouldn’t you go talk to him? How would you feel if the world ended and you didn’t get to tell him that you liked him?”

“I would be dead!”

Okay, he was still a little worked up. Gia’s anger had simmered down to frustration during the conversation, but they weren’t talking about her issue, so it did make sense. He was entitled a sliver of the conversation to be angry with her.

17

Jasper let out a long exhale, the way he always did when he was obviously stressed and didn’t have the coping skills to work through it. Gia helped him out, handing him her champagne flute as a bit of a nerve-easer. He swallowed it in a single sip.

“I guess I’m trying to say that it’s all pointless, but… I don’t even think I mean it.

Like, s’why I invited Mom. So you two could… fix things.”

The anger that bubbled in Gia’s chest manifested itself in an inelegant snort. “That would take intensive therapy on her side,” she clarified. “Not a quick little conversation in the middle of a bunch of drunk losers.”

At that, Jasper smirked. “I thought they were your friends.”

“Drunk losers,” she repeated, then drummed her fingers against the railing before putting him back in the hot seat. “It’s not the same. Jamie makes you so happy, you can’t even deny it. He makes you blush!”

He wrinkled his nose, crinkling the assortment of freckles that were speckled over the bridge of his nose. It was the biggest sign that they were twins; she had the same line of freckles in the same exact spots. They had counted them once as kids; he had two more than she did.

18

“I figured that if you talked to him tonight, you’d be happy before everything went to shit.”

Gia softened, “You don’t even have to talk to him about feelings or any of that, but, like, the two of you hanging out here could be a lot of fun. He definitely likes to dance, you could dance with him! Or do tequila shots! He brought a bottle.” “’Course he did.”

“I didn’t mean to freak you out or pressure you at all. You just deserve to be happy, really happy, if it’s the last thing you get to be.”

“That’s—” he knocked his shoulder against hers, throwing her a bit off balance. In her defense, she was tipsy, and he was bigger than she was. Two inches taller, two minutes older. “— actually pretty sweet.”

“That was my plan.”

“That’s, uh,” Jasper scratched the back of his neck, “that’s what I was going for too.”

“Oh. Because you know that Mom’s presence just lights up my world? That nothing brings me more joy than ruthless criticism?”

Gia would have gone on if Jasper didn’t cut her off before she could.

“Because I don’t think you can fully be yourself until you get everything off your chest.

Like, unless you deal with this, and you just let everything be out in the air instead of all balled up, there’s always gonna be a little bit of sadness 19

in here.” He tapped his own chest lightly, but at her relatively blank stare, he shrugged and turned back to look up at the sky.

After a beat, she asked, “What would I even say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she could start the conversation. You know, she did come.”

“Because you invited her. Anything for her golden boy.”

“Because I said she should talk to you.”

“Oh.” “You don’t have to, you know, if you don’t want to. It’s really up to you. Your life, your armageddon choices.”

The silence loomed between the two of them for far too long as they both turned back to the sky. The meteor shower had yet to turn into anything more serious than a show in the sky. It was only ten p.m., hours before they were expected to land, but it was still a sight unlike any other. The sky was as bright as it would have been during a sunny day, streaked with gold and white stripes.

Two of the meteors seemed to have collided with one another, or maybe they just melded together. They left twin streaks in the sky above New York.

Gia tried to steady her breath. It was just a bunch of space rocks, but it was so close to being 20

something more. Just some space rocks that she had no control over. Just an end of the world party that she clung to. Just her mom that she could never be enough for.

“I’ll talk to her,” she whispered, and Jasper nearly jumped at the sound of her voice breaking up the silence.

“You will?” He failed to hide his surprise.

“I—yeah.” Jasper paused for a moment, bringing them back to silence, before saying, “I’ll talk to him too.”

At that, she grinned wider than she had the whole night. Her excitement wasn’t at the same level it had been earlier, her mother’s presence drenching her spirit in melancholy, but she may have been happier than she was before. Truly.

“You didn’t have to go out of your way to make me happy,” he added.

“You didn’t either.”

“Yeah I did.”

“Then I did too.”

Jasper smiled back at her, the grin on his face a mirror reflection of the one on hers. A dimple in his left cheek stood out when he did so, which only made Gia smile wider. She had a matching dimple on her right cheek.

He handed her back the empty champagne flute and looked like he was about to climb back through the window, but instead he settled his 21

elbows against the railing right next to hers.

“Pep talks before?” he asked.

Gia was a lot of things, certainly impatient, but before that she was a good sister. She nudged his shoulder lightly the way he had to her earlier and rolled her eyes with mock annoyance.

“Duh.”

22

23

Burgundy Lipstick and Wine

by Lauren Everhart-Deckard Illustration by Amy Yang

neaking over the Millers’ backyard fence feels like an undoing, a reversal of years and choices made. As she hoists herself up, Sandra’s box of memories unlatches, and the ghosts of her childhood burst free. The spectral forms of Lily Miller and her younger self, both ten at the time, sprint across the lawn. The two little girls squeal with delight as they chase each other in a circle, their ponytails flapping in the breeze. Sandra blinks, and the kids vanish in a puff of dandelion fuzz. A pair of teenagers take their place, dolled up for homecoming in halter dresses. Bright grins stretch across their faces as they snap pictures of each other in front of the blossoming magnolia tree. Lily smiles shyly at her from 25

behind the camera.

Sandra pauses, one jean-clad leg slung over the wooden planks, momentarily stunned by the hit of nostalgia. She balances precariously, hesitating, before throwing herself to the other side. Growing up, she had lived down the street from the Millers, but her own family moved away after she left for college. She hasn’t been back since.

Long beams of golden light stretch from the windows to the edge of the lawn, so Sandra sticks to the shadows as she approaches the back porch. The last thing she wants is to be seen. She warily eyes the screen door, her heart beginning to pound as she remembers being chased out that same door when she was a teenager. The vulnerability of eighteen had rendered her helpless, leaving her with no option but flight.

Feet bare and body hardly covered, she had nearly slipped on the dew-slick grass in her desperation to get away. Splinters had embedded themselves in her palms as she vaulted over the fence, but she had been too distracted by her stinging cheek to notice. If she trails her fingers over her face now, she can almost feel the heat of the slap.

Sandra peers through the mesh screen, and Mrs. Miller—“Oh, call me Jane, dear”—surges to the forefront of her memory: her wrinkled 26

face, flushed violet with righteous fury; the spittle flying from her mouth; the steps creaking underneath her weight as she took chase. Sandra had fled from her faster than she had even known she could run. Her calves had been sore for days afterward.

She fondles the doorknob for a moment, tracing the handle with her sweaty thumb. She has to remind herself that she drove for more than an hour to get here tonight. She can’t just abandon her plan now.

Sandra takes a deep breath and slips inside.

Laughter bounces off of the cream-colored walls, echoing down the hall and rattling the framed pictures of the Miller children. Sandra straightens her shoulders and marches past photos of Lily at various stages of her life: pigtails and Girl Scout badges in the second grade, braces and thick-rimmed glasses on the night of her first prom, a white cap shading her tight smile at high school graduation. Every picture of the two of them together has been taken down, and even after all this time, Sandra’s heart clenches at their absence. In getting caught, she was cut out of the Millers’ lives, forbidden from ever returning. Despite the way they had treated her in the end, a part of her will always miss them.

She pauses to collect herself, steadying her 27

breathing. With a cursory glare at the wooden cross nailed to the wall, she moves on.

She finds the guests congregated in the living room, draped over the furniture and sipping wine, dressed in classy attire and accessorized smiles. At the center of it all sits Lily Miller, her brown hair tied back so tight her scalp looks like it might rip. She nods without vigor as she listens to whatever story her fiancé is telling, her burgundy lips tugging upward. Bent over with her elbow propped on her knee, she looks the part of the picturesque sophisticate.

Sandra halts in the doorway, unable to reconcile her childhood friend with the college senior perched on the edge of the sofa. Twentytwo is too young to get married, but her left hand flaunts a sparkling diamond. Did she pick it out herself, or did her boyfriend choose it for her?

Mrs. Miller—Jane—notices her arrival and gasps audibly, cutting off all conversation. Heads turn in Sandra’s direction and she stiffens, but her skin has toughened since high school. She doesn’t run from the fight.

Lily’s casual, curved posture straightens, her mouth falling open in surprise. Sandra hasn’t seen her since she was seventeen. She had her doubts before coming here—maybe Lily genuinely loved the guy, maybe she really did 28

change her mind—but the way Lily’s eyes widen when she sees her, like she’s been caught in a lie, tells Sandra everything she needs to know.

The oldest Miller boy is the first to move. He hands her a drink with a welcoming smile.

“Richard!” his mother hisses, eyes wide.

“She’s not invited.”

Richard shrugs. Sandra saw him once, after the incident. She had bumped into him while walking her dogs in the park. She could tell he’d taken advantage of his parents’ upset with his sister to sneak out and smoke pot, and upon seeing her he had given her a sheepish grin, pity in his eyes. He had made like he was about to apologize for his parents’ behavior, but she hurried away before he had the chance. Back then, she hadn’t wanted to face the situation, too afraid, angry, and mortified to accept what had happened. The Millers acted like she had betrayed their trust, taken advantage of them, lied to them—and in some ways she had, and that made it hard to even think of looking them in the eyes.

Sandra downs the wine in one large gulp, her nose burning, and hands the glass back to Richard. He has an air of smug indifference as he cradles her empty drink like a trophy. Sandra suspects he invited her tonight to satisfy a desire to stir shit up rather than out of concern for his 29

sister. But Sandra isn’t here for him—she hardly looks his way. Lily is staring at her blankly, her green eyes round and spooked. The man beside her, the prop, looks confused by the palpable tension in the room.

Mrs. Miller curls her bony, manicured fingers around her daughter’s shoulders and stares Sandra down. “This is a private party. An engagement party.”

“You’re an adult now,” Sandra says to Lily, pointedly ignoring the woman’s hostility. Unlike her mother, she won’t ever talk about her like she isn’t there. “No one can make your choices for you anymore.”

Mr. Miller—“ You can call me David, kiddo”— approaches Sandra, looking tired. He used to take her and Lily to the park when they were too young to play without supervision. Once, a long time ago, he had promised he would always be there for her whenever she needed him.

David crosses his arms. “You need to leave.”

Sandra stands her ground and ignores him, her resolve unyielding. She’s been waiting for years to come back and say what she needs to say, and no one can stop her now. Her gaze remains locked on the future bride, the star of the show.

“I need to talk to you. Come with me.”

Lily’s eyelid starts twitching. “What?”

30

“She’s not going anywhere!” her mother barks, nostrils flaring. She clutches her bosom as if to slow her racing heart, dramatic as ever.

Lily sets down her wine glass without looking away from Sandra. Her fiancé wraps an arm loosely around her waist and pulls her closer.

“Honey, what’s going on? Who’s that?”

The concerned furrow in his brow makes him look pitifully sweet. He turns to Sandra, mildly defensive, and asks, “Who are you?”

The room is silent except for the harsh breathing of Lily’s mother. The guests outside of the immediate family look as confused as the fiancé.

“I’m not leaving until you do,” Sandra asserts. Mrs. Miller sputters.

Lily won’t stop staring at her, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights. Finally, her parted lips move. She cranes her neck toward her future husband and speaks without meeting his worried gaze.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

Sandra’s shoulders sag with relief. Lily shrugs off the hands holding her in place and rises unsteadily from the couch. Sandra isn’t sure if it’s time or the heels, but she swears Lily’s gotten taller.

Mrs. Miller starts babbling indignantly, cheeks flushed, and her sophisticated demeanor 31

completely dissolves—but she doesn’t reach out to grab her daughter as she strides across the room, parting the crowd of baffled acquaintances. Richard goes to his mother, placing a hand on her shoulder to calm her, and his father pours himself another drink, looking disappointed. Sandra’s heart leaps into her throat as Lily nears, looking so much older and yet so lost.

“C’mon,” Sandra says, her voice quivering, and Lily follows her as she leaves, down the hall and out the front door. Sandra doesn’t have to run this time. No one is chasing her. *** Sandra’s car smells like McDonald’s and golden retrievers despite the evergreen air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror.

At eight o’clock, the suburban streets of their hometown are mostly empty. Every couple of moments, she glances over at Lily, motionless in the passenger seat. Her face is blank.

Sandra turns on the radio to deafen the silence, and her pulse throbs in her temple. She hadn’t really expected to get this far.

After a short, tense drive, they pull into the local park. The same lone, wobbly picnic bench still seems to grow from the roots of the old 32

maple tree—Sandra bets their initials are still carved into the tabletop, two letters cradled by a heart. They used to come here in the evenings when the weather was good and no one else was around. Sitting on the monkey bars with the pink sky darkening above the black trees, Sandra had felt safe in a world where she had to be brave. Seven feet above a bed of wood chips, she had felt high up enough to kiss Lily without fear of being seen by those below.

The car rolls to a stop beneath a dim streetlamp. The golden glow illuminates the cracked asphalt, brightening the inside of the car. Sandra kills the ignition and the radio, tapping her fingers on the wheel. She thought it would be easy once—if—Lily left the party.

She had expected her to be the same girl she remembered. She had anticipated gratitude, even, for saving her from the mess she had gotten herself into.

“What are you doing?” Lily asks quietly, staring above the dashboard at the empty playground.

“I’m…” Sandra swallows. What is she doing?

“You’re getting married?”

Lily sighs, deflating, sliding down her seat and wrinkling her dress. Sandra can’t get past how she manages to look simultaneously the same and different. “Obviously.”

33

A bubble of laughter escapes Sandra’s lips at the ridiculousness of it all. “To him? Really?”

Lily turns to glare at her, a defensive gleam in her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her tone is sharp, and before Sandra can reply, she continues, “Garrett is a great guy. He’s nice.

You don’t even know him. You don’t know me.”

Sandra falters, surprised by Lily’s protectiveness of her fiancé. She realizes, suddenly, that she had fully expected Lily to start trashing the guy as soon as she was rescued.

“I mean,” Sandra gestures vaguely with her hands, “Are you really… in love with him?”

Lily bristles. “I wouldn’t be marrying him if I wasn’t.” She must notice Sandra’s disbelief because she sits up, twisting around to face her head-on. “It’s none of your business, anyway! I haven’t seen you in years, and now you show up and ruin my engagement party!”

“Richard invited me—” “Of course he did—” “—and you’re the one who came with me.”

Lily gnashes her teeth, falling into bitter silence.

Sandra turns off the headlights and picks at her blue nail polish. “You can’t actually be serious about all this. You’re too young to get married.”

“The wedding isn’t until after Garrett graduates,” Lily explains, playing with the 34

diamond on her finger.

“What about when you graduate? I thought you were gonna be a lawyer?”

Lily’s lips thin into a straight line.

Sandra hums. “That’s what I thought. Have you guys even had sex yet?”

“That’s none of your business,” she snaps. Sandra can’t say her anger is unexpected— she tormented herself for years with visions of Lily tearing her to pieces for running away that night, leaving her to face her enraged mother alone—but she never expected her to be mad at her for trying to help.

After a long pause, Lily looks out the window again and speaks. “We’re waiting until our wedding night. We want our first time to be special.” She sounds like a pulpit record. Sandra frowns.

“You’re not a virgin, Lily,” she points out gently.

“I am,” she states coolly. The blood rushing to her face is visible even in the dark.

Sandra almost laughs. “You had sex with me lots of times. Did you forget that?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

Sandra flinches, and silence echoes in the Sedan. Lily gnaws on her bottom lip, before yanking her ponytail out and running a hand through her hair. Her entire face twists in an 35

ugly expression, her eyes far away.

Sandra grimaces. “You’re being stupid, Lily.

We both know you’ve never been into guys, so unless something’s changed—” “Nothing’s changed,” Lily snaps, a nasty scowl contorting her features.

Sandra’s heart drops to her stomach as she takes in the angry, defeated woman beside her, so different from the bright, happy girl she grew up with. Sandra ran away from Lily’s God-fearing mother after she was chased out of her house, and she left Lily to fight that battle alone.

“Nothing’s changed,” she whispers hotly, turning to face her, and before Sandra can think, Lily reaches out and grabs her by the collar of her shirt, smashing their mouths together.

She’s still as bad at kissing as she was when she was a teenager: teeth clacking, rough, desperate. She probably hasn’t practiced much since then. Head spinning, Sandra settles her hands on Lily’s waist, and for a moment, she remembers being seventeen and kissing in the dark, brave and unrepentant—but now Lily tastes like burgundy lipstick and wine and everything is all wrong. Sandra pulls away, and Lily’s cheeks are glowing pink. Her pupils have eaten her whole iris.

“Are you happy now?” Lily says, backing off and wiping her mouth with her forearm. “You 36

got what you came here for.”

Her words are a punch to the gut, and Sandra feels like crying. “That’s not what I came here for.”

Lily hums like she doesn’t believe her, trying to catch her breath. She leans back in her seat, and Sandra fumbles to try to find the words to convince her of the huge mistake she’s making.

“Take me home,” Lily sighs.

Sandra tenses, her car keys heavy in her back pocket. “It’s not fair to either of you if you go through with this.”

Lily rolls the window down, her head lolling to the side, her right arm dangling out. “Take me home.”

Sandra’s throat is tight, and she can’t swallow around the lump that’s trying to choke her.

“You’re gonna get divorced within a year.”

She spits. Part of her wants it to be true, wants to watch their marriage crash and burn from afar.

Lily chuckles darkly.

Sandra releases a shuddering exhale, looking toward the playground to see two spectral girls occupying the swings, holding hands. They vanish, and she imagines Lily here with a horde of children. Maybe she will marry him, and maybe they won’t split up. Maybe they’ll stay 37

together and have kids, and Lily will be perfect and fake and miserable for the rest of her life.

Maybe Sandra could’ve saved her from that future, but she hadn’t even thought to try before it was too late.

She turns the key in the ignition.

38

39

In All Her Beauty

by Abigail C. Ross Illustration by Amy Yang

irl, look at this fresh set I just got today,” Stacey said, hands pressed against the marble counter. “I decided to get red this time.

You know I’m always changing it up for my man.”

I smirked. “Didn’t you just get them done last week, before Girls Night?”

“And? I gotta treat myself. He’s been giving me so much money, I’m addicted.”

“Mhmm. Well, I like the color, but they’re so long though. I could never. You mentioned always having them this length the other night. I didn’t know you were serious!”

“He likes them that way, girl, so I can scratch his eyeballs out,” she said, throwing her head back toward the ceiling. “Long, sexy, and dangerous. He’s gonna love me even more than he did before!”

41

“He will. Maybe I’ll try them sometime too.”

Stacey stood before the mirror and stared at her reflection. She nested her hands beneath her lengthened blonde hair. It reached the bottom of a seamless black thong that rested upon the bridges of her protruding hip bones. Stacey was thinner than a rail. The hollows of her cheeks were covered in blossom-pink blush and golden highlighter—done to perfection, twinkling under the fluorescent lights in the back room when she smiled. I knew Stacey was already a star. She never had a top on and never needed one. Every man in the entire club loved her C-cup breasts, like two flowers in bloom. They knew she was barely eighteen. They told her she should come around more often. They adored the way she could hardly walk in toppling high heels. This is what happens when you are young and beautiful.

Stacey did this nearly every weekend, Friday and Saturday nights when our club was riddled with men who refused to go home after work.

When I looked at her, I reminisced about being the new girl. But she was better than everybody.

She could command their attention with the snap of two fingers. They would fix their eyes upon the curves of her body. Stacey made thousands when she swayed and she didn’t even have to try. She only needed a greeting, a pose, 42

a closing remark that, perhaps, made every man feel special. Stacey pushed me to become the dancer I always wanted to be.

She looked away from the mirror and began to fumble with her dainty underwear. She came to me, hands shaking.

“Okay, it’s almost time,” she declared, coiling herself around my arm. “Do I look okay?”

“Yeah, I was just about to tell you that.”

“You look beautiful too, as always. But I don’t think you need me to tell you!”

I planted a kiss on her forehead. I felt a little more famous.

“Let’s go, girls! It’s showtime,” the house mom announced from behind us. “People are filing in as we speak.”

I started forward, but Stacey tugged at my arm. “Wait, girl!” she said.

“What?”

“Wanna take a line with me?”

I paused. “Yeah, I’m down. But I’m not even drunk yet, so these men better buy me a fucking drink.”

“They will. Men are easy to fool. Don’t you know we always get our way?”

She grabbed her large Victoria’s Secret duffel bag from inside the locker room, shuffled into the handicapped bathroom stall, and dropped to the cold tile floor. In forgiving hands, she held 43

a petite white pouch filled with powder. She flicked back a strand of yellow hair, admiring the flashing dust.

“I love snow,” Stacey said.

“Me too. Only sometimes, though.”

“I should stop, but I don’t want to,” she grinned, revealing her bleached white teeth. “I have way too much fun. It’s so pretty.”

She poured the coke onto the top of a toilet paper dispenser. Tap tap tap tap tap. With the edge of a brand new credit card, Stacey created a narrow chalky line that seemed to glow compared to the dull metal. She lunged ahead, inhaling the whole line in a single whiff. Stacey batted her eyes. Her false lashes almost undid themselves.

“Your turn, baby.”

I did as I was told, repeating her process.

Blood rushed to my head, and I felt each nerve fade away. Numb the pain.

“Thank you,” said Stacey.

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“For being my friend when I have no one else.”

I smiled. “You don’t have to thank me for that. You’re my girl, always.”

“Can you do something else for me?” she asked.

“Of course.”

44

Stacey rummaged through her sequined carry-on, pulling out another small sack. This one contained dark crimson sparkles, which winked in the bathroom lights. I thought Stacey was nervous by the way she held it, but she proved me wrong.

“Pour the glitter all over me,” she pleaded. “I wanna drown in this tonight.”

The Clubhouse strip joint was a place of peace for lost souls. Heavy music thumped against cavernous walls. Dancing feet softly stomped to the rhythm. There were strobe lights, ranging from blue to green to purple. Each table in the VIP section had a group of men in suits and ties. Perhaps they had had a long day at work, or their wives were home with the kids. This was their escape. They could travel to another dimension for a night or two and forget about reality. All they did was cash out and get drunk. They placed bets on which girl they could get within the first few hours. The men knew money was everything to us, and they were always willing to give us anything we wanted. We begged for the cash, which came to us like rain falling from the sky. “Men are so easy to fool,” Stacey said once. I still don’t know if I believe her. On Girls Night, she reminded me that we were in this together. “I will always have your back; you have my word,” 45

she had said, sipping her drink. Today, I called the Club our ballroom, where true magic is supposed to happen. The men’s laughter filled the atmosphere, but I could barely hear it.

“Come on Vic,” Stacey called to me. “He’s over there.”

Her man was different. We all knew that.

He was tall and handsome. Every Friday, he wore the same outfit: a black jacket embroidered with the word GUCCI in orange and red lettering, designer jeans, and clean, shiny sneakers. Massive chains hung around his neck in different shapes and sizes, all diamondencrusted and brilliant. His earrings matched and glowed, complementing his muscular build.

Stacey’s man wore five rings on his right hand, one for every finger. He knew he was the shit and wanted everybody else to know it too. He was a regular at the Clubhouse, willing to spend like nothing else mattered. Stacey strutted toward him, fumbling with her brand new nails and adjusting her panties. This man had piercing blue eyes and a lot of friends. I suspected he was around twenty-five. A young millionaire, but somehow I knew he was already hooked on drugs. They had been seeing each other for a while. I saw her breathe in.

“Hi Don,” she exhaled.

“Hi, beautiful. I told you I would come back 46

to see you, and here I am.”

“I’m so happy you came, baby. This is my friend Vic, by the way.”

He shifted his gaze over to me. I felt a rush of uncertainty. “Hi, Vic,” he said. “I brought some people too. They’re over there.”

Don’s group stayed back, loitering near the exit next to the speakers, where the music bumped louder. There were three of them, all extraordinarily attractive and wealthy. Their getups matched Don’s, but he was clearly the leader. And they were patient, just like him.

I nodded. “I can see that. Y’all didn’t have to come out here all dripped out. Sheesh. You’re stealing our show.”

Don beamed, taking Stacey’s hand. “You’re too nice. But I had to go all out for my little baby. She deserves all the money in the world.”

Don and his friends blurred together. I couldn’t make them out anymore. In the middle of the Club, among the field of lounge chairs and other men, we talked and laughed and flirted.

This was what Stacey and I did together, even on the off days. I promised myself to manifest a good life. We both did, but we both couldn’t.

We were stuck somewhere in time, without any hope. Tonight, our hearts pumped in unison to the music. I knew I was the only one breathing and the air smelled like regret. I felt nothing but 47

dread.

“Let’s go to a private VIP section,” Stacey said. “I think I would like that.”

Together, Don and Stacey waltzed behind the curtains of the secluded space at the very back of the Clubhouse. Don’s friends and I trailed behind. Across the room, the DJ played our favorite song. It felt like the tune recycled itself on a continuous loop—one I couldn’t shake. Don and Stacey were like celebrities; we were like wannabes. She squeezed his hand and pulled at his arm. I didn’t mind. They giggled, peering into each other’s eyes. What a life, I thought.

I idolized Stacey in all her beauty.

“I love this song,” Stacey said, gazing at me from the couch side, singing Iced Out Gold Chain

by Guapdad 4000.

Don gripped her leg tightly. All of a sudden, the area felt debilitating and strange. Too many men in a place with too few women. We were used to being outnumbered, but now our VIP section felt wrong and dim and unwelcoming.

The couches morphed and contorted as Don grew indifferent. I sat next to Stacey and sensed her spirit sink into the drugs.

“I don’t really care, baby,” Don replied. “You can stop talking now. Dance for me, and I’ll get you a drink.”

48

Stacey fell silent and stood. She was unfazed—and so was I. We both felt nothing.

“You too,” he told me.

I rose and joined her. She maneuvered her waist back and forth, clumsy and modern and fresh. Skimming delicate fingertips against exposed thighs, Stacey let herself advance with the music. She was state-of-the-art—spinning around and bending over as she danced, whipping her blonde hair in circles. I saw a seductress, an emblem of beauty. Don drew a couple of ones and shoved some along the side of her black thong. He tried to pull her closer.

She was hesitant when their lips almost touched.

I watched while doing the same to one of his friends. I couldn’t look away from Stacey.

“What is this shit?”

“What?” Stacey asked.

“This is a dance? Really? Do something more for me. I know you would love to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wow,” Don chuckled, looking toward his friends. “Do I really have to tell you what to do?

I can’t believe I’m paying for this. Women really just don’t get it, do they?”

I tried to remember I was my own muse. I felt faint.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You know I’m still new.”

49

“You were much better last time and every time before that! Maybe it’s because you were drunk. Come on, I’m getting you a drink.”

“Okay.” Stacey complied and shot me a look.

My heart plummeted to the pit that was growing inside my stomach. Something felt off.

They got up and left the VIP lounge. Don’s friends started laughing. I was confused. I gulped, pushing the fear back into the capsule of my mind.

I am my own muse. I am my own muse. I am my own muse. *** I looked back at Vic as she studied the exit, her glare lingering in my direction. I felt frantic and pressured as I moved out of the VIP section and back into the central part of the Club.

“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” I told Don. “You can’t disrespect me like that, Stacey,” he explained, slurring. “You are making me look bad in front of my friends. I told you to dance, and you didn’t. I came tonight for you, only you, and this is what I get?”

We stood in the shadows in the corner of the main club. My back pressed against the wall, next to the exit, where Don’s friends had huddled before. I couldn’t see Don as he spoke, 50

only the slow, steady movement of his mouth mumbling. I imagined the enormous chandelier in the foreroom swishing and swinging in thin air. The pendant shone all over the Club when the colored lights hit its clear surface just right.

All the other men stared our way when Don screamed. I faded slowly. Some of them got up and started walking closer. The red sparkles on my skin burned in the dark. All I knew was Don’s face of anger.

I knew there was no way out.

“I’ll try again, baby. There’s still time.”

A push. Suddenly, Don grabbed the front of my neck. I felt my feet being pulled up from the ground and I dangled against the door frame.

My head cracked and bled with pressure. Don grimaced when I gasped for another breath, desperately trying to hold onto my life. But there was nothing. I felt nothing. He squeezed tighter, and my throat pumped without relent.

I struggled to keep myself alert, counting how many more inhales I had left. It didn’t matter.

My mind scrambled through the remnants of what was left. I thought about Vic, wishing that she could see me, hear me, look for me. My glass shattered on the ground. It made a noise, but there was no liquid left inside. I was nothing.

“There isn’t any time left! I’m leaving town tonight. You don’t listen to me.”

51

“Do you hear me? You are nothing compared to me. I’m the customer. You’re the whore.”

“Why can’t you just be a good girl?”

I was nothing. I was nothing. I was nothing.

After a few seconds, Vic finally came into view, far from reach. She ran, wobbling in her laced high heels and tiny dancer attire. My consciousness faded further. The other men raced toward us and pulled Don to the ground. He released me as he stumbled backward, groaning.

They took him outside beneath the exit sign. The rhythm stopped, and I felt dizzy. Vic crouched and nudged at my shoulder. I couldn’t see her.

“Stacey, can you hear me? Are you okay? I’m so sorry I left you alone. Stacey? Please answer me.”

“I can see you,” I said, reaching.

“Open your eyes more, please,” Vic said, holding onto my hand.

“I’m trying.”

Bouncers fled out the door and into the parking lot, where Don’s body was beaten into the ground. The other men kicked his ribs and punched his face. My vision softened when I peered up at Vic. A tear fell down her cheek, ruining the blush and highlight she had applied earlier. She crouched over my body, dressed in almost nothing. Her breasts hung like flowers in anticipation of bloom. A single G-string hugged 52

her hips, hardly keeping itself up. Vic was so thin. I worshipped the way she could capture the attention of any man she wished. She was the girl I craved to become. They realized Vic was a star the moment she stepped into the strip club.

They already knew her name. She had light hair that cascaded down an open back. Snow still lined the holes of her nostrils. Sirens sounded in the distance. I knew they were for me. Vic sobbed, and her eyes looked like Don’s—a promise to a better life. She is young, and she is beautiful.

53

54

Welcome Home

by Annie Rinaldi Illustration by Amy Yang

ianca and her mother drove home down the same winding road that she had spent hours wandering when she was too young to understand how big the world was. Wind drifted in through the open windows and lifted her mud-colored hair off the back of her neck. She tapped a hand against her leg and searched for something to say that wouldn’t be too much or too little.

“Oh, honey, your hands! Have you not been moisturizing enough lately?” her mom asked, breathing out a little huff of concern. Before Bianca could respond, her mom reached over and pulled open the glove compartment. “There should be a little tub of Nivea lotion somewhere in there. Hurry, though, I think those hands are getting drier by the second! You’ll have to save them.”

55

Bianca couldn’t help but grin at her mom’s attempt to cheer her up. Both of them knew that her heart wouldn’t piece itself back together so easily, not after the loss of her favorite teacher, but it was kind of her to try. She did as her mother said, pushing past the stray J. Crew coupons and cherry cough drops and ballpoint pens until she resurfaced, triumphant, with the lotion. She massaged it into her skin and gave her mom’s hand a quick squeeze.

“Thanks, Mom,” was all she could manage.

They should have been deep in conversation by now. It should have been just like old times, with laughter in the air and secrets being shared, now that she was back in the place where she had grown up. Why wasn’t everything back to normal? Would this worry ever go away? When would she be able to talk to her mother about something that mattered without freezing up and feeling sick to her stomach?

“Of course. Just because you think you’re so grown up now doesn’t mean I’m not gonna take care of you.” She shifted the car back into drive and fiddled with the radio. She seemed to pass through every station before at last settling on some seventies music, and Bianca couldn’t lie: it was kind of nice to drive through the shock of autumn colors and listen to Elton John with her mom. She was a little kid all over again, face 56

pressed to the glass as she watched her world fly by. Only she wasn’t; she was twenty-four now and aching to show her mother the full picture of herself, not just the outline.

The two of them were back home before Bianca could find anything to say. She trailed close behind her mother as they headed inside, holding her breath as if a single puff of air would turn the whole place to dust. The same family photos dotted the walls—Bianca’s mother and father, rosy-cheeked and beaming at their wedding ceremony; Bianca’s toddler face, pigtailed and smeared with glitter; and Bianca at senior prom in an almost painfully pink dress with her arm around a friend she hadn’t seen in years.

Charlie. Jesus fucking Christ. She raised a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter, but it was too late. Her mother was already back by her side, and Bianca didn’t know how to explain why she was laughing so hard at something so commonplace in her childhood home without making her mom furrow her brows and take a seat and put her head in her hands the way she always did.

“Bianca, honey? What’s wrong?” Her lips were drawn together, and her eyes were wide and searching for something to fix. Bianca needed to explain. She knew she couldn’t keep everything 57

inside much longer. If she lied to herself and everyone she loved and said that she was fine any longer, she thought she might burst. But as she stared at her mother’s face, she realized with a start that now wasn’t the time to spill open and tell her mother everything. There would be a time to address the knot of anxiety in her stomach that never unfurled itself. There would be a time to come out. There would be a time, and that time was not now. Right now, all her mother saw in her was grief, and that was the only pain she felt even remotely comfortable dealing with at this moment.

She didn’t say a word, but something must have been off in her features, because her mother stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her before she could get a word out. “I know you and Charlie loved Mr. Whitby.”

Saying that they’d loved Mr. Whitby was an understatement. They had idolized him ever since they’d shown up in his freshmanyear English class at their all-too-conservative Catholic school and seen him flout the school’s traditional attitudes about anything even remotely queer by giving a whole PowerPoint presentation on why Emily Dickinson was most likely gay. After that class, it was like a weight had been lifted off not only their shoulders, but also the shoulders of every other gay or trans 58

kid in their class. In their theology classes, they had to hold their breath every time their teacher mentioned marriage, for even a brief mention of it would be followed by which is of course only between a man and a woman in the eyes of God, despite what the Supreme Court says, but in sixthperiod lit with Mr. Whitby, guys could mention their boyfriends without him batting an eye. It had been nice. She missed it. She missed him.

“I wish there was something I could do to help you.” Her mom pulled back from the embrace and smoothed a hand over her daughter’s dark curls, snapping Bianca out of her wistful state. “I hate seeing you this way, sweetheart.”

Bianca swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to focus on anything but her emotions. Not just her sorrow, but all of it, all of the feelings she kept locked away in the darkest recesses of her mind, allowed to surface only when she was alone. She breathed in the cranberry scent of the candle her mother was burning in the kitchen and the lavender notes of her mother’s favorite perfume. An idea sprang into her mind, and she broke away from the embrace. “Could we maybe do breakfast for dinner later tonight? The food at my office is kinda horrible, and I miss cooking with you.”

She did, but she also needed to get some fresh 59

air, and biking to the grocery store was a perfect excuse to get out of the house.

Her mother nodded, relief evident on her face.

“Of course, honey. Do you want to unpack your things first?”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to jump on her bike and speed down the street and let herself feel and feel and feel without having to think about whether the people she loved would understand her feelings. Still, she nodded and followed her mother up to her childhood bedroom, because, after all, she loved her mom. Sure, maybe they didn’t get each other sometimes, but this was the woman who had held her close when she cried over being teased about her frizzy hair. This was the woman who had come to every single one of her parentteacher conferences from preschool to senior year and beamed with pride at the glowing reports from teacher after teacher. This was the woman who she knew would love her even if she told her everything. She might not understand her, but she would love her still.

Her bedroom was unchanged from the last time she had slept there. Posters of all her favorite musicians, Joanna Newsom and Father John Misty and Fiona Apple, covered the walls.

Her bed was impeccably made, and her favorite books filled the shelves. It was wonderful, 60

and she felt nothing as she stared at it. As she unzipped her stuffed suitcase and returned sweaters and jeans and dresses to their homes in closets and drawers, she didn’t dare speak. The air was choked with silence, and she was choked with worry. Her mother seemed not to notice any of what she felt beyond the expected grief, humming a Fleetwood Mac song under her breath as she helped her unpack.

Just when Bianca thought they were done, though, her mom turned to her and asked, “How’s everything? I feel like we never really talk. Why don’t you tell me about how your week’s been going before you head to the grocery store?” She tucked the suitcase away in the corner and patted the spot beside her on the bed.

“Sit. Let’s talk. Really talk.”

Bianca sat and she talked, as her mother had requested, but she didn’t “really talk.” As much as she wanted to tell her everything, she had inherited a wealth of worry from her mom, and she knew that laying herself bare before her would only upset both of them. She would open up to her soon, though. Well, maybe not soon, but someday. It had to happen someday, but that day wasn’t today, so for now she just said, “Uh, work is fine. Stressful, but at least I actually have a publishing job. A bunch of the people in my program are still working retail.” That was 61

true, at least. Her assistant position at Simon and Schuster left her drained and shaky at the end of each day, but at least it was something she cared about. “And I’ve been going on some dates. They’ve been decent.” Also true. Her mom didn’t need to know they were with women as well as men, but she had been out with a few people in the past months. Nothing had come of any of the dates, but she wasn’t too upset about that. Honestly, she wasn’t in the state for a real relationship right now.

Her mom gave her a smile, and it was so much like Bianca’s own, slow and steady and warm as an embrace, that she couldn’t help but return it.

Her mom reached out and enveloped her in a hug. Bianca pressed her head against her mom’s shoulder and took a few deep breaths in an attempt to keep herself steady. In. Out. In. Out. She was fine. Or, at least, she was going to be fine.

“You’re doing so well, sweetie. Let me know if you ever need anything. Okay?” Her mom pulled away and looked long and hard at her, and for a moment, Bianca thought that she might see past all the excuses and realize how her daughter was struggling to keep herself afloat.

She didn’t, though. She couldn’t, and maybe that was Bianca’s fault for not being open enough with her, or maybe it was her mom’s fault for not 62

understanding her better, or maybe it was both of their faults, or maybe it was nobody’s fault.

Bianca didn’t know, but at least she was trying to be somewhat honest, and at least her mom was trying to help her out.

She should have said something more, but there were groceries to buy and dinner to cook, so she was off on the bike she hadn’t ridden in years after about twenty minutes of her mother fussing over her and helping her pump the flat wheels of her bike with air and seeing her off as if she was a middle schooler all over again. The sky was full of dark, heavy clouds as she rode to the grocery store, and she wished she had brought a raincoat. Once she arrived, Bianca wandered the grocery store in a daze, tossing frozen waffles and pancake mix and plasticwrapped sausages into her cart until it was almost overflowing with things she didn’t need and didn’t really want.

She stopped in the freezer aisle and threw the doors open, hoping that the sudden shock of icy air would wake her up and prepare her to deal with all the feelings that she had avoided for the past few weeks, months, years. It didn’t, of course. It was just cold. She was about to hightail it towards the register and get the hell out of this grocery store when she saw him out of the corner of her eye, bathed in fluorescent 63

light and holding his phone between freckled jaw and sweatered shoulder.

She swiveled around and gaped at him.

“Charlie?” His name felt foreign on her lips.

Something like remembrance flashed in his eyes, and he said into his phone, “Sorry, Dad, can I call you back in a few?” He paused, looking towards Bianca all the while. “Sure I can. Love you too. Bye.” The first words out of Charlie’s mouth when he reached her were “Your hair isn’t blue anymore,” and she bit back a laugh, one that came out of real amusement this time around.

“Good job stating the obvious,” she shot back, an exasperated note slipping into her voice despite her best efforts. Wincing at her bluntness, she reached out to give his shoulder a comforting squeeze, then thought better of it and shoved her hands under her arms. “Sorry, that came out wrong. It’s been a weird day. How are you? How’s life going for you?” God, could she get any worse? She knew Charlie. She knew him pretty damn well, knew the crooked curve of his smile and the glimmer he got in his eye when he talked about his favorite books, so why was she acting like he was a stranger? Sure, they hadn’t really hung out since they headed off to college on opposite ends of the country and got busy with internships and summer jobs, but she 64

still knew him. Or, at least, she hoped she did.

She pressed her fingers to her temples and took a few deep breaths to reorient herself, hoping that the deluge of thoughts would subside. “Wow, I sound like my mom. I just— wow. I didn’t realize you were coming back to town for Mr. Whitby’s funeral.”

“Of course I came back.” His initial reaction fell away, and left underneath the veneer of surprise were the remnants of the boy she’d once known. He had traded in the band tees and ripped jeans for slacks and sweaters, but he still held himself the same way, shoulders squared as if he was confident and ready for battle, but hands worrying at any distraction they could find. “I could never miss his—you know.” He balled up the sleeves of his oatmeal-colored sweater in his hands and forced himself to finish his sentence.“I knew you wouldn’t miss it, either, but I just didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”

“The grocery store? It’s not exactly some exclusive club.” She leaned against the freezer door and listened to the sound of a once-familiar laugh. Her chest ached with the weight of all the things she didn’t dare to speak aloud. “What do you mean, though? That I wouldn’t miss his funeral.” She knew exactly what he was getting at, but some twisted part of her needed another 65

person to share in her grief. Speaking it aloud turned it into a tangible thing, something that Bianca understood far too well from a lifetime of getting her words caught in her throat.

His long fingers worked through a knot in his hair. “You always cared about his class more than anyone. Well, you and I did. He probably should’ve gotten tired of us after all the times we showed up at his office after class, asking him a million questions about, like, homoeroticism in The Great Gatsby or something and asking for more book suggestions, but he didn’t. He was—he was so damn nice.” He dropped his hands into his pockets and tried to smile, but he couldn’t summon the expression to his face. “I don’t know. It was a good time. He was a good guy.”

“Yeah. It was. He was.” There she went again, saying next to nothing when she should have said more. She heaved a sigh and dared to check the contents of her cart one more time, as if they could have magically transformed in the five minutes that she had spent talking to Charlie.

Too much. It was too much. “Uh, I should probably be going. I guess I’ll see you around?”

“It’s pouring. Come with me.”

“Sorry?”

“I know you biked here. I saw you.”

“Jesus Christ, serial killer much?” She 66

couldn’t help but bite back a smile as that familiar flush spread over his cheeks.

“That’s not how I meant it. You haven’t gotten a new bike helmet since we were teenagers. Neon pink is a pretty recognizable color.”

“Shut up. You wouldn’t mind driving me home, though? Seriously?”

“You live five minutes away, so no.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Aww, so glad to see you missed me,” he shot back, a note of playful sharpness in his voice, and they both laughed harder than they should have and bought their things and stepped out into the evening drizzle. It was lovely to stand underneath the cloud-covered sky and trade jokes like old times, even though it couldn’t last.

She knew it couldn’t last, but what was wrong with enjoying this moment?

With their groceries loaded into the trunk of Charlie’s dad’s trusty Subaru and Bianca’s bike strapped to the back of the car, they took off into the night. The lump in Bianca’s throat grew stronger the longer they went without talking, but she didn’t want to be the one to broach the subject of Mr. Whitby. Or, honestly, anything important. She wished that some inspiring heart-to-heart could spring into existence and fill both of them with relief without either of 67

them having to get cut on the thorns of their own sorrow in the process.

“Bianca.” Charlie slowed to a stop in front of her house and met her gaze for the first time since leaving the grocery store. “Do you want to talk about Mr. Whitby?”

“We’re talking right now, aren’t we?” Neither of them could stomach a laugh, and a hush fell back over the car for another few seconds or minutes or hours as Bianca watched the television flicker dimly through the window of a house whose inhabitants she didn’t know.

“Don’t try to deflect, Bianca. You know what I mean,” he said, and, though his voice was a mere whisper, his words lodged themselves in her heart. He was right. She knew he was right, but she would break if she said anything.

Before she could get out a word, he continued, “Because I’m not doing well. Like, at all, and you’re the only one here who gets it.

I mean, I know other people cared about his class, but we fucking idolized him. Don’t tell me you don’t remember how long we spent in his office every day. Honestly, that man was basically my therapist before I realized that I needed an actual therapist. He was the only adult at that school who didn’t make me feel like a freak for not being a tough guy or whatever.” He laughed, but it rang hollow after everything he had just 68

said, and Bianca dug her fingernails into the tender skin of her palms so that she wouldn’t fall apart. She remembered exactly what Charlie was talking about. Even in sophomore and junior year, when they’d both had other teachers for English, they had trailed Mr. Whitby through the halls like little ducklings, asking him question after question about anything they could think up. He was always patient with them. And good. So damn good. Tons of the other teachers at their high school had been nice enough people, but Mr. Whitby was unfailingly decent, something Bianca and Charlie had realized even as teenagers.

“I—yeah. I know,” she got out, cringing at the way her voice cracked on the last word. “Do you remember when we asked him why he was so nice? That was a good time.”

Charlie laughed, a pained sound but not an entirely false one. “God, yeah. ‘I’m nice because I believe in every single one of you.’ That dude was a fucking saint.”

“He was.” She had met very few people who were even half as incredible as Mr. Whitby.

It wasn’t that the other people in her life were terrible; it was just that Mr. Whitby had set the standard high. When she and Charlie had both come out to him in senior year, one right after the other, he hadn’t wasted time with any of 69

the cheesy clichés that other adults had tossed at kids like them. He hadn’t said oh, I knew all along, or, worse, it’s just a phase. He’d looked into their eyes and told them with an oh-so-earnest sound to his voice how damn proud he was of them and how incredible they both were. All these years later, Bianca still thought of that moment every so often when she lay in bed at night after a long day. She wondered if that memory was stuck in Charlie’s mind like it was in hers. She considered asking him about it, but they had both opened up far more than either probably wanted in these past few minutes. Now wasn’t the time. Perhaps there would be one later, but now, she had to gather her things and dash through the rain towards her house.

“I should go,” she said at last. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She reached for the car handle. Her heart didn’t know whether to leap with joy or hide away in fear. She had talked to him, actually talked to him about shit that mattered, but it made every part of her ache, and she had no idea how to deal with that without breaking down.

“Okay. If that’s what you need. Do you still have my phone number?”

She nodded, and he opened his mouth to say more, but she couldn’t listen, not to him or herself or anyone. She couldn’t leave him behind without a word, though, so before she grabbed 70

her bike and her groceries, she threw her arms around him and said into the crook of his neck, “Thanks for listening. It was really nice to see you.” God, she missed hanging out with him so much. They had gotten together a few times since graduating high school, but it had been in a group of old acquaintances, and though they were nice people and easy to get along with, the other people in that group had never gotten Bianca quite like Charlie did. Still, once the group had drifted apart, so had the two of them.

It didn’t make sense, especially considering how well they’d fit together as friends.

She should have paused for a minute to look at Charlie, really look at him, but she couldn’t bring herself to glance at the years of lost time reflected on that freckled face. So instead, she pulled back from the hug and got her things together and locked herself away inside the little blue house before he could say another word. *** Bianca’s parents whispered to each other the whole meal as if she wasn’t there. She picked at her food, shrank into her body, and hid behind a curtain of curls. Everything should have been perfect now that she was out of the city and with people who loved her, but it wasn’t. The knot of 71

worry was only more of a burden now that she was sitting in the house where she had grown up, and it wasn’t like she could reveal it all now over chocolate chip waffles. Sure, they would try to understand her emotions and love her all the same, but she wasn’t ready to tell them everything about her right now.

“Is the food any good?” her mother said at last, thin eyebrows flying upwards. She poked nervously at her waffles with her fork.

Bianca laughed, pushing back thoughts of coming out and quiet grief and everything she wouldn’t or couldn’t say as well as she could. “I would hope so, since we both made it.” She looked between her parents. They were charming as always, hands clasped under the table and smiles bright, and she gave them a smile even as her heart rushed because, after all, she didn’t want to tip them off. They were already furrowing their brows and murmuring to each other over her; telling them anything more would only send her mother into a flutter and her father into silence. It would have to come soon, or at least eventually, but the thought of spilling herself before them—not just her being bisexual or her grief over Mr. Whitby but the whole mess of it all—made her want to tear her face off. They wouldn’t be cruel; that wasn’t in their nature. They would ask a lot of questions 72

and frown those familiar frowns and look too long and too close at her as if she was someone new. It would take too long and feel too strange, and maybe Bianca was a child for not wanting to deal with all of that right now, but she couldn’t do it.

“Bianca? Hello? Is anyone home in there?”

Her father snapped weathered fingers in front of her face. She knew he was joking, but still, it tore her in two. She didn’t say a word. She itched to run off to her bedroom and throw the covers over her head and think of nothing at all for the next few hours, but she knew she was too old for that. Instead, she forced a smile that didn’t convince anyone, least of all herself, and shoved some waffles in her mouth and prayed for this dinner to end.

It ended eventually, after another hour or so of questions about how work was going and her nonexistent dating life and the book she was reading. It was surface level at best, all of it, but she couldn’t blame her parents. They were trying so hard. They loved her so much. Every time she spoke, they gave the appropriate reaction, little smiles and quiet chuckles and sympathetic gazes.

They were doing their best, and it wasn’t enough.

She was trying her best to show them who she was, and it wasn’t enough.

Bianca’s father spoke up when the two of 73

them were loading up the dishwasher with plates and forks and glasses. As he slotted a cheery Christmas-themed dish into its place, he peered down at his daughter through his tortoiseshell glasses with thick eyebrows arched and mouth pursed in an expression that Bianca couldn’t quite decipher. He was thinking things through and weighing all the words he should or shouldn’t say. Or, at least, that was what Bianca did when she made that same face. She had always taken far more after her mother in her appearance, but in that moment, the look on her dad’s face was so much like her own that she felt a sudden spark of warmth for him.

Eventually, he shook his head and pressed the dishwasher shut. “Hope you know I’m here if you need me, kiddo. Me and your mom both are,” he said, reaching out and giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. She flashed him a smile and nodded, because he wasn’t one for hugs. Or any sort of physical affection, really, which was why she was a bit flummoxed by the shoulder squeeze. Was her dread about, well, almost everything so obvious that even her dad had noticed and felt the need to reach out to her about it? At least it made for a nice fatherdaughter moment. Her words escaped her, so instead she turned on her heel and disappeared up the stairs to do what she needed to do.

74

“Hey there,” she said into the phone, curling up underneath her pale blue comforter. “Can I vent for a quick second? Sorry to bother you. I know it’s late and all, I just—I don’t know. It’s been a weird night, that’s for sure.”

“Late? It’s barely nine. But of course you can vent. God knows that’s what I did earlier in the car. What’s up?” She bit back a smile at his reply and rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see her.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry some of us like to be well rested,” she shot back, and they both laughed for a moment before settling into silence. “Thanks. I, uh. I guess—just a lot? A lot’s up. Sorry, that probably doesn’t make any sense. I just—I feel like my parents and I never actually talk. About anything beyond, like, what we’re watching on Netflix or some shit that doesn’t matter. And I’m trying, and they’re trying, but I’m just so fucking scared. Does that make sense?”

For a minute, she thought that he might have hung up on her, because his side of the line went silent. She held her breath and pulled the blankets up tighter around her shoulders and waited for his response. Then she heard the sound of a nervous little cough on his end, and she breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he cleared his throat and started talking.

75

“Stop apologizing. You’re making perfect sense, Bianca. I get it. I do. I mean, I only just started really talking to my parents a year or two ago, and it’s kinda rough. Not because they’re bad people or anything like that, but because sometimes they just don’t get it. Not just me being gay, but most of it. But they care and they try, and that’s what matters, I think. Do you get that?”

“Yeah, I do.” She pulled the covers below her chin and listened to the sound of her own heartbeat, quick and nervous and unsure. Charlie wasn’t wrong, not in the slightest, and that was what scared her. She knew she had nothing to fear, that her parents were good people at their cores and would accept her and love her even if they didn’t understand her, but really, she wanted to be understood, and she couldn’t make them understand everything about her. It wasn’t that easy. “You’re so much braver than I am.”

“Don’t say that. You are brave, Bianca. Just because it’s taken you longer to talk about how you feel doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

She buried herself beneath the blankets and pressed her head into her hands and took a shuddering breath. He was right. Of course he was right. She’d talked to her parents about things that mattered before. Sure, it hadn’t happened too often in the past few years, and, 76

sure, every time she remembered the moments where she had shared her true self with them back in high school or even earlier, her heart kicked up its pace and her palms went damp with sweat. They had been kind every time, so logically, Bianca should have nothing to fear, but she couldn’t tell that to her stupid brain.

Her mind was a never-ending cycle of concern twisting itself into terror, and she couldn’t stop that no matter how hard she tried. But she could talk to her mom and dad, at least. She was brave, at least a little, and she had done it in the past.

“Thanks, Charlie. I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow,” she said, and then she hung up and fell into a dreamless sleep. *** The sky hung over Bianca and her parents, crystal-blue and cloudless, as they stood in front of the church. Bianca’s mother smoothed a lint roller over her daughter’s black turtleneck and squeezed her shoulder and said, “Tell me if you need anything, honey. Anything at all.”

“Maybe a hug?” The question made her feel a bit like a child, but it was what she needed from her mother at the moment. Her mother nodded and stepped forward, pulling her into her arms, and Bianca leaned her head against 77

her shoulder and breathed in and out. The scent of that same old lavender perfume her mother loved so much filled her nostrils, and it made Bianca smile despite the mess of feelings, few of them positive, gnawing away at her heart.

She had adored that perfume when she was a little girl. She’d sat atop her mother’s olivegreen comforter when she was getting ready for nights out, watching her spritz that perfume across her wrists and neck with bated breath as if it was the most thrilling thing she had ever seen. And, honestly, at that age, it had been a joy to watch her mother put herself together.

Of course, as she grew up, she realized that just because her mother was well-spoken and dressed nicely and wore fancy perfume didn’t mean she was without worry, but the lavender fragrance in the air still pulled her back to those moments of pure innocence when she was a child. She would never be able to relive that naïveté, but, for now, she could hold on tight to her mother and breathe in that same smell and think of a time when they were able to talk to each other without any barriers.

She pulled back eventually. The perfume still lingered in the air, mixing with the salty scent of her own sweaty palms. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and caught the gaze of Charlie, who had just arrived with his own 78

parents. He flashed her a smile, and she returned it with one of her own.

“Thanks, Mom. I really needed that. I’m gonna go talk to Charlie, but I’ll talk to you later,” she said, and she meant it.

“Hey there, you. Nice shoes.” She looked pointedly down at his worn Doc Martens, and he laughed despite himself.

“Yeah, I’m taking some style inspiration from Mr. Whitby himself.” He shoved his hands down into his pockets and chewed at his lip.

“God, none of this feels real. None of it.”

“Yeah, I know.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. She couldn’t summon up any tears, but she was split open inside and wishing to go back to when they were teenagers, when they’d run down the school hallways to Mr. Whitby’s office with arms full of books and minds full of questions that he’d answer with endless patience. She should have kept in closer contact with him after graduation, and with Charlie too. There were so many things she should have done, but she couldn’t rewrite the story now. All she could do was move forward as well as she knew how. “Are you ready to go inside?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, and she smiled up at him and followed him into the church.

79

A photograph of Mr. Whitby as he had been when they knew him best, young and vibrant and smiling, hung at the front of the church. A few of his friends and relatives gathered around it, speaking in quiet voices and embracing each other. Bianca and Charlie watched from afar for a few moments, caught between wanting to grieve with them and feeling like they didn’t have the right to, and, eventually, Bianca was the one to tug at Charlie’s hand and lead the two of them up to the altar.

They stood in silence on the outskirts of it all, lost in their own feelings, until Mr. Whitby’s wife, Nicole, approached them. She was delicate in build and dark-skinned, with box braids that framed her face and thick, full eyebrows. Mr. Whitby had always talked about her like she hung the moon, and Bianca wished that she knew her better, but all she knew was a name and a face.

Nicole rubbed at her teary eyes and gave them a warm smile. “Hi there. Sorry I’m such a mess. Thank you so much for coming today.

It’s really nice to actually meet you two. I mean, I know I’ve been texting you about your whole speech thing, Charlie, but it’s great to actually see you two in person for the first time.”

Bianca returned her smile. “Yeah, of course.

We just—we just wanted to come up and pay 80

our respects,” she said, even though she knew the phrase was meaningless and wouldn’t do anything to help this heartbroken woman. “Mr. Whitby—or, uh, Jonathan, I guess—was an amazing teacher. And a really good person. I mean, obviously you know that. I’m sorry.” Her cheeks were scarlet, and with her hair pulled out of her face, there was no way to hide from Nicole or anyone else here.

Judging by the expression that came over Nicole’s face, though, there was no reason for her to hide. “You’re okay. I’m glad my Jonathan had such a positive influence on you kids. He always lit up like a Christmas tree whenever he talked about you all. It was really a sight to behold.”

There was so much of Mr. Whitby’s casual kindness in her voice and her dark eyes that Bianca could easily see why the two had been drawn to each other.

Nicole turned her face back towards the image of her husband, frozen in time and beaming out at them, and heaved a sigh that betrayed a little of what she surely felt underneath all that easy warmth. “I’m sorry. I should be going. It was really nice to meet you both, though.” She turned on a sensible block heel and headed off to greet funeral guests, and Bianca felt sick to her stomach with all the things she wasn’t saying.

81

“Can we sit? I need to sit,” she said to Charlie, grabbing onto his arm and holding tight, and he nodded without a word and led her to a pew near the back of the church. She let go of his arm and clasped her hands in the lap, staring out at the way the light streaming through the stained glass illuminated everyone’s faces in shades of blue and red and green. It was like something from a dream. All of this was a dream, one tinged with grief but cut through with one revelation, stark amidst the confusion of it all. She knew what she had to do. She had kept all of this bottled up inside her for so long, and now, amidst all this emotion, this rawness, was the time to spill it out. She needed to have courage like she’d had in her senior year of high school, when she’d told Mr. Whitby the truth of herself and not worried about what he would say in response because she knew that his heart was good.

Charlie rose to the pulpit later on in the ceremony and shared a story about the time in their senior year English class when Mr. Whitby threw the whole class a surprise party to congratulate them on getting through the college admissions season mostly unscathed. It was a tale designed to warm the heart, not to make you cry, but Bianca’s throat felt thick with tears. She wasn’t sure if it was the grief or the 82

worry that was winning out this time, but she was okay with that.

The sky was painted orange and pink and red when Bianca and Charlie stepped back outside after the funeral. Charlie’s parents stood at the other end of the crowd, heads bent together as they spoke to an older couple Bianca didn’t recognize, and Charlie looked their way and gave a brief smile.

“I have to go. My parents are refusing to let me go back home until they get some food in me.” He wrapped his arms around Bianca and held her tight, and she remained in his embrace for longer than she needed to, closing her eyes and summoning every last scrap of her bravery.

Before he could go, she said against his scratchy black sweater, “I’m going to talk to my parents. Tonight. Can I call you? After?”

He beamed down at her and hugged her again.

“Of course,” he said, and neither of them were certain of what else to say, but their smiles said all that they needed to. He disappeared into the evening sun, and she turned and walked towards her mother and father. The knot in her stomach was not as tightly wound as it usually was, because she was going to say what was on her mind plain and simple to her parents for the first time in years. Perhaps the worry would never disappear, but she could be brave, like Charlie 83

had said she was. Like she knew she was, deep down beneath that knot of dread.

They were nestled away in the car again, heading back home, and Bianca rolled down the window and let the wind rustle her hair and drift over her pale face. She took a moment to breathe it in, and when her parents turned to her and asked how she was doing, she didn’t lie and say that she was fine. She told them the truth this time.

84

85

About the Authors Kate Rispoli is a sophomore Writing, Literature, and

Publishing major at Emerson College. She has worked as an editor for Stork Magazine and Undergraduate Students for Publishing since her first semester, and has been writing for Your Magazine since the fall of her sophomore year. "twin stars, set to explode" is her first published piece of fiction.

Lauren Everhart-Deckard is a senior Creative

Writing major at Emerson College. She is a proud mother of two kittens, Tommy and Marie. Her greatest dream is to write meet-cute rom-coms about old ladies falling in love.

Abigail C. Ross is a junior Creative Writing major at Emerson College. She writes personal essays, short stories, and poetry for pleasure and in the academic sphere. Her work has appeared in on-campus publications, including YourMagazine and EM Magazine (2021). In addition, Ross hopes to write a memoir someday.

Annie Rinaldi is a senior at Emerson College

pursuing a BA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing.

She is originally from New York and is an aspiring fiction writer but loves to read anything and everything.

86

About the Type The running text for this issue is set in Adobe Caslon Pro, designed for Adobe by Carol Twombly based on specimen pages by William Caslon between 1734 and 1770.

The display type for this book is Yu Gothic Pr6N designed by Morisawa Inc.

87