Whatever It Takes

by Ritchie, Krista

  Her lips purse, her glare set on the computer screen. “Then you’re the one who rearranged all the action figures on the shelves into an orgy.”

  “Not me.” I shake my head. Kyle.

  Though her words are a punch to the gut—because I can deflect all day and know that these acts are partially mine to claim.

  I never stopped my friends. I couldn’t. And I’m not all innocent either.

  “You’re the one who put porn mags in front of every DC comic.”

  I shake my head harder. “That wasn’t me.” Hunter, not my brother but my friend.

  She tenses and types faster on the keyboard. “Then you’re the one who wrote on the bathroom wall with Sharpie: ‘stop trying to invent the most revolutionary shit. It’s already been done.’ And then you drew a slice of pizza.”

  I rub my lips to keep from laughing. Her eyes flicker to me in my silence, narrowing and narrowing.

  My mouth downturns, and I drop my hand. “Yeah, that was me.” I gesture to her. “I can go clean it…”

  She turns her attention back to the computer and says something in another language. I think Korean. I watch too many foreign YouTube videos that I can just barely detect the language. If I paid more attention, I might’ve been able to catch one or two words and understand her better.

  That’s not the point though. She purposefully wants me to not understand her right now. It’s working. I shift uneasily, realizing how much trouble I’ve caused the store manager.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally apologize—what I should’ve started with. “I’m really sorry, and I’m going to try to make it up to you.” I extend my arms. “Put me to work.”

  I expect her to direct me to the bathrooms, to go clean toilets. “I was going to put Willow on inventory today. You can start in the storage room with her—blasted piece of technology!” She bangs the side of the computer, frustrated.

  “Hey, let me see.” I head over to Maya, setting my hoodie on the counter.

  She scoots to the side and points at the blue screen of death, pretty much the worst problem for Windows. “I’ve restarted it four times.”

  “It might be a hardware problem.”

  “How do we fix that?” She drums the counter with two fingers.

  “You’d have to buy new equipment.”

  Her mouth falls. Before she freaks out, I add, “I’m going to reboot it in safe mode and then check the computer’s memory. You didn’t install any new drivers, did you?”

  Maya shakes her head slowly. “No.”

  “Hey…” Willow emerges from the break room, hesitantly approaching us at the checkout counter. “What should I do?”

  Maya is about to respond, but her phone rings, cutting her attention. She looks frazzled. “This is our indie distributor… I’ll be back.” She answers the phone and sprints into the break room.

  I type in a couple commands and then wait for the computer to reboot. “I don’t know if you remember me.” I turn to look at Willow.

  She stands closer to me than before, glancing at the blue screen and keeping her hands on the white countertop. “Sort of,” she says softly.

  My pulse kicks up a notch, and I motion to the computer. “I’m trying to get it working.”

  She nods and pushes up her glasses again. “Are you good at computers?”

  “Sort of.” My lips try to rise.

  Hers almost do too, but she stays quiet, just watching the blue screen blink out while I discover the issue. I’m so used to loud, overpowering noises—my friends talking over one another—that the hushed quiet between us is different for me.

  It beats the silence of being alone. Because I can feel her here, beside me, thinking.

  After a minute or so, I speak. “Do you go to school around here?”

  “I start at Dalton Academy on Monday.”

  Loren Hale’s cousin is going to Dalton Academy. The preparatory school that Loren went to as a teenager.

  My muscles tense, instantly scared for her—because there are a lot of people that dislike him, based on his reputation with their older brothers or friends-of-friends. Now that he’s famous, there’s a shit ton of jealousy in the mix too.

  “I can show you around school,” I offer, though I’m not sure how much this will help. It’s not like I’m beloved right now either.

  She stiffens. “You go there?”

  “Yep.” I bend down to check the hard drive after the memory check passes. The fan looks nasty with dust and cobwebs. I blow on it and realize that the thing probably overheated. I tinker with the equipment for another minute and let it cool off.

  The front door chimes and about four more employees enter like they own the place, dispersing behind us towards the bakery and coffee makers.

  Willow nearly hugs the counter. Like she’s in the way, but she’s not. She squeezes next to me, and then pauses. Realizing how close she is, she starts to back up. “Sorry.”

  “No worries,” I tell her and gesture to the computer. “It’s all fixed.” The Windows screen pops up and asks for the administrator’s password. I could login as “guest” but I test a few passwords, one being Scott Summers since the Cyclops cardboard cutout greets people when they enter the store.

  It works. “Weak password,” I mutter, opening Chrome.

  “How can you tell?” Willow fixes her braid, her arm brushing mine. An electric current runs through my veins—the brief contact more innocent than what I’m used to. More pure. Maybe that’s why it feels so different.

  “A strong password doesn’t duplicate characters and it has numbers.” Anything less and an encryption program would take virtually three seconds to crack the password.

  She gives me a cautious glance, a coffee machine grumbling to life behind us while feet clap against the floor.

  “What?” I pop open Tumblr, about to type in my username.

  “Do you break passcodes a lot?” Her cheeks pale again. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

  I want to hug her to my side for some reason. To comfort her maybe. She hangs her head a little and keeps glancing around at the employees, bustling behind us.

  I don’t wrap my arm around her or pull her closer though. She has that closed-off stance, which I take as a sign that she might not like me touching her at all.

  “A few times, yeah,” I tell her. “I have software that does it.” It’s not like I’m hacking into anything important. I’ve taken over my friends’ Twitter accounts as a joke a few times—that’s it. I could probably do a lot worse.

  She doesn’t say anything. She’s dazedly staring straight at the Tumblr screen. “You okay?” I ask, typing my username: ryumastersxx

  “No.” She winces. “Yes, I’m good. Just…shocked that you’d like this and this.” She points at the Tumblr logo and then my username.

  My brows knot. “Wait, do you like Street Fighter?”

  “You have a tattoo.” She glances at my inked skull between my bicep and forearm.

  “I don’t know where we’re going here.”

  “And you have a ton of friends—” Willow gets cut off as a college-aged employee walks behind her, nearly bumping into her side. I never move, so she ends up right against my waist, tucked close to me now.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She nervously takes off her glasses and wipes the lenses. “I just never thought someone like you would like this stuff.”

  “Well I didn’t think someone like you would be into an old video game.”

  After a short pause, she asks softly, “What’s someone like me?”

  I think about it for a second. “…a girl.” I feel bad even saying it, and I realize that my perception of people isn’t what it should be. Maybe no one’s really is. We can’t really know who people are until we meet them.

  “I’m not the only girl who likes video games,” she says. “And I’m definitely not the only one that likes Tumblr.”

  “That I know,” I say, more than curious
about how she uses Tumblr. Quickly, I reblog a couple gif sets from Supernatural. “What’s your username?”

  She fixes her glasses. “I can’t say.”

  I raise my brows. “What is it, some secret?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of,” I repeat with an uncommon, growing smile. “Can I get a hint?”

  She gives me a knowing look. “So you can break into my account? No.”

  “What’s your first pet’s name?” I quip. “The city you were born in?”

  She shakes her head at me like not working. I didn’t think it would, but she’s less nervous to meet my eyes. Hers are pretty: brown but a little hazel near her pupils.

  “For the record,” I tell her, “I don’t have a ton of friends…” at least not anymore.

  “It looked like you did,” she mutters.

  My stomach turns. I decide to change the subject back to the lighter one. “We could message each other if you share your username with me.”

  She thinks hard again. “You really want to know it?”

  Do I want to know what she’s like online? What kind of things she’s into? Yeah, I do. “I wouldn’t be asking again if I didn’t.”

  “I’ll tell it to you, but only if you fill out a questionnaire on Tumblr first.”

  I frown in confusion. “Why?”

  She tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve filled one out recently, and I don’t like deleting things…”

  It hits me. She doesn’t want me to see her answers, at least not without jumping into the same boat she’s floating in.

  A questionnaire.

  I try to stifle a laugh that almost escapes. It’s probably one of those things you tag your friends in and they tag other people—I don’t do those. Ever.

  She begins to recoil from me, and I immediately want to punch myself in the face. Shit. I set a hand on hers, and she jumps.

  “Sorry.” I let go. “I’m not trying to be an ass. I just…you really want me to fill out a questionnaire?”

  “Only if you want my username.”

  I give her a weak smile—I’m not good at smiling, to be honest. I can’t remember the last time I was happy enough to reveal my teeth in one. Maybe never. I bet I was a morose, assholish baby. “Alright.” I commit. “I’ll do it.”

  She shows me a link to the questionnaire. I vaguely skim some of the questions, zoning in on really personal ones. If I end up doing this, it’ll mean opening up to Willow…and Willow opening up to me.

  What do you say, Garrison?

  I say that I’ve never done that to anyone before.

  This will be a first. And I’m surprised I have some of those left.

  14 BACK THEN – September

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  WILLOW MOORE

  Age 17

  Garrison said he’d fill out the questionnaire later. Maya came in and doled out duties for us before he could even start. Most of the day I spent checking inventory, and she made Garrison clean coffee machines, mop floors, and bus tables.

  I don’t see him when I exit Superheroes & Scones at 5 p.m.—though I can’t stop thinking about him. He seems like trouble, like someone I’d stay a thousand feet away from in Caribou, Maine. If my suspicions are right, his friends were the ones that broke into Lo’s house.

  He seems characteristically bad.

  I’m just scared he’d pressure me to do something I wouldn’t want to do. I’ve never had friends like that, but he seems the type, doesn’t he?

  I approach my gold Honda on the curb, knowing that I’m judging him.

  But I’m judging him off prior actions.

  I can’t make up my mind. In fact, my mind really hurts even trying to place Garrison in a category. Maybe I shouldn’t try to place him at all.

  I crawl into my car and then start the engine. It lets out a whiney noise. “No…come on.” I turn the key again, and smoke suddenly plumes from the hood. “Crap.” I climb out, and in haste to check beneath the hood, smoke rushes out, so hot that it burns my arm.

  I drop the hood and it clatters down.

  “Hey, Willow!” The concerned voice drives nerves throughout my body. Oh my God, Garrison is sprinting over to me, his hoodie wadded up in one hand and his car keys jangling in the other.

  “Hey,” I say, pressing my reddened arm to my chest, the sting lessening. I’m shifting so awkwardly that I probably look like I have to pee.

  He wafts the smoke above the hood. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know… it’s an old car.” I cough as another gust of smoke rushes out towards me.

  Garrison motions with his head to the curb. I follow him, vehicles speeding by on the city street.

  “Do you know anything about cars?” I ask hopefully.

  He shakes his head. “Just computers.” He glances over at the corner street. “I can give you a ride to wherever you need to go. You can call a tow truck or get your cousin to come look at your car in the meantime.”

  Cousin? It takes me a moment to register what he means. Loren Hale, my cousin. Which means that Garrison read the debut article about me and my tampons.

  I immobilize. Don’t think about it.

  “Willow?”

  “Uh, yeah…yeah.” I shake my head like I’m trying to rid all the cobwebs. “Thanks. A ride would be great.” I’ll call the tow truck later. So I end up feeding the meter with a few more quarters and then grab my backpack.

  “This way.” He nods towards the corner street. We walk a block until he stops by a black Mustang, black leather interior, and black custom rims. It has to be expensive. If it’s not, it does a great job pretending to be.

  “This is your car?”

  He opens the passenger door for me. “Yeah…I live in the same neighborhood as Loren.” An unspoken truth strains between us: my old car is dying and spurting out smoke one block away. After finding out that we share a few unique similarities, it’s this economic difference that creates the most tension, both of us uncomfortable for different reasons.

  “Was that your house that night of the party?” I ask before climbing in. Everything is clean, no stray water bottles or takeout wrappers beneath the seat. My car is a mess of receipts and paper napkins from Wendy’s and Taco Bell.

  I’m the slob, I realize. I sink further in the seat and hold my backpack on my lap, hugging it close to my chest.

  He answers me when he’s buckled. “Not my house. I live one street over.” He turns to me. “Where do you live?”

  “I should’ve told you that it’s kind of out of the way—”

  “It’s fine. I have nowhere to be.”

  I nod and then give him the address. He plugs it into his phone and docks it on a stand, the GPS alive with directions.

  “I thought you’d live with your cousin,” he says, probably thinking I’d have Loren’s type of wealth too. I guess he’s learning differently today.

  And I don’t know why he keeps saying that—your cousin. He knows who Loren is. Maybe he doesn’t like bringing up his name, not after the break-in.

  “I didn’t want to impose on him,” I explain. “He has a baby.”

  “Yeah, I saw Maximoff’s first baby picture along with the rest of the world.” His voice is dry, not at all impressed with their celebrity status.

  “You don’t like Princesses of Philly, I take it.” The reality show didn’t make them famous or last long for a huge impact, not beyond some cool gifs, but it’s easier mentioning PoPhilly than Lily’s sex addiction.

  He fixes the air vents, keeping the really cold air off me. Am I shaking?

  “I’ve watched it, but it’s not the show that bugs me.” Garrison stops at a red light. “Every time I leave my neighborhood, paparazzi start shouting at my car like I might have a Calloway sister in my backseat. And the questions they ask are fucked up.” He taps the steering wheel and then sets his aqua-blue eyes on me, a mixture of blue and light green—one of the most unique colors I’ve ever seen. “If you
need a ride on Monday, let me know.” He must note the surprise on my face because he adds, “I wake up early.”

  “It’s out of your way,” I remind him, though going to a new school with someone sounds a lot less anxiety-ridden than going alone.

  But Garrison?

  What if it’s some joke? What if this is like Never Been Kissed and it’ll end with him driving by and chucking eggs at me?

  He says he’s not popular, but he has all the makings of a popular high schooler: toned biceps that indicate his athleticism (i.e. he plays a sport), a face that’d be the lead in any CW show—or at least the little brother to the star (i.e. like Jeremy from The Vampire Diaries), and messy brown hair that sometimes touches his eyelashes—hair that says I could be in a boy band, but I’m too cool for that shit.

  Not to mention his tattoo.

  And his confident yet dark scowl…

  I suddenly draw this conclusion: I don’t know Garrison Abbey. Not enough to say whether or not he’d chuck eggs at me.

  If I really believed he’d do that though, I would’ve never climbed in his car.

  “I know it’s out of the way,” he says as the light turns green. “I also don’t care. I usually try to waste three hours in the morning anyway.”

  Three hours? “You wake up at five a.m.?”

  “Doesn’t everyone,” he says dryly, his fingers twitching a little. The car smells like citrus, not cigarettes, and there aren’t any bottles of alcohol or beer anywhere, but I’ve seen him smoke and drink before. He switches topics. “Are you a junior?”

  “No.”

  He frowns. “Sophomore?”

  “Senior,” I reply.

  “You look younger.”

  “It’s the braid,” I mutter, shifting in my seat a little.

  He glances at me once before focusing on the road. “The braid is cute.”

  I feel my lips lifting. Do not smile like that. It’s this giddy smile that should never reveal itself to the person who put it there. “Okay,” I suddenly say.

  “Okay…yeah?” He knows that I’m accepting his offer to pick me up on Monday.