When I wake up Tuesday, there’s a message from Yael waiting in my inbox on M&H.
YaelLouder: I joke that I don’t know what I’d do without you, but I really mean it: I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mab. I know we don’t talk too much about real life, except for last night I guess, but I don’t actually have that many friends—and definitely none (anymore) that understand fandom. I wish there was an instruction manual—I don’t know how to interact with people without being like “Is Stucky canon?” What I’m saying is, when I talk with you, I feel like you get it. I love this site, but I love it more because it means I get people like you in my life. It makes me feel less like Pluto and a little more like Mars.
“Gabe!” yells my mom. “If you want a ride, we’re leaving now. Otherwise, it’s the bus.”
I type out a quick reply.
Makeabeat02: I’m running late this morning and I need to catch my ride to school. This deserves a longer reply, but for now this will have to do: I get it. Hang in there, Yael.
Then I shut my laptop and go off to school. It’s the same drudgery all day. Mostly, I can’t pay attention. I can’t stop thinking about M&H and Yael and their message.
At the end of the day, Mom texts me that she’s not picking Davey and me up until Davey’s play audition is over, so I walk to the coffee shop, Grounds for Change, next to school. I base almost all of my coffee shop AUs on this coffee shop, but I’ve changed all the details. I guess mostly I love the feel of this place. They have tables by the front windows, and booths along the side opposite the bar, and couches and chairs throughout the middle. In the back, they have tons of single tables, and upstairs, they have more couches and a small stage for open mic nights. There’s an outlet at every table—probably the eighth wonder of the world, to be quite honest—and the music is the perfect volume. If I could hang out here all the time, I would.
I order a latte and flop onto one of the couches with my phone.
I’ve been thinking about it all day, and now I’m ready to reply to Yael.
Makeabeat02: I know what you’d do without me, Yael. You’d be just fine. You’d read fic, and pretend you weren’t secretly writing it, and you’d write code and you’d develop widgets and modules and all those fancy things that you plug into the website and make it cooler than ever, and you’d turn down all the interview requests you get from the Forward and that cool Jewish fangirl podcast because you’re modest and private, and then you’d find your people. I’m not talking about Jewish people—you’ve clearly found those—but the ones who know the truth, the most important truth of all: that Stucky is canon.
Makeabeat02: also, I’m not going anywhere. I’m the Nat to your Cap.
A text from Mom pops up. Davey threw up on the stage. I’ll be there in fifteen.
Are they okay?? I text back, sitting up on the couch. My latte isn’t even cold yet, but I guess it’s time to go. I drain it quickly, toss the cup, and head for the door. My nose is basically in my phone—I guess I might need those glasses Mom’s been suggesting—as I can see the little dots from Mom indicate she’s typing.
But that’s definitely why I walk right into the person in the doorway as they open the door. I yelp and almost drop my phone, jumping back a step. “Oh crap, I’m sorry!”
It’s Sam. She’s gripping her phone in one hand, staring at me wide-eyed. Her long brown hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing makeup and earrings. I’ve never seen her so dressed up.
“Hi,” I say stupidly.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless. She tightens her grip on her backpack strap and her phone. “What are you doing here?”
“Um, I go to school right there.” I point at the brick building across the street.
“Oh, right.” Pink colors her cheeks, and I have to look away, because I don’t want Sam to feel embarrassed, and I have a horrible, horrible ability to accidentally humiliate her.
“I’m—sorry.” I stumble over the words. “I was looking at my phone. That was my bad.”
“I was too,” she says.
“This is cute and all,” says someone behind Sam. “But could you get out of the way? I’m trying to get coffee?”
We both turn bright red and scoot to the side as some older woman slides past us, winking at us. Or maybe just Sam, since she turns even brighter red. She clears her throat and looks around the coffee shop, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “Are you…,” she begins.
“I’m leaving,” I say quickly. She doesn’t want to be here if I’m here. I get it.
Her shoulders slump a bit. In relief, I’m willing to bet. “Okay.”
“See you Friday night?” I ask, because it seems weird to just run away.
“What? Oh yeah,” she says faintly. “Shabbat. Yeah. See you there.”
I push out the door and back into the sunshine, feeling like I’ve run a thousand miles and I need to catch my breath. I don’t turn around and look over my shoulder after I cross the street, and I don’t think about anything other than putting some distance between me and the coffee shop. Mom’s waiting in front of the school when I get there. Davey’s already in the back seat, their hat pulled low over their face.
“Where were you?” Mom asks, but she’s not scolding. She’s frowning at me like I said something confusing.
“Um, nowhere,” I mutter. “I mean, Grounds for Change.”
“Did you get my text message?” She locks the door and pulls forward.
I buckle my seat belt and slouch. “No, sorry.”
It comes up now on my phone. They got stage fright, I think. They think they have the stomach flu but it came on quick and seems to be better. They’re very embarrassed so please don’t mention it.
“Davey,” I say.
Mom shoots me a warning look.
“What?” Davey asks sullenly from the back seat.
“Want to go to the new Marvel movie with me this weekend?”
I hear them shift in their seat. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling a bit. “I don’t think it’s going to be very good, but it’s Marvel. It’ll be fun. What more do you want?”
“I’m in,” they say, and I can feel them flop back again, their knees in the back of my seat.
It’s only inside our house that I realize Sam was thirty minutes from hers. She was in my hometown, in my café. Why would she come here, when we’ve spent the last year trying to avoid each other the best as we could?
Endnotes: I feel like I’m going to throw up. Davey’s fine, by the way. Disabling comments won’t stop the lot of you from sending me all-caps messages about that dangling thread. I wouldn’t leave you like that, would I?
CHAPTER 4: I WISH I WERE BETTER
Author’s Note: Okay a hundred (just kidding, just a dozen) comments about how I would leave you dangling on that cliffhanger about whether Davey was okay or not. Just because I did it in fiction doesn’t mean I’d do it here.
As soon as I get home, I check M&H. I have a crapload of homework to do, but 10/10 would choose M&H over history homework again.
Yael has replied.
YaelLouder: In what world am I Cap and you Nat?
Makeabeat02: That’s what you took from all of that? Are you serious?
YaelLouder: I took a lot from it. This is just the part I’m questioning.
Makeabeat02: Well, for one, I’m obviously prettier than you.
YaelLouder: *spits out dinner onto keyboard*
Makeabeat02: And funnier, apparently. I am your wingman. You’re the captain of this ship/war/team of misfits.
YaelLouder: brb, changing the name of this site to On Your Left
Makeabeat02: a subtle nod to our political leanings and a fandom reference. I like the way you think, Rogers.
&nbs
p; We banter our way through until I have to log off, and they admit they should log off too.
But even after their chat icon turns gray, I stare at the screen. I have plenty to do, but the first thing I reach for is story. I want to put this down in words somehow, this weird itch at the space Yael and I create. I love it when we’re in that space, but as soon as we log off, it fades so fast that I question if it’s real. Or if I’m the only one they talk to like that. Maybe Yael gives every down fic writer that spiel about how they’re special and they mean a lot to them, that they don’t know what they’d do without them. I’ve been there. I’ve texted people the same lines. I get it. But—I thought it was different here in M&H. And I thought what Yael and I had was different. That it was deeper and more personal.
And our chats feel that way. But something’s tight in my chest.
I want it in real life too. Maybe it’s because I understand Yael saying that they want friendships that get fandom. Or maybe it’s because I’ve seen Sam an extra time this week. Maybe it’s the guilt nagging at me. Maybe it’s because I miss what we had. Or I’m mad at myself. I guess that’s it, though—when I look at Sam, it’s not just guilt that I feel. It’s this longing for what I ruined.
So maybe I’d mess this, with Yael, up too, if it was in real life. Maybe I don’t get to have this in real life, even if I want it.
I feel like an idiot, feeling all these feelings—and I’m not even sure what they really are—for someone in a screen. I don’t know them. I don’t know what they’re like or if they feel the same things or if they’re catfishing me or if they’re sharing everything I’m saying with someone else. For all I know, they’re writing a fic just like this one but about me. Gullible Gabe.
I wipe my sweating hands off on my jeans and close my eyes. Characters swim toward each other, snippets of dialogue unwind in my head, and when I open up my eyes and a fresh document, the words come tentatively but steadily from my fingertips. I don’t even know what I’m writing until it’s written, one word spilling after another by instinct or feeling. It’s rough and raw and full of confusion. I’ve probably switched verb tenses at least once, but I don’t care.
I hit post, and then close the browser. It’ll take me about point zero three seconds to open it up and check to see who’s read it, but at least I can pretend to work on homework.
As stupid as it is, the assignment takes all of my attention, and by the time I’m done, I realize I haven’t checked M&H in a few hours. I log on again, and a message from Yael is waiting for me along with a few comments and dozens of likes.
This fic is a MOOD
Same, bro.
Been there. <3 *hugs* I’m sorry you’re feeling like this.
I see you, if that helps.
I hesitate before I open Yael’s message.
YaelLouder: Hey. You okay?
What do I even say to that?
I opt for a half-truth.
Makeabeat02: sorry. Rough weird day. You know when you think a place is yours and then worry it isn’t?
I start to type, Or that you’ll ruin a friendship so you might as well not even start it? But then I delete it before I hit send. It’s too much. It’s too obvious.
YaelLouder: Yes.
Makeabeat02: that kind of a day.
YaelLouder: you mean M&H or somewhere else?
I mean both. I mean Grounds for Change and M&H. I mean worrying that what’s happening online isn’t real, even though I know it isn’t real—but it is. Isn’t it? This is real too, in its own weird way.
Makeabeat02: meh, I’ll get over it. Sorry for the emo-ness. Catch you later?
Makeabeat02: good luck with the code
YaelLouder: Sure thing. Ttyl. And thanks.
We’re quiet through the week, but things get busy. I’m not too surprised. I can’t expect Yael to be around all the time, even if I kind of want them to be.
But by Friday morning, I’m so tired from staying up late and from sleeping so poorly, it’s only in the car and after our Starbucks run that I realize I didn’t use shampoo on my hair that morning. I used shower gel. I want to thump my head against the dashboard repeatedly. Neither Mom nor Davey shows me much sympathy either.
The best part about Fridays, other than Friendly’s and Shabbat services, is that even early in the year, teachers give up on teaching pretty quickly. I mean, they try. They do. Kudos to them for their best effort. But we’re so done by Friday at 1:20 and sixth-period English. Mrs. Nessbaum capitulates and takes us to the library, where we’re told to do research on our nonfiction reader responses for our Vietnam unit.
In my defense, I do open Wikipedia. But I also open up a tab and log in to M&H. I rarely get the chance to do this without someone hovering over my shoulder, and I didn’t get to check my story stats this morning. People are still loving my X-Maccabees series and demanding updates, and a lot of people have feels about the weird Avengers fic I threw up last night along with my feelings. I almost want to delete it, but I don’t.
YaelLouder: You’re on in the middle of the day. Is this the apocalypse? Did something happen? Are you dying? Is someone else dying?
Makeabeat02: careful, Yael. You jump into my messages so fast when I log on I might think you’re waiting for me.
YaelLouder: …
Makeabeat02: no, I am “working on an essay”
YaelLouder: Oh yes. I can see. Working very hard.
Makeabeat02: I am a diligent student who would never ever abuse the privileges I’ve been given at school to check fanfic stats.
YaelLouder: clearly lol
Makeabeat02: I am having a Friday but this is making it better.
YaelLouder: What kind of a Friday?
Makeabeat02: Washed my hair with shower gel type of a Friday.
YaelLouder: Does that work?
Makeabeat02: *jazz hands* NOPE
YaelLouder: oh no
Makeabeat02: I know.
YaelLouder: this is tragic
Makeabeat02: *suspicious* I suspect you’re laughing at me
YaelLouder: I would never *covers mouth so laughter is muted*
Makeabeat02: how dare you
Makeabeat02: i am going through a deep and troubling time in my life right now and though it’s only a few hours until i can wash said gel out of my hair, i expected you to be there for me in my time of need
YaelLouder: *pats Mab’s head* poor bb
Makeabeat02: hahaha
“Mr. Roth,” says Mrs. Nessbaum. I click over to the Wikipedia tab so fast I think my eyeballs get whiplash. “You’re making progress? There’s lots of typing happening over here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and then wince. I never say “ma’am.” I add quickly, “I’m learning a lot.”
“When you lie, Mr. Roth,” says Mrs. Nessbaum calmly, “make sure you’re not pretending to research Vietnam and grinning at your screen like a lovesick fool. Close out of that screen and get some work done.”
I do not say That was a sick burn, Mrs. Nessbaum, but I do think it.
I wait until she moves past me to click back to M&H.
YaelLouder: okay but how did you mix up shower gel and shampoo? They are usually v different textures now that I think about it.
Makeabeat02: I was tired!
Makeabeat02: I have to go. Teacher caught me. Byyyyyeeeee.
I log out before they can reply. But I walk a little lighter through the halls because that’s the first time we’ve talked in two days. Maybe I didn’t screw everything up.
At synagogue that night, I try to make my hair as respectable as possible, but it still looks like I tried to style it by using an entire bottle of that gel deodorant Davey uses. I give up, shrug on the jacket Mom brought me, and get out of the car. Davey’s in
their favorite suit-and-jeans combination, carefully applying purple eyeshadow in the rearview mirror.
They blink at me. “Look good?”
I shrug. “Looks like it always does.”
They narrow their eyes. “What does that mean? Mom, does it look good?”
Mom appraises them and then nods. “Good. I think that purple looks better when you do a cat eye with the eyeliner, but we don’t have time for you to redo it now.”
Davey looks doubtfully at her. “You’re sure it’s okay, though?”
“Totally,” Mom reassures them. “Come on.”
We walk into synagogue, nodding at the guard at the front, who nods back, just like he does every Friday night. Board members are there, greeting people along the hall. I walk past all of them with a faint fake smile, echoing back “Shabbat shalom” to everyone who says it to me or makes eye contact.
“Marilyn!” calls Mom, and I shrink back into myself as Sam and her mom turn in the hallway. Sam’s wearing a purple dress I’ve seen before and star tights, and her hair’s loose. She fidgets, not exactly looking at me, but not ignoring me. Mom and Sam’s mom are good friends, and they start chitchatting, turning away from us kids. Davey sees one of their classmates, and before I can grab them and make them stay, they skip off. That leaves Sam and me standing awkwardly next to our parents, who are talking about some synagogue sisterhood meeting or another.
I’m not even sure how to make small talk with Sam. Do I start with I’m sorry about that thing a year ago? Or do we keep pretending it never happened, and I skip to How was Grounds for Change? But the real question pounds like a steady pulse. Will you ever forgive me?
“What happened to your hair?” Sam asks abruptly.
I touch it, grimacing. “Uh, I…used shower gel instead of shampoo by accident.”
Something lights up in her face, and she looks happy for a second, amused. “Ha. That’s so weird. That’s the second time I’ve heard of that happening.”
I snort, rolling my eyes. The words come out more bitter than I intend, though. “The bottles are pretty similar, you know. And it’s early in the morning. Honest mistake.”
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