Scarlett Epstein Hates It Here

by Anna Breslaw

  He snapped away from the distraction. “That—I don’t even know wha—look, that doesn’t even sound appealing.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Is this better?” She lowered her voice to a sultry whisper. “I want to get some panties for you.” Then she stopped and looked confused. “Well, not for you—”

  “Okay, that’s enough.”

  But Ashbot was already walking inside, a woman-robot on a mission.

  I thought you’re supposed to listen to me, he thought, irritated, as he followed her.

  They walked straight into a fury of shouting, indignant hair tossing, and handmade signs: MISS ORDINARIA IS MISS-GUIDED and GET SEX ROBOTS OUT OF PEMBROOKE. He recognized most of the girls from school. And they recognized him. They immediately started shrieking wordlessly at him, like he was an evil Beatle.

  The black-clad Victoria’s Secret employees were even more frantic than usual, trying their best to get it under control.

  Before Gideon could stop her, Ashbot bypassed her usual favorite, boy shorts with pink on the ass (they were Gideon’s favorite too—he had no idea how she’d picked that up), and pushed straight into the yelling crowd, as polite and chipper as ever.

  “Pardon!”

  “Your dad is ruining our school!” shouted a dark-haired girl he recognized from AP Chem.

  “Your dad is ruining our lives!” sobbed a large girl in a cardigan.

  “Jessicarose, weeping isn’t constructive,” the dark-haired girl snapped.

  Their squabble let him slip through the crowd and catch up with Ashbot.

  He found her staring up at a giant display of new merchandise, mostly black, red, and white lacy underthings. But this particular line came in only two sizes—two perfect sizes based on surveys, research, and years of work. One for a woman aged thirty to fifty, the other for a teenage girl.

  The large sign above the underwear table read:

  FOR THE NATURAL ORDINARIA

  (AND NEW MISS ORDINARIA!)

  Ashbot looked dazed, like she was having a major revelation. Like whoever first invented fire. Gideon grabbed her arm.

  “Come on. Now. We have to get out of here.”

  The crowd started jeering and snapping thongs at them. A bejeweled one nearly hit Ashbot in the face. Gideon whacked it off course.

  As he tried to firmly steer her out, she kept saying, “I get it now! I get it!”

  Gideon gritted his teeth, trying not to elbow that sobbing girl in the face as he hustled them both out. “You get what?”

  “People are mad because they want to be like me.”

  Her tone was hard for Gideon to read.

  Behind him, the protesters engaged in a collective groan/eye-roll situation. And one of them piped up from the way back: “Um, really? Anonymous would disagree.”

  A bolt of lightning struck Gideon.

  “Wait—what did you just say?”

  Chapter 9

  xLoupxGaroux: FINALLY, a slash couple: Jason/Gideon. Thanks for throwing me a bone.

  WillianShipper2000: idk he seems pretty straight to me! :DD

  xLoupxGaroux: babe, the ones who try too hard? they always try too hard for a reason.

  DavidaTheDeadly: gideon and ashbot! #yasssss #gidbot?

  MorwennaWraith: Hey, been lurking on here since the last chapter!! And OMG YES TOTALLY I THOUGHT I’D BE ALONE. #gidbot

  WillianShipper2000: they’re sooo perfect and Gideon doesn’t even know it.

  MorwennaWraith: I mean of course he wouldn’t want to be with her bc she’s his father’s invention but . . . romeo and juliet, namsaying?!

  DavidaTheDeadly: yes yes yes exactly

  MorwennaWraith: #gidbot!! i’m gonna go draw them right now in fact.

  DavidaTheDeadly: oh! link when it’s up pls. i need a new pic for my cube.

  xLoupxGaroux: Anonymous had better be a hot guy, is all I’m saying.

  DavidaTheDeadly: this could be such a great character arc for both of them: gideon helps ashbot realize her worth, ashbot helps gideon not take everything so effing seriously . . .

  I’m getting nauseated, so I jump in at this point.

  Scarface: Guys, she’s a robot.

  MorwennaWraith: That’s not what John would do. He’d make her better than the sum of her parts, LITERALLY

  Scarface: But, like . . . maybe she’s just a robot. You know?

  DavidaTheDeadly: um . . . no? what do you mean? if that’s true, who’s gideon’s otp?

  xLoupxGaroux: Then where’s the story going? She’ll just start and end the same way? That’s kind of dull.

  Scarface: She’s literally one step up from a love doll. She’s not his OTP! JESUS. Check yourselves, guys.

  xLoupxGaroux: Um, is your DivaCup stuck in you or something? Why are you so worked up about this?

  DavidaTheDeadly: when has John ever given us a character that was totally expected? literally 0.00 times; that’s what makes him so good.

  MorwennaWraith: Made him so good. Ugh ugh ughhhh I hate thinking about it.

  DavidaTheDeadly: he’s not dead.

  Scarface: tbh you guys are kinda pissing me off.

  xLoupxGaroux Gchats me privately.

  xLoupxGaroux: OK. I need to know WTF is making you so upset about this. And don’t tell me you’re not.

  Scarface: Uh . . . idk.

  xLoupxGaroux: Seriously, I’ve never seen you snap at anyone before, even that time people commented on one of your Grecca fics that you stole the concept from Supernatural.

  Scarface: FOR THE SEVEN MILLIONTH TIME, SIRENS ARE UBIQUITOUS GREEK MYTHOLOGY THEY’RE NOT ONE PERSON’S “CONCEPT”

  xLoupxGaroux: You need a rabies shot.

  Scarface: Ugh. Haha. God. I, whatever, I guess I’m weirdly invested because—they’re kind of, a tiny bit, based on people I know? Not entirely. I mean, there are no robots in my life, that I know of, so it’s obviously not the total truth, I’d say uh—it’s the truth massaged quite thoroughly.

  xLoupxGaroux: You’re kidding.

  Scarface: TBH I really wanted to keep us together! And writing! And this just seemed easier, as a starting point.

  xLoupxGaroux: So, Gideon’s a real person??

  Scarface: Uh

  xLoupxGaroux: YES AND YOU’RE OBSESSED WITH HIM

  Scarface: Maybe.

  xLoupxGaroux: Do you really go to a private school?

  Scarface: HAHA. I wish. I go to a public piece-of-shit school. Inside it’s all gray or burnt umber, like a jail. Has anybody in the history of education intellectually flourished inside a “burnt umber” building? I feel like, no. There’s always some big asbestos calamity that seems to travel around the building so we’re constantly relocating classes—it’s the worst.

  xLoupxGaroux: Sounds atrocious. Where do you live?

  Scarface: New Jersey.

  xLoupxGaroux: That explains it.

  Scarface: I know, right? What about you??

  xLoupxGaroux: I’m in NYC.

  Scarface: NOOOOO

  xLoupxGaroux: Yeah!

  Scarface: Cannot believe this! I go there all the time! You should give me your cell number, we should hang out next time I’m there! Right??

  (xLoupxGaroux is typing . . .)

  xLoupxGaroux: yeah def!!

  Scarface: I think I’ll be around sometime this month (and hopefully after I graduate, for the rest of my life), what times are you usually free??

  (xLoupxGaroux is typing . . .)

  I hear the front door open, then slam shut, then hushed giggles: Dawn is home with someone. She’s whispering, tipsy, but the apartment’s small enough for me to catch some of it. “[Something something] not wake her up [something].” More giggles. It’s, like, ten. She thinks I go to bed at nine thirty because by then I’m in my room with the door shut, with no idea I’
m on the forum until one or two A.M. every night. Not that she’d care, since I’m not a balding Sears manager who’ll pay for her Sea Breeze and mozzarella sticks at Arby’s.

  As I hear them awkwardly shuffle into Dawn’s bedroom, my phone vibrates. It’s Ave.

  bad news for you

  gideon just asked ashley to the

  pls don’t

  I try to remember that this kind of stuff doesn’t really matter. I will not ruin everybody’s lunch period tomorrow by repeatedly questioning the fairness of the universe. I will be mature and understanding, gracious and Zen.

  I check my Gchat tab. There’s still no answer from xLoupxGaroux.

  , I text to Ave.

  Chapter 10

  I GRAB MY BOOKS AND HUSTLE TO SOCIAL STUDIES, WHERE Mr. Kercher has already started droning hypnotically about Napoléon. I slide into my seat behind Mouth-Breather Leslie, hoping I remain invisible. Jason, Dylan, and—ugh—Gideon have taken to being a little more vocal in class lately. Over the last few weeks, Gideon has grown less startled and quizzical about why the Populars suddenly pulled him into the fold. When I watch him walk with Ashley down the hall, or make some messy ketchup-mayo-mustard concoction out of boredom at lunch with Jason and co., he’s undeniably happy. He’s one of them now.

  “. . . few days after he married Josephine, he did . . . what?”

  Dead silence.

  “He . . . left . . . Paris . . . to . . . ?”

  Still nothing. Mr. Kercher is one of the few teachers who still bothers with this spaced-out-words “hinting” business in the hopes that someone read the textbook chapter assigned for the day. It is excruciating.

  “Take . . . command . . . of . . .”

  Imagine what would happen if he had a home intruder. (“Hi . . . 911? There’s a . . . man . . . in . . . my . . .”)

  He was young once, which is weird. Maybe he wanted to be an astronaut.

  “The . . . army . . . of . . .”

  Nothing. Finally, he concedes, sounding dead as he ends with: “Italy, guys. The army of Italy.”

  He looks around, clearly begging for just one person to be like, Damn, Italy! It was right on the tip of my tongue. We respond by staring at him with the glassy eyes of the truly, perhaps even fatally, bored.

  “So then, in 1808, he declared that the king of Spain would be his brother, Joseph Bonaparte—”

  Snickering from the first-tier popular boys in the back.

  “Boner-aparte,” says Gideon, putting his comedic stylings to sophisticated use.

  They openly crack up. As he laughs and leans back in his chair, Jason tosses his pencil down on the desk for emphasis and further disruption.

  “Guys. Please. Please. I’m begging you,” beseeches Mr. Kercher.

  The back of Mouth-Breather Leslie’s head lowers a little, guiltily. She’s a Girl Genius, so she knows the answer—but it’s easier not to speak up. She’s one of those girls whose hair always seems to be hanging in her face in a half-literal, half-metaphorical sort of way. Even if she shaved her head it would still be like that. She does take pity on him, though, and raises her hand tentatively.

  “Leslie. Yes.”

  “Does the Napoleonic Code still affect certain regions of Europe?” she whispers. “I think I read that somewhere.”

  Mr. Kercher looks at her gratefully.

  “Excellent. Yes, Leslie. Some jurisdictions of Europe as well as Africa and . . .”

  As he goes on, my pen begins to rattle as I feel Dylan Dinerstein start methodically kicking my chair. (We all sit in those awful Frankenstein-y metal desk/chair mash-ups from the eighties, so everything’s connected.) Eventually my pen rolls across the desk and falls.

  Instead of telling him to cut it out, I choose the path of least resistance and yank my whole desk and chair farther away from Dylan. It makes a loud, rude noise.

  “Yo, Scarlett, did you just fart?” yells Jason.

  The other guys snicker, and there are some giggles around the room. Immediately my heart starts pounding like a Biggest Loser contestant’s, but it’s better to ignore him than to dignify it with a response.

  I turn around very slightly to look at Gideon, who is not laughing but stubbornly refuses to meet my eye. But then Gideon looks up, smirking, back in the game.

  “Nah, I think it was Leslie, man,” he says.

  Everybody laughs. Leslie slumps even lower, her head down.

  Mr. Kercher holds up his hands. “Guys. Guys.” Nobody listens.

  It’s one thing to pick on me, but Leslie can’t stand up for herself.

  I wheel around and snap, “Nope! Totally me. Really impor-tant investigation, Jason. Thanks for spreading awareness.”

  “Everybody just calm down,” says Mr. Kercher.

  Jason just gives me a Crazy bitch stare, infuriatingly blank and slack-jawed.

  “Nothing?” My eyes dart over to Gideon, who still refuses to look at me. I get louder.

  “You have nothing to say?”

  Mr. Kercher finally loses it, banging his palm down on his desk.

  “Scarlett, that’s enough!”

  He sends me to the front office, where I get a pink detention slip to forge Dawn’s signature on.

  As Ave, the Girl Geniuses, and I walk past the Populars to get our lunch trays, Ashley studiously pays no attention to Ave. You’d think they were strangers, not sisters, but there is no sibling loophole for breaking the MHS caste system.

  Gideon heads for a table at the nuclear center of a group of loud jock guys, chatting with Mike Tossier in the dulcet tones of loud bro. He glances at me, and I give him my best glare. He looks away. I wonder, again, what the hell is going on—why Ashley would pick Gideon, loaning her much-curated social life to him. Either he struck some kind of Faustian bargain or Ashley is actively trying to ruin my life.

  We sit down at the designated Girl Genius table with the other lady misanthropes. A few fey, antisocial boys who look twelve sit here too, for good measure.

  “Yes, this is my cheap-ass poor-person lunch,” I announce when I sit down with my tray, and they laugh, like they do every time. I used to try to hide swiping my reduced-lunch card, but eventually I realized I can neutralize it with jokes, make people feel more comfortable and less like I’m some walking PSA.

  “Hey, Ave?” I ask.

  “Yeah?” She pulls out a bag full of almonds and pops one in her mouth.

  “Have I told you lately . . . that I love you?”

  Avery rolls her eyes, crunching. “What do you want?”

  “Can you do my take-home test? It’s due next period.” I yank it from my folder and hand it to her. She pulls out a ballpoint—the true sign of a math genius, not picking a pencil—and starts efficiently scribbling in answers, moving from equation to equation without missing a beat.

  “One of these days I’m gonna tell my parents about this,” she threatens, then rolls her eyes. “Actually, it wouldn’t matter. You could murder a drifter and they’d still love you.”

  She might act cranky, but she likes doing it. She told me once that it’s relaxing to do my tests because they’re so easy that it’s like a form of supersmart-person meditation. Not that she said it in those words, she’s always been way too modest. (If Ave had invented fire, she’d introduce it to the Cro-Magnons by whispering, “Um, hey, I made this thing, it’s kinda cool, it might be sorta helpful for our continued evolution, if that makes any sense.”)

  As Ave whizzes through my test, occasionally sipping one of the many cans of Diet Coke she guzzles all day, there’s a shuffling behind us, then a shadow over poor Got Her Period on Her Pants and Nobody Told Her Leslie like one cast by the side of a mountain.

  It’s Mike Neckekis, a tree-trunk-neck jock who in the days of yore might have been called “simple.” Ave doesn’t notice.

  I nudge her. “Um . .
. Avery?”

  She glances up and around. Looks at Mike. Waits expectantly. Generally speaking, the Populars approach Avery only if they want to buy Adderall, pay her to write their college essay, or ask if she and Ashley are really sisters.

  “I wanted to say that uh, uh . . .” He breathes heavily, in what would seem like a sigh if it was not just his natural state of Pop-Tarts-infused mouth breathing. “Uh . . .”

  We all stare.

  “I agreed with you in sociology when Mrs. Donovan was talking about Twitter outrage, and you argued that was a privileged point of view.”

  “I didn’t . . . did I argue that?”

  “Well, you sort of mumbled it. You mumble stuff.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah, you mumble stuff, and you scratch your forehead with your pen, and sometimes the cap is off, so you get, um . . .” He runs his finger over his hairline. “Ink stains. Not right now, but sometimes.”

  Avery stares at him for a second, touching her forehead self-consciously. She looks perplexed, but sort of . . . happy? How can she not be laughing her ass off at him right now?

  “Anyways, I agree with you. I think, like, Twitter totally scares snobs like Mrs. Donovan who live in, like, mansions in Short Hills and commute here to teach because they want to feel like they’re helping out less rich people without actually having to, like, think about them all that much. So. Yeah.”

  Avery breaks into a smile.

  “I was wondering—I saw you talking to some older guy when you were getting off the Princeton bus, and I wasn’t sure if you were, like, dating . . .”

  “We’re not,” Ave says, still smiling, seeming shell-shocked. “I mean. No. Nothing is—he’s not my boyfriend. Or anything. I was asking him if we’ll still have a free period.”

  “Oh! Okay. Well. I guess, then, do you want to go to the dance with me?”

  Avery’s jaw drops in the briefest expression of pure joy before she tamps it down, undoubtedly due to the numerous dating-advice listicles Dawn posts on our Facebook walls with headlines like “17 Ways to Win at Love by Pretending You Don’t Give a Crap.”

  “I wasn’t gonna go, but . . . if you think that would be fun, then sure, why not,” she says casually. Seriously, does everybody know how to fake unenthusiasm but me?