IS / WAS

vii. was

"What rhymes with tight-lipped smile?" I muttered, tapping my tiny pencil (it'd been sharpened to the point of no return) against my worn notebook. "Flight-dipped style," I jotted down. "Light-stripped Nile. Fight-skipped file. Kill me now."

Really, I shouldn't have been writing a song about Celeste Hale. Yesterday she'd commented on my sour mood (my ukulele was totally un-tunable yesterday - you'd be just as frustrated as I was) and I'd probably snapped back at her, and well, it ended with her slamming her door in my face and screaming that I "should get a fucking life." I shouldn't have been writing a song about her, but here I was, with my book of rhyming words in one hand and my tiny pencil in the other, my ukulele resting on my lap, because I couldn't stay mad at her.

That probably should have scared me, but I really couldn't care less.

I was writing a song, for fuck's sake.

"Jess, dinner's ready!" Mom called from downstairs. Already, the smell of her infamous tuna casserole wafted into my room. That tuna casserole, unlike Celeste, I could do completely without, thank you very much.

"Just a minute!" I hollered back. I crossed out tight-lipped smile. Replaced it with mad guitar skills. That didn't work either. Why am I even trying at this point?

I tear the sheet with the rejected song from my notebook (fuck the fancy ass binding) and chuck it into the trash bin across my room. The balled-up piece of paper bounced off its rim and ended up by the tapping feet of Mom, her flowery apron tied across her waist and her hair in a bun sleeker than Celeste's guitar.

Fuck, I really should think about things other than her. She told me to get a life - can't I take a hint?

"Hey, mom," I said, sounding more tired than anything.

"Dinner's ready," she repeated. I looked up from my notebook to see her red lips drawn into a line, her eyebrows arched - she'd been waiting.

"I know," I replied.

"Well, come on, then."

"Uh, actually," I said, grasping the neck of my ukulele, "can I skip dinner tonight?"

"But you love tuna casserole."

No, I do not. "Well, you see, I'm kind of in the middle of something . . . "

"Really?" Mom eyed my tiny pencil and my worn notebook and my ukulele. I found myself shrinking beneath her hard stare.

"Homework," I said a bit too quickly.

"Homework." She sounded dubious - of course she was, I couldn't lie to save my life.

"Y-yeah. We have to present the history of - of Shakespeare! In a creative way. I'm doing a song. Because, you know, I write songs."

"I know," she sighed. "I guess I'll just leave you some casserole in the fridge if you change your mind."

"Sounds great!" I exclaimed. "Thanks."

Mom bit her lip, once more casting a glance at my notebook. I prayed she didn't see the title of the song I've scribbled at the top of the fresh page . . . Celestial did not sound like the title of a song that would present Shakespeare's history (if that even is a thing). "How are you and Celeste doing?"

I ignored the sudden dip in my stomach. I shut the notebook way too quickly, as if I hadn't been obvious enough already. I've been found out, I thought. "We're doing fine," I lied.

"Good," she said, her tone implying otherwise.

I nodded and that left us with quite a substantial amount of awkward silence that left me itching to write the first line of my song because how good does She connects my constellations sound? (I rather wouldn't think about how that sounded like the chorus of a bad eighties song.)