The World According to Susie

Ch 12: A Boring September

The next two weeks without Vivienne at school felt like a twisted episode of Survivor: College Edition, except instead of getting voted off the island, she had apparently self-eliminated. No lectures, no lab partner, no Instagram updates flaunting her luxurious life. It was like she vanished off the face of the earth. Honestly, I started to think she might've been placed in some kind of Witness Protection Program for emotionally scarred, drama-exhausted college girls.

Meanwhile, I was not so lucky. Every day I had to show my face in the halls, fully aware that people knew me as the girl who threw the match on Vivienne's relationship bonfire at that party. My new claim to fame. The whispers and side-eyes followed me everywhere, like I was living in a small town where the scandal was still fresh news.

By the last week of September, when Vivienne finally reappeared, it felt like I was seeing a ghost—a really well-dressed, emotionally constipated ghost. Her usual glam was gone. No bold makeup, no perfectly styled hair. Just a bare face, her signature orange hair tied in a simple ponytail, bangs swept to the side. Even her earrings, while still large, lacked their usual "I'm here to conquer the world" sparkle.

She slipped into the lab quietly, a few minutes before class, and for a second, I felt the urge to applaud her return from the emotional abyss.

"Good morning," I whispered, trying to sound casual, like it wasn't weird that she had ghosted both me and the entire university for two weeks. I forced a smile as she set her stuff down, shoving it under the lab cabinets like she was following a choreographed routine.

"Hi," she responded, her voice flat as a pancake, not even looking up as she grabbed a pair of gloves. It was the kind of hi you give to someone you accidentally bump into at the grocery store, not your lab partner slash accidental drama instigator.

Desperate to fill the awkward silence, I blurted, "I've been doing labs all by myself! I need my lab partner!" I let out a laugh, hoping to break the ice.

She didn't even blink. "And I need a girlfriend," she deadpanned, shooting me a look so sharp it could've sliced through glass.

Oof. Direct hit. My awkward chuckle died in my throat as she went back to setting up her beakers, like she hadn't just stared into my soul and verbally body-slammed me.

Vivienne Gem, the girl who usually made the chemistry lab feel like a Vogue photoshoot, was now giving off a vibe that screamed "I'm not okay, but let's all pretend I am." It was like someone had hit the mute button on her usual spark. Gone were the perfectly blended eyeshadows and Instagram-ready outfits. Instead, she was serving "I'm hanging by a thread" realness, accessorized with a side of don't talk to me unless it's about chemical compounds.

And that was pretty much how things went for the next two weeks. We did the whole "oh-hey-I-see-you-but-I'm-going-to-pretend-I-don't" routine like we were both extras in a really bad high school drama. Eye contact was treated like it had the power to summon evil spirits, and whenever we accidentally locked eyes, it felt like someone hit the slow-motion button, and we both panicked, trying to break the spell. The tension was so thick you could've bottled it and sold it as anxiety cologne.

Every lab class was a bizarre dance of avoidance, awkward small talk, and pretending we were just fine. Fine, like a house on fire that everyone's casually ignoring. Fine, like my stomach wasn't doing gymnastics every time I thought about the fact that I might've single-handedly detonated Vivienne's life. Fine, like she wasn't silently plotting to murder me with a Bunsen burner.

All I could do was brace myself for whatever came next, which, knowing my luck, was probably going to be another emotional earthquake, right in the middle of the periodic table.

After yet another wordless, tension-soaked exchange with Vivienne—because apparently we've both signed an unspoken agreement to be emotionally constipated—I head over to seminar, desperately needing some sense of normalcy. Rina's usually my partner in this chaos, so surely sitting next to her will help me feel like a semi-functional human being again.

But, of course, the universe isn't done with me yet.

As I turn the corner, my notebook—my trusty, slightly battered companion—decides to smack right into someone. This time, I don't even bother apologizing. I just sigh dramatically, like the star of a telenovela whose life is one big dumpster fire.

"Oh! Susie!" Georgia's voice cuts through my sigh like a knife, sending a ping of anxiety straight to my spine. Oh god, her? Now? Is there a cosmic rule that I can never catch a break?

"I've been meaning to talk to you," she says, and I brace myself, fully prepared for some kind of post-party, I hate you, why did you ruin my life speech. But instead...

"I'm... so sorry about what happened at Henry John's party." She says it in this soft, regret-filled tone that I did not see coming. "I got what I deserved. I broke it off completely with Adele, and I haven't spoken to Vivienne since. I don't think she'll ever forgive me." Her eyes drop to the floor, like maybe the meaning of life is hidden in the linoleum.

My mind goes blank. Georgia is apologizing? This is not how I imagined this conversation going. "Uh... sorry for slapping you," I mutter, twirling a strand of hair like I'm auditioning for Awkward Apologies: The Musical.

She's slightly taller than me, with her short blonde curls framing her face in a way that makes her look annoyingly cute under these horrible fluorescent lights. Her 5-inch seam shorts and black hoodie make her look effortlessly cool—basically, a walking Pinterest board. Meanwhile, I'm out here trying to figure out how to keep breathing like a normal person.

Georgia smiles—an actual, warm smile that somehow doesn't make me want to disappear into a puff of awkward smoke. "I don't blame you."

Okay, heart, chill. She's a cheater, remember?

And then, out of nowhere, she says, "Hey—didn't you get my number?"

My brain short-circuits. I let out this weird laugh that sounds more like a dying seagull. "Oh, uh, yeah... about that..." I scratch my neck awkwardly, trying to avoid eye contact like I've suddenly become allergic to human interaction. "I kind of, um... washed it off before I could save it to my phone. Haha..."

Real smooth, Susie.

To my horror (and delight?), Georgia bursts into this hearty, genuine laugh, and I can feel my face turning beet red. Great, now I'm blushing like a middle schooler with a crush on the cute kid in science class.

Before I can recover, Georgia pulls out her phone and hands it to me, her fingers brushing mine. ZAP. Full-body shockwave. My entire being is suddenly drowning in a confusing mix of warmth, terror, and maybe a tiny bit of attraction. No, stop that! She's a cheater!

"Here," she says with a grin that's somehow both casual and devastating. "Text yourself so we can actually become friends."

Friends. Right. Totally just friends.

My hands, of course, decide to betray me by trembling as I type my number into her phone, barely managing to not drop it in the process. I hand it back to her, heart racing like I just ran a marathon (even though all I did was type 10 digits).

"Cool," she says, pocketing her phone, and there's this moment where it feels like maybe the earth shifted a little.

"Well... I'll text you!" Georgia adds, and there's something almost playful in her voice—like she's teetering on the edge of flirtation but still in that we're just friends zone.

We part ways, and I stand there for a second, trying to process the fact that Georgia just gave me her number. Again. And, despite everything, I'm... excited? I'm excited. God, what is wrong with me?

I run to my next class hoping my heart will burst out of my chest. "I need Rina to talk some sense into me." I saw to myself as I scurry into my next class...