Meliorism

Unravel

Most of the places in this story were inspired by other fictional settings. The strip-mall was inspired by the one in Paper Towns—the one where Margo left clues for Q. I felt I just had to do it for this story. Margo and Haley are so much alike (I swear it was unintentional) and it makes me so goddamn giddy. The abandoned water park was inspired by the one in The Way, Way Back, a coming-of-age comedy film that's absolutely brill. Though the water park there isn't abandoned (it's so alive and cool and blue!), it just felt like the right thing to get inspiration from. - Kaj

As a young writer, I was always told by the more-experienced to always find the right voice for my characters. I took this lightly, thinking voice was something that's not acquired. I'd thought it was something found—something quite related to serendipity and all that. So my characters' voices didn't at all matter to me; I just let their words flow, and I try to feel how they say what they say and when they say the stuff. It's always been like that.

I'm a boy, you see, but I don't quite excel in things that typical boys do. I'm an introvert who doesn't like noise or running or perspiration. I'm a boy who's never had much to say except to ask people to go away, which, I'm starting to think, is the primary reason I'm alone now. People learned not to approach me. I'm either too intimidating or too gawky for them.

To Haley Maynard, I'm neither.

It was one sunny day when she waltzed into the school. She's from some sort of big-shot military family, which meant she had to move a lot—and this I learned from the wildfire-rapid news I hear from the tiny high school community I unfortunately belong in. She had to move in the middle of February because of complications and all. In schools like mine, you get stuff fast, and most of the time, they're true.

Anyway. Yeah—that's exactly what she did. She waltzed into the building. She pushed the doors open, and I was there to witness it. My locker's just near the front doors, so I get to witness practically everything that happens by them. I was wearing my grey hoodie that day. I watched Haley enter the school casually. The first thing I noticed was her hair.

There were these lilac streaks in it. Her hair went just beyond her shoulders, and I remember thinking it looked good on her—especially because she was wearing a pale-green sweater, faded jeans, and boots that went up to ankle's length.

And then she started approaching me. All I could do was stare.

"Hey," she said in this tired voice. "Hey, hey, hey."

I removed my gaze from her and proceeded to pretending I was fixing stuff inside my locker. "Hi," I said. To the girl or my locker, I wasn't quite sure. "Hi, hi, hi," I added.

I turned to her. Her eyes were hazel brown. I couldn't tell whether or not she was wearing contacts, but the color looked natural. Usually I don't pay attention to detail, but Haley is the detail herself. You just can't ignore her—especially not her colors.

And what's more—she was looking straight at me. Intently.

"They call me Haley up above and down below, and when I talk to myself, I call me Haley, so I guess you can call me that. I'm truly Haley, by the way," she said, stretching out her left hand.

I shook it.

People were staring at us, of course. But the bell hadn't rung yet, and the general rule in this school is that people should mind their own business if the bell hasn't rung yet, and no one really cared that morning about the girl with the lilac hair and the boy with a million books forever trapped between his sides and arms. No one ever does—not about us.