Dylan Rhodes is finishing her last year of high school at St. Mary's, a notorious, private Christian school in the middle of nowhere. Previously having been expelled from her last 3 schools for misbehaviour, vandalism and misconduct, Dylan is prepar...
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"GRANDMA, DO YOU sometimes feel as if you were meant to be born in another era?" My thoughts empty unconsciously as I stir, wearily, through my grandma's pumpkin soup recipe that night. Mia retired to the sofa an hour ago. At eighty years old, her legs are no longer her most sturdy body part.
"Hmm." Like an old cat, my grandma simply hums in response. Sometimes, I think she simply dozes off during our conversations. Not that I mind. She makes a better listener than most people my age.
"I'd love to have experienced the 80s," our conversation dwindles into a series of hypothetical memories of an empty feeling of nostalgia. The smell of herbs and fresh bread lures Mia onto her feet. She smiles drowsily as I place the plate of soup before her nose. Her movements are unrushed, countering my instinctive eagerness to dig in. After an extended pause, I muse on today's findings. Not a what, but a who.
"I met a boy."
Mia looks up, curious. "Really?" I bite back on my words. They aren't completely accurate.
"Well, I didn't meet him yet. But I'm going to." My persistence has Mia interested. She rhythmically stirs her spoon against the brim of her plate. The sound is somewhat soothing. "I've got it all set." I ponder over the likely moment I'll run into the boy from Macbeth. There was something so captivating about his presence on stage that left a lasting impression on me.
"I'm sure you do," Mia sighs fondly, "Just remember, Dylan, you can't force intimacy." Her words leave me wondering if the friendship I'm trying to foster with Harriet, Imogen and Pippa is based on a deceived idea of companionship. I've never liked being alone. I always prefered being surrounded by people. Even if it were the wrong people. That Thursday, I loiter behind after rehearsals, pretending to dab a dry paint brush against the surface of the decor. My priorities are elsewhere.
On my left, sits a girl with fiery red curls and a handful of freckles scattered across his pale cheeks. She's watching the scene take place on centre stage. Her eyes linger on the same boy who caught my attention only days before. "Who is that?" I ask.
The girl looks up. "Macbeth," she says.
"No. I mean, who is he." This time, I gesture quite visibly towards the boy. She follows my motion, her eyes falling on the boy on centre stage. Her eyes widen in recognition.
"Oh, that's Ellis." Her tone is nonchalant. A tone I haven't heard once during the time I spent in the company of St. Mary's most prestigious quadruplets. Harriet tends to opt for a more passive aggressive intonation.
"Do you know him?" with the hope of acquiring an introduction, I watch the redhead dip her paintbrush in the moss coloured paint bucket.
"Not personally." I slump my shoulders in defeat. The lack of natural forces driving Ellis and I's introduction leave me with no feasible alternative. So I deliberately run into him when Ellis walks off stage. Our shoulders collide forcefully and I stumble backwards.
