Bang Plan

IX

In my Tonal Analysis class on Friday, I stare at the clock so much that Professor Landon calls me out on it. It's kind of funny, except for the fact that I'm counting down the minutes until Sandy and Archie are no longer miserable. I apologize and go back to analyzing some crusty old piano concerto, only glancing at the clock once more before class gets out.

"Are you alright, Willa?" Professor Landon kindly calls out to me as I try to slip out the door. It would be rude not to stop.

"Yeah, thanks for checking," I say, smiling to prove that I'm okay. My acting must have convinced him, because he nods.

"Okay. Let me know if you need help with anything," he tells me. I thank him and promptly leave.

I'm okay! Yes, I am!

After dinner that night, Sandy is a mess. A strong-willed mess, but definitely a mess. She hasn't caved yet, and we're three days deep into the ghosting process. She picks at a pimple in her desk mirror, and I lounge in her bed, reading Daily Mail headlines on my phone. And then I get a notification.

"Holy shit. You know how the Queen has been sick?" I ask her.

"Of England?" She asks, spaced out.

"No, Sandy. Of France. You know, that Marie Antoinette broad? She's had a pretty bad headache, they say it stems from the neck," I say sarcastically.

"Ha, ha. But what about her? The Queen of England?"

"She died," I announce, scrolling through the news articles that appear exponentially, taking over the Internet.

"Damn, that sucks. Who's next up, again?" She wonders absentmindedly. She's not invested in the slightest. I don't normally think too much about the news, but this caught my attention. There's something fascinating about modern royalty, and how they carry on. The prestige and the ceremony seem to be for nothing. But it's a beautiful nothing. 

"I believe it's Prince Albert," I tell her. Prince Albert is about as old as my dad. He has kids around our age, and I wonder what it'd be like to be one of them. I bet it sucks. I know something about growing up in a wilting dynasty. A recent picture of his son, Albert Jr., is splashed across one article. Junior, as the press calls him, is attractive–tall, with thick, dark hair. In the most vague way, he sort of looks like Mike, if he was more handsome. I point this out to Sandy in hopes of making her laugh, but her mind is elsewhere.

"Archie sent me the address for tomorrow," she says, leaning back from the mirror.

"Tomorrow! See, that's so soon!" I encourage her. She gives me a tired look and puts on a face mask. "Should I bring out the wine?"

Sandy doesn't really smile the whole night, and it hurts. I kind of feel like a monster for this. I recall Mike's harsh words. You're sneaky. Insufferable. It's stupid, and it still hurts. But I can't let that get to me. When I told Sandy about what happened, it upset her. Mostly because of the part about Archie moping around. I know she's picturing him as she sips the wine and half-watches the Derry Girls episode we put on the big TV. I can see it, too. Archie dragging his ass across the lacrosse field at the pre-preseason practices. In class, checking his phone stealthily to see if Sandy has responded. At the Winthrop dining room, staring at a plate of pasta and wishing he could relive the night he cooked us dinner. With circles under his eyes, and hunched shoulders. I'm being dramatic, but it makes me sad. When I look back at Sandy, she's asleep. I quietly turn off the TV and go to bed.

As I fall asleep, I stare at the ceiling and ponder everything like a character in a movie. I have to convince myself that I'm not the villain, here. Honestly, it's difficult. I see where Mike is coming from. I'll never admit it out loud, but it's true. He's trying to protect Archie from something that I'm trying to make him believe doesn't exist. Even though it most certainly does. The scheme. Of course, we're scheming. I'm scheming. But, it's for good! That intention has to count for something.