Ocean Blue | gxg ✓

chapter one

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elliot

The air is salty and smells of oncoming rain, and for the first time in months, I'm hanging out with the team. After months of meek hallway nods and brief lunchline convos, it's unfamiliar, but hey, I'll take what I can. My hope is, we can forget the past school year and start anew. I mean, it's not as if they're still the same people they were. I'm older, they're older—things will be better. They have to be better.

"Okay but like, his hair," Amber K. says, staring over at Kyle Simon. "It's just so poofy."

"He's definitely cute," Brooklin says, her hands resting atop Taffy's smooth legs. They've always had that Best Friend Thing where they set up shop on top of each other, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Everyone acts like it is, at least. Their matching infinity rings catch the glint of the fire all the way from their foldable chairs, showing off their official Best Friend status. Honestly, I'm just waiting for them to start dating at this point. Stranger things have happened.

Taffy takes a long swig of her light roast Cumm-n-Gitt coffee, not even grimacing like I know I would. Already a proven change from Sophomore Taffy; usually by now, she'd be hitting cheap beer. "So cute. I want to climb him like a tree and have his poofy-haired children."

"Oh my God, imagine how poofy it must be—" starts Amber S. before Brooklin interrupts with, "Omg, literally though. I feel that."

I can hear Neema in the back of my head making jokes about overcompensating, but I don't care. It's insipid, and it's harmless. Completely fine. Just because Neema hates the swim girls, I tell myself, doesn't mean I'm inclined to do the same. Just a year ago, these guys were like the sisters I never had.

"What do you think, El?" Brooklin rubs a thumb over one acrylic nail. "Cute?"

They're asking my opinion on things. Always a good sign. "Objectively cute, definitely poofy?" I try.

Amber K. snorts, pointedly rolling her eyes. "Okay."

I try to smile, but I'm panicking a little on the inside. Did I say something wrong? Oh God. Not again.

Brooklin laughs suddenly, and Chlo, short and stout since elementary school, joins in quietly. They all have by the time I finally realize what they're giggling at—Jace Westerfeld, holding hands with some unrecognizable boy close to the bonfire. I don't see anything wrong with them, with the way Jace leans in to whisper in the boy's ear, or with how the boy laughs and playfully shoves him away one-handed. I don't get it. What's so funny?

Then Amber S. says, "Do you think they think we want to see that?" It's like an ice pick to the chest.

The chuckling intensifies. Jace glances back at us, and though I can't see his expression with his back to the fire like that, I can't imagine he's feeling all too great. He gently tugs the boy, and they wander off closer to the shore, still holding hands, only visible by their silhouettes against the sliver of moon.

Poor Jace. Poor random guy. I exhale slowly, hoping no one notices. I don't think this is a homophobic thing—these girls are like that to everyone. They're not mean girls, per se, but snippy girls. I don't know if that excuses their laughter, but it at least comforts me a little. It's not Jace's gayness that's laughable, I'm sure. Which bodes well for me. See? Things have already improved.