Chapter Text
By the time Sasha and Anne have gotten Marcy to stop crying, it’s sunset. The pre-summer air has chilled, and the cloudless sky is awash with tie-dye streaks of pink, purple, and orange.
The three of them are sitting in the hollow underside of a slide built to look like a brontosaurus’ neck. Some annoying kid keeps climbing up and sliding down it, and the sound of his light-up Sketchers thunk, thunk, thunk-ing up the metal stairs is starting to give Sasha a major migraine.
Next to her, Anne croons soft, encouraging words into Marcy’s ear and rubs firm circles into her back. Occasionally, she reaches up and brushes away the tears streaming down Marcy’s cheeks.
Anne is the perfect emotional support friend. The exact thing that Marcy needs right now.
And Sasha... well, Sasha is there, but she’s elected to take on a more detached role—sitting off to the side and doing her best to look at anything but Marcy’s glassy eyes and snotty nose. Her gaze wanders from a pair of squirrels chasing each other on the powerlines to the faded wooden sign christening the playground as “KNUTZ PARK.”
(Sasha had once graffitied the words “in your mouth” between the KNUTZ and the PARK. Not her finest work.)
Sasha would love to help, she really would, but there’s not really a point in trying to soothe Marcy when Anne has clearly Got This. Besides, she’s kind of fucking awful at dealing with criers. Even when—no, scratch that—especially when the crier in question is one of her best friends. There’s just something so second-hand-embarrassing about someone older than ten being overwhelmed by their own emotions.
After a few more irritatingly sweet words from Anne, Marcy eventually settles down enough to speak. “Thanks, guys.”
Translation: “Thanks, Anne.”
Marcy wipes her runny nose against her hoodie sleeve. Sasha doesn’t bother trying to hide the grossed-out look on her face.
“So, are you finally going to tell us what anime character died?” Sasha asks.
Anne shoots Sasha a look. “Sasha! Dude, be sensitive-,”
“Uh, I am? When’s the last time Mar-Mar’s cried over something that wasn’t a TV show or a video game?”
Anne has nothing to say to that. She rolls her eyes and huffs before turning her attention back to Marcy. “You ready to talk about it yet?” Anne’s voice is impossibly gentle—like she’s afraid that Marcy’s going to shatter into a million tiny pieces if she isn’t coddled.
Marcy nods, sheepishly digging the heel of one of her loafers into the woodchip-covered ground. “So, my dad got a new job. It’s in Washington. We’re... we’re moving.” Marcy’s face twists in pain. She squeezes her eyes shut, rubbing at them furiously. “Sorry, sorry! I thought I was done crying. It’s just... saying it out loud makes it feel so real.”
“Marcy...” Anne’s voice comes out strained. “Oh, man.”
Marcy’s lower lip trembles. Her hands fly out, gesturing wildly as she speaks. “I-I told them that they were ruining my life—our friendship—but they didn’t care.” She flashes a bitter smile. “Hey, at least I’m crying over something real this time though, right?”
Anne laughs weakly at the half-hearted attempt at a joke. Sasha finds no humor in it.
“You’re not serious,” she says.
Anne balks. “Sash, Marcy wouldn’t joke about something like this-,”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Boonchuy.” Sasha’s voice is ice cold. For the first time since they got to the park, she meets Marcy’s eyes. “Marcy. Tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I was. We move at the end of June.”
“Bullshit.” The word passes Sasha’s lips before she can stop herself. “That’s bullshit, Mars. They can’t just split us up.” Something in Sasha’s gut tenses, and it becomes agonizing to sit still. She rises to her feet, clenching her fists until she feels the sting of her fingernails biting into the fat of her palms. “There’s gotta be something we can do.”
“We can... we can still text,” Anne supplies, her voice faraway. Sasha can tell by the distracted look in Anne’s eyes that Anne is having a crisis somewhere in the back of her mind. Yet, in typical Anne fashion, she’s pushing it down to stay strong for Marcy. “And we can video chat. Oh, maybe we can even visit? How much is a plane ticket to Washington?”
While Anne scrolls through flights on her phone, Sasha tries her best to stay calm and composed. Keep your shit together, Waybright, she thinks. She can feel Marcy’s coal-dark eyes fixed on her as she paces back and forth, and she knows that it’s a silent request for her to take the lead.
Marcy’s not a follower—not like Anne is. But her boundless intelligence goes to waste if it isn’t being directed, and that’s where Sasha usually comes in.
Unfortunately, Sasha’s drawing nothing but blanks right now.
In her defense, it’s hard to think clearly when your life is falling apart right before your eyes.
Sasha knows that once Marcy moves away, what’s left of her relationship with Anne is going to crumble.
Ever since Anne started to push back against Sasha’s lead a few years ago, things between them have been... complicated. It’s like their friendship is a game of Jenga, and every so often, one of them will pull out a block, leaving the tower just a little more fragile than it was before. They stick together now for Marcy’s sake—a situation-ship that reminds Sasha all too much of how her own parents used to be—but with Marcy gone, their tower is bound to topple.
Or worse: Anne will throw the game.
It's not like Sasha would be alone if she lost Marcy and Anne. She’s pretty, she’s charismatic, and she’s rich—and this little trifecta of circumstances makes it practically impossible for her not to be ridiculously popular amongst her peers. But Marcy and Anne are the only people that she’s ever trusted enough to let in. The only people who she’s ever allowed herself to really be seen by.
Sasha could have all the friends in the world, but without them, she might as well be alone.
A tight, constricting sensation finds its way into Sasha’s throat. Her cheeks flush, and she grits her teeth to fight the stinging burn of hot tears behind her eyes.
“Sash? Are you okay?” Anne asks.
Sasha Waybright is many things. But she isn’t a hypocrite. She turns away to spare Marcy and Anne the burden of having to watch as she splinters. “I... I have to go,” she mutters, her face burning with fury-fear-humiliation.
She doesn’t even bother with a lame excuse. She just starts running.
She can vaguely hear Marcy and Anne calling her name over the blood rushing in her ears, but neither of them tries to stop her beyond that.
Sasha doesn’t expect them to. She’s learned by now that you can’t count on anyone to chase after you once they’ve chosen to let you go. No matter how badly you might want them to.
#
By the time Sasha makes it back to her house, it’s almost nine.
Anne had once joked that “house” was a grossly inaccurate term for what was clearly a mansion—but it was hard for Sasha to agree when every other home in her development was just as obnoxiously grandiose, if not more.
Now, the property on the northmost edge of the development—that was a mansion. Sasha, Anne, and Marcy had egged it two Halloweens ago because the owners had had the audacity to give them toothbrushes, and five cartoons of eggs had hardly covered half of the place.
There’s only one light on in the house when she walks in, and it’s the overhead lamp in the dining room. Her dad sits under it, working at his laptop with a half-full pot of coffee and his electric self-heating mug positioned dutifully at his side. Sasha is pretty sure he doesn’t even wash that mug—he just keeps on refilling it whenever it gets low.
He glances up to look at her—but it’s only for a moment before his eyes are glued back to the blue glow of his laptop screen. “Do the words ‘school night curfew’ mean anything to you?” He shakes his head and sighs. “What am I saying? You’re sixteen. Of course, they don’t.”
Sasha’s voice is flat. “Hi, Dad.”
It’s not like Sasha and her dad have a particularly icy relationship—but even she can see that he’s a total enabler. He’ll do anything if it means she doesn’t impede on his very important business. Usually, this works in Sasha’s favor. But every so often, she wonders if it would really be so terrible for him to be a present force in her life.
“Your plate’s in the fridge,” her dad says. “Come, sit down at the dinner table for once.”
Sasha feels too sick to even think about eating, but her dad closes his laptop and folds his fingers together in front of his chin, and so she’s inclined to try. After heating up a plate of salmon, quinoa, and green beans, Sasha takes a seat next to him and pokes at her food with her fork.
“So, tell me about your day,” her dad says.
It was shitty, Sasha thinks.
“It was fine,” she says. “How’s work going?”
“Work’s the usual.” Her dad chuckles as if there is anything funny about ‘the usual.’ “Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Oh. So that’s why her dad is suddenly giving her attention. Sasha’s jaw tightens.
Her dad doesn’t seem to notice. “I know things have been a little quiet between you and your mother-,”
“She’s not my mother.”
“Sasha.” Her dad’s voice is firm. “I was at the hospital when she had you. I saw you crown. She’s your mother.”
Sasha gags. “Gross.”
“Back to what I was saying. You shouldn’t not talk with her just because of something that happened four years ago. Don’t you think it’s sad that you don’t have a relationship with her?”
“Not particularly,” Sasha says.
She casts a sideways glance towards the den, trying to remember what life was like before her parents’ divorce. Before her mother’s cheating came to light and ruined everything.
Sasha’s dad pours some more coffee into his mug. “Well, I was thinking—I’m going to be in Shanghai for the summer on international business. It’s not fair to leave you alone, so I’ve talked with your mother-,” he laughs awkwardly, “well, I’ve talked with her lawyer. And we think that it would be a great opportunity for you to reconnect with her.”
Sasha narrows her eyes. “You just don’t want to pay for a nanny. Dad, I’m practically an adult-,”
“Not in the eyes of the state. Sweetheart, won’t you at least consider it? I can set you up with an AMEX card, and I’m sure your mom will let you commandeer the Jeep.”
Sasha grimaces. “The bright pink camo-print one?”
“Well... she has other cars, too.”
“Whatever. That doesn’t change the fact that she lives in Sacramento, and all my friends are here.”
A traitorous voice in the back of Sasha’s mind whispers, not for long.
Her dad sucks in a breath. “Well, it’ll be summer. Maybe they can go with you?”
Sasha perks up.
They can go with you.
She can practically see the lightbulb flashing to life above her head. She puts on a slow, practiced smile. “Yeah...” she says, “Maybe that could work out.”
“Yeah?” Relief washes over her dad’s face.
Sasha shrugs. She can’t look too eager. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s my girl.” Her dad offers Sasha a smile that almost feels loving. Then, he squanders it by opening his laptop again and turning his attention back to his work. Sasha finishes a quarter of her meal before throwing the rest in the trash.
Anne and Marcy have expressed equal amounts of mortification at Sasha’s habit of tossing out perfectly good food.
“There are starving kids, and you’re just going to throw that away?” Anne would say.
Sasha would just roll her eyes and fire back without hesitation: “Yeah, and there are also people who go without clean water. Doesn’t stop you from taking hour-long showers.”
Without saying goodbye to her dad, Sasha slips up the stairs, and heads to her room.
Thanks to an unlimited budget and the help of an interior designer, Sasha’s room looks like it’s been ripped straight from an Architectural Digest magazine. Her walls are a stark white, decorated with monochromatic prints featuring her favorite bands and movies. Fake monsteras in hand-crafted ceramic pots sit in the corner of her room, shielding a vintage Gibson acoustic guitar behind their evergreen leaves. A cherry red Pro-Ject record player sits on her dresser, the needle still down and halfway through One For The Road.
Sasha’s room looks good, but she can’t help but hate it. It’s too clean. Too curated. An over-aesthetic reproduction of what an interior designer envisioned an edgy teenager’s room to look like.
It makes Sasha feel like a capital P ‘Poseur.’
Sasha flops down on her king-sized mattress, pulling out her phone and tapping into the group chat she shares with Anne and Marcy.
One new message from Anne lights up her screen.
Anne, 8:24 PM: Let us know when you’re home safe Sash.
Sasha’s jaw clenches. Sometimes, she wishes that Anne wasn’t such a caring friend. It makes her feel like a shitty person by comparison. Huffing, she pushes the feeling aside, and types back:
Sasha, 9:43 PM: i’m home.
Sasha, 9:44 PM: can we meet up after school tmrw? i need to talk to u two.
Marcy, 9:44 PM: Of course!! What about??
Sasha chews on her lower lip. A half-baked idea has started to form in her head—one that just might fix everything. It’s the craziest scheme she’s ever thought up, but between Marcy’s intelligence and Anne’s compliance, it just might work. Sasha’s never had trouble getting either of those things in the past.
So why is she so nervous about it this time?
The realization occurs to Sasha that she could call the whole thing off now before it even begins. It wouldn’t be hard to backtrack—to tell Anne and Marcy that she doesn’t need to talk with them after all.
But she won’t. That’s a coward move. And Sasha is not a coward.
Four years ago, Sasha learned that there were some things in life that she just couldn’t control. Like natural disasters. Or freak accidents. Or her parents’ divorce. That’s why when things go spiraling, she tries to focus on the things that she can control. Which mostly boils down to what she thinks and how she reacts. The way Sasha sees it, she can either let her emotions paralyze her, or she can get ahold of herself and fucking do something.
This is no different. Marcy’s parents may have decided to move, but Sasha’s made a decision, too: she’s not going to let Marcy go. This idea may be the wildest, most dangerous thing she’s ever considered. But if it keeps her from losing the only people she’s ever cared about, then, well...
Sasha types out her reply one painstaking letter at a time.
Sasha, 9:49 PM: you’ll see.