Chapter Text
“False face must hide what the false heart doth know.”
Macbeth
Cascade East High School
Everett, Washington
October 21st -- 11:58 AM
Zoey Miyeon-Hernández does not hate Shakespeare.
In fact, she has many effects to prove this, various manifestations of his likeness in every aspect of her life–merch, worn once a full moon. A tattoo. Decorations, hung all around her classroom, witch hats and knives in the corner so she can act out Macbeth with a couple of unwilling students. Essays, spanning all the way back to freshman year of high school and coming as far as her senior year of college; all marked with big red A’s, of course.
The bookshelf contiguous with her whiteboard was certainly an incriminating piece of evidence in itself–4 feet wide, 6 feet tall, the first two shelves entirely overrun with different copies of Shakespeare's best: 12 of Hamlet, 13 of Romeo and Juliet, and 8 of Macbeth, though she’d taught it for 7 years and should’ve surely had more by then. Some were annotated, filled to the brim with different colored highlighters that frankly meant nothing, sticky notes protruding out the side of yellowed, old pages, black pen and lead pencil breaking up text along the page. Some were signed, by past students and former mentors, little messages along the blanks in the front of the books, hearts and smiley faces dotting. Some were blank. Some had a little label inside their front page, dictating that it belonged to Mrs. Zoey Miyeon-Hernández. One, a special pink copy of Romeo and Juliet, was untouched–except, of course, for two tiny signatures on the very last page. First, in purple, Rumi Ryu. In pink, Mira Han.
These little allusions dotted her life everywhere she went, and that’s not even mentioning the 8 weeks she spent teaching Macbeth twice a year. It was like clockwork, really–though she never seemed to keep to the district’s plans as well as she’d liked. So what if she was a couple weeks behind? Little Timmy still knew what out, damned spot symbolized, so clearly, Zoey had done her job.
As she walked around her classroom now, handing out symbolism preparation packets and absentmindedly explaining directions, she watched as her sleeve rose against her wrist. The motion revealed her ring–golden, shiny, and annoying–but, it’d also uncovered a slight of permanent ink on the pale skin of her wrist bone; red, almost mean looking script, spelling out these violent delights have violent ends. It was old, and the colored ink was fading, but it still seemed to scream at her as though it may be alive. She’d gotten it downtown when she was 20, and though she’d never regretted it–in fact, it was her favorite of all her tattoos–she wished she’d chosen a quote that wasn’t so… dark.
All of these things–permanent, fleeting, or flammable–prove that she does not hate Shakespeare.
But after 10 years of painstakingly analyzing every word he’d ever written–
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
She does admit he was… a little pretentious.
“Mrs. Miyeon?”
The voice, however sweet, teetered on grating. Zoey heard her own name so often she may as well get that tattooed, too. Briefly, she considered putting the black ink directly on her forehead, but she doubted even that would stop the kids who insisted on calling her miss teacher.
“If your question can be answered with what I’ve already written on the board, then–”
“Oh.”
Yeah. That’s what she thought.
She grinned, handing the student–a respectful cheerleader with straight B’s named Kaylee–her very last packet, chuckling. “Problem solving, honey.”
On her way back to her desk, she passed the class mirror. It was short, cheap from Walmart, littered with students’ sticky notes consisting solely of 67 and slay queen!, but it’d done the trick anyway. Her outfit was simple–a black long sleeve top, paired nicely with a patterned circle skirt. It had witches on it, of course, because Halloween and Macbeth were simply too fitting.
“Alright,” she called to no specific student, flopping into her chair with some dramatics and feeling grateful for the spatter of chuckles from her class. At least they thought she was funny. “You have… 20 minutes to do this, then I’m kicking you to the cafeteria, capisce? Due Friday. It’s Thursday. Do the math.”
“What if I’m really bad at math?”
That time, it was a kid she’d actually come to adore–Charlie, one of her daughter’s best friends. She was Black, with a consistently maintained afro and black eyeliner, a kind smile, and decent grasp on material.
Zoey shrugged, grinning and leaning forward as though her next words were a secret. “You have a day. 1. O-n-e.”
Charlie played along, throwing her a thumbs up and nodding earnestly.
It was kids like her that caused Zoey to love her job–the nice ones. They didn’t even have to be good at English, per se; as long as a kid laughed at her jokes, they were automatically bumped up a few pegs.
Pegs, of course, referring to the early childhood centered ladder on her left wall–colors descending from pink and all the way to black. Although it'd initially been a joke, Zoey had found the childish clip-chart system to be astoundingly effective with her freshmen. Maybe it was nostalgia, the callback to something they'd once been familiar with, or…maybe they just liked the competition.
From the back of her class, a noise caught her attention. It was sharp; something like the sinking of paper into–
The ceiling. Goddamn paper darts. Her eyes paused their rotation on her so-called problem kid, head tilted at her tiled ceiling, and hands preparing to throw yet another sharp origami triangle into it.
“Baker,” she sang, calling him by his last name just as everybody did. Frankly, she'd have to check the gradebook for his real name. He froze like a deer in headlights, but it wasn't anything guilty–instead, a smile. Just entertainment to his friends, at the cost of her poor ceiling.
“Innocent,” he shot back, void of any sense of hesitation. Immediately, it was met with protests from his friends, who found real joy in his reprimands. Psychos.
“Oh, I’m sure.” She rolled her eyes. Zoey didn't say it often, for fear of being labeled old and millennial, but–god, kids these days. “You know the drill, don't ya? You get to spend lunch with the principal, you lucky duck. Move it to black.”
Black. Because yes, she'd had to create a whole new section, haphazardly pasted below red, just for him.
“Unfair! I wasn't doing anything, maybe your glasses are fogged–”
One of his friends, Mikey, threw a pencil at him. “She doesn't even have glasses, dumbass–”
For a moment, Zoey laughed, entirely forgetting that she was the adult in the room, but she was quickly reminded by the nameplate and degrees around her desk. “Language, and–don't throw my pencils, Mikey. Especially not at other people,” she eventually muttered, pointing again to the clip chart and narrowing her eyes at Baker. “I'm not afraid of Laura.”
Laura Baker. His mother.
Strangely, that seemed to kick him into action.
…Little monster.
Zoey, deciding to pointedly ignore the happenings until the bell rang. She picked up her phone, finding two short texts–one, from Mateo, her husband, and the other from Rumi Ryu, another teacher in her department and one of Zoey’s best friends.
She clicked Rumi’s first.
juliet: Come to my room at lunch
Easy enough. She wrote back a quick okay, completing it with a smiley face before slowly navigating to her husband’s contact.
mateo: What’s Aya’s eye color? Miss you x
…Good God.
For her own sanity, possibly for his safety, she entirely disregarded the text with a roll of her eyes. If he really needed it, he could guess–he’d been there when she was born. He knew how genetics worked. If Zoey’s were brown, and Mateo’s were brown–
It wasn’t like their daughters were fucking purple.
Instead, she switched to Rumi’s message thread, fingers moving fast against the tiny keyboard.
zoey: mat just asked what color our daughters eyes were
juliet: No fucking way
zoey: [Attachment: 1 Screenshot]
juliet: Zooooeeeeeeyyyyy.
zoey: like sir brown plus brown equals more brown not blue!
zoey: love him truly but god he’s dense
juliet: Guess that’s why he’s a truck driver
zoey: thats mean!
juliet: Oh I apologize, Mrs. Miyeon-Hernández
Rumi had never really loved Mateo.
…Clearly.
They’d only met a handful of times, really–Mateo’s job put him out of the city a lot. Out of the country. But it paid well, and as much as Zoey loved her job, she was still a poor teacher making less than 60k a year, so she hadn’t particularly fought it.
And, anyway… maybe time away was good, after knowing him for 17 years.
zoey: kids get out in 15. remind me why i'm coming to your room?
juliet: Debrief with Mira x
Zoey grinned. She'd already gotten identical invitations twice that week–and, again, it was Thursday–but she'd never tire of them. It wasn't as if she had anything to contribute to the gossip; she was exponentially less nosy than the rest of her department, so she mainly just watched Mira and Rumi argue about how nice their vice principal actually was. However, even that was better than sitting alone in her classroom, surrounded only by the horrifying screams of papers and grades.
Next, she texted her daughter. Aya Josephine Miyeon-Hernández was a spunky little thing, always running around and smiling with her thousands of friends, brown hair and tan skin a stark contrast to Zoey. She was a good kid; didn’t get in fights, did her homework, (mostly) listened to her mother. Additionally, she got good grades, but the ways she got them were often unconventional–once, she'd made Zoey sing an educational duet to All Star. Every lyric had been changed to something for… biology? Math? Either way, it'd worked. Aya had come home the next day with a big smile on her face and a 100 on her paper.
And Zoey, in all her optimistic nature, had been unspeakably proud.
mom: don't forget i'm gone tonight, 6-9. don't go anywhere please!
aya: lol 69
mom: ???????????????????
aya: you were thinking it too
mom: no?
aya: sorry
aya: yes ma'am
Just ridiculous.
Instead of indulging that conversation, Zoey half heartedly picked off the top of a stack labeled TO GRADE until that tinny, stereotypical school bell went off. Immediately, desks began to shuffle and papers began to rustle as if that bell had set off a chain reaction in their minds, too, everyone pushing and shoving to be the first out the door. It never made much sense to Zoey; they were all going to the same place anyway, why push?
“Don't get killed,” she half heartedly called, finger-waving at her nearby velcro-student. “Bye, Nia.”
She loved her students. Really, she did, but sometimes they were just…. so 15.
Zoey sighed exactly once while she stood up, ensuring every student was out of her room before she began shoving shit into her backpack. Papers to grade, papers to read, papers to sign, and papers to pass out, it didn’t seem to matter–they were ungracefully filed into a purple, galaxy-patterned backpack with little fanfare. There must've been 30 something sheets; Zoey was sure she’d still end up forgetting something.
“Mrs. Miyeon.”
But this time, the voice wasn’t grating.
No, instead it was familiar; comforting, even, a physical reprieve from the current state of her mind in the shape of a purple-haired coworker. In her mouth, Zoey’s maiden name sounded like a tease, absolutely smothered with an unseen grin.
“Ms. Ryu,” she sang back, turning around and finally setting her eyes on her coworker. That day, Rumi was dressed head to toe in a concoction of clothes that bordered dangerously on unprofessional, eyes shining in the doorway. Patches of unusually light skin peeked out beneath black cloth; to Zoey, her vitiligo looked like someone had splashed paint on her body and forgot to finish the job, but it didn't make the woman in front of her any less complete.
On her face, right next to those twinkling eyes, was a specific patch that closely resembled a heart. Zoey often found herself staring at it. Staring at her. It was… hard not to. She had the kind of quiet beauty that men used to go to war for, the sort of unique smile that could disarm a loaded weapon if it was genuine enough.
And briefly, Zoey realized–not for the first time–that if she were a student, back in freshmen English learning about the damn bubonic plague–
Ms. Rumi Ryu would've been a truly eye-opening crush.
Rumi hummed after a moment of silence, eyebrow raising. “Unfair. You know I don’t go by my last name.”
Zoey grinned back, shaking herself out of whatever admiring haze she'd previously been in, matching eyebrow cocked as she finally slipped her backpack on one shoulder and followed her out the door. “I do,” she agreed, voice hushed in the new open hallway environment, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “But it gets more of a reaction, so–”
“You little–”
“Watch yourself.” She chuckled as they approached Rumi’s classroom door, gesturing inwards as a silent after you, m’lady. “Swear all you want once this door is closed.”
From inside the room, Mira waved at Zoey as her feet kicked at Rumi’s desk. She was fully sitting on it, of course–Zoey didn’t think she’d seen the woman sit correctly in the 7 years she’d known her. “Hey, Zo. Heard about Mateo, do we need to send him to Mrs. Armenta?”
Mrs. Armenta, AKA their biology sciences teacher.
Yeah. Mira didn’t much like Mateo either.
“He’ll be fine,” Zoey muttered, rolling her eyes. She gently tossed her stuff in her usual space on the couch, mindlessly pressing the highest key on an old electric keyboard 3 feet away. She pulled out a couple random papers, hoping they were something she could work on rather than just stare at. “You know, he's not as dumb as you two make him out to be. He's gotten this far–”
“I actually think I’m quite generous,” Mira grinned, a little bit catlike as her feet kicked their attention over to Rumi. “And, anyway, he’s only gotten this far because he’s had you since he was first conscious. Don't give him too much credit, honey.”
Honey.
Zoey had first met her husband on a run-down playground she was entirely too old for–swinging on the childhood rubber when a cute 14 year old boy walked up and smiled, fucking shook her hand like an old man, and said, “Hi, I’m Mateo.”
Zoey had raised her eyebrow in a sort of caution. “Just Mateo?” She’d asked.
His smile hadn’t wavered–and even now, Zoey respected that. “No. Mateo Garcia Alvarez Hernández.”
At that, she’d stood, mysteriously bare feet digging into the rocks below as she let them burn her soles. “Zoey. Zoey Ella Miyeon.”
She’d married him 5 years later, white-dress clad with something blue tied around her waist and hair tied into an old tiara. Just two years after Aya was born. Her little flower girl.
Maybe she’d loved him. Maybe, she'd loved what he came with, what he stood for, and what he could do for her.
She hadn't quite figured that out.
“He used to be smart,” Zoey reasoned now, shrugging and absently marking on the paper in front of her. “I think the gas fumes are getting to his brain.”
“You married your highschool sweetheart," Rumi laughed, and Zoey felt a pang of malice at the words. Did she really need to be reminded? “One of you was bound to be an idiot.”
Well.
It sure wasn’t Zoey.
He wasn’t the one with a master's degree.
“It was worth it for her, you know.” Zoey’s voice was clipped, but it hadn’t been intentional; she fixed it with her next words. “Aya, I mean. And… I still love him.”
At that, Rumi seemed to soften, the corner of her eyes dropping around a vaguely heart-shaped patch of light skin. “‘Course,” she murmured, picking up a paper of her own and glancing at Mira in a way she didn’t think Zoey would notice. “Although, you might wanna get onto her about submitting that Animal Farm essay on time because–”
Wait.
“What?”
Rumi laughed. “It’s due tomorrow.”
And–yes, Zoey knew that, because she explicitly remembered Aya telling her that she had turned it in just the night before and–
“She swore up and down that she turned it in last night,” Zoey grumbled, head hitting the wall behind her because oh, that little lying child. “You checked?”
An apologetic glance sent her way, Rumi just shrugged, mouse clicking on the computer. “20 minutes ago, yeah.”
Zoey pulled out her phone with the calm lack of urgency of a deer in headlights.
Aya was screwed either way. Why rush?
mom: animal farm essay.
aya is typing…
mom: talked to ms. rumi
aya: DHIT
aya: SHIT*
mom: so you can correct yourself when you spell shit wrong but you can't tell me the truth about an essay huh mija
mom: you have 3 hours from the time we walk in the door tonight
mom: if its not done by the time i leave, i’m taking all your matching socks and replacing them with neon blue flamingo print ones. one foot will be normal the other will be radioactive. got it?
aya: MOM. WHAT
aya: CANT YOU JUST GROUND ME
mom: ENTIENDES?
aya: you and dad are going in a nursing home
mom: oh dad had nothing to do with this
Dad doesn’t even know your eye color, she thought, but she didn’t say that bit. Because–well, frankly, how embarrassing for him. Aya had no reason to know that.
Zoey threw her phone down with little fanfare, grinning back at her coworker with specks of resentment in her lipgloss. “It’ll be in,” she chirped, a full promise. “By 6 tonight.”
Still sitting on the desk, now the only one not actually working, Mira snorted. “Christ, what’d you say to her?”
“Just threatened sock-Azkaban,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes. Of course, Zoey had tried grounding–but it never seemed to stick. Never worked. Aya was a patient girl; she just waited it out in her room, then acted out again. So, Zoey had long resorted to more… unusual punishments.
Stealing the phone charger, not the phone. Perform a one-minute monologue of her choice. Cook dinner, and let Zoey judge it Hell’s Kitchen style.
Aya, pointedly and forever a culinary disgrace, specifically hated that one.
Zoey sighed, finally giving up on the paper in front of her; she didn't think she'd comprehended a single word since she'd walked in the room. Instead of pushing her boundaries, she stood slowly.
The piano bench beside her was old and inviting. Zoey couldn't remember a time when Rumi’s room wasn't plagued by the keyboard, and now, the cracks and rips in the leather seemed to beg her to sit.
Zoey glanced at Rumi, catching her eye between scrutinizing glares at whatever paper she was working on. She gestured towards the piano with an open hand. “May I?”
Rumi grinned. “Always. You gonna give us a private concert, little-miss-world-famous Zoey Miyeon?”
She did not add the incriminatingly hyphenated Hernández.
Zoey couldn't remember the last time she had, honestly.
But she didn't point that out. Didn't correct her on the legality of her name. Instead, she laughed, shaking her head as she maneuvered to the bench and relaxing into the leather. “I don’t know about world famous,” she mused, softly pressing the first few keys to a progression she’d long memorized. “Maybe this-school famous.”
At the sweet sound of music, Mira put her phone down, finally back in the moment with them. She grinned as Zoey moved into chords. “You’re famous in my heart,” she declared, clutching her heart in a dramatic display of affection and lightly falling back onto Rumi, who swatted her with feigned annoyance.
Zoey, still fumbling for basic major chords, certainly wasn’t the most gifted piano player in the room. She’d started lessons a mere 3 years beforehand, if only to pair with the songs she wrote in between lesson plans–words of longing, love, something she didn't experience outside of songwriting. She was a different person in a notebook, and she'd have liked to keep it that way.
Rumi, on the other hand, had known where middle C was since she could remember being conscious–hands moving like a trained gymnast across the ivory, so fluid and so mesmerizing that Zoey often found herself unable to breathe when she played.
Though–that could’ve just as well been from the player herself.
“C’mon, stop edging, sing for us.”
Mira’s voice was purely impatient, just as always. A landmine, really.
Zoey snorted at the euphemism, finally pressing her chords with a little more confidence. “For a teacher, you’ve got some astoundingly low patience–”
“She had that before she was a teacher,” Rumi confirmed, smirking at her pink-haired coworker and rolling her eyes. “If it helps.”
Zoey didn’t think it did.
She hummed out a melody to match the progression slowly forming beneath her purple-painted nails, back straightening as she remembered her horrible posture and eyes relaxing as she let herself fall into it. Her voice was low, soft, flowing through her words and into the air around them like a sort of holy water. She watched in her peripheral vision as Mira sat up, nearly pin straight, just as she always did when Zoey sang–like her voice was a seed that grew a flower right through Mira’s spine and out the top of her head.
Someday, I’m gonna live
In your house up on the hill
And when your skinhead neighbor goes missing
I'll plant a garden in the yard
She couldn't see Rumi. Maybe that was for the better, anyway; the woman had a horrible poker face. Everything showed, bare and open, including things that Zoey could maybe… go without. She did, however, hear Rumi stop typing–a telltale sign that she was listening with every vein of her body.
They're gluing roses on a flatbed
You should see 'em, I mean thousands
I grew up here, ‘till it all went up in flames
Except the notches in the door frame
Zoey should've been nervous.
But as she finished out a half-written chorus, even mumbling her way through phrases she hadn't quite written yet, she felt… strangely calm.
I don't know when you got taller
See our reflection in the water
Off the bridge at the Huntington
I hoped the fence when I was 17
And then I knew, what I wanted
She paused after the first chorus, then stopped entirely–pushing off the piano and haphazardly leaning back on the bench. The same thing she told her kids to stop every six seconds, but old habits die hard.
“Christ,” Mira muttered, reminding Zoey she was in the room with a soft chuckle. “You just pull that out of nowhere?”
But Zoey hadn't gotten to answer.
A whistle by the door was what finally hooked her by the shirt and pulled her out of whatever daze she'd been in. It was familiar, a sound she heard every time she walked precariously by the choir room, indicating the start of yet another rep.
Zoey hadn't heard the door open, hadn't known how long the woman had been standing there, but she softly chuckled anyway.
“I don't know why you waste your days preaching about symbolism and curtain colors.”
Yes, because that's all she did.
Zoey huffed out something like laughter, turning on the bench and quirking a singular eyebrow. Ms. Celine Ryu was dressed plainly in a t-shirt and a long, nearly floor length cardigan, gray peaking out of her long black hair, and wrinkles showing in the way she stared almost disapprovingly at Zoey. “I don't preach anything, Ms. Ryu,” she hummed, dramatically indignant. “And I like to think I’m spending my time quite wisely, thank you very much.”
Her and Rumi’s mother had something between them that could only be described as friendly rivalry.
“Wise is a strong word,” Celine–Ms. Ryu? Zoey had never been explicitly told which one–scoffed, walking farther into the room and closing the door behind her. “It's a shame that daughter of yours doesn't sing. If you can't have one, get the other, or whatever they say. If I had it my way–”
“Mom.” Rumi's voice was light, confident through the interruption. “You do get your way. Three times a day, actually, for an hour and a half each–you run those kids like the Navy. Isn't that enough? Leave Zoey alone–”
“Never.”
Her voice heightened on the word, eyebrows raising as if the mere suggestion was offensive enough to declare war.
She’d always been self-reliant like that.
“I tried,” Rumi shrugged, meeting Zoey’s eyes with a half-apologetic, half-amused glint.
Zoey could appreciate that.
She smiled at Ms. Ryu as she stood, feeling a surge of… superiority, maybe. “Aya sings,” she eventually said, a late response to her earlier quip. “Just not for you.”
“Again I say,” Celine nearly grumbled, “What a shame.”
She certainly had the dramatics to match her profession.
“You didn’t come in here for fun,” Rumi mused, spinning in her makeshift office chair and raising a pierced eyebrow at her mother. “So did you need something, or–”
At the mention, Celine’s mouth dropped into a thin frown, and she stepped somehow closer to Rumi’s desk. Closer to Rumi. On the corner, the wood tilted down, and her hand rested there, just as it had almost daily for eight full years. This, Zoey knew firsthand; she wasn't sure she'd ever seen a mother and daughter genuinely like each other as much as the Ryu’s. “Yes,” Celine murmured. “But I–”
She flicked her eyes to Zoey.
Just once. Unnoticeable, to anybody not looking for it, but–
Zoey was looking.
“I’ll just text you.”
…Right.
Zoey nearly groaned out loud.
She could respect secrets, of course she could; it wasn't as if Zoey did not have a few of her own, but to taunt her like that? Just despicable. Frustrating.
She couldn't help that she'd been raised to be nosy at the worst of times and silent at the best.
The air seemed to shift suddenly, contorting into an indescribably tense moment as Rumi’s eyes bounced from her mother’s to Mira’s, never once daring to look back to Zoey, never once faltering. Deciding what she should do, maybe, but she'd had a sense of confidence–like no matter what option she chose, no matter what route the conversation took, she'd win. It'd bend to her.
Just how water flows around obsidian. Never through it, because it had that power of dictation.
She was always unbreakable like that.
“Alright,” Rumi murmured, smiling in a vague attempt to patch whatever rip had appeared. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
“Of course.”
And completely unwillingly, Zoey watched Celine’s ponytail swish as she walked out the door, firmly closing it behind her. A sort of abandonment. Whatever happened next, it certainly wasn't her problem.
There was a beat of awkwardness, then–
“Sorry,” Rumi laughed, and Zoey didn't miss the way her eyes flicked to Mira once again.
As if she were somehow involved.
Mira, now looking a little gaunt, leaned into Rumi’s personal space with a knit of her eyebrows, voice lowered into something inaudible from Zoey’s stance–but that was fine, because her face said enough. Rumi bit her lip and shook her head in response. “Later. Drop it.”
…Huh.
Now–don't get her wrong, stuff like that was not new. Those special little bursts of time, where Zoey could tangibly feel the moments she'd missed between them, could hold them in her hands and let them flutter to the floor. Those touches, little brushes of hands that may or may not have been limited to friendliness. Those glances, eyes lowering when they met as if there were something more serious that neither of them were saying.
They weren't plentiful, weren't abundant. Just every once in a blue moon, but–
Over seven years, those blue moons add up.
They slowly build, stack, so eventual you don’t realize what's changing until you can hardly see the black night sky through a dizzying mirage of them.
Zoey looked between them for a moment, filing every detail away in a mental folder marked RUMI AND MIRA???, tilting her head. “That was weird,” she muttered. Mira seemed to flinch. “Anything I should know, or–”
“No.”
Mira’s voice. Instantaneously.
Rumi eyed her for half a second, reprimanding, until she turned them onto Zoey and smiled. “Nothing big,” she shrugged. She stood, pushing off her desk with both hands and absentmindedly padding to the bin of no-name papers next to Zoey. “Lunch is almost over. You should head back, don't you like being early for your third block? What'd you call them? The more fucked-up cast of Sesame Street?”
She had said that.
In any other situation, Zoey might've deflected the change of topic with a frown, but in this one, Rumi was right. It was just two minutes until her class was supposed to start barreling in.
Now was the time to let it go.
Still, she let her eyes linger on the two for just a moment longer, let her eyes search and search for some invisible thread connecting them before she gave up. One last indulgence. “Mhm,” she hummed in hesitant agreement, grabbing her belongings and dragging them halfway across the classroom. “I’ll… uh, see you tonight.”
That time, Rumi’s grin proved genuine as Zoey crossed into the hallway once more. “See you!”
But even as she welcomed the next slew of kids, even as she fell back into teacher-Zoey and welcomed her little routine, even as she spelled out meretricious on the board for the millionth time, she couldn't seem to shake that feeling.
The feeling that she was something of an alien between them. Mira and Rumi.
A familiar swirl in her gut, really.
…Oh well.
Tomorrow’s problem.
mateo: Baby I need an answer by 8 tonight please
So, he hadn’t guessed.
…Dumbass.
In the car, Zoey practically threw her phone into the passenger seat with a heavy groan. It hit Aya’s leg, barreling soon to the floor, but Zoey couldn’t find it in herself to care. She’d deal with that later. Deal with him later.
“Dang,” Aya muttered, side eyeing Zoey with a slightly cocked eyebrow. “Who pissed you off–”
“Nobody,” Zoey defended. God forbid Aya ever found out that her parents were no more than indifferent towards each other. She slipped her key into the ignition, turned it, and momentarily listened to make sure the engine still worked properly before she shifted the gear and slowly began to move. “Mind your business, nosy. Did you work on that essay? Is it done?”
Aya groaned in typical teenage fashion, and–god, how Zoey hated that noise. “Almost. I just need to do the works cited, which will be easy.”
From the hardly audible radio in front of them, some stereotypical love song started to play. “Easy, huh? Why didn't you do it last night–”
“Can we not talk about school?”
Three minutes into a five minute car ride, and the girl was already annoyed. Already full of that typical teenage attitude that Zoey hadn’t believed until she’d seen it herself.
And it wasn’t even a record.
She laughed, turning onto their street. “Your mother is a teacher, mija, you don’t get that luxury.”
To that, Aya hadn’t responded, instead pulling out her phone with a soft roll of her eyes. Her golden case caught the light, reflecting a beam directly onto Zoey’s wedding band, which–yeah, she probably should text Mateo back, shouldn’t she?
“Where’s Dad today?”
Little mind reader.
Zoey tried not to sigh, but her fingers still pressed into the back of her steering wheel as she shrugged. “Not sure, uh… somewhere around Oklahoma, I think. Why?”
Aya hummed. The sound itself was noncommittal, but Zoey quickly recognized it as a lie. As indifferent as she was about her husband, Aya had always adored the man, and his slow absence hadn’t exactly been easy. “Just miss him,” she muttered. “When’s his next stop home? How long?”
“I’ll ask when I call this afternoon. Gotta talk to him anyway.”
It hadn’t entirely satisfied her, but at least she’d stopped asking questions.
Their house soon came into view–a medium sized brick building, with three floors and 4 outdoor garden gnomes named Nicky, Ricky, Dicky and Dawn. It’d served them well over the past 12 years, through thunderstorms and vitriolic door-slamming, screaming and the occasional hurricane. They’d signed the deed just a day before the wedding. Before then, they’d essentially been storing their 2 year old at her grandmother’s–Mateo’s side, of course.
But Mrs. Hernández had always hated Zoey. The feeling was mutual.
“She’s safe here,” Mateo had muttered one night, hand running through Zoey’s hair and voice gentle in the evening glow. Something soft, something incredible, because that’s how they used to be. Beside their queen bed, Aya babbled in her cot; just 1 year old, back then. Zoey, 18. “I don’t see why we need a house.”
“Because,” Zoey had softly groaned, “I cannot survive another month with your mother, Mat. She's my version of the devil. She called me a whore while I was feeding Aya her fucking oatmeal this morning–”
“Don’t… don’t listen to her.” He glanced downwards, towards Zoey’s hand on his stomach and then her eyes themselves, staring into them as if he’d promised her the world and was still actively trying to obtain that. “If anything, I’m the whore, I made the first move–”
“Dork.”
She’d laughed. Just a huff, then a sigh, then her hand was rubbing circles on a thin t-shirt, brand-new ring catching the light.
“You’re not a whore, honey,” she muttered after a moment, eyes closing in assumed safety. “And–if you are, better tell me now, cause I’m not marrying a common slut–”
“Innocent.” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Promise. You're it.”
A beat.
Then–
“I love you.”
Back then, those words always caused a sweet stir in her gut. Butterflies, maybe.
“I love you, too.”
But now–
Those butterflies felt more like… moths.
Just a little more dangerous. Just a little more unwelcome.
God. She was fucked.
Her head hit the car seat cushion behind her, fingers absentmindedly fumbling for the unlock button. “Go somewhere besides the kitchen,” Zoey murmured, patting her daughter's knee and smiling. “Need to talk to your father.”
So formal.
She wasn't sure when that had happened.
By the time Zoey’s feet crossed the threshold of their front door, Aya was already gone–in her bedroom, Zoey would guess.
Hopefully doing that damn works cited page.
She mindlessly pulled out her phone with one hand, patting their family dog–a huge St. Bernard named Sparky–on his head and humming. She navigated to her husband’s contact as she stood.
zoey: calling in a moment
zoey: is that a real question mateo? her eyes?
mateo: Just call. It’s been a long day Zo I don’t need attitude
She hated when he called her Zo.
zoey: yeah a long day of driving trucks i’m sure
zoey is calling…
It hadn’t taken long for the line to click with acceptance, Mateo’s familiar breathing soon leaking through the receiver. “Bad day?” He asked, taking the initiative to speak first, but it hadn’t been empathetic. No hints of kindness. Instead, he was gruff, a little angry–looking for a logical reason as to why Zoey was suddenly hostile.
Really, Zoey thought she was being quite kind, for the situation.
“Nope,” she chirped sarcastically, opening the fridge and sliding out a water bottle. “Great day, actually. No big behavioral issues, everybody’s worksheets were turned in on time, my lunch was–”
“Zoey.”
Just entirely annoyed.
Zoey’s hand tightened around the plastic bottle, and it crinkled under her grip.
“Mateo,” she responded, a little clipped. “C’mon, if you want to say something, just say it. Contrary to assumption, I don’t have all day–”
“Why’d you leave me on read?”
Gotta love fragile egos.
Zoey sighed, floating around her kitchen in an effort to keep herself grounded and her eyes focused. “It was a really dumb question,” she reasoned, “And I didn’t have the energy, alright?”
“Didn’t have the energy for your husband?” He groaned, a harsh, dark little sound.
Zoey rolled her eyes, ensuring the motion bled into her next words. “I didn't have the energy for dumb questions,” she clarified. “Look, honey, it’s a simple equation, don’t you think? If your eyes are brown, and mine are–”
…Wait.
She paused.
Her hands tightened around a marbled counter, a futile let-out for her quiet anger, eyes closing and breath slowing in a slow hope.
“What color are my eyes, Mateo?”
A beat.
Loaded, screamingly silent and growing, then–
“Gr–Hazel.”
Oh.
Zoey couldn’t find it in herself to be surprised.
At first, she laughed, a little delirious and incredulous, because–oh, what the hell. “Brown,” she all but yelled, fist banging against the counter and eyes looking up to the heavens in a silent god, help me. “They’re fucking brown, you hijo de puta, I–green? Really–”
“I corrected myself! I said hazel, that’s basically brown–”
“No, Mateo, it’s not.”
The neglect wasn’t exactly surprising.
“We’ve been married for 12 years,” she breathed, water bottle now fully deflating under her fist, heart clenching and stomach churning. “12 fucking years, and you don’t know what color my eyes are, do you not–do you really not see how insane that is? You married me while staring at them, Mat, that’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.”
Vitriolic.
Normally, she might regret those words. Backtrack, mutter an apology, and take a few deep breaths, but now–
She just… groaned.
Zoey refused to be the one apologizing.
“Aya asked about you,” she grumbled. “Call her. Talk to her. Be her dad.”
Her finger hovered over the bleedingly red end call button.
“And her eyes are brown.”
Then, she hung up.
No room for any retorts from her dear husband, because–
She just didn’t have the energy.
…Maybe Rumi and Mira were right.
mateo: I’m sorry
mateo: Seriously Zo
zoey: don’t call me zo
Read 3:11 PM
“I’m sorry, he–what?”
Sitting on a familiar purple couch, Zoey almost laughed at Mira’s concentrated shock, but she consciously kept her skewed humor to herself. She’d only gotten there a mere 20 minutes before, but the prior situation seemed to be entirely stuck in her mind, taking over and worming around until Zoey physically couldn’t keep quiet anymore. “He thought my eyes were green or hazel,” she repeated, shrugging into the tense silence. In front of her, lesson plan slideshows sat mostly untouched. “That’s why he didn’t know Aya’s.”
For a moment, her coworkers just stared at her, matching expressions of horror paired only with a few harsh moments of deafening silence. Rumi’s hands paused on her keyboard, eyes widening comically.
Zoey almost broke the silence herself, until–
Behind them, a clink of glass bottles.
“You want vodka or wine?”
Just ridiculous.
Now, Zoey did laugh, head shaking in mock disappointment. “I don’t drink, Mir, you know that,” she mused, picking up her laptop with both hands and settling it onto her lap. She’d had to dodge a cat, Microwave, who then darted off to rub against Rumi’s cheek. “But thanks.”
“Are you okay?” Rumi murmured, swatting the tail away from her eye so she could look into Zoey’s. “I mean, that’s… bad, Zo, really bad.”
The nickname wasn’t so harrowing when it came from her mouth. Her voice.
“I’m fine,” Zoey responded, head bobbing in a nod as her eyes softened on Rumi’s. She appreciated the sympathy, she did, but it could get a little… suffocating. “He’ll… probably call and apologize later. I’ll get flowers in the mail. It’s a routine, I’m used to it.”
“Not helping your case, Mieyon,” Mira muttered, now coming into view with a wine glass filled unusually full. Her shirt was short, covering only what was needed, sweatpants low rise and… well, hot. In a conventional sense. Zoey averted her eyes.
“Not trying to,” she retorted. “Nothing I say is going to make you two–especially you, Mira–hate him any less.”
In some vague response, Mira shrugged, sinking onto the couch next to her and immediately welcoming another cat onto her lap. He was fluffy, white, and basic, and was therefore named Privilege. Mira’s idea, of course. “True,” she laughed, voice entirely void of any apology because–well, she couldn’t have cared less about that man.
Hell, the first time they’d met, she’d brushed him off with a bored smile and a wave of her hand.
Hadn’t even called him by his name.
“See ya later, Zoey’s husband.”
Mateo had never quite let that go.
“I’m more than just your husband,” he’d hissed on the car ride home, hands gripping the steering wheel. Zoey remembers a sort of fear settling in her gut; when he was angry, he was mean, and likely shouldn’t have been driving in the dark rain. “I’m a whole other person, Zo–”
“She just doesn’t know you,” Zoey had defended, but even she hadn’t believed her own words.
Because she knew Mira.
And she knew the difference between her lighthearted jokes and her witty, half-rude retorts.
But she hadn’t told Mateo that.
Now, Rumi cleared her throat, intentionally spurring Zoey out of her haze. She looked at her expectantly, as if she’d just said something that went unheard.
“What?” Zoey squeaked.
“I asked if Aya heard you arguing,” she repeated, the words a little bit careful and treading. Her head tilted in a sort of sympathy.
Zoey shrugged, hiding any real worry or contempt behind the motion. “Not sure. She, uh… we try to keep her out of it. She doesn’t need to know that her parents like to fight about her eye color, Rumi.”
Rumi, ever ominous, let a moment of silence pass before she smiled softly. “Agreed,” she muttered, hands resuming their motion on her keyboard. The laptop jolted up and down with the motion, colorful and abstract stickers bobbing. “Can I… give some unsolicited advice?”
“Not very unsolicited then, is it?” Zoey hummed, eyes flicking to Rumi’s for only a moment. “I… sure.”
Her voice was tinted with hints of reluctance, but they’d been feigned. In truth, Zoey was sure Rumi’s advice could help a man kill God.
“My mom used to fight with Celine a lot,” she muttered, never once pulling her full attention from the laptop. Wholly 50/50. “Before she died, I mean. It wasn’t–I mean, don’t get me wrong, Celine definitely started some shit too, but… it was mostly mom, and I… God, I hated it. I'd always believed my parents were supposed to like each other, you know?”
Zoey didn’t respond. Instead, she took a deep breath, not daring to interrupt because it was rare she got any real personal accounts from Rumi.
This was sacred.
“I never really understood. To me, it was always dumb shit like the dishes and gas, but they never explained or talked to me. I just got sent to my room, and until Mom got sick, I resented them both.”
In her peripheral vision, Zoey could see Mira entirely frozen, attentive, save for one hand still petting Privilege.
“My point is,” Rumi murmured, her eyes glazed over as though she was reliving a moment, no longer entirely present. “Talk to her.”
Right.
Zoey’s first instinct was to groan. Dismiss the advice, maybe, insist that Aya was fine, but–
Did she really know that?
“She’s a sweet kid, Zo, you’ve done well, but she’s still 14. Her view of marriage and parents and forever is marred, and it’s only gonna continue to rust if she hears you arguing with her dad every three business days. Over the phone, no less.”
Zoey’s chest clenched around the words in a sort of guilt. Rumi meant well, she was sure, but the reminder of her messiness was staggering; a little overwhelming as her mind started to whir, everything blurring together in a fucked-up raincloud.
Because–well, she loved her husband. She did. And marrying him wasn’t something she’d categorize as a life-long regret, not yet, but–
It wasn’t the sort of love she’d dreamed of her entire life. Wasn’t part of the rose-colored lens she’d gripped onto since she was seven, staring up at her parents and all their quiet glory, dreaming of that for herself.
It certainly wasn’t the sort of love she wanted for her daughter.
And in hindsight, in horrifying crystalline hindsight, she hated that she was an influence of that. Hated that she was showing the one person she was supposed to protect that this is just how it is.
God.
She needed to breathe.
“Okay,” she muttered in response, eyes closing and opening in rapid little blinks, not in any attempt to hold back tears, instead trying to blur the haze that had taken over her vision. She grabbed her laptop once more, setting it on the couch next to Microwave and pushing herself off with both hands. “Yeah, I’ll–I’ll talk to her, I’m… I’m just gonna go to the bathroom–”
“Downstairs’ is broken,” Mira murmured quietly, sympathetically, the words the only reminder of her presence. Her leg kicked out after Zoey paused, gently knocking against her ankle and nodding towards the stairs. Zoey felt the touch burn, even through layers of sock and thick sweatpants. “Go up to Rumi’s room, there’s a bathroom next to it. Just… look for the onslaught of purple.”
Zoey nodded, a little wild, hands suddenly shaking in her skirt pockets and–God, she needed to take a deep fucking breath.
She was an adult. She could handle herself better than this, especially when the problem at hand was hardly a problem at all, just something hypothetical. A theoretical.
“Thanks,” she muttered, finally letting her feet move against the carpet, heart somehow pounding in an unusual cadence.
Rumi’s house, in all of its unusual, colorful glory, was something Zoey could only describe as a fever dream. Her first time there, she’d quickly and internally promised to never let herself get high within those four walls–not because she didn’t trust Rumi, but because a medically clouded mind mixed with that fuckass building… well, it was a tried and true recipe for an atomic bomb.
Even the walk up the stairs was trippy, what with her current state; only a couple real picture frames, gold edges outlining stupid pictures of her three cats–Microwave, Privilege, and 2008 Stock Market Crash (or alternatively, Mark)--but the walls were more than enough to make up for the lack of decoration. They were some pale shade of white, but only fleetingly, as the rest was covered by murals of flowers and swirls in so many different shades that Zoey nearly stumbled in the midst of staring at them. Rumi had done it herself when she’d moved in, more than 10 years ago.
Life’s too short to not paint lesbian flowers on your stairwell, she’d told Zoey, soft grin lighting up her face. Infectious. Too bad Mateo’s a little stickler.
Oh, how she loved that goddamn grin.
Zoey’s feet slowed their climb in order to fully take in all the art. It was, of course, conventionally good–great, even. Rumi had always been artistic like that. The strokes of each petal seemed to sing, something sweetly audible through her ears, maybe like an opera. Most were muted, purely beautiful shades of pink and orange. Others were purple, just like everything else in Rumi’s life.
She’d hardly hit the halfway mark when voices, soft and secretive, slowly made their way up the stairs.
“Just give her a minute,” Mira’s disembodied voice murmured, maybe in an effort to keep quiet. Zoey froze entirely at the sound. “That’s her kid, Rums, maybe that was a big realization–”
“I don’t think she’s worrying about her,” Rumi interrupted. “I think she’s being reminded that that’s not what marriage should feel like.”
God.
Always such a fucking mind reader.
The words seemed to stab directly into some important artery near her heart, but the pounding didn’t cease–instead, the blood ran down her ribs, mixing with any active stomach acid in a concoction that should’ve killed her.
Zoey finally padded her way up the stairs, pointedly avoiding eavesdropping any longer. Plausible deniability, or whatever.
The bathroom, possibly the most normal room in the house, was… pink.
Just pink.
Zoey didn’t think there was a more fitting adjective for it, actually.
Pink towels. Pink shower curtain. Pink soap. Only the walls and counters were spared, instead shining with a clean white that seemed to match the base of the stairwell.
Her hands soon found their way to the edge of the counter, gripping, and she slowly lifted her head to look herself in the eye.
If asked, Zoey would tell people that she thought herself to be pretty… mid.
Anybody else would call her a goddamn sight to behold.
Her hair, dark and shiny, fell in massive swoops around her face, bangs spaced out perfectly against her forehead, never sticking and never lifting. Her eyeliner was poised and practiced. Her lips, donned with the slightest bit of orangey red, were small but fitting to the rest of her face, pale and blushed to just the right shade.
The whole image was something she’d perfected years ago. Something she now did daily.
But it all got very inconvenient when she was seconds away from crying.
She groaned, wiping a single thumb at the corner of her eyelids in an attempt to keep her eyeliner steady. “Fuck,” she muttered to nobody in particular. “Take a breath, Zoey.”
She did as ordered, but she wasn’t sure it’d helped much. Her lungs seemed woefully shallow, disapproving, small. The air that was miraculously let in staled against her throat, against any vitriol building in her vocal chords.
It was oxygen either way, she supposed.
Finally looking down, the toiletries on the counter now seemed to call for her snooping. Toothpaste, first, minty and blue with dental claims dotting the aluminum. Deodorant. Hair clips, little stars that Rumi wore at least twice a week, and hairspray; dry shampoo, eyeliner, blush, an entire makeup bag, and–
The toothbrush cup. It was Disney kids’ cup themed, which should’ve been what threw Zoey off, but… hell, it may have been the most normal thing about it.
Inside, there were two toothbrushes.
That alone was incriminating enough for a self-proclaimed single woman, but Zoey continued to scrutinize it anyway.
One was purple. Used, clearly, and Zoey could guess that it was Rumi’s by a little R written on the back of its head.
The other was pink.
The back was turned away, but as Zoey’s hand immediately shot out to turn it, see if it was something else or just another R–
“Zo! How long’s it take you to pee? We’re watching Scream! Hurry up!”
Goddamn Mira.
Zoey flinched, momentarily terrified, hand jerking back as if she’d been visibly caught doing something she shouldn’t have. Something sacrilegious.
“Gimme a minute,” she called back, feet falling backward until she hit the wall with a soft groan. “Impatient!”
Briefly, she considered reaching back.
But it wasn’t her house. Wasn’t her toothbrush, wasn’t her goddamn business, so–
Instead, she washed her hands with her eyes closed, fumbling for the doorknob, feeling her heart beating through her wrist, and only letting the hallway light shine through her irises once the door was fully closed. Fully abandoned, fully dark.
Nevertheless, as she descended the painted stairs, gripping the railing and quietly reminding herself to think of puppies and kindness and sunflowers–
She couldn’t stop thinking about the goddamn pink stick of plastic.
Because Rumi was single. She had no need for two toothbrushes, and certainly not in her main bathroom.
Maybe, it was entirely innocent. Maybe, it meant nothing, but..
Well.
That was a lot of maybes, wasn’t it?
“mom” + “aya” – Private Message
mom: i’ll be home soon. did dad call?
aya: huh? no lol was he supposed to?? i heard you yelling on the phone was that him?
aya: did you find out where he is
mom: oh alright
mom: no, that was insurance. they were being weird about your dentist appt the other day. don’t worry mija
mom: he’s in oklahoma xx :)
aya: oh okay
aya: boring
aya: see u soon
mom: love you
aya: love you
“zoey” + “mateo” – Private Message
zoey: dumbass.
Read 9:07 PM