Moxie
Goodbye, world. I’m screwed.
I half run, half walk in my girlfriend’s wake, but she refuses to slow down. I can tell by her stride—the way her hair flounces with each step—that she’s getting ready to skin me alive. What did I do this time?
Honestly, I’m not sure I care. This routine is getting old. It plays out the same way every time. Our relationship reminds me of a glitchy piece of code, stuck in an infinite loop, calling the same two functions over and over and over.
def relationship () :
while boyfriend == ‘Maddox’:
eleanor (‘yells’)
maddox (‘apologizes’)
I only know one way to break out of a broken loop. CTRL-ALT-DELETE. Force quit.
She heads for the library, about to disappear through the glass revolving door. I don’t want to have the coming conversation in there, under the scrutiny of the campus surveillance cameras. “Eleanor! Hold up!”
She spins around to face me in a swirl of whipping hair. Her icy glare is designed to freeze me in place, like I’m some well-trained puppy dog commanded by its owner to stay.
I push the thought away. Eleanor Winthrop doesn’t own me—and neither does her family. Not even with their name emblazoned on this school’s wrought-iron gates.
I didn’t plan on having it out with her today, but I don’t see any reason to delay the inevitable. I know what I need to do, and I’m prepared to live with the consequences.
“What do you want, Moxie?”
Eleanor and her nicknames… She’s been calling me by that one since we were little kids, playing together in the sandbox at Riverside Park. I used to love it when she called me that, but hearing it now sets my teeth on edge.
Maybe because it’s been a while since I showed an ounce of moxie in real life.
“We need to talk,” I tell her.
“I’m really not in the mood.”
She turns and pushes her way through the door, but I follow her. She can’t duck me that easily. I’m about to call after her again when she finally gives in with a huff and heads inside the nearest study room.
I click the glass door closed behind us. A camera hangs suspended in the corner of the room, but I ignore it. At least it records only video. No sound. That’s the closest we’ll come to privacy in this place.
Eleanor faces me, hands on her hips. My smart visor dangles from the cord around my neck, and she points at it. “Shouldn’t you be wearing that?”
“Eleanor—”
“I mean, since your InstaLove score is the only thing you care about anymore.”
“That isn’t true.”
She snorts. “No? So are you flirting with other girls in front of my face because you actually like them?”
I grit my teeth. That’s why she stormed off? For real? Because I exchanged three words with that girl back there? I’m used to Eleanor’s possessive streak, but she has a hell of a lot of moxie herself, giving me attitude for talking to other people.
I know what comes next in this messed up routine of ours. I’m supposed to grovel. Cajole. Wheedle my way back into her good graces until she finally breaks down and rewards me with some grudging morsel of affection.
Well, it’s not going down like that. Time to break the loop. CTRL-ALT-DELETE.
“Eleanor, this isn’t going to work.”
Her face freezes. Her nostrils flare, but that’s the only sign that she understood. I wait for her reaction. It feels like an hour ticks by before she speaks. “What are you talking about?”
But she knows what I mean. I can see the comprehension on her face, as I point toward her and back to myself again. “This. You and me. It’s not working. It hasn’t been working for a while.”
“Wait,” she answers slowly. “Are you breaking up with me?”
To her credit, she actually looks hurt. I soften my tone and take a step toward her. “I still want to be friends, but I can’t—”
“No,” she cuts me off, nodding toward my glasses yet again. “If you’re InstaFriending me, then no. I don’t accept. Request denied.”
“This isn’t a game, Eleanor.”
“Why are you doing this? Over that little—that little nothing? That little nobody?” She waves her hand in the direction of Fenmore Hall.
See, this is the problem with dating a girl I’ve known since we were both in diapers. She knows me inside and out. She can read me too well. And the fact is, there was something interesting about that other Eleanor, or Nora as she called herself.
Nora’s IL Score is 0.
Zero. Brand-new profile. I can’t remember the last time I encountered one of those. I would’ve looked past her under normal circumstances, but the name stopped me in my tracks. Nora… Eleanor tried that nickname on for size at some point in the distant past, before our babyish mouths had the wherewithal to pronounce the full name correctly.
But this new Nora couldn’t have been more different from the Eleanor I know.
She seemed so…real. Nothing fake about her. Nothing calculated. No fancy clothes. No makeup. Every passing emotion written on her face. She seemed jumpy at first, but then she caught a glimpse of my InSight Visor, and she lit up like a little kid at her birthday party. Those green eyes of hers went so big and round, I thought they might swallow us both up.
The memory makes me grin, but I wipe it off my face. I am not breaking up with Eleanor because I want to pursue someone else.
No. I need a fresh start, that’s all. I need to be my own person. I need to show some moxie for once in my life.
I swallow hard and square my shoulders. “I’m sorry. We’ll still be friends. Always. We can still work together for Maker Fair. But I don’t want more than that. And honestly, Eleanor, I’m pretty sure you don’t want more than that either.”
I expect her to pout. Maybe shed a tear or two. Instead, she throws back her head and laughs. Any trace of guilt evaporates at the sound of her amusement.
This is all part of the routine too.
def dysfunctional () :
while ‘Maddox’ in doghouse :
maddox (‘begs forgiveness’)
eleanor (‘laughs in his face’)
Eleanor Winthrop has been laughing at me for as long as I can remember—from the day the Winthrops first hired my grandmother to be her nanny and let me tag along to serve as playmate for their adorable only child.
And damn if she wasn’t adorable.
I used to like making her laugh. Hell, I used to live for it. I assumed that tinkling laughter masked some undercurrent of affection. Only recently have I realized how dysfunctional we are. I’ve spent my whole life as nothing more than Eleanor Winthrop’s plaything.
Spring break made me see things clearly. My grandmother wasn’t feeling well, so I went home to the city to take care of her. Eleanor took Reese in my place to stay at her family’s five-bedroom “cabin” in Lake Tahoe. I expected to miss her during the week apart, but I barely thought of her at all. I spent the week sleeping late, blasting music, and sneaking into clubs with my fake ID. I raised my IL score to an all-time high, flirting all night with girls who laughed at my preppy clothes and utter lack of dance moves.
And Eleanor didn’t miss me either. She didn’t bother to text. Our endless, private InstaLove chat stayed idle the whole time. But I saw the way her score went through the roof while she was in Tahoe. She was talking to someone out there, and I didn’t care enough to wonder who.
Yeah, this conversation has been brewing for a while. Eleanor’s still laughing, but I’m done.
I turn to leave the room. The glass door beckons. I’m three steps away from my Eleanor-free future before her voice rings out. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I said what I had to say.” My hand rests on the doorknob, but I hesitate. “It’s over,” I tell her softly. “And you’re laughing, Eleanor. Admit it. You’re not even sad.” I have my back to her, but I can see her face reflected in the glass. I detect a tiny quiver at the corners of her crimson lips, but she keeps her smile firmly planted.
“You know it’s not that simple.”
I drop my hand and leave the doorknob unturned. My head comes to rest against the doorframe. No, it’s never that simple, is it? Not with Eleanor. Not with the Winthrops.
“You can walk away from me if you want, Moxie,” she says in that mocking tone I know so well. “But I’ve got some terms and conditions.”