Morning is bright and wickedly cold.
I’d go hide out in the athletics wing, except the locker room isn’t really my home anymore. The cafeteria feels almost entirely imaginary.
I need a donut. Now. I need the refined carbohydrates and the sugar and the illusion that I’m doing something rational and normal. At the café cart, I buy myself a custard-filled bismarck and a coffee laced with two shots of espresso.
Then I wind my way over to the tables by the window, where Maribeth is perched demurely on the edge of her chair with her activities binder out, going over her list of action items for the food drive. Her hair catches the weak November sunlight in perfect soft focus. She looks like a Hallmark angel.
Kendry is cozied up next to her, much closer than I ever sit to anyone if I can help it. She’s wearing a plain gray blouse that must be new.
When they see me coming, Kendry and Palmer both sit very straight, like they’ve just been caught whispering, but Maribeth only smiles, waving me over. When she makes room, though, it’s Palmer’s backpack she pushes out of the way and not her own.
“Waverly, thank God. I need you to look at these donation numbers for the food drive and see if they make sense. Also, the events calendar is a disaster and we need to organize groups for door-to-door. And are we still on for Autumn’s party Friday or what?”
I nod, standing over the table. She says it like Autumn has never offended her, usurped her boy. Been the lurid epicenter of Kroger-janitor rumors that may or may not have originated solely with Maribeth. I know I should sit down, but I can’t figure out how, when Kendry is already in my spot.
“Are you going to just keep standing there?” Kendry says. “You look deranged.”
There’s a sharp, insistent bell ringing someplace faraway. It echoes in my ears, clanging, clanging. I set down my coffee, trying to figure out what’s wrong with Kendry’s hair and why she sounds like someone slipped her five or six valium. Ordinarily, she does not use the word deranged.
“And you look like someone’s insecure mom,” I say, plunking down my books and sinking into the empty chair. It comes out sounding harsher than I mean it to.
She scowls but doesn’t answer. She’s got on some strange, nude lip gloss, which doesn’t make sense. Her coloring is way too warm.
“Oh, God,” says Palmer, staring at my donut. “Are you really going to eat that? Do you have any idea how much saturated fat is in that?”
I pick up the donut between my thumb and forefinger and study it. “Yes, I’m going to eat this.” Then I take a big, savage bite. I chew slowly, without looking at her.
She sighs, dropping her chin into her hand. “That’s so unfair. I guess if I had your skeleton genes, though, I wouldn’t worry either.”
I don’t say anything. I continue to eat my donut.
All three of them are looking at me now. Belatedly, I realize that I’ve missed a crucial cue. Here’s where I commiserate, cite my frantic metabolism, say something suitably self-deprecating, complain about my nonexistent chest or my bony knees.
They’re all sitting there, waiting for me to deride myself, to show some solidarity, Waverly.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
Kendry makes a bored, dismissive noise, rolling her eyes. “Do what?”
“Be so mean about herself. She doesn’t have to keep saying those things just because someone fucking made up this arbitrary idea of what’s attractive or—or good before we even got here.”
And I know that’s not true. She does have to, because the penalty for not doing it is judgment, rejection. Maybe even banishment.
But I wish it weren’t.
I turn to Palmer, resisting the urge to grab her arm and squeeze until she hears me. “Saying that shit doesn’t help anything, okay? It’s destructive and pointless, and it’s just going to make you feel worse.”
This is the longest, most truthful thing I’ve said to anyone in days. I sink back in my chair, trying to convince my fingers to stop mashing the donut.
“God,” Kendry says. “Calm yourself. It’s not like she’s hurting anything.”
“Did you even listen to any of the words I just said? It’s exactly like that.”
Kendry gives me that bland, unfocused look again. Her face is slack, mouth slightly ajar, and suddenly it clicks. Straight hair, boring blouse, colorless makeup. She’s not trying to sound incapacitated or like she has a concussion. She’s trying to sound like someone who’s simply too far above it to be bothered with vocal inflection.
She’s trying to sound like me.
For the last three years—maybe longer—I’ve been defined by the path of my orbit within our tiny solar system. Not the gorgeous, molten sun, but an icy planet, stark and miraculous. My lack of habitability has never mattered. Despite my noxious atmosphere and frozen seas, I’ve always been Maribeth’s clear favorite.
I know I should assert my supremacy, put Kendry in her place, but the only thing going through my head is, This? Really? Is this what I look like to you?
The donut tastes like empty calories and heaven. I stare out the window at the sky and the gently aging housing development across the street. The parking lot looks like a traffic report, gridlock that goes on for miles.
What is the point? Autumn asked me once.
And here’s the thing. I have absolutely no idea.