elliot

The Cumm-n-Gitt's parking lot is even busier than it was yesterday. Like, busy to the point where kids are literally waiting to get gas because there aren't enough parking spaces, so they might as well get gas now and run in to pay for it. This. This is the level of Cumm-n-Gitt crazy. Hulhazy Front may be fairly small, but the devotion to a tradition that feels as old as time itself is real.

"This place is pretty busy," Alyssa says, stepping out of the Camry. We had to park along the thin street, admittedly closer than I would usually manage after work. It's only about half-past four, but tons of summer shifts out here get out at this same time to the point where a plethora of teenagers have come to fraternize about the well-stocked shelves of our very own safe-haven.

Our shoes crunch over gravel as we walk towards the front doors. Loitering teens mill around the front doors, whilst a few mega-super-hip college students sit on the curb and smoke. I stare at Alyssa's flimsy flip-flops as we walk by; she's obviously pretty unstable over the gravel, which is why I will always, always advocate sneakers. They're the best.

We walk through the clouds of smoke, and I try to ignore her brushing up against my side for the briefest of seconds. I have on an old swim tournament crewneck (Duncan always says I dress like I don't know how to homeostasis), and I can't help but wonder how it feels for Alyssa, with her bare skin brushing up against me and my stupidly starchy fabric.

"This isn't actually as bad as it gets sometimes," I tell her. "You should see it an hour or two from now, when it finally sinks in that it's actually summer. It gets really bad. There are usually little parties and stuff all around here, and people come to stock up beforehand. It's like all the adventurer's guilds. They need all the potions and mana and weapons and crap."

"You are surprisingly dorky," Alyssa says.

"Oh?" We walk in through the non-automatic doors, held open by some sophomores I vaguely recognise from the gymnastics team, and the sensation of air conditioning so cold it's practically wet hitting the back of my neck makes me all too aware of the sudden wave of heat her words have sent surging through my body. "Is that a good thing?"

"A very good thing. I would have taken you for some dunder-head jock or something."

Oof. That one was kinda rude. "Thanks?"

"Sorry, that—that sounded kinda bitchy. Sorry." She smiles apologetically, then makes a point of swivelling her gaze about the room. "So, wow, this is the Cumm-n-Gitt, huh?"

"Yes," I say, glad for a change of topic. Dunder-head jock. "This is the Cumm-n-Gitt. Land of magic and kids who found out about DnD from Stranger Things and never looked any further."

I glance at the first checkout aisle, which has one of the owners, Enrique, cheerfully handing a bag to some probable-freshman, just learning their Cumm-n-Gitt heritage now. Enrique is pretty solid. I think his cuñada is one of Mom's friends. He's always been super nice to me. He somehow knows my name, and we're just very, very chill. Until last night with Norm, Enrique was my cashier of preference.

In the aisle next to him is Norm, the current cashier of preference. (I am easily swayed, evidently.) Last night, I talked to him a bit more after the girls from the team had left, and he told me that he was working here as much as he could before college, because he wants to work in business management—apparently, the Cumm-n-Gitt has a super nice brand and reputation. "Trader Joe's looks like stale poop in comparison," he'd insisted. "I'll email you a video on the brand and show you the differences!"

Also, Norm just likes it, apparently. Which I thought was weird, but okay.

I watch him for a moment as he helps two guys who are probably varsity swim by now. At least, based on the levels of desperation I was met with at the Front the other night. Norm is laughing with them about something, which is a little surprising. He has such socially awkward vibes, yet he's eliciting all this laughter?

I think back to last night. He really was easy to talk to. He's a surprisingly easy conversationalist. Maybe the chess team cult won't just be me, him, and Alyssa.

"Okay so that dude," I say with a nod in his direction, "is Norm."

"Okay?"

"He is our cult leader."

"Ahhhh, okay." Alyssa strokes her chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Noted."

"Norm is a queen."

"Obviously." She glances around, soaking in the scene: teal and white linoleum tiles, scuffed by years of use and coated in a thin layer of sand and gravel dust; tall shelves nearly reach the low-hung ceiling, up so high that even Duncan and I can't reach the top shelf; a weird smell that's somehow eternally fall-like, some weird cinnamon and burnt pumpkin thing, that instead reeks of summer because it always smells like this.

I watch her stare. It might seem a little weird, but being a high schooler at the Cumm-n-Gitt is kind of a big thing here. I can't believe it's taken her a couple weeks to find it. The fact that this is her first time is beyond me. I guess growing up with something being a hard fact of life, then seeing someone who has no idea what you're talking about, is trippy. Even just a convenience store.

"These shelves are so tall," Alyssa says. It's an astute observation, I guess. "I don't think Bruce Willis could army crawl away from terrorists on these."

"Oh, for sure. Tessa Violet can do literally anything, but I don't think she could stand up there and dance her little dorky yellow-haired heart out."

Alyssa glances over at me. Her eyebrows are such a light strawberry blonde that they're hard to see, but when they scrunch together, the light catches them and shows that, yes, they have a shape. They exist. And I like them, somehow. I really like her brows. "You listen to Tessa Violet," she says, like she's surprised.

"Yes. You listen to Tessa Violet?" I know plenty of random people through social media who know the music I listen to. It's not as if I've been walking around all my life thinking that I'm the coolest, hippest martyr alive, and that no one knows my music. I mean, Neema and Duncan both know who Tessa is (I am more than in love with her and I'm not even sad about it), but not many people in Hulhazy listen to her. We have a weird mix of ironic country and hip hop, all blended with whatever is on the Top 40 charts at that moment. Discounting the soccer player guys and the weird oral interp kids, I haven't even seen anyone jam to it beyond one of those "I don't know the words but I be boppin'" type ways.

Then again, I don't really talk to people enough to figure out if I'm alone in my musical interests.

Alyssa blinks. "Yeah. I literally have fanart of her in my room."

"Seriously?" I wrack my brain, trying to figure out how I would have missed it. "Where? I really wanna see it."

Alyssa's cheeks blossom russet beneath her amalgamation of freckles. "It's not up yet."

"Oh."

"Yeah.... I actually have a lot of music fanart in my room? I had a lot of Blackpink and Ariana Grande stuff in middle school, but Tanner kidnapped it, and then I fell in love with Dodie and girl in red and shit, so, um, yes." She clamps her mouth shut and swivels her gaze away.

"That's really cool," I tell her as we move towards the Gitt's small frozen foods section, which is really just a bunch of tiny cartons of ice cream. There's the basic stuff like Ben and Jerry's, Crunch, etc., but there's a local brand I really like—Hard Cow. Super good.

As we walk, we talk about the kind of music we like. I can't stop thinking about what she said about artists she loves, though. Like, girl in red. She listens to girl in red. I'm trying to figure out if she was being upfront and didn't think much of it, or if she was trying to be subtle. Like, I don't listen to girl in red, but I LISTEN to girl in red. I don't think I can just ask her if she listens or LISTENS, as much as I want to.

Man, do I want to.

Alyssa is staring at the Hard Cow options. I don't know who makes them, but the flavours are all bizarre. "Peaches and onions? Like, Holes? That ... that disturbs me." She laughs, this honey-like tinkling sound that steals my breath and makes my heart thud in my chest.

"It is indeed disturbing," I agree. "My dad and I used to come and get Hard Cow stuff all the time—they've been around since before I was born, even though I don't even know where it's made—and that one has been there forever."

She stares at it, like she expects it to say something. I love the way her nose wrinkles, regardless of her maybe-existent girl in red listening habits. "Is it good?"

"Maybe?" My fingers discover a hole in my right khaki pocket—small, nothing big enough to lose a ticket to the North Pole, or even a bell from Santa, but a pleasant enough distraction. "It's been ages since I've had any."

"Hmm." Alyssa crosses her arms, considering the bright yellow-neon blue combination of graphic swirls beneath the appealing label that reads in a pleasant font: PEACHES AND ONIONS: The Good Version. "We should try this some time."

"Together?" I ask like an idiot, even though, yes, Elliot, probably together.

She laughs and slides her gaze over to me. "If that would be okay?" She doesn't sound confident when she says it, somehow, even though she most definitely looks it. Her tiny, stocky body is rigid with some kind of ingrained self-assurance I can't even begin to comprehend, her whole being, relaxed.

She really is gorgeous.

"Definitely okay," I chirp out too quickly. "Definitely, definitely, definitely okay. Mega okay. Yes."

Her mouth crinkles in the corner when she smiles. I smile back.

And then she pops it. The Question.

"Hey, do you listen to girl in red?"

Her eyes are still teasing, but I see how her fingers almost seem to have tightened against her arms. I can't believe she just came right out and asked. To me. A stranger.

I do my best to not sound like a totally freaked out dork in my response: "Yes. Um, do you?"

"I'm more partial to Sweater Weather, but, um, yeah." She says it nonchalantly, but she's now focusing hard on some other ice cream thing. "You . . . seem like the girl in red type."

"I'm glad I tip off girl in red radars." My hands are still fishing around in my pockets, I realize. Gosh, I probably look very weird and questionable and not good right now. "Would that be a GIRdar?"

Alyssa facepalms, laughing into her hands. I love the way her whole body shakes with her chuckling, almost like it's too much laughter for her petite frame or something.

"Why?" she groans. I can hear the smile in it, and I laugh too. It feels nice, laughing with her. Also scary. Definitely scary—I mean, like, she is an absolute stranger. Who likes girls. Who somehow asked the "hello girls?" question first. She likes girls? I like girls. She likes girls.

Ohmygosh I am a girl I literally cannot.

My whole body is riddled with nervous energy as we leave. Alyssa says she probably shouldn't go for the ice cream now, and nothing else—in a glorified snack shack catered towards hungry teens — appealed to us, so we decide we should just leave. I wave to Norm as we pass by, and then we're back out not some six minutes away from the beach.

"We should go swimming sometime," I muse more to the air than to anyone else. Although, let's be completely honest: The thought of seeing Alyssa in a swimsuit is too exciting to ignore. And I make it a point to not think about girls in swimsuits.

Alyssa snorts. "What if I'm a bad swimmer?"

"I feel like that goes against your biology."

She's silent for a few seconds, and it's like, fuck, did I mess this up? Then she says, "You'd think so, but, nah. I'm spectacularly brilliant at fucking up things that shouldn't even be fuck-up-able."

Well that is cryptic. Cool beans.

I'm about to follow up with some bullshit quip that I won't even have decided on till it's halfway out my mouth when a familiar SUV parks in the just-emptied spot right next to our position on the Cumm-n-Gitt front walk.

Taffy rolls down the passenger side window, grinning and waving and being obnoxiously and weirdly nice. "Hey! Al!"

"Alyssa," she corrects smoothly, missing so little of a beat, it's almost like she predicted it. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," Taffy says. I see Brooklin in the driver's seat, removing her sunglasses for her facial recognition unlock. "Brookie and I are just getting some supplies for one of Tony Moffat's parties tonight. They're always so fun. But it's easier to bring your own stuff sometimes, y'know? Especially with a Tony party. They're always just so busy. So we like to bring stuff. To help. Y'know? I don't know."

Alyssa doesn't look fussed. Or bothered. Or interested, really. But she smiles and does her best, to the extent where I'm surprised I can even pick out that it's insincere. Which makes me feel better about myself, certainly.

"That sounds really cool," she says. "I hope you guys have fun!"

"Oh for sure," Taffy says, waving her off. "We sups will. It'll be a blast. Do you wanna come?" She leans her forearms against the car's windowsill, batting her eyes in a way that turns my stomach, though I couldn't possibly tell you why.

"Thanks, but, I don't know. I'm pretty tired."

Taffy only has eyes for Alyssa right now. My skin prickles with discomfort. It's not a nice look. It reminds me of an evil-leaning cat more than anything, stalking something before it pounces.

"C'monnn, babes. I'm sure Tony wouldn't mind if we brought a tagalong. No one will care."

"I'm really honestly tired," Alyssa insists. "Like, if I drop dead or something, I wouldn't be at all surprised."

"You should come!" comes Brooklin's slightly muffled voice from inside the SUV. I can see her clearly, though—her eyes are glued to her phone as one hand drums her nails against the frame of her ridiculously oversized sunglasses.

Taffy's voice is particularly pleading. "Pleeeaaase? Please, Ally?"

"It's—"

"Pleeeaaaaaaaaase?"

Alyssa squeezes her eyes shut for just a moment. "I'd prefer not to drive myself, is the only thing. And my brother would have to come."

"I can give you guys a ride," I offer immediately. For whatever reason, the idea of Alyssa and Taffy and Brooklin all together in a car irks me. It's just very unsettling. Almost as unsettling as the fact that she already somehow knows them. It feels like some little weird possessive match has been lit inside of me—I don't know why.

Taffy looks at the ground with an expression I know is her overly-incredulous "Oof would you look at that" face. She used to use it whenever our head coach would tell us to do a stupid set of reps, or give us a big yelling at. Good to know she's maintained it over the past year.

"It's supposed to be a little smaller," she says slowly, blue eyes finding me. I try not to feel self conscious beneath her gaze. "Like, going out of our way to invite Alyssa is one thing, but, more than that—"

"If it's an issue, I'll just stay home," Alyssa says with a nonchalant shrug. "There will be other Tony Nofcat parties."

I try not to smile. It's a little too difficult.

"Oh no no no!" Taffy says quickly, slipping over her own words. "Nonono, it's totally fine. She can come. For sure. Just ... don't invite anyone else, okay?"

"My brother?" Alyssa says. "Sorry, I just would rather—"

"Super fine!" Taffy opens the door, and Brooklin on the other side joins her. "We're gonna grab provisions. El, you remember where Tony Moffat's house is?"

"How could I forget?" I say, before adding a "It's just so big" to try and cover my lack of enthusiasm. Tony Moffat parties have been going on since the seventh grade. They've been consistently stupid and over-hyped. Living in a small town where kids drink, he's been holding drunken sleepovers since the beginning of high school. I never did quite understand the hype.

Brooklin, dressed in a crop top and oversized jean cut-offs, smiles with natural-ish glossed lips. The sunglasses have made a reappearance, and the darkness of the lenses matched with the darkness of her asymmetrical bob is magazine-worthy pretty. I follow her on Instagram, and I have to admit, I sometimes go into Big Stalker mode. She just looks like this consistently—polished. Even coming out of a heat, dripping wet and shivering against the comparatively cold humidity of the pool, she looks ready for a billion photos.

I'm not even jealous. She's just disturbingly nice to look at. I wish I had the willpower to look away.

"We'll see you there in an hour or so," she says with a wave before grabbing a lingering Taffy's arm and hauling her inside. "Byyyyeee!"

"They're kinda standoffish," Alyssa mutters, staring through the glass doors after them. "They were so freaking nice earlier. Do ... eh."

"Eh?" I'm not staring after my former teammates—I'm staring at Alyssa, at her destructively adorable scrunched expression and her lips, worked into a tight, thin line.

She waves me off. "Sorry. It's nothing."

"I literally don't care," I say. And I mean it. "Offend me. I love to be offended. It's my absolute favorite feeling in the world."

"Oh. Was—"

"Yes," I say with a slight grimace. I anticipated this the moment the words flew from my mouth. "Yes, that was sarcasm. Seriously though, you can tell me."

She gives a breathy-laugh-sigh thing, obviously relieved. "Oh, good. Sorry. Uh, just, do you guys have beef or something? They seem a bit closed off to you. Or something."

"Maybe? We were on the swim team last year. And then, I quit. So, yeah...." Jace's words echo in my head. Did he ever mention me and the swimteam to Alyssa? No way it would have come up. Like, no way. Absolutely no way. Right?

"Oof," Alyssa says, "gotcha."

I don't know what else to say, so I pull out my phone to check the time. "Okay, we hit your house to grab your brother—do you need to change? I should probably change."

Alyssa takes a minute to respond, almost like she's in some kind of trance. I wait for her to snap out of it—when she does, she shoots up a little and gives herself a shake. "Huh? Sorry, zoned out."

"Do you need to change or anything? I probably need to—I probably smell so freaking bad—but if you want to hit your house first, or I can drop you off, or—gosh, I should stop talking. Okay. Yes."

"If you could drop me off and pick me up, that would actually be awesome," she says, rubbing one of her shoulders slightly. It's definitely a cute look for her. Ugh. Why is this girl so fucking cute? "I can give you my number, if you want."

"That would be awesome. Thanks."

We clamber back into the Camry in a weird, hazy kind of silence. I take care in my music selection this time, though—before, it was simple oldies hits. Completely neutral for any new car company, I feel like. I have to jam the AUX cord hard into my phone to get it to recognise the connection, but once it does, I put on Tessa Violet radio in complete silence, waiting to so much as smile till Bad Ideas has begun.

"Oh my gosh," Alyssa says with that laugh I know I won't get out of my head for days, if ever. "I love you."

I laugh with her, even though those words are heavy and scary on my heart.

Just, damn. I feel like a disaster queer. Fuck.

A/N (August 12, 2021):

I got a hot chocolate. The hot chocolate is almost gone.

How dare I have to pay for another. >:[

(just kidding but also >:[[[[[)