Natalie

Dashing in behind Winn with my bags slung over my shoulders, I speak nonsense. "Do you want a slushie?"

Winn faces me, shifting from foot to foot. "Yeah, sure? Pineapple, please." His voice is muffled, unlike the umpire-like call he usually instills. His eyes dance left as his Adam's apple bobs in a harsh motion. "If you'll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom." He rushes the words, a gurgling noise circling the phrase.

In no time flat, he's busting through a blue paint-chipped door.

I drift to the slushie shop's line with my hands tucked in my pockets. The black and white patterned floor is enough to give someone a headache, and the retro, family-friendly vibe attracts obnoxious kids. I side-eye an abhorrent couple, flip out my phone, and message Dad, attempting to ignore the borderline intrusive questions I want to hurl at Winn.

Dad's response is immediate, glaring at me on my Fitbit and phone. Are you okay?? Have you been abducted????

I'm fine. I'm with a friend. I doubt aliens would be able to stand me. I reply

I've got to hear this!! My phone buzzes in shared annoyance. Oh... and I've got some news. I'll tell you in a bit.

In the pit of my stomach, a bubble of discomfort seeps in. News. A word with positive and negative connotations. I've had enough disruptive announcements to conclude that I want to smite the word out of existence almost as much as my current wasteland. If this concept didn't exist, I wouldn't know of Scramble's hiring procedure or my mother's arrival last week. Both horrendous.

I text back. Right.

Before I reach the register, I produce my pocket-sized wallet chocked with crinkled tens, fives, and ones. "Two pineapple slushies. One small and the other medium," I direct to the cashier, counting out the change.

"Coming up." The blue-capped individual jerks two styrofoam cups off a towering stack. Crushed ice fills the two cups, sputtering like the muscle of my brain.

Why does it make sense to put future employees through your dating program, Scramble?

Why does it make sense for the LE to come back now?

Logically, it doesn't. Both procedures are useless.

Utilizing Scramble's services is like watching an infographic posted on free cable TV.

It's a waste to develop a romantic relationship, correct? What would that even feel like? Is there some invisible pull that drags earthlings together? Why do people crush? How could you fall for a stranger? Why would anyone willingly roll themselves through that? It's like biting into a caramel-covered onion. On the surface, it's an innocent, sweet apple. But inside, the vegetable can make one shed tears. Once you take a bite, you can't relinquish the taste.

Throwing a nod at a Fizzy's employee, I grasp the slushies and deposit the drinks along with my bags in a booth closest to the exit. I turn, positioning my back against my duffle. The restrooms are straight to my right, and a secondary entrance is planted directly ahead for boneheads who park on the wrong side.

"Paul!" A person with choppy green hair screams, barreling out of the restrooms. Way to be annoying, bonehead.

"Inside voices!" someone screeches back. I see, you must be equally oblivious to others' existences.

"Some idiot upchucked in the bathroom!" From the corner of my eye, I watch green hair act out a person vomiting, accompanying the actions with uncannily real noises. Go ahead and make people with weak stomachs vomit. "Oh, and Will looked like a fricking ghost. He's got the clean-up." Green hair spits out a deranged laugh. You look like a feral rat.

"Who's Will?" the other guy, presumably Paul, questions.

"The guy who plays and sings on Fridays." It's called playing gigs, dimwit. "The guy who works here!" green hair yells, exasperated.

"Price." Paul clears his throat, lowering his voice. "His name is Winn."

Green hair chuckles. "You're kidding."

"Nope."

A second later, Winn emerges from the restroom. Immediately, green hair and  Paul scurry backward, disappearing behind the wall of fountain drinks. My eyes pin on the collar of Winn's tee and then his hazel eyes. His orbs are glossed and zip around, looking for something invisible. When I pass him the medium cup, he nearly drops it, joking about having to clean up the slushie mess.

"Do you play gigs every Friday?" I question, gauging how his smile reaches the wrinkles of his eyes and the way his lips curve at half their capacity.

"Positively. It's fun and pretty lucrative." He places his slushie on the table. "I've got to set up, but we can keep talking," he offers, beaming his flashlight of a smile.

"Sure." I trail after him and into a closet between the men's and women's restrooms. "What's on your shirt? The collar?" I ask, capturing his expression in frames of a mental film.

His mouth curves a quarter, and he laughs. No crinkles form around his eyes, and his brows raise an eight of an inch. "Snap! I must have dripped some Kool-aid on my shirt!" He shakes his head, remarkably believable.

My arms double over my chest, and my face falls flat. "You told me you were allergic to red food dye."

"You remember that?" Winn's voice raises an octave as he slides past me with an extension cable and an amplifier. His offhand winds around his black tee and checkered flannel, his knuckles growing whiter.

"Yes, Winn." How could I forget? I nearly poisoned you. Besides, it's hard to erase audible memory. I remember all bump-ins along crowded hallways to the conversation about life at the top of football bleachers. It's hard to forget about you in general, you chaotic human. You made quite the impression seven months ago, literally.

Winn raises a palm and dashes to a napkin dispenser, jerking out a handful of the scratchy, inexpensive paper. He catches the amplifier at his side, letting the device rest on an empty table. The napkin smooshes against his face to not reveal the substance he spits up, but the coloration leaks through. Red. The sight lends me to placing my hand on his elbow and gently patting him. He isn't a dog. I retract my hand, backing into my bubble. "That's blood," I manage. "Do you need another tissue?"

"No, no... I'm great." Winn chortles while grabbing his guitar case. "I had a nosebleed in the bathroom, so I guess some blood came up." He shrugs.

As soon as Winn turns away, his shoulders drop, and he releases a steady stream of air. It takes all my willpower to not begin an interrogation. Practice social norms for once. Do not be the outlier. Do not hold Winn captive in a storage closet until he spills the truth. I wouldn't want that. He wouldn't want that. I will not interrogate, I will not conflate, and I will not demolish persons on this wretched planet.

"That's your car." Winn jabs a finger at my white Volvo.

Don't question him. Don't ruin this.

I say something, and Winn replies, but I let my mind blur, redirecting any comments and concerns to my back burner. There's no telling when they will reappear, probably when he sends me "matches" for Scramble's typical all-inclusive, connectively cursed regime.

The ball of gas blinds me, and droplets of water grace my skin when I stride away from the white-lettered building. I don't bother to check if Winn is gaping at Dad and I's opposite profiles or if he's scrutinizing our differences. Either way, now he knows which side I get my Hispanic looks from.

My brain spirals, plowing to a divergent venue. It's raining. The single thought tugs a curve of my lips. "Hey," I mumble while tossing my bags in the back, avoiding the Happy Meal Caleb probably discarded there.

"Is that boy nice?" Dad inquires, his weight pressed against the center console.

Shaking my head, I lower myself into the passenger seat. "He is an awful human that performs acts of kindness for witches and the like," I answer, my eyes shooting to the fast food bag. What if I toss it out the window? Raccoons won't mind.

Dad snorts, placing his hand over his heart. "You should invite this 'awful human' to dinner!" He laughs hysterically while my face morphs into a glare.

My jaw clenches. I don't need to ruin anyone else's life. Lindsey and Caleb don't need their social existences mutilated. No one needs to know who they're related to. It's pure fact that I'm a social embarrassment. "No."

"Why not? I have written evidence that he's a friend," Dad states, eyes narrowing.

"He's always busy." True.

Dad sighs, his blue eyes softening. "Friends want to make time for each other."

I clear my throat. "What did you need to tell me? The news?"

He freezes, nose twitching and eyes sprinting. He exhales, running a hand along his jaw. "I talked with Tina," he stops himself, "your mom, today over lunch. She's going to do it."

As we pause at a stop sign, my heart remains still, refusing to pump blood through my veins. My mind grows numb, my lungs don't seesaw, and my eyelids refuse to open. Tina, my mother, the LE, can't do this. She can't do this. She can't do this. She can't do this.

But she is.

Curse you, life.

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Word Count - 1,577
Total Word Count - 6,781