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the-most-pathetic-edge-marquis · 3 years

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like other girls - in defense of lauren mallory (pt. 3)

life goes on.

the volleyball team crashes unceremoniously out of the season at regionals. when lauren shows up at lunch the next day each of her friends is holding a balloon with you did your best (probably) written on it in sharpie. she feigns offense--and then lunges out with her fork, popping mike’s so quickly that he yelps and falls out of his chair, and she laughs until her lungs hurt.

the other four, she ties to her backpack and totes around until she gets to stats and mr. cogan tells her she’s causing a disruption.

by thanksgiving, lauren’s dad is in forks, not seattle, and mr. weber hasn’t invited any of his congregation over this year, so the mallory-stanley-weber conglomerate descends on angela’s house, like they have on-and-off ever since elementary school.

lauren helps her parents haul an overwhelming number of sides out of their car, mrs. weber makes menudo instead of turkey, and mr. stanley waltzes in with four pies--three pumpkin, and one apple. the argument over the leftovers is warm and well-worn, and lauren rolls her eyes as she hands off clean dishes for jess to dry so that angela can shelve them.

when the adults break out the wine and expand over the table, lauren and jess follow angela back to her room. they attempt monopoly, until jess catches lauren sneaking one 500 too many out of the bank and slaps her hand, accidentally sending an entire row of houses flying across angela’s blue comforter, and they switch, laughing, to uno.

(it’s better than nothing, lauren tells herself, over and over again, ignoring the ache in her stomach, the itch in her fingertips that’s sometimes more like burning. it’s jess, it’s your best friend, that matters more than--than--)

the mallorys spend christmas break in seattle with lauren’s grandma--andrew even flies in from vermont.

lauren does all of her gift-shopping in bright malls with soaring ceilings, breathing in the chatter of the crowds, and ducking into coffee shops whenever she feels like it. they even watch a professional ballet troupe do the nutcracker one night. she lies awake in her dark guest room, dizzily exhausted, and thinks this, i want this, i want to be somewhere just like this.

on new year’s eve, lauren perches on her desk, (they've only been back two days, so her armchair is still hosting the contents of a half-unpacked suitcase), nursing a cup of tea and flipping through a fashion magazine from her grandmother's coffee table. an engine sputters outside her open window--she glances out just in time to see tyler crowley’s van skid to a halt on the curb.

for a moment, lauren panics--then jess sticks her head out a window and yells he’s got fireworks! get down here!

they rattle up to the cliffs and pile out of the van. they weigh the blankets down on the rocks with mike's electric lantern, huddle together for warmth, passing around drinks, and tell stories about their winter breaks--mike almost broke an arm, apparently, the one day it snowed, bailing at the last possible second from a sled tied to the back of connor's truck.

at 11:58, they crowd around mike’s glow-in-the-dark watch, counting down to midnight--and then they shower sparks out over the ocean.

red and green and gold go whizzing out into the air, and they whoop, watching the clouds light up for split seconds, over and over.

lauren glances at jess. the colors are shimmering on her on her flushed cheeks, catching in her dark eyes as she stares up to the sky and cheers, bright and wild enough that lauren can feel it humming in her bones.

angela wanders up behind her, and jess spins to grab her by the shoulders, shouting something and laughing--and lauren loves both of them so much she has no idea how to carry it--

angela catches lauren's gaze and smiles--it’s soft, and this one lauren knows exactly how to read. jess sees it and spins--and lauren watches her eyes get even brighter as she waves her over.

it's enough. it's more than enough.

get over here! jess repeats, and lauren does.

they go back to school, and it's--normal.

lauren drags her grades up a few percentages now that she doesn't have practices to worry about. tyler stops by the lunch table to invite them all to the basketball games--and even looks at lauren when he says it--and they agree. angela's stress about the yearbook starts bubbling over--she keeps missing lunches, spending them in ms. kimble's classroom editing instead, and lauren and jess take turns ambushing her on the way to biology with snacks.

and then the police chief’s daughter comes back to forks, and jess drags her to the lunch table, beaming.

lauren scowls. toys with a fork. watches mike--who jess has been desperately, quietly crushing on for months now--bounce and bumble into the new girl’s orbit. watches edward fucking cullen stare at her too--and of course she stares back, tuning jess out completely, because that’s not rude at all--

and she watches jess. asking questions, sharing gossip, offering all their little lunch group’s jokes and stories and meetups up to this nobody--

lauren’s sitting too far down the table to kick bella swan’s chair, but for a petty second, she wants to. she grits her teeth, doing her best to ignore it.

she doesn’t think about how tentative everything feels right now, how close to crashing down around her--she’s never made friends easily, she knows, she’s heard her parents and her teachers cluck about it all her life, but it never mattered because she had jess and she had angela and now jess is latching on to this new girl like--like--

angela flags her down in the parking lot after school that friday and invites her over. (lauren doesn't know whether to be grateful that she doesn't have to keep turning over this bitter anger alone, or hurt that it's this obvious she needs--something--right now.)

the twins are at soccer practice, and mrs. weber on the sidelines, so they have the house to themselves. they play music as loud as angela's little cd player will let them, and spread the nail polish out on the living room floor instead of the bathroom, leaning back against the soft gray couch as they talk.

angela starts with a simple white, and lauren uncaps a vivid, glittering green.

i just--who does she think she is? lauren erupts finally, when they've exhausted the upcoming math test and rumors that principal mckinley's finally going to be fired and eric's new dog. just because she's from fucking--new mexico or whatever, she thinks she can waltz in here and the entire school will just roll over for her! it's such bullshit!

i don't think that's what she wants, angela says calmly, she seems pretty shy. she didn't ask for jess to pay attention to her.

well then i'm mad at jess, lauren spits--and is unspeakably glad that angela doesn't look up, just keeps tracing the rainbow she's painting onto her big toe. she didn't ask. she didn't think about what we--whether we wanted to deal with some weird new kid--who is the literal police chief's daughter, by the way--she doesn't care that bella clearly doesn't give a shit about anything except the cullens, she just--she should care, and she doesn't!

the words hang in the air, and lauren is surprised to find tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. she's dug her hands into fists, and the still-wet green is streaked across her palms.

angela recaps her little purple jar carefully--then lays her cheek on her knees and her eyes on lauren, cautious and far too knowing behind her glasses. can i ask you something?

lauren locks her eyes out the window. sunlight seeps weakly through the clouds, bouncing off blue curtains that she accidentally smeared peanut butter all over the summer after second grade, when mike showed up in angela's driveway out of nowhere and they all piled into the window to gawk.

sure, she says--far too aware of angela clicking the cd player off, of the huge and empty silence in the little house.

do you have a crush on jessica?

for a second, it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. with fireworks bursting out over the black ocean above and lighting up the underbellies of clouds. like the dizziness of looking down, down, down to a black depth, where the only hint of an end is lines of white that must be waves, crashing against rocks that are hidden by the night--

i think i might. lauren's voice is smaller than she's heard it in years.

okay, angela says, hey, lauren, it's okay! and it's not until angela's arm goes around her shoulders that lauren realizes she's crying.

you shouldn't--she tries, and angela just squeezes tighter, so lauren lets herself crumple onto her friend's shoulder and cry.

when there’s nothing but silence left, angela shifts around to sit in front of lauren, who leans her aching head back on the couch cushions--she can’t look, she can’t--

listen, angela says--grabs lauren’s hands and squeezes. i don’t care, okay? whatever...whatever my dad says, whatever anyone says, i don’t--it’s okay. you’re okay. it doesn’t change anything.

sometimes i wish it would, lauren tells the ceiling, and angela is quiet.

it won’t be like this forever, she finally says.

something deep in lauren settles. she breathes--her eyes are raw and her throat is sore and her hands are a little bit shaky between angela’s cool palms, but she’s breathing.

i still don’t like the new girl, she says, and angela sighs--lauren can hear the laugh behind it.

come on. let’s go find the polish remover and redo this.

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#lauren mallory #jessica stanley #angela weber #listen. angela+lauren friendship makes me feel a lot of things #i just #god #aargh

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