The Story

“What have you done?!” Allison’s whiskey colored eyes blazed, and she mopped her damp brow from her sprint across the practice field.

“I didn’t use any of our names, Allie. No one really knows.” The entire soccer team had ceased their drill to stare at us, heads together, no doubt spreading about Allie and me after they read my story in the latest Cardinal Collectanea.

“Why even write the story, Genie?”’ I’d never seen her like this, blinking back tears, her perpetual grin twisted into a scowl. 

“It was just a story, I never thought Johnson would want to publish it!” Allie grasped my shoulder, and I jerked myself free and yanked my hoodie over my head against an overcast breeze blowing across the perfect emerald playing field, a gift of the powerful alumni. I was a legacy, and my grandparents covered my tuition and a sizable donation to the endowment fund. They couldn’t actually kick me out of here, but I could care less, because I’d hated almost every minute I spent at this lousy place. 

I wrote a story about a pair of lifelong friends in which the heroine, whom I modeled as a modern-day Viola from the Shakespeare play I loved, carries an unrequited love for her friend. An overheard conversation between the protagonist’s rivals shatters their friendship, though true love prevails 

 I wasn’t thinking about us when I wrote the story, and I can handle the fallout, because I’ve always known who I am, and have been supported by most of my family. But Allie’s family would never accept us, even if she did feel the same way.  Yet, I’ve wanted to share my feelings with her, now that we’re probably heading off in separate directions soon, but I don’t want to lose my friendship with Allie. 

The empty hallways were eerily quiet. I didn’t see Mrs. Johnson in the Collectan/ea office, where Prada backpacks lined benches, keys clicked on laptops, and staffers spoke in hushed tones as others shuttled between desks. All eyes turned to me when I entered, and I ignored their stares and whispers when I took my seat in the featured student author's cubicle. I scribbled a note for Mrs. Johnson, which I slid under her door before I left and gathered my things from my locker. Halfway to the stairwell when Sarah, the assistant editor, called me.

“Genevieve, can we talk?” She caught her breath while I swept my eyes up her slender frame, her full lips upturned to a smile.

“I need to get home, maybe tomorrow.” I twirled my hoodie tie and hoped my dad hadn’t been waiting long.

“Look, it’s out there, but maybe there’s a way to fix this. Your story is great, and if we promise a follow-up, a series even, people might lose interest and stop talking about it.” Sarah closed the distance and grasped my arm.

“A series??” 

Sarah nodded. “People here will read one story, if they think it’s about someone here. But none of the gossipers will read a new one, they’ll lose interest.” 

“Wow, way to help me feel better about all this.” 

Sarah’s grin faded. “No, no, no. I didn’t mean it as an insult. You’re a great writer, Genevieve. I will certainly read anything you write." I didn’t miss the way Sarah’s breath hitched at those last words. 

“Where is Johnson?”

“In a meeting with Admin, but she’ll be back later so we can pitch the series idea, Genevieve.”

I didn’t trust many people here, but something about her made me feel safe.

“I’ll think about it, let you know soon.”

The breeze had become a gust, and clouds threatened as I made my way to my father’s pickup.

“Did your meeting run long?” Dad laid his newspaper on the seat before he handed me a cup of mint chocolate in my favorite mug.

“It’s just been a day, Dad. Thanks.” I listened to the rain pelting the windshield accompanied by the hum of the rebuilt engine, lulling me into a brief rest.  

“I’m so proud of you, Vivi.” 

“I appreciate you all so much, but I’m afraid, Dad.”

“Of what?” His eyes searched mine while we waited for the light to change.

“Of what it means to be me, how I’ll be able to move through the world. I just don’t feel accepted.”

Dad sighed and squeezed my hand. We’d had this conversation too many times since freshman year.

“You’ll be out there in less than a year. Start over somewhere else at school, write your stories, meet new people.”

I blinked back and looked at him. “I don’t want to be without her, Dad.”

“I know, Vivi.”

Later, I wrote a blog post about my story, and a letter to Allie. I had no intention of allowing either piece to see the light of day, but I needed the emotional release.

The next day found myself having lunch with Sarah and let it slip to her about my post.

“Genevieve, you have to let us run this. I’ll get Johnson on board, I promise.” She twirled spaghetti on her fork and dipped it in a mound of parmesan.

“Sarah, I really don’t think it’s that great.”

“So, why write it all?”

I chuckled. “You sound exactly like Allie”

Sarah dabbed sauce on her chin, her slim, elegant fingers wrapped around those cheap paper napkins. “Great minds think alike, I guess. No, really, please reconsider.”

We bussed our trays and headed to Johnson’s class, and Sarah told me all about her family, and their Thanksgiving turkey disaster. I was still laughing when we arrived in the classroom, and Allie sat in her seat behind me, her eyes wide and expression sour when I pulled my backpack strap over the chair.

“Hey.” I smiled and held up a hand in greeting.

“Hello, Vivi.” Her eyes flicked between Sarah and me.

“I like your sweater, Allison,” Sarah said. 

Allie nodded and pulled a pen from her bag. “I’ll see you after, Genevieve.”

“We’ll fix this, I promise, Allie”

“Whatever.” Allie shot me the briefest of glances, then wrote in her notebook.

I ignored the sinking feeling in my stomach to focus on Johnson’s review for our upcoming fall final exam. When class ended, my teacher beckoned me over to her conversation with Sarah.

“I got your message, Genevieve. We can discuss your plan this afternoon.” She leaned against the podium and adjusted her tortoiseshell frames. 

“Well, not today, Mrs. Johnson, since Genevieve has an appointment after school, and I’m her ride.” Sarah nudged my foot before I could speak.

“Well, why don’t you email your draft, and I can read it before we meet tomorrow?” Mrs. Johnson nodded and smiled.

Sarah dug one of her well-manicured fingers into my side.

“Sure.”

I struggled to match Sarah’s long strides when we hit the corridor.

“What the hell?”

“Let’s go hang out and get some coffee, Genevieve, or can I call you Vivi?” Sarah elbowed me this time, and I followed her to the parking lot.

“Vivi is fine.” 

We talked at the cafe until nearly 5:30 over cups of mint tea and brownies, about our favorite novels and movies, before we made a study date the following week and another hang after finals ended over the midwinter break. I was surprised to learn that we both planned to write and hated the cold. Sarah possessed a wicked sense of humor and disliked the status crap of the school as much as I did.

“They’re just jealous of you, Vivi. You’ll be a star at college, and they’ll party their time away with no plan, you’ll see.”

I was almost asleep when I realized that Allie hadn’t messaged or called for nearly a week.

A few weeks later, I was leaving the Collectanea office when it happened.

“But they’re just friends, A. They hang out and study, that’s all.” 

“She hasn’t called or texted in two weeks. I don’t know what to do.”

The first voice sounded familiar, and the second one was unmistakable.

“Just call her, tell her the truth.”

“But my parents, it would never work.” Her sobs echoed through the stairwell. “I miss her so much, I-”

Their voices fell silent when I dropped my notebook, and I considered my choices- hightail it back to the office, or grab my book and pretend I hadn’t heard her. A third presented itself when a classroom door opened. 

“Here, let me help you.” I think he was Mr. Stevens, a freshman English teacher.

“Thanks, can I come in for a minute and repack my bag?”

“Sure.” He closed the door and waited at his desk until I was done.

“All set? Genevieve, right?”

“Yes, thank you sir.” I followed him to an empty stairwell, and walked home under a stunning sunny sky, and I couldn’t stop smiling and texted her: I miss you, Allie, can we talk on Saturday?

Five minutes later, I spiraled into the lowest low of my life when I read her response: No, Vivi, I don’t want to speak to you again. Just forget what you overheard.

Through a veil of tears, I reread her message until my vision blurred and my heart was lodged in my throat.  My best memories included Allie, and to say her response was a shock was an understatement. Had I misheard that she missed me, implied that she had feelings for me? It was all too much, and I needed to turn off my brain. I ignored my dad’s knocks on my door and spent a sleepless night counting the roses on my wallpaper.

When I rose to drag myself up for school. I trudged my way to campus, hoodie pulled low covering a wrinkled uniform, the perfect attire for my devastation.

“Vivi?” Sarah’s cheery greeting cut through my brain fog. 

She stepped in front of me, and I looked down at my untied shoes.

“Vivi, what happened?”  I choked on a sob and melted into Sarah’s arms, her warmth and kindness flowing through me. We ditched our morning classes and had muffins at our cafe while I poured out my heart, about Allie, and how much I hated most of the high school experience. 

“I know you don’t want to use your post, but I think you should talk to Johnson. You need a wider audience than these entitled fools here. I believe in you, and I know someone else will relate to what you have to say.” Sarah covered my hand, and I couldn’t deny the fluttering in my chest any longer. She comforted and understood me in a way Allie never had.

In the days that followed, I rarely saw Allison, and we spoke only in passing. I burned my letter to her and watched the paper transform into a pile of ashes, a dozen years of friendship and unrequited love disintegrating to nothing. 

I buried my blog post in a drawer in my bedroom. Just before Graduation, I won a prize for my work, a small stipend I used for my first year expenses.

Now, a photo of us on the lawn at the university from which we earned our degrees, sits on a shelf in our house. We embraced each other, and I still remember the feeling looking into Sarah’s hazel eyes, so much love and gratitude for her-the perfect beginning I could have never written on my own to a story I hoped would have no end.