Sloth

In the other corner: the undefeated champion Harper Grace, aka the Terminator, aka the Beast, aka the Ice Queen, who would settle for nothing less than unconditional surrender.

Ladies, come out fighting-and try to keep this fair and above the belt.

As if.

Miranda and Harper circled each other warily, each waiting for the other to land the first blow. Harper had the home-court advantage, which only meant that she had nowhere to escape. Miranda had shown up at her door, dragged Harper up to her bedroom, and now, behind closed doors and with a bleary-eyed ferocity, was ready to pounce. On the wall behind her hung a bulletin board covered in photos of the dynamic duo s greatest hits: junior high dances, makeover-themed slumber parties, crappy double dates, and triumphant after-parties. It was a vivid documentary record of their friendship; but at the moment, it was irrelevant.

Miranda swung first. “How could you?” she asked, pacing around Harper in a tight circle.

“What?”

“I saw you with Kane,” Miranda snapped. “It was disgusting.”

“So?”

“So you know how I feel about him.”

Harper landed the first blow. She laughed. “So maybe I don’t care.”

“That’s obvious,” Miranda retorted. “You don’t care about anything.”

Point to Miranda.

“What do you know?” Harper yelled, her face turning red.

“Nothing!” Miranda shouted back. “Because you won’t let me!” She paused, and sucked in a lungful of air. “I’m supposed to be your best friend,” she said quietly.

Harper threw her hands in the air. “Since when? Last month you hated me, this month you love me. Gosh,” she said sarcastically, opening her eyes wide in confusion. “I just can’t keep track.”

“Last month you screwed me over and were a total bitch about it!” Miranda snapped. “This month…”

“Yeah.” Harper scowled. “This month you’re back, because you feel sorry for me. Like I need that!”

The gloves were off.

Miranda wanted to cry. But, instead, she balled up her fists, wishing she could land a real blow.

Harper felt the anger explode from her, and it was such a blissful release to finally let it go that she didn’t care who was in the line of fire. She didn’t care who she was really angry at-Miranda was there, and she made for an easy target. It just felt so good, after all these weeks, to shout, to scream, to unclench her muscles, to drop the fake smile.

To let herself feel.

It was almost worth it.

Even when Miranda pounded her fist against the wall, slammed through the door, and left Harper alone.

Here is what Miranda remembered as she walked down the driveway to her car, trying to keep her face turned away from Adam’s house, and trying not to cry:

The sneer on Harper’s face and the ice in her eyes.

The sound of Harper laughing at her pain.

And, most of all, Harper’s words.

“Maybe if you weren’t so goddamn annoying and in my face all! The! Time!”

“Stop pretending you can understand anything about

me!

“I don’t need your pity and I don’t need you!”

And here is what Harper remembered as she sat on the edge of her bed and let the numbness seep back in:

Miranda’s eyes blinking back tears.

Miranda’s voice shaking as she spit out everything she’d been holding back.

Miranda’s attack, the words they both knew were true.

“Why is everything always about you?”

“Of course I felt sorry for you-why else would I pretend you weren’t such a bitch?”

“I’ve been your best friend for ten fucking years-you barely even knew her!”

Mostly, both girls remembered the end.

“You want to be miserable? You want to be totally self-destructive and pathetic and blow off anyone who tries to help?” Miranda asked, disgusted. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Harper opened her bedroom door and waved her hand like an usher. “Don’t let me stop you from leaving.”

And with that, they were both down for the count.

Reed was on his back under the truck, monkeying with the exhaust system, when she came into the garage. He could only see her feet and ankles: thin, black pumps with a low heel; pale, delicate ankles growing from them, narrow enough that he could probably encircle each with one hand. He’d seen those feet before.

“Hello? Is anybody here? Hello?”

For a moment, Reed considered hiding under the truck until she gave up and went away. And he might have, if his wrench hadn’t slipped out of his fingers and clattered to the floor. After that, he had no choice.

He wheeled himself out from under the truck and sat up, wiping his greasy hands against his jeans. Beth was still wearing the same outfit she’d worn the night before. It had looked perfect at the party; here, surrounded by chains and toolboxes and busted carburetors, it didn’t fit.

“What’s up?” he asked, not really wanting to know.

Her face was flushed and tearstained, and her hands kept flickering toward her head. She would twirl a strand of hair, tuck it behind her ears, put her arm down, and then, a moment later, start twirling again, as if she couldn’t help herself. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she said simply. “I thought…”

She looked so lost and fragile, he just wanted to go to her and hug her. He wanted to fix her problem, whatever it was.

But why? he asked himself. What’s she to you?

“Can we, uh, go somewhere?” Beth asked, her lip trembling.

Reed shook his head. “I got a lot of stuff to do here,” he said. “You know.”

“Maybe I could just hang out for a while?” she asked, almost pleading. “I really just need-”

“No.” It would be too easy to be happy if she were there. And he shouldn’t be happy, not with someone else. “I told you, I’ve got stuff to do. You’d be in the way.”

“Oh.” She looked like he’d punched her. “Okay.” She began backing out of the garage, her eyes whipping back and forth, searching fruitlessly for something to focus on. “See you around, I guess.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Whatever.”

Then she was gone. He felt like an asshole. And he hurt.

He hadn’t lit up since the night before, and now, as the pain crept back into his brain, seemed like as good a time as any. He grabbed his stash out of the glove compartment and wandered outside, sitting on a small ledge behind the garage. He’d have plenty of privacy.

It was a familiar, soothing routine, parsing it out, rolling it up, sealing the blunt with a swift and smooth flick of the tongue.

A few deep breaths and he’d be able to float away, beyond all the pain and all the shit. It would stop hurting.

Reed brought the joint to his lips-and stopped.

He still missed Kaia when he was high. It was a dull, faint throbbing, like a bruise that’s turned invisible but has yet to fully heal. Not like now, when the pain was sharp and clear.

The pain was the only thing that was clear, and it burned everything else away. Maybe instead of putting the fire out, this time he should let it burn. He hadn’t cried when Kaia died, or yelled or pounded his fist into a glass window, as he’d wanted. He had just smoked up, and that made it all go away.

Just as he’d made Beth go away.

Reed didn’t know why he couldn’t let her get close.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t forget the touch of Kaia’s fingers on his neck-but could no longer picture her face.

He didn’t know if there was some time limit on what he felt, if one day he’d wake up and things would be right