I taught myself to be as fluent as possible in nonverbal languages because it’s the only way to understand what people aren’t saying, to carve out your space and claim it. It’s the only way I can feel like I know what’s going on.
It’s the only way to lie convincingly too.
Yes, I’m doing better since the accident, thanks for asking.
Or:
Oh, I’m absolutely looking forward to college after my senior year. It’s going to take some adjusting since I can’t count on a lacrosse scholarship, but I’ll figure it out. Now that I know how easy it is to lose something you care about, I plan to work even harder to succeed at whatever comes next. Life is short, you know? You have to make the most of it.
Casual smile. Subtle nod. Relaxed posture. Make sure to turn toward the person I’m talking with, maybe mirror their posture. (Mirroring is a bit more complicated than literally copying someone’s body language, but it does put people at ease.)
Maybe I should teach Finn some of the tricks. Because Ever’s nostrils are flaring, and they obviously don’t believe Finn’s okay.
Finn hands the bottle back to Ever and scrambles to his feet. “Let’s keep moving, Ev.”
“Fine.” They pack up and stalk toward me to offer me a hand. “C’mon, only a little bit farther.”
I steel myself before I allow them to pull me up. I don’t like it when people touch me. I don’t like it when I’m observing a conversation and it suddenly turns to me. And I don’t like the sharp stab of pain when I rest my weight on my leg again.
“We’re a bit of a mess, aren’t we?” I mutter. We all fall into formation as we keep moving down the path—Liva and Carter leading the way, Ever and me in the middle, and Finn behind us, quietly stewing.
Once we’ve settled into a rhythm again, the pain in my knee goes from stabbing to nagging.
“No more than we should’ve expected, I guess,” Ever says. They’re putting up a facade. Both Liva and Ever put a lot of work in this getaway, in different ways. “I just want this weekend to be good, you know? I want everything to go exactly right.”
“Once we’ve found our way back into the game, it’ll be better,” I say. “I don’t think this weekend will fix everything, but it’ll be good to spend time together.”
We’ve been playing this role-playing game together for three years now. We’ve overcome and adapted to Zac bowing out. We managed—sort of—without Finn. Returning to it now will be as natural as getting back on a bike. I hope.
Ever draws the straps of their backpack tighter and straightens their T-shirt. They’re nervous. “You know, Liva and Finn are going to have to talk sooner rather than later.”
“I know.” I bite my lip and glance at Liva’s proud posture as she’s leading the way. “That’d be good.” They wouldn’t even have to mend things forever—just for this weekend.
None of us know what happened with Liva when Finn got beaten up. She was there, but wasn’t part of it—she wouldn’t be part of it. But she hasn’t found a way to talk about it with any of us, even me. And none of us have figured out a way to talk about it with Finn. We just know that ever since that day, there is bad blood between them, and it’s threatening to push all of us apart.
We used to meet up every week, but since February, we’re happy if we make it once a month. And Finn hardly showed up for any of the games.
I reach up to curl my hair around my fingers before I realize the long black locks are gone. Cut off in a fit of wanting, and needing, and different. No more “Maddy, the injured lacrosse player,” no more “Maddy, who got trapped in a burning car,” no more “Did you know Maddy is actually special?” No more pain. No more uncomfortable layers and masks that I never wanted to begin with.
The corner of Ever’s mouth pulls up. “I like the hair.”
“Thanks.” I hate it.
And I’m not the only one. When Liva showed up at my house yesterday without warning—while I was trying to make cookies for the weekend—she very nearly strangled me.
“If you told me you planned to get a haircut, I could’ve changed your costume,” she snapped. “You should look like an inquisitor. You need to do the magisterium proud.”
I didn’t get a haircut per se. It wasn’t a particularly well-planned decision. It just happened. It just happened. With scissors and hair clippers in front of a bathroom mirror, in a haze.
I felt a flash of something like satisfaction at her obvious disappointment, even if I’d shared that disappointment only hours before.
Liva shook her head. “I like things to be pretty. I want us to look pretty. It’s the last time we’ll be together like this.”
The few words fell heavy between us and remained there. She sat at the kitchen table and took out her sewing kit, every movement measured and careful, like mine once were. “You used to understand how much this means to me.”
The words were soft enough that I wasn’t sure I was meant to hear them. Her shoulders dropped, and she kept her eyes on her designs, while my cat leaped on the table and curled up on one of the pieces of fabric.
It was true. Once upon a time, I would’ve consulted Liva before making any changes to my appearance. After all, Liva practically pops up when you do a Google search for the societal standard of “beauty” as I’d always been taught: long, wavy blond hair, pale blue eyes, translucent white skin, cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Liva won WyvernCon’s costume contest three years in a row. She was born to be a famous costume designer or
