Romance in Adagio

Chapters

Act 1: The Queen's Gambit
Act 2: Hide and Seek
Act 3: Perdendosi

Act 1: The Queen's Gambit

She’s coming your way.

Quick, play it cool, don’t make eye contact. Look down. Act casually disinterested. Don’t be the one to make the first move. Make her come to you.

Try and look as tall, dark, and mysterious as you possibly can.

And whatever you do, don’t give off the impression that you’re madly in love.

She’s coming. Oh, she’s coming closer. She’s walking with that strange blue-haired girl with the purple sunglasses. Quick! Get her attention! Or maybe don’t. Be indifferent, act like you couldn’t care less about what she thought. Girls like that. Right? An unconscious need to win your affection, or something like that. Or maybe she’s the kind of girl who likes to be showered in compliments. You never know until you try.

She passes by. Your words catch in your throat. You don’t know what you would have said, so perhaps it’s for the best that your tongue constricts. Eyes fixed down at the table in front of you, your stomach lurches as you catch a glimpse of the hem of her skirt in the corner of your vision.

You exhale slowly and look down at your hands. You didn’t fully expect that you would actually say anything, but the failure comes as a disappointment nonetheless. Being the new kid in school gives you a fresh start, a clean slate with which to shape yourself however you want, so what do you have to lose? Looking like an idiot in front of an entire cafeteria’s worth of peers, you rationalize. Looking like an idiot in front of . . . her.

Surreptitiously, you glance backward. She sits down with her back to you, the blue-haired girl sitting across from her. The cacophony of the cafeteria fades around you; nobody else in the world matters right now. What matters is her long, cascading hair, the color of pure obsidian. Her slim shoulders leading down to long arms and nimble fingers. Musician’s fingers.

The blue-haired girl looks your way. You look back. She smiles, and stands up. Hastily, you whip your head back around. You focus on your lunch, a simple sandwich in a plastic bag. Over the din of lunchtime conversation, you hear the dull thud of footsteps approaching you. Your heart rate accelerates painfully.

“Hey.”

You look up. The blue-haired girl is leaning over your table, palms splayed out. She’s wearing a frayed white hoodie and cobalt jeans, with an enormous pair of headphones draped around her neck. Her enormous sunglasses giver her an insect-like appearance. Coupled with her eye-wateringly bright hair, she’s a sight to see.

“You’re new here, right?”

You nod nervously. “Yeah. Just last week.”

She grins. “Good. Come with me. You need to find yourself some friends.”

You stare incredulously at the creature in front of you. “What?”

“Friends, companions, shoulders to cry on. You know.” The girl shrugs and runs a hand through her hair. “I’m no detective, but you seem to be lacking in that department. Come on.”

Her bluntness stings. It hurt enough being told that you had to abandon everything you knew and move to a new city, now here this stranger is criticizing you for not being the top of the social food chain already. Or at least, that’s what it sounds like.

“Hold on, who are you?” you ask, not willing to surrender without at least a parting shot.

“Scratch. Vinyl Scratch. Pleasure meeting ya. Now who in the blazes are you?”

You reluctantly introduce yourself. All bravado you had conjured evaporates.

“Pleased to meet ya. Now get your derriere outta that chair.” Vinyl smiles to herself for a second, evidently pleased with the rhyme. “I got someone else you’re needing to meet.” When you don’t respond, she quickly pivots behind you, loops both arms under your armpits, and heaves upward.

“Hey!” you shout. You jerk free from the manhandler and whirl to face her.

Oblivious to your annoyance, Vinyl turns and begins marching back to her table. The table where . . . she is sitting. “Onward, new best friend!”

Your eyes affix on the back of the other girl’s head again. She hadn’t turned around at all during your exchange with Vinyl. Her head is tilted down, undoubtedly focused on her food. Once again, your guts somersault. Your heart rate, already elevated because of Vinyl’s excessive touching, peaks. Without your brain telling your feet what to do, you begin to walk towards the pair. Vinyl pats the bench beside her. Unthinkingly, you sit, looking at your feet all the while.

“Octavia, introduce yourself, darling,” Vinyl says.

Octavia. So that’s her name.

You chance a glance upward. She’s wearing a simple skirt and a dark sweater over a pale pink buttoned shirt. Nice, but not attention-grabbing -- quite the opposite, in fact. The girl -- Octavia -- hadn’t moved, given any indication of recognition, when you arrived. Her only motion is to lift a forkful of rice to her mouth every now and then, eating out of a small metal container. She too is looking downward.

“You’ll have to forgive her,” Vinyl says. “Lunch is a truly enthralling affair.” At her words, Octavia glances up, shooting Vinyl a look of annoyance. Vinyl, ignoring her, turns to you. “This is my bestest friend in the entire world, Miss Octavia Melody.” Vinyl introduces you as well.

“Didn’t you say a second ago that I was your new best friend?” you ask, wondering where your words came from. The confidence that just came out of your mouth definitely did not mean to be there. “Honestly, you’re going to ditch me this quickly?”

Vinyl laughs loudly, and you notice -- to your horror -- that people from other tables turn to locate the source of the noise. “Bwaha, I guess you’re right. Man, we picked a good day to eat in the cafeteria for once. Octy, is it alright if I dump you for this incredibly handsome stranger?”

Blood floods your face. “W-what?”

Vinyl tilts her head slightly to the side; she may have just winked.

Octavia sighs. “We’ve talked about this, Vinyl. You are not permitted to use nicknames with me.”

Her voice is just as melodious and spellbinding as you thought it would be. It’s like chocolate, rich, and smooth, and delicious, and . . . you shake yourself. That’s bordering on weird, champ. But there is something very different about her voice. Her words are soft, carefully orchestrated. They have a natural flow to them, almost musical in nature.

“And you know that I don’t like words with more than two syllables.” Vinyl pouts and folds her arms. “See? Even just saying ‘syllables’ has put me on edge.”

“I’ve heard you say plenty of words with at least three syllables,” says the dangerously outspoken being who has evidently taken control of your vocal chords. This spirited girl’s energy is panoptic -- you’re forced to come out of your conservative shell and participate, for fear of drowning in this sea of vivacity. Excitement builds within you.

“I don’t even know what consistency means.” Vinyl shrugs. “It’s too big a word.”

Octavia has raised her eyes from her lunch and is now watching you and Vinyl boredly, her gaze flicking back and forth between you like a ping pong match. Every time you look her direction, she averts her gaze. Eventually, her attention turns back to her lunch once she’s realized that you’re finished talking. Reminded of something, you spring to your feet.

“Now, don’t think you’re leaving so easily on us, now,” says Vinyl.

“I’m not, it’s just . . .” You gesture shapelessly back at your previous eating spot. “My lunch.”

Vinyl raises an eyebrow. “I’ll allow it.”

Nodding in thanks, you stride briskly to the table, snatch up your lunch bag, and walk back. During the brief moment that you had been gone, Vinyl had stood to lean over the table to whisper something to Octavia. She sits back down just as you do. You don’t make mention of it -- your confidence doesn’t extend that far.

You lean back as far as you can without toppling backward. You’re mystified by this pair of girls, how they could ever be drawn together. Vinyl in an infectious, boundless well of vitality, while Octavia is borderline catatonic. No, not catatonic. Octavia has been fully aware and alert for the entirety of the conversation, but instead declines to participate. Her eyes, so big and purple, are always darting, analyzing every angle. It’s just that emotions seem to be a foreign concept to her.

“You awake?”

Vinyl’s voice snaps you out of your reverie. You look around. Unknowingly, you had crossed your arms behind your head, and you quickly drop them back down to your sides. “Yeah, sorry. Just distracted, is all.”

Octavia’s who had been viewing you with narrowed eyes, looks down to her food again.

“Can’t blame ya, to be honest,” Vinyl says. “New school and all that. Sensory overload, I think they call it. Or at least what that smart kid in Chemistry calls it. Hey, lemme see your schedule,” she says abruptly.

Dutifully, you dig in your pocket and produce a wrinkled sheet of paper bearing your class schedule. You hand it over to Vinyl. She unfolds it and quickly scans the list. “Psychology after lunch, then Physics. Two science classes back to back? Are you crazy?” You shrug and Vinyl continues to read. “Hey, Octy, don’t you have World Literature second period tomorrow?”

Octavia nods.

“And then P.E. with me last period!” Vinyl says triumphantly. “Finally, someone interesting to talk to!”

You barely hear her. Octavia had appeared nonchalant about Vinyl’s comment, but there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes. The revelation was not news to her, which means that at some point during the last week . . . she had noticed you!

“Make sure to get on the coach’s good side early,” Vinyl forges ahead. “She doesn’t like me too much. Dunno why not. Also, don’t try to be too competitive. No offense, but you don’t look like you’re the running and jumping type, and there are plenty of other kids in the class who have that affair nailed down, so it’s probably best if you didn’t infringe on that.”

“Thanks,” you say absently.

“And you’re gonna want to make friends with the Psych teacher too. Dude’s a former wrestler. Great dancer, too. Scares me a little, to be honest. He doesn’t like me either. But if you do your work and don’t be stupid you’ll do just fine. Come to think of it,” Vinyl pauses. “It’s probably best if you stayed on all your teachers’ good sides. Probably healthier.”

“Probably?”

“I wouldn’t know, there aren’t many adults in this school who like me a whole lot.”

“Why not?”

Vinyl coughs, and Octavia smirks. “Because I haven’t done homework since the beginning of the year.”

You stare. “And they haven’t kicked you out yet?”

“They can’t, I’m still passing their classes,” Vinyl says proudly. “I’m a great tester. Homework is only a small percentage of the grade, so if you do well on the tests, you can still keep a B average. System’s broken, yo.”

“What about you, Octavia?” The words escape your mouth and you immediately bite down on your tongue, hard. Why did you do that, idiot? Did you really just ask Octavia a question? When Octavia looks up with a confused expression, you have no choice but to blunder ahead. “I mean, with schoolwork. Do you abide by the . . . lax approach? Or do you . . . I dunno.” You wrack your brain for words. “Do homework?”

Octavia gazes solidly at you for a brief moment, then her eyes drop again. “I do homework.”

“Oh. Right. Me too, I guess.” Nicely done, genius.

Vinyl raises an eyebrow and giggles behind her hand. “Well good on ya. You’ll fit in right well here. Say, where did you come from?”

“Manehattan High.”

“Big city, huh? Hey, Octavia. Didn’t you used to date a violinist from there?”

“No.”

Octavia’s immediate response and Vinyl’s smirk suggest that this isn’t the first time that the joke’s been used. Nevertheless, it makes your insides shift. “What?” you ask.

“Octavia really likes talking about her love life, don’t cha?”

Octavia, unsurprisingly, remains silent. Your odd little group is left staring awkwardly at each other, until the cacophony of the lunch bell throws you out of your trance. Vinyl bounds to her feet, standing up on top of the bench to compensate for her relative shortness. “Welp, saved by the bell! Don’t think this changes anything, Octy! I’m still gonna get those juicy details from you one of these days! Come on, new friend! I’ll show you where the Psychology classroom is!”

“Vinyl, I’ve been here for a week already, I know where it is.”

“Nonsense! You’re like a lost little kitten! And I’m gonna be your mommy cat!” Vinyl lands lightly on the ground. She frowns. “That metaphor sounded a lot better in my head.”

“Yeah, that was a little . . .” You fail to conjure a suitable adjective.

“Awesome?” Vinyl supplies. “I agree. See ya during fourth, Octy!” Vinyl waves at Octavia, who is silently packing away her empty lunch container. Octavia doesn't acknowledge Vinyl in any way. Vinyl loops her arm around yours and begins to tug. “Come on, new friend!”

Stumbling along after the girl, you’re barely able to snag the strap of your backpack before being pulled away. “I told you my name, would it kill you to use it?”

“It might. You never know.” Vinyl throws a look backward and you follow her gaze. Octavia has stood and is walking in the opposite direction. Vinyl grabs your jaw and turns your head back forward.

“What--” you start, but Vinyl puts a finger on your lips and shakes her head. She looks serious, which is strangely unsettling. You wouldn’t have guessed that Vinyl was capable of such a state. Keeping the finger on your lips, she tugs you onward. Once you’ve exited the cafeteria and melted into the throng of students crowding the hallway, Vinyl speaks.

“Sorry. That girl has freaky-good hearing. Not sure why. Thanks for eating with us.”

“Uh, no problem, I guess.”

“No, really. Sorry I had to march you at gunpoint, but I wasn’t taking chances.”

“Taking chances, what?”

Vinyl sighs and scratches her head. “Tough to explain. Short version, I need you to try to be friends with Octavia.”

“Sorry, what?” You’re afraid you may have misheard. Vinyl is speaking softly, and the hallway is loud.

“Really sorry to spring this on you, but could you make an effort to be Octavia’s friend?”

Your breath catches and time slows down around you. “Why?”

“Can you meet me right after school? I can explain it better if I have a little more than five minutes.”

“Yeah, okay. Where?”

“Art building, east side. You know where that is, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a drawing class near there.”

“Okay. Groovy. Thanks again, new friend.”

“My name is--” you start, but Vinyl has already disappeared into the crowd.

After a bomb like that being dropped on your life, and with Vinyl’s voice still ringing in your ears, it’s near impossible to focus on schoolwork.

The psychology lecture, a subject you’re normally fascinated with, blends together into a shapeless mass of anatomical vocabulary, a long string that passes cleanly through your head without leaving the slightest of imprints, leaving you totally ignorant of the workings of the central nervous system.

What did Vinyl mean? Why do you need to be friends with Octavia? Is this all some massive joke that they’re playing on you, a ploy to make a fool of you for all to see? Are they just taking advantage of the fact that you’re new here, and don’t know the territory?

But no, that doesn’t seem right. Vinyl may be tough to read, but she sounded truly genuine when she apologized, when she made the request. So unless she’s an amazing actress, there must be something more going on.

But what about Octavia?

During your week of admiring her from afar, you had observed a quiet, studious girl who stayed well out of the spotlight. Very pretty, but adamantly avoidant of attention, unlike many other girls who know very well how gorgeous they are, like that glitzy girl Rarity. When a question was asked, her hand never joined the writhing horde of appendages that shot skyward. She kept her hand, and head, down. But there has to be more to her story than just simple introversion. You know what shyness looks like; you’ve been in those shoes yourself for the entirety of your career in public schooling, but Octavia is more than that -- she’s practically mute.

The sound of your name shocks you away from your thoughts. “What part of the brain controls automatic functions like breathing?” says the Psychology teacher abruptly. You look up to a classroom full of eyes affixed on you.

You quickly glance down at your notes, trying to ignore the rush of blood to your face. Vinyl was right -- the psychology teacher, a hulking titan of a man, is intimidating at times. “The brain stem, sir.”

The teacher grins briefly. “Just making sure you were awake, son.” You smile weakly back, and the teacher goes back to his lecture. You quietly breathe a sigh of relief. The brain stem was one of the few things you had actually written down. Confident that you won’t be called on for the rest of the class now, you allow your thoughts to wander.

Being friends with Vinyl and Octavia . . . it had hurt when Vinyl said it, but she was right: you don’t have friends. Your previous friend group had been small, but tight-knit, and the hardest thing about moving away was seeing the look on their faces when you broke the news. You still talk to them occasionally on the phone or through an online game, but there is still an emptiness in your life because of their absence.

Could this enigmatic duo of girls possibly hope to fill that hole?

The rest of the class period passes in a blur, with your brain only picking up bits and pieces of the lecture. You’ll have to do extra studying to make up what your daydreaming missed, but you think it’s been worth it.

During Physics you’re slightly more focused. Your thoughts still unwittingly drift to Octavia occasionally, but you’re able to keep up with the material well enough. Though not a clockwatcher by nature, you find yourself glancing at your watch every few minutes. But the universe, sensing your urge to get out of school, elects to slow time down, seemingly doubling the time it takes minutes to pass. The material keeps you sufficiently distracted -- it takes your full brain power to muscle through some of the exercises assigned -- but you’ve never been so excited for school to end in your entire life.

Finally, at long last, the bell to leave calls out across the school, cutting your teacher off mid-sentence. Whatever fascinating tidbit of scientific knowledge he had been trying to convey is lost under the pandemonium of students rushing to pack up and get out the door. Despite your eagerness to go meet Vinyl, you take your time putting your books away. As you snap your textbook shut, you sense a presence above you. You look up to meet the gaze of the science teacher.

“How are we doing today?” he asks.

“Fine, sir. Thanks.” You slide the textbook into your backpack and give the zipper a tug.

“Keeping up with the work alright?”

“Yes, I think so. Most of this stuff I’ve already learned, but it’s been awhile since I’ve had to use it.”

“Good, good.” The teacher has a distracted air about him, as if he’s unused to speaking casually to people. He smiles awkwardly, and you wish he wouldn’t. Smiling doesn’t seem to suit his face well. “Well, glad you’re doing well. Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you. I will, sir.”

Still smiling painfully, the teacher goes back to his desk and sinks down into the chair behind it. You hurriedly make your way out of the classroom, navigating through the gaggle of students who still crowd the door.

The hallways are a writhing mass of shouting bodies. As you make your way to the south doors, you appreciate the familiarity of the end-of-school rush. This new school, while vastly different from your old one, is still just a high school, and there are some things that are constant in any school. The sound of screaming teenagers is one of those things, you muse fondly.

True to her word, Vinyl is waiting for you, leaning with one foot propped against the wall of the art building. Her head bobs in time with the bass-heavy thrum emanating from her headphones. Upon seeing you, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small metal rectangle with a cord leading up under her shirt. She thumbs a button on it and the sound from her headphones stops abruptly.

“How was school, honey?” she says, grinning.

“Fine, mom.” You return the smile and move to stand in front of her.

“I’m guessing you have a few questions.” Vinyl slips the headphones off her ears, allowing them to wrap around her neck. “I’ll let you fire off a few before I say anything.”

“Odds are you’re about to answer most of them, though. You first.”

Vinyl nods. “Fair enough.” She interlocks her fingers and raises both arms above her head. You hear vertebrae pop in rapid succession. “Ahh, man, where do I start?”

“From the beginning?” you suggest.

“Nah, there’s too much. Don’t want to talk your ears off.” She frowns, then turns in a circle, flapping her hands frustratedly. She comes to a halt and puts her hands on her hips. “Short version, I’m worried about Octavia.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s afraid of people.” Vinyl seems more animated than before, perhaps excited to finally say the words out loud. “Most all people. I thought it would just be a funk that she would work her way out of, but it’s been going on for too long, and I’m getting honestly kind of scared for her.”

“How do you know? What if this is just how she is naturally?” You throw a quick glance over your shoulder, looking to see if there is anyone close enough to overhear your conversation. The nearest living beings are a small gaggle of freshman girls about fifty meters off. No trouble there.

“Because I knew her before it happened.” Vinyl’s voice has taken on a grim edge. She sits down on the steps leading up to the school and sets her chin on top of a clenched fist. You join her, hesitantly sitting next to the girl. “Ah, why am I telling you all this? I don’t even know you!” She turns away.

“What happened?” you ask gingerly.

“Not for me to say. Let’s just say that Octavia has had some rough times in the past. The only reason that she puts up with me is ‘cause we were friends before that. My point is is that she hasn’t talked to anyone other than me in years. She doesn’t make new friends; she’s scared of the idea. She’s gone through everyone in the school and decided that none of them would be worthwhile to her. She gives me all these bogus reasons for it, but I think it’s really because she’s scared of them.” Vinyl’s voice trembles, almost imperceptibly. She covers it up with a snort of laughter. “That’s why I nabbed you. A fresh face, someone she hasn’t turned down yet. She even mentioned you, once.”

You straighten, glancing sidelong at Vinyl. “What?”

“Said there was a new kid in her literature class. I didn’t think much of it until she pointed you out yesterday. I thought you looked nice, so here we are. She even said a couple words at you! Not many get that kind of honor!” Vinyl grins and gestures grandly in your direction. Her actions feel empty. “You’re kinda quiet, what are you thinking?”

“I’m, uh . . .” You’re at a loss for words. “I’m at a loss for words.”

“Sorry to spring this on ya.” Vinyl is surprisingly sincere for such a jokester. “I don’t mind if you never talk to me again after that. It felt kinda good to vent, though.”

“I get that,” you affirm. “But, Octavia . . . what’s her story? How’d she get like . . . this?”

“If anyone’s gonna tell you that, it’s gotta be her.”

“Right. I understand. Sorry, I’m prying.”

“I get that you’re curious, but you should know that this isn’t the kind of thing I throw around lightly.”

“Yeah, I imagine. Sorry.”

Quiet overtakes you for a long while. Vinyl stands and stretches again. “Welp, thanks for listening. You’re a real pal.” She hops the last few steps and begins to walk off.

“Wait! Hold on!”

You chase after her. When Vinyl turns to face you, you notice moisture on her face, a single drop slipping down from under her glasses. You immediately freeze. You’ve never been good with crying girls, let alone this girl. The prospect shakes you; though you don’t know Vinyl well, you realize that her cracking like this must be a big deal.

“Sorry to waste your time. You’ve probably got more important stuff to deal with, huh?” Vinyl’s voice sounds a little choked, try as she might to fight it down.

You lower your voice, hoping that you sound at least somewhat comforting. “I want to help, or at least try. What do I need to do?” Vinyl gazes at you in silence. She toys with one of the drawstrings of her hoodie, her fingers twirling around listlessly. Her unresponsiveness makes you uneasy. “Vinyl?”

“Just . . . try to be her friend,” Vinyl finally responds. “I don’t know if she’ll let you or not, so . . . don’t take it personally if she doesn’t.” She rubs her arm and shifts her weight between her feet. This girl is a tightly-wound ball of nervous energy.

“Okay,” you say. “Any idea where I should start?”

Vinyl covertly raises a finger to brush away her tear. “You could start by eating lunch with us. We don’t normally eat in the cafeteria. We normally eat in Room 202. It’s an old teacher’s lounge that nobody uses anymore, since the new one got remodeled. Octavia likes it because nobody bugs us there, so when you come in, try to make sure no one sees you.”

Vinyl’s voice, which had taken a softer tone, gradually brightens back to its original timbre. After sniffling once, she throws a grin on. Her body language suggests that you are not to mention the chink in her armor that you just witnessed.

“Okay,” you reply. “Room 202. Keep a low profile. Got it. I guess I’ll see you then.” You flash a smile in Vinyl’s direction, then turn to go, but the sound of your name being called turns you around again.

Vinyl drops her arms to her sides and smiles sweetly. “Thanks. For everything. You’re a pal.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I haven’t done anything noteworthy.”

“Well, I’m thanking you anyway, whether you deserve it or not. Deal with it.”

You laugh. “See you tomorrow, Vinyl.”

Tomorrow arrives soon enough. Your evening after school had been uneventful, so you had elected to retire to bed early, which resulted in waking long before your usual hour. Instead of going back to sleep, you had done the reading for psychology that you had tuned out on the day previous.

When it came time for school to start, you happily strode out the door, eager for the possibilities of this day.

Now, you sit in World Literature, wondering where the time went, your eyes fixed on the back of Octavia’s head.

The dull lecture on poetry fades to a blur in your ears, so you opt instead to think about the girl in front of you, a welcome alternative in your mind.

Octavia is scared of other people, or so Vinyl had said. Something about that statement doesn’t add up for you, however; she chooses not to interact with people, that much is clear to see, but it doesn’t seem to be out of fear. Her aversion, whatever it may be, doesn't hinder her ability to go about her day, to lead a seemingly regular life. Octavia, to the outside observer, just looks like a very shy girl. For all intents and purposes, she looks . . . normal. And perhaps you’re looking to far into what Vinyl said. Maybe Octavia isn’t the stress case you made her out to be. Whatever it is that keeps her tucked into her shell shouldn’t be too great a barricade.

There is a rustle of movement across the class as students reach into their bags, withdrawing textbooks. You glance quickly up at the black board. The notes on poetry -- scrawled in looping cursive letters -- had been erased. Evidently your poetry section has now concluded. You glance at your watch. Only a half hour until lunch. That shouldn’t be too long to actually pay attention to the classwork, should it?

You do enjoy the subject, though the drone of the teacher has a tiring effect on you. Literature may not be your strongest suit -- that title still lies in science -- but who doesn’t enjoy a good book?

Though committed to completing the work, you still glance upward at Octavia periodically. She’s wearing another sweater today, this one a slightly lighter tint of grey. The shirt under it is lavender. She keeps her head down, her wrist moving briskly across a sheet of paper. You notice that she has several completed pages set to the side, while all the students around her are still working on their first. Looking down at your own work, you cringe at how pitifully little you’ve written. Vowing not to get distracted until the page is completed, you lower your face and begin to write in earnest.

That sentiment lasts all of five minutes. Eventually, inadvertently, your eyes wander upward, finding Octavia’s face. Wait . . face? Your studiousness evaporates -- Octavia is looking right at you. Her head turned back, she regards you with curiosity. As soon as your gazes meet, however, her brow tightens slightly and she turns back forward.

Your tired brain draws a blank. Now what did that mean?

A glance at your watch. Five minutes.

You’re tempted to just throw in the towel and stop working, but instead you lower your nose to the grindstone and muscle through as much of the assignment as you can in the remaining time. The bell rings, punctuating a particularly poignant paragraph you had constructed and you, with some satisfaction, place a period at the end. As always, the teacher’s parting remarks are lost in the clamor of students eager to go to lunch. You hurriedly stow your books away and move towards Octavia, who is standing at her desk, sliding her books one after another into her bag.

“Octavia?” you probe. Octavia turns around, but doesn’t speak. Unsurprising. Before the silence grows too long, you press ahead. “I was wondering, would it be okay if I had lunch with you again today? Vinyl mentioned . . .”

“Yes. She did.” Octavia looks flatly at you when she speaks. She slings her bag over her shoulder, never breaking eye contact.

“Oh. Okay, then is that . . . alright with you?”

Octavia nods once and turns to go. Taking it as an invitation, you follow.

Room 202 is surprisingly . . . nondescript. Though its door matches those to its left and right identically, this room looks much less characteristic. You are, however, judging a book by its cover, since the only view you’ve gotten of it is the door.

“Is this the place?” you ask. Octavia nods in response and pulls the door open, glancing both ways before entering. You follow close behind and accidentally brush her arm with yours. Octavia shies away, pulling ahead of you. On your way, you and Octavia had walked side by side, but always at an arm’s length away from each other. A physical representation of the emotional distance between you.

“Close the door.” Octavia flicks on the lights. The room, a small closet of space, is illuminated by the aging fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling, though the wide window at the far wall had already been letting in plenty of light. A sagging couch sits against the far wall, facing a small table with three chairs. All three are neatly tucked in under the table, whose surface is pristine, as if it was recently scrubbed.

Vinyl hasn’t arrived yet. You had half-hoped that she would already be here, so you wouldn’t have to try to entertain Octavia by yourself. Most of you is simply excited to be with Octavia, regardless of whether the third party is present or not.

As you close the door, Octavia pivots to the side, moving to a small kitchenette on your right that you hadn’t noticed. She places her bag on the floor and begins opening cabinets, pulling seemingly random items out and setting them across the counter. A container of sugar, several spoons, a small tin of something you can’t make out.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

Octavia doesn’t answer the question directly. “Would you like tea?”

Only when she turns, holding a porcelain teapot, do you understand. One of the stove’s burners is now on, a ring of blue flame blazing under the metal grate. You’ve never been much of a tea person, but you don’t really have anything against it either. “Yes please, that’d be nice.”

Octavia nods. She fills the pot with water and sets it on the burner. As it heats, she opens a cabinet and withdraws three teacups with saucers. You consider offering to help, but Octavia seems to have everything under control. She maneuvers the space effortlessly, comfortably, seeming to have done this hundreds of times. “Sugar? Honey?”

“Sugar is fine, and you don’t need to call me ‘honey’.”

A risky joke, but you couldn’t let the opportunity pass. Since Octavia has her back to you you can’t see her facial reaction, but the lack of a glare gives you hope. Instead of responding, she pours some sugar into a bowl and sets it to the side. Smiling at your own wit, you go over to the couch and sling your backpack off your shoulders, setting it down on the cushions, then immediately slump down after it. The couch is extraordinarily comfortable. It would be worth coming here for lunch just for that.

The door opens. Vinyl Scratch slides into the room and closes the door behind her. Moving like a sleepwalker, she wordlessly walks over to the couch and positively dives onto it. Recoiling in panic, you don’t get out of the way fast enough and get an elbow to the crotch.

“Ow!” Your voice comes out higher than normal.

Vinyl, her face buried in a pillow, makes no move to remove herself. Her voice, muffled, says: “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“Well . . .” You cringe as Vinyl shifts, digging her elbow deeper. “I am here, so could you, like, sit up like a normal human?”

“But you’re so comfy,” Vinyl protests.

“That’s weird.”

“Only if you make it weird.”

“No, it’s definitely weird.”

“Octavia!” Vinyl calls. “Is it weird that I want to establish physical contact with my new friend?”

Octavia, who had been regarding the two of you with mild amusement, quickly straightens her face. “Yes, Vinyl. It is.”

“Thank you!” you say. You poke Vinyl on the back of the head. “Now scoot.”

Sighing mightily, Vinyl levers herself into a sitting position. “What’s cooking today?”

“Masala Chai,” Octavia responds.

“That a new one?”

“No. You just don’t remember the names.”

“Eh, I’m not the tea nut here.”

Octavia smiles. “I’m not either. I do coffee, remember?”

You realize that this is the first time you’ve seen Octavia smile. The extent of her amusement up to this point has been a faint smirk and a raised eyebrow. She has a nice smile. “If you prefer coffee,” you say. “Then why do you have tea here?”

“Coffee for the early morning, tea for lunch.”

“So that’s why . . .” You cut yourself off. You had just finally nailed down what that smell that constantly surrounds Octavia is: coffee, it has to be. But telling her that you notice her scent would not be a wise move at this stage in the proceedings. Vinyl and Octavia are both looking at you questioningly. “Never mind.”

Octavia, satisfied that the water has heated enough, busies herself with the preparation of the tea. You glance over at Vinyl, who’s leaned back as far as she can, nearly sliding off the couch, her head tilted back and her mouth slightly open. Still unsettled by her close proximity, you stand and move over to Octavia. Wordlessly, you pick up the teacups and transfer them to the table, setting one in front of each chair. You return to retrieve the sugar bowl and its accompanying spoon. As you go, you shoot a sidelong glance at Octavia, who is already gazing back at you, a look of curiosity on her face. On a whim, you give her a smile. She doesn’t exactly return it, but her countenance brightens ever so slightly. You place the sugar bowl on the center of the table. Vinyl grins and gives you a thumbs-up. Not asleep after all.

“Ready,” Octavia says. Carefully, she carries the steaming pot of tea to the table. Having already sat down, you smile politely as Octavia pours the decalescent liquid into your cup. Vinyl heaves herself up from the depths of the couch and slides into a chair as Octavia moves to her cup.

“Thanks, dearie,” Vinyl says. She lifts the cup and takes a deep sniff. Satisfied by the scent, she begins to sip. You follow her lead. Even a tea novice like you can taste the quality of this particular brew.

Octavia finds her seat, setting down a round metal container and a set of chopsticks. She unscrews the top to reveal a bowl of noodles and steamed vegetables. Thin tendrils of steam waft up from her food and the smell permeates the room, intertwining nicely with the scent of tea. You’re reminded of your own lunch, and you reach into your backpack to retrieve it: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of chips. You appreciate the irony of the juxtaposition of your meager meal and the very high-class tea set.

As you and Octavia tuck in, you notice that Vinyl doesn’t have food. “You eating?” you inquire.

Vinyl shakes her head. “Nah, I only eat two meals a day. Lunch isn’t one of them.”

You nod, and silence falls. Two of you eat, and one looks out the window. Like everything she does, Octavia eats methodically. She sits up straight, making you self-conscious of your own slumped posture, but you don’t dare right it. Everything about this situation seems like a social minefield. How should you sit? Are you eating too quickly? Should you try to make conversation? But no, even even with your history of chronic overthinking, this feels just . . . right.

“This is nice,” you remark.

“Think so?” Vinyl says. She had drained her cup and is now spinning it around aimlessly.

“Yeah, it’s good to be able to escape from all the hustle and bustle for a while.”

Octavia nods in agreement. “There is merit in quiet time.”

Vinyl glances down at her wrist, notices there is no watch thereon, then looks back up. “How much time do we have left?”

“About twenty minutes til the bell,” you respond, checking your own watch.

“Plenty of time.” Vinyl leans over out of her chair and reaches into her backpack. After a second of rummaging, she pulls out a large, checkered square and a small velvet bag. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it sure wasn’t that.

“A chessboard?” you wonder.

Vinyl sets the board across the table and upends the bag. A pile of chessmen tumbles out, clattering across the board. Octavia scoops a handful of the wooden pieces and begins arranging them into their proper positions. Vinyl does the same. You’re tempted to help them set up, but something about this seems almost ritualistic, and disturbing them would be a horrible offense. Octavia is quicker than Vinyl, placing piece after piece one after the other. Vinyl has to think about some of them, seemingly unsure of the correct position. Eventually, both sides of the board are populated by chessmen. White in front of Vinyl and black for Octavia.

“White goes first,” Octavia remarks, smiling, and Vinyl smirks. If there was a joke in there somewhere, you missed it.

The game begins. You spectate over the battle unfolding in front of you, the lines of troops awaiting the orders from their divine commanders. Vinyl is aggressive, sending wave after wave of pieces against Octavia’s defense, only to be beaten back every time. Octavia, a careful commandant, is more patient. Instead of a simple-minded onslaught on the enemy king, she plays the game politically, picking off key players in Vinyl’s arsenal, limiting her foe’s options, all while staying just out of reach of the heavy hitters, specifically a very aggressive bishop.

In minutes, the game turns one-sided. Vinyl is left with a cluster of pieces huddled in one corner around her king, while Octavia is spread all across the board, having only lost two pieces of her own. It takes less than five moves for her to corner the white king, ending the game in a brutal checkmate.

“Checkmate,” Octavia says, somewhat unnecessarily.

Vinyl leans back in her chair, puffing out her cheeks and letting out a long breath. “Whoo, so it is. But I did a bit better that time, didn’t I?”

Octavia smiles and begins to sweep pieces back into their bag. “Sure.”

“Good game,” you remark. “Do you always do this?”

“Get whooped? Yeah, pretty much,” Vinyl says.

You laugh. “No, I mean do you play a game every day?”

“Most days,” Octavia says. “Unless Vinyl forgets the board.”

“Which very rarely happens!” Vinyl adds indignantly. Octavia holds out the now-full bag of chessmen and Vinyl takes it, stowing it back in her backpack. The board follows shortly. “Octy started teaching me a few months ago, so we’ve been playing ever since.” She glances at her wrist again. “How much time?”

“Four minutes and . . .” You do some quick math. “Forty-two seconds.”

Vinyl snorts. “You got your watch synced with the bells, man?”

“You don’t?”

She holds up a very bare wrist. “Nope.”

You all help to clean away the tea set, cleaning the dishes and stowing them away in the cabinets. “Was this tea set always here?” you ask.

“Yes. Since we’ve been coming here,” Octavia replies. “I bring my own tea, however.”

You place the last of the teacups on its shelf, then whistle appreciatively. “And the teachers didn’t lock it up or anything? It’s a miracle that nobody else’s found this place.”

“Truly.”

The bell rings, popping the bubble of your escapism. Only now do you remember that you’re actually in a school. The realization comes as a disappointment. The three of you pack up your bags and stealthily make it out into the hallway.

“I have Chemistry now, where are you headed?” asks Vinyl.

“Math,” says Octavia.

“Theory of Knowledge,” you reply.

“Say what now?” Vinyl raises an eyebrow.

“Y’know, Theory of Knowledge. It’s about . . . y’know, never mind. I wouldn’t be able to explain it if I tried.”

As you turn to Vinyl, Octavia melts into the crowd without saying goodbye. You’re tempted to go after her, but your class is in the opposite direction. At a crossroads, you’re left staring after her.

“Eh, don’t worry about her,” Vinyl says, draping an arm around your shoulders. “You did great today.”

“Did I?”

“She’s been talking to you, hasn’t she? She made you tea and everything! I think that qualifies as a good job. C’mon, we’re gonna be late for class.” Vinyl tugs you along, and you follow without protest. As you walk with Vinyl, she continues to talk. “Alright, whatever doubts I had yesterday, they all just went poof. I got a feeling that Octavia’s gonna have no trouble warming up to you -- you two are practically the same person. No, think about it . . .” She puts up a hand when you start to protest. “You’re both kinda quiet, insanely smart, very eloquent, slightly awkward, slow to warm up to, not very athletic . . .”

“Alright, alright! I get the picture.”

“Oh! And musical! You’re both very musically-inclined.”

“And just how do you know that?” You hadn’t shared that knowledge with anyone in this new school.

Vinyl shrugs. “Just a hunch. But now I know I’m right, though. What is it? Violin? Tuba? Xylophone?”

“Piano.”

“That was my next guess.”

“But Octavia’s musical too? What does she play?”

“She’s the finest cellist you’ll ever hear, and that’s coming from someone who doesn’t know the difference between a tambourine and a contrabass. I’ll have her bring her cello to lunch one of these days. Welp, this is my stop.” Vinyl abruptly lets go of you and breaks off from the stream of students. “Same time, same place, tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Alright! Stay frosty, champ!”

“See you, Vinyl.”

Days pass. Days turn to weeks. Living with the new school is no longer novelty, but normalcy.

You eat lunch with Vinyl and Octavia every day in the teacher’s lounge.

As time passes, you learn more and more about this eccentric duo of girls. Vinyl lives with her single father, who is mysteriously swimming in enormous piles of money, most of which he uses to dote on his only daughter. With funds being no objection, Vinyl went into music production -- the electronic kind, much to Octavia’s dismay. And she isn’t half bad, you came to realize when she did a show-and-tell one day with an album of hers. Octavia’s mouth had been a tight line for the entire performance, her brow furrowed.

Octavia still retains most of her enigma. While Vinyl is eager to work with you, spilling out her life’s story whether you want to hear it or not, Octavia is decidedly private. You do learn that she is a first-chair cellist in the school’s orchestra, so Vinyl’s praise seems justified. But, despite Vinyl’s earlier promise, Octavia never brings her cello to lunch.

Even though you’ve learned little about her, you’ve still gotten much closer to Octavia.

You’ve had conversations, real conversations with her. Ones that didn’t revolve around one-word answers and awkward back-and-forth. No, you’ve led verbal sparring matches with her, who matches you blow for blow, and even overtaking you many a time. You’ve come to delight in the sound of Octavia’s voice, a veritable symphony of sound, even when it’s shooting your argument full of holes.

Octavia is comfortable talking to you when in the confines of the tea room, as you’ve come to call it, but when out in the wilderness of the school, she retreats firmly back into her shell, speaking very little, if at all. She’ll smile in the hallways when you pass, and that alone is satisfaction enough.

Vinyl and Octavia continue to play chess. Every day another game. Vinyl improves, but almost imperceptibly. It’s the difference between a ten-minute game and a twelve-minute game. Octavia stays consistently good, but you’re hardly surprised by that.

What matters most, is that the two of them seem happy. Vinyl, though she doesn’t voice it expressly, hints that she hasn’t seen Octavia this relaxed in a long time. And Vinyl herself -- though her mood often looks to be a constant flatline at one hundred percent -- seems happier as well.

And you . . .

You’re doing alright too.

“. . . And that’s why dogs are inherently better pets than cats,” Vinyl says triumphantly.

You and Octavia share an amused glance. Octavia raises her teacup to her lips to stifle a giggle. Vinyl’s long and meandering argument on the merits of pets had been an adventure, but you two could only egg her on for so long.

“So there?” you comment.

“So there!” Vinyl affirms. She pounds her fist on the table and the dishes clatter threateningly.

“So be it,” Octavia says. “We’ll relent this time, but you haven’t heard the last of it.”

You stretch, reaching your arms high above your head. The clock on the wall (which Vinyl had installed after a week of asking you what time it was) reads that there is half an hour left for lunch. “Time enough for a chess game?”

“Of course,” Octavia replies. “Vinyl?”

“Gotcha.”

You pick up each of your friends’ teacups and move them to the sink. Behind you, you hear the familiar clatter of chess pieces being dumped onto the table. “Vinyl?”

“Yeah, new friend?”

“Would you mind if I tried my hand at a game?”

Vinyl and Octavia both pause, then look at each other. You were worried that Octavia would be upset, but it seems that the exact opposite has occurred. Her eyes brighten, and she looks at Vinyl expectantly. Vinyl regards you curiously. She looks a little miffed, but a meaningful look from you dissuades her. She shrugs and goes back to setting up pieces. “Sure, I guess we haven’t given you a turn for a while.”

“Or ever,” Octavia says. “You can take whites.” She swivels the chessboard to face you, careful not to topple the pieces. Her excitement shows, whether she’s trying to hide it or not.

“Thanks.” You survey your new troops, lined up and standing at attention. It’s been a long time since you’ve played.

“White goes first.”

“So it does.”

You’ve been watching these matches carefully, studying Octavia’s style, her tactics. She’s masterful at predicting Vinyl’s moves, but perhaps only because she knows her opponent so well. Much of her advantage has come at her reliance on Vinyl not seeing a ploy, goading her into making a mistake. Octavia’s moves are well-planned and always have the bigger picture in mind. She realizes that chess is not a series of battles, but a war. A truly psychological game.

The first move of a game, often overlooked, is just as important a move as any other. An opening move can set the tone of the game.

You move the queen’s pawn forward two spaces.

Octavia mirrors your move, placing the two pawns at an impasse.

Another pawn joins your first, taking its place on the left side of its comrade.

Octavia smiles, and the game begins.

Octavia, contrary to how she’s played with Vinyl, goes on the aggressive early. She sends wave after wave into your ranks, most of which you are able to repel, but with each chipping away at your wall. Octavia suffers casualties as well -- your queen cuts a swathe through the oncoming storm, forcing your foes to regroup and rethink. Seeing an opening, you insert your bishop into a slit in the armor, giving it a perfect line of sight on the black king.

“Check.”

Unfazed, Octavia simply places a rook in the bishop’s line of sight. Unwilling to sacrifice a piece, you withdraw. Now aware of her vulnerability, she recalls several pieces to rally at the king. You take the time to advance your pawns, your slow-moving infantrymen. The game continues on, the two of you trading blows until the number of pieces lining the side of the board outnumber those thereon.

The lunch bell rings, startling all three of you back into reality.

“And it was just starting to get interesting,” Vinyl remarks. Sighing, you move to begin clearing the board.

“Wait.” Octavia grabs your wrist. “I can afford to be late to third period.”

You grin. “Me too.”

“Well I can’t!” Vinyl announces. “This has been enthralling. Let me know how it turns out.” She leaps up and snatches her backpack. “Clean up when you’re done, alright?”

You and Octavia barely heed Vinyl’s exit. The game is back on.

You both go in and out of check, seemingly every turn. Octavia’s queen punches a hole through the wall of pawns and sits just out of reach of both your knight and rook. After brief consideration, you elect to sacrifice the bishop, and move the knight to safety. But Octavia doesn’t take the bishop. Instead, she brutalizes an adjacent pawn and moves to a space that gives her an angle on your queen. Your hand is already on your own queen, moving to stamp out the usurper, but you hesitate. A rook is guarding the enemy queen’s back, ready to stomp you flat if you make a move.

It’s an invitation. A queen for a queen. Do you lose your most valuable piece in return for Octavia’s?

No, you don’t. You ignore the gambit, and instead move to rally your forces around Octavia’s weakened right flank. Octavia, robbed of her chance at leveling the playing field, instead stalks at the knight that you had ordered to retreat. You cringe. That knight had been your cornerstone. Without it, your rebellion dwindles. You have too few pieces to form any semblance of a comprehensive plan. But wait! If you could just extricate your rook and get it to the back row, then put your queen . . .

“Checkmate.”

You look up, confused. “Excuse me?”

Octavia points. During your musings, she had placed one perfect bishop that effectively cornered your king. In combination with the queen that was already in the neighborhood and a pawn (a pawn of all things!), they had trapped your monarch.

“Oh. That was, um . . .” You sit back, still trying to compute what just happened. “Unexpected.”

“Good game,” Octavia remarks, throwing you a sideways smile.

“You too. I, uh, didn’t see that one coming.”

“To be perfectly honest, neither did I. You’re very flexible. It was hard to get a read on what you were trying to do. That move kind of . . . fell into place.”

“Maybe because I don’t know myself. Flying by the seat of my pants, most of the time.” That isn’t entirely true. You did know what you were doing, for the most part. Octavia had just made you think on your feet, was all.

“You’re too humble. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Up until the end.”

Octavia nods in agreement. You glance up at the clock. You’re now near forty minutes into third period. It would be tough to come up with an excuse for your tardiness this late in the hour.

“Rematch?”

“Oh yes please.”

Act 2: Hide and Seek

You don’t end up going to third period.

You and Octavia continue to play for another hour, game after game. She beats you every time, but you think that by the end of the session the victories are growing narrower and narrower as you learn her techniques.

As the clock counts down to the start of fourth period, both you and Octavia eye it apprehensively. Your performance hurts because of your distraction, and it ends up being your worst defeat yet. After Octavia’s declaration of checkmate, you flick your king over in submission and sit back in your chair.

“Could we not talk about that one?” you say.

Octavia laughs, something that you, even though you now consider yourselves friends, still rarely hear. “What happened there? I know you saw that knight from miles away, why didn’t you do anything about him?”

“Distracted, I guess.” You gesture shapelessly in the direction of the clock. “Time’s ticking, after all.”

“I know. You have P.E. fourth period, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Not a very important class, no?”

“I suppose not.”

Octavia looks at you expectantly. Confused, you tilt your head at her. She raises an eyebrow, smiles wryly.

Oh. “You’re a bad influence, you know.”

Octavia smiles innocently. “Now why would you say that?”

You slowly blow out all the air in your lungs. You glance at the clock. The minute hand slowly creeps up to the twelve. “Ah, hell with it. We can afford to miss one class, right?”

“Splendid!”

You don’t end up going to fourth period, either.

Only when the final bell rings, signalling the end of school, do you finally relent. You’re surprisingly exhausted -- this intense gaming session has eaten up nearly all of your mental potential. You don’t make a move to start cleaning up when you hear the din of students outside. Instead, you fold your arms on the table and place your head on top of them.

“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” you remark.

“Probably not,” Octavia agrees. “Sorry.”

The tone of her voice makes you look up. Octavia is regarding you nervously. “Hey, I’d much rather play chess with you than run laps around the track for an hour. I had a fantastic time, I’m just saying we shouldn’t make it a habit.”

She smiles, a welcome sight. “I don’t think my mind could handle this kind of exertion on a daily basis, anyway.”

“May I take that as a compliment?”

“You may.”

Neither of you move for a long while, just simply sitting and gazing out the window. The position of the tea room offers an ideal view across the school grounds. Afternoon sunlight gives the surrounding greenery a yellow tint, throwing out long shadows from trees and people. You find yourself having trouble keeping your eyes open. You hide a yawn behind your hand and notice that Octavia catches it too, yawning widely.

“Tired?” you ask.

“Very.”

“Me too. That was brutal.”

“In the best possible way, I’m sure you mean.” Octavia smiles wryly.

“Of course, of course.”

Silence overtakes you again. The only sound heard is the distant rumble of thousands of feet making their way out of the school. You allow it to melt together into a reverberating resonance, vibrating the ground below your feet. You feel no urge to join them.

“Oh dear,” Octavia says suddenly.

“Hmm?”

“Brace yourself.”

“For wha-”

The tea room door bursts open and in strides an irritated Vinyl Scratch. She’s damp with sweat and is still wearing her gym clothes. As Vinyl had mentioned earlier, Octavia’s sense of hearing is second to none, and she had evidently picked up on Vinyl’s approach before you had. Though how she had separated it from the din of the hundreds of other bodies outside the door, you have no idea.

“Someone here better have an explanation for me, ‘cause it looks like you two haven’t moved a muscle since I left, oh you know, right after lunch!” Vinyl steams, pointing accusatively around the room.

You and Octavia look at each other, both of you inviting the other to try to mitigate your friend’s wrath. “Um . . .” you start.

“We were just having the most invigorating discussion, weren’t we?” Octavia steps in. “And I’m afraid we simply lost track of time.” She says it all with sweet, but false, sincerity. Vinyl doesn’t seem to buy it.

“You’ve been playing chess this whole time, haven’t you?” Vinyl uses the sleeve of her shirt to mop her brow.

“Yes,” you and Octavia say in unison.

Vinyl collapses down onto the couch. “Goodness ever-loving gracious. I’m not even mad. That kind of stamina is impressive.” She swivels her head in your direction. “I am, however, a little ticked that you bailed on me for P.E. You’ve been the only one keeping me sane for that class. Who else am I going to talk to? Rainbow Dash?”

“C’mon, Vinyl, you’ve survived almost the whole year without me, I thought you could handle one day.”

“So you thought! That one day nearly killed me!”

“Oh, you’ll be fine, you big baby.”

Octavia titters. She begins to clear away the chess pieces and you move to help her. As you sweep a pile of pieces into the bag, she wordlessly tightens the drawstrings and places it in Vinyl’s backpack. Oddly, she seems to be avoiding your eye. Vinyl’s entrance seems to have terminated her relaxed demeanor.

“Probably time to go home, I suppose,” you say. “Before the custodians kick us out.”

“Not so fast, mister,” Vinyl says, sitting up suddenly. “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve got a satisfactory apology for leaving me alone with the numskulls from P.E.”

“Vinyl . . .” Octavia admonishes.

“Vinyl, I’m really truly sorry for making you run without me for a day,” you say “There won’t be a day that passes in which I do not remember the moment I betrayed your trust. Could I possibly hope to gain your forgiveness?”

“Not yet you can’t! Words are all well and good, but I’m going to need something more . . . substantial.” Vinyl smiles wryly.

“Uh . . .”

“So, what you’re going to do is treat these two lovely ladies to milkshakes. Effective immediately.”

Your racing mind immediately calms. Milkshakes. You can do that. For the thrill of the banter, however, you do not relent just yet. “I did not volunteer for that manner of chagrin, I beseech you to reconsider.”

“You didn’t volunteer. You got voluntold. And for the love of all that is holy, talk like a normal human being, will ya?”

“Sorry.” You smile weakly. “Something cold and sweet sounds pretty good, actually.”

“Cold and sweet,” Octavia muses. “Just like Vinyl.”

“Thanks, I think?” Vinyl raises an eyebrow quizzically at Octavia as you chuckle. “Now, should we get moving?”

“Lead the way.”

Vinyl shoulders the door to Sugarcube Corner open, propping it open with her foot for you and Octavia to follow. The small sweetshop is nearly vacant, save the plump, pink-haired woman behind the counter. Upon seeing Vinyl, she breaks into a wide smile.

“What can I do for you today, dearie?”

“Hiya, Mrs. Cake. Could me and my friends get a couple of milkshakes?”

“Certainly! What kind wouldja like?”

Vinyl gestures at you and Octavia, an invitation to place your orders. “Raspberry,” Octavia answers simply. It takes you a while longer; the list of flavors posted above the counter is overwhelmingly extensive.

“I’ll have the Marzipan Mascarpone . . .” You pause, squinting at the looping pink font.

“The Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness?” offers Mrs. Cake.

“Yes. That’s the one. Thanks.”

And I’ll have a cookies and cream,” Vinyl says.

“And will that be all for you today?” Mrs. Cake has the most endearing smile you’ve ever seen, and you can’t help but smile along.

After a quick confirming glance at you and Octavia, Vinyl nods. You reach into your pocket to pull out your wallet, but Vinyl grabs your wrist. “I pay,” she says firmly.

“But you said . . .”

“If you pay, then that makes this look like a date, and heaven knows that I don’t see you that way. So I pay.”

Mrs. Cake titters. “Oh, and here I was getting all worked up because you finally brought a boy here. Don’t keep me waiting forever, you hear?”

“One of these days, Mrs. Cake. One of these days.” Vinyl, oblivious to the concept of embarrassment, pulls out a bill and slaps it down on the counter as you rub your neck awkwardly. Octavia seems to find the whole thing extraordinarily amusing.

“Have a seat wherever you like, I’ll have your shakes out for you in a jiffy!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Cake.”

As Mrs. Cake disappears back into the depths of the shop, Vinyl slides into a booth near the door. You and Octavia follow, Octavia taking her place next to Vinyl, while you sit across from the two girls.

“You a regular here?” you ask Vinyl.

“Yeah, I come around practically every day. Octy sometimes too. Mrs. Cake’s a peach, ain’t she?”

“She is,” you agree. “So how come I never earned an invitation?”

Vinyl shrugs. “You never asked.”

Octavia snorts. “And how is he to ask if he doesn’t know of its existence?”

You instantaneously side with Octavia. “Yeah, I don’t know what your after school consists of, how should know what kind of party I’m missing out on?”

“I was just looking after your well-being is all!” Vinyl pouts. “I wouldn’t want you messing up that chiseled figure you’ve got going there with all the sweets.”

Octavia, evidently thinking that you aren’t watching, eyes you up, running her gaze up and down your person. You self-consciously fold your arms across yourself, trying to hide your obvious lack of muscular definition. Vinyl notices, and laughs at your discomfort. “Don’t worry, you’re with similarly-afflicted company.”

“Cheers, Vinyl.” Eager not to talk about your physique, you instead cast your eyes around the room. “This seems like a nice little place.”

“It is.” Octavia nods. “Good food, nice atmosphere. Stays quiet most of the time.” You can understand why Octavia would highlight that as a selling point. “Mrs. Cake is nice too. It’s a surprise that most people don’t realize what an ideal rendezvous place it is.”

“Like the tea room,” you comment.

“Like the tea room,” Octavia repeats with a smile.

Mrs. Cake appears, hefting a platter bearing three tall glasses full of different-colored thick substances with a spoon sticking out of each. She distributes them around the table, then beams another winning smile. “There ya go, dears. Anything else I can do for you today?”

“We’re fine, thanks Mrs. Cake,” Vinyl says, already tearing the wrapper off a straw.

“Yeah, thank you,” you affirm. “These look fantastic.”

Mrs. Cake gives one last painfully-sweet smile, then disappears. Vinyl wastes no time in digging in, plunging the straw into her shake and sucking deeply, puckering her cheeks comically. You and Octavia opt for the more conservative route, using the spoons provided to scoop off the top.

“Wha do yuh fink?” Vinyl says around a mouthful of shake.

Having just taken a big bite -- and not having Vinyl’s disregard for table manners -- you simply nod in approval. You swallow, too quickly. Blinking back the rush of cold behind your eyes, you say, “It’s good. Really good.”

“I would advise slowing down,” Octavia says with a smirk, noticing you cringing. “Savor the moment.”

“Thanks,” you say, your eye still twitching from the cold. “I’ll try that.”

“Shay,” Vinyl says. Her mouth is still full. “Wha’re yuh doin’ for utuhm breash?”

“Vinyl, please swallow, then repeat,” Octavia says.

Vinyl obeys, then opens her mouth again. “What are you doing for autumn recess?”

“Me?” Octavia says.

“‘Course not, I know what you’re doing, darlin’. You,” Vinyl says, pointing at you with a spoon.

You hadn’t given it much thought. It’s still two weeks away, far enough that you don’t need to worry for another thirteen days. Your parents had mentioned that they were taking a weekend trip, one that you have no interest in going on, so that leaves you planless. “I dunno, nothing exciting,” you say, shrugging.

Vinyl and Octavia share a meaningful glance, one in which an entire nonverbal conversation seems to take place. Octavia’s countenance displays discomfort, apprehension, and irritation. Vinyl just looks excited.

“Did you . . .” You cough. “Have something in mind?”

“Yeah, if you’re interested,” Vinyl replies, still looking at Octavia, who folds her arms.

“Uh, what is it?”

“My dad has a cabin up the canyon. Me and Octavia were planning on staying a couple days up there, so we were wondering . . .” Octavia elbows her. “I was wondering, if you’d like to come with.”

A few days. Up in the woods with two girls. With no parental supervision. Alone. Oh my.

“Uh, well y-yeah,” you stammer. “If it’s alright with you, that is.” You throw it out generally, but direct your statement more towards Octavia. She nods, but seems reluctant.

“Excellent!” Vinyl claps her hands. “A third wheel!” She takes a triumphant swig of milkshake.

“And your dad’s okay with it?”

“I told him you were a girl when I ran it by him.” Vinyl shrugs. “He’d probably be cool about it even if he found out you’re a dude.”

“Octavia? Your parents too? I don’t want to . . .”

“I live with my grandparents, actually.”

Huh. How has that never come up? During all the time knowing her, you’d never once asked about her family. You’d definitely told about your own family, but that was only because Vinyl asked. Octavia is still enigmatic as ever, but this is a revelation. One in which a story is buried, no doubt, but you don’t want to pry.

“And they’d be . . . okay with it?” you ask.

Octavia shrugs. “I’ll have to ask. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Vinyl elected not to let me in on her plotting.”

“It was . . . kind of spur-of-the-moment,” Vinyl admits apologetically. “I only thought of it yesterday. But your grandma’s super chill, though. I bet she’d be fine about it. Y’know, as long as you didn’t tell her he’s a guy.”

“That would be unwise,” Octavia agrees, not meeting Vinyl’s eye.

“So, what’s the plan?” you ask.

Vinyl laughs. “Heh, you know how I am about planning ahead. Implying that there’s more to the plan than what I already told you . . .”

“So, what you’re saying is that I should ask you in a week or two, then see where we’re at?” You smile, indeed familiar with Vinyl’s scatterbrained approach to planning.

“Basically.”

“Perfect. Well, I like the sound of that. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, now shut up and enjoy your treat.”

You obey gladly.

“That everything?”

You hoist the last of the duffel bags into Vinyl’s car and slam the trunk shut. “Yep. All set?”

Vinyl, who is carrying a heavy notebook, scans down her packing list, something that Octavia had insisted on. She had hinted at a trip in the past in which Vinyl had forgotten some . . . important items, which Octavia refused to be more specific about. “Looks like it. Got your snacks? Music? Sudoku?”

“Check, check, and check,” comes Octavia’s voice from around the car. “And remember our agreement about music.”

“Yeah, yeah. Mine for half, yours for half. Got it. Now can we please hit the road?”

“Hold on, just got to lock up before we go,” you say. The three of you had rendezvoused at your house. It’s the first time, you realize, that Vinyl or Octavia have been to your house. You rarely see each other outside of school, aside from the occasional visit to Sugarcube Corner. Their visit had consisted mostly of Vinyl and Octavia awkwardly standing around the dining room while you lugged your luggage upstairs.

You go around the house, locking doors and making sure windows are shut. When you return to the car, you hear the heavy thrum of bass emanating from it, vibrating the ground as you walk. Vinyl, sitting in the driver’s seat, bobs her head to the beat, grinning. Octavia, sitting beside her, has her arms tightly folded and wears a haunted expression. You open the door to the back seat, letting out an avalanche of sound.

“Is that loud enough, Vinyl?” you shout over the noise.

“What?”

“Is that . . . never mind, carry on.” You slide into the car and close the door. “Shall we?”

Octavia turns in her seat to face you. “Help me,” she mouths. You give her an apologetic look, then tap Vinyl on the shoulder.

“Mind turning it down a bit?”

Vinyl reluctantly lowers the volume. The chest-thumping thrum lessens slightly. “Man, you guys just don’t know how to listen to music. We good to go?”

“No turning back now,” Octavia comments grimly, still cringing from the musical onslaught.

“All right! No more words, just the wide open road!”

“Vinyl, you live in the suburbs. Most people here have never even seen an open road.”

“Don’t need your sass, girl! Let’s kick it!” Vinyl stomps on the gas pedal, sending the car screaming out of your driveway and hauling down the street. You, still in the process of fastening your seatbelt, are thrown against the pile of luggage sharing the back seat with you. You bang your head against a bag full of something hard and see stars.

“Vinyl, if you kill us before we get out of the neighborhood, I’m gonna be a little disappointed,” you say, righting yourself and rubbing your head.

“This isn’t an especially promising start,” Octavia agrees. “Are you sure you want to drive?”

“Your confidence is overwhelming, guys,” Vinyl says as she hits the brakes hard for a stop sign. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”

“If you say so.”

True to her word, Vinyl keeps you alive and well. Her driving, while consistently a good fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit, is still quite safe. You do have to brace yourself when hitting turns, but that comes naturally enough.

Vinyl’s music, though energizing it may be, does little to pass the time, so she instigates a fair amount of game playing. Get-to-know-you conversation games that probably should have been played far earlier in your relationship.

“Okay, so what’s your favorite color? Mine’s blue, but like a nice light blue. Kind of the color of when you wake up from a dream and you’re not sure if you’re awake or not. Know what I mean?”

“Green,” you say.

“Purple,” replies Octavia.

“C’mon, if we’re gonna play the favorites game, you gotta be a little more in-depth than that.”

“Okay,” you say. You rack your brain. “Green, like the smell of rain.”

“Wouldn’t that be more blue?” Vinyl asks.

“I imagine it green. Up to the individual, I guess.”

“Petrichor,” Octavia says. “The smell of rain. Petrichor is what it’s called. A very green word.”

“Fun facts, brought to you by Octavia Melody,” Vinyl announces grandly. “What about you? What makes your purple so special?”

“The light purple, almost lavender, of the early morning. When you step outside and the air is still pale, and you feel the crispness of it all.”

You visualize the scene in your mind. Purple, maybe. “I’m seeing kind of a turquoise.”

“Well, regardless of what color your emotions are, you’re gonna see some spectacular mornings where we’re going,” Vinyl says. “We’ve stayed on colors for too long, I’m getting bored. What next? Movies?”

The game continues on. Innocent in nature, but you learn more and more about Octavia as you play. You learn that she likes mystery novels, classical music (not a surprise), romantic comedies (a definite surprise), autumn, strawberry ice cream, dark chocolate, has a fear of spiders, and prefers the mountains over the beach. A fine portfolio of knowledge, to be certain.

As time passes, the games slow down, then crawl to a stop. Your motley crew is taken over by silence for a time, until Vinyl starts singing along to the music, Octavia plays Sudoku, you look out the window. Signs of civilization have long since disappeared -- the car charges down the narrow country highway, passing acre after acre of verdant farmland. You don’t mind being left alone with your thoughts. You have nothing in particular to think about, so you allow your mind to unwind, to wander. At some point, you fall asleep.

When you’re woken, it’s by the sound of Vinyl’s electronic discord being abruptly cut off.

“Hey!” Vinyl complains.

“Time’s up,” Octavia says, plugging her phone into the audio jack. “You said half, and half you’ll get.”

The soothing sound of an orchestra emerges from the speakers. The melody washes over you in a pacifying swell. “Oh, thank goodness,” you say.

“I thought you were asleep,” Vinyl says, glancing quickly behind.

“I was. This is nicer to sleep to, though. Trust me.”

“Thank you,” Octavia says. “It’s nice that someone else appreciates a more . . . archaic form of music, even if he is just sleeping through it.”

“No, I’ll stay awake,” you assure her. “I wouldn’t dare sleep through such a masterpiece.”

Anyone else would have pegged you as being sarcastic, but Octavia knows you well enough to recognize your sincerity. You do enjoy classical music, more so than most. That isn’t to say that you can’t appreciate Vinyl’s preferred tone, but the sound of an acoustic instrument, played by a master of the art, cannot be matched in your opinion. Octavia has very fine taste in music. As her playlist progresses, you recognize a plethora of your own favorite pieces. You close your eyes, but not in sleep; you allow the music to swirl around you, piercing the deepest recesses of your being and sending a chill down your back. Beautiful.

Despite her warning to you, Octavia dozes. Her head is pressed uncomfortably against the window, so you wad your jacket up and gently insert it between her head and the glass.

“She asleep?” Vinyl asks.

“Looks like.”

“Cool. Wish I could take a nap.”

“I can drive for a while, if you want.”

Vinyl ponders. “Yeah, sure. Next rest stop I’ll trade you. Thanks, by the way, for coming along.”

“My pleasure. I probably would have been home playing video games all weekend, or something.”

Vinyl chuckles. “Which isn’t a bad alternative.”

“But this is better.”

“Glad you think so.”

“Is Octavia . . .” You pause, trying to choose your words carefully. “Angry? About me being here?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I dunno, it’s just that she seemed a little peeved when you popped the question, and she’s been kinda quiet for these past few weeks. I should have asked her about it before, now that it’s too late to turn back.”

“It’s probably nothing, it’s just that me and her have taken this trip every year for the past . . .” Vinyl counts on her fingers. “Five years. She was just a little nervous about the change. We’ll have a great time, don’t worry.”

“How long have you and her been friends?”

“About a decade. We met when we were eight.”

“Huh.” You can think of nothing more intelligent to say. Your conversation closes. Ten years is a long time, longer than any of your own friendships by far. It’s hard for you to fathom that these two have stuck together so long, as different as they are.

After a time, Vinyl pulls up to a derelict gas station to fuel up, and you and her trade spots. You take your place behind the wheel. Octavia is still asleep. “Don’t let me get lost, okay?” you say to the back seat.

“Hrm, no promises,” Vinyl says, already reclining into a sleeping position.

“Alright, I’ll wake you up if I need you.”

Vinyl falls asleep almost immediately; you can hear soft snoring behind you before long. You drive, just you and these two slumbering girls. You’re grateful for your own nap; your fatigue is dispelled, leaving you energized. Your previously tired brain feels alert, attentive.

Yes, Octavia was upset that Vinyl had invited you. But it sounds like it has nothing to do with you personally, just the fact that it was another person, someone to infringe on the sanctity of this trip. A change from the norm. Vinyl is smart, though -- she had invited you for a reason. Perhaps she saw this as the next step for your relationship with Octavia, maybe the tea room lunches just weren’t cutting it anymore.

You drive for maybe an hour, then Vinyl taps you on the shoulder. “Next right,” she says blearily, evidently still shaking off the sleep. You obey. Vinyl continues to give you directions, until you’re deep into the woods. You trundle along a dirt road, passing several cabins at your left and right. Ahead, through a break in the trees, you can see the shimmering surface of a lake, framed picturesquely by two mountains. “One more right, then go to the end of the road.”

The cabin is small, but pretty. Sitting just off the lake, a narrow path leads down to the water, where a canoe is beached. A fire pit has been dug off to the side, surrounded by cut logs resembling benches. You pull up to the side of the structure and cut the engine. Octavia stirs and opens her eyes.

“You’re not Vinyl,” she says flatly.

“No, she wanted a nap,” you say, then open the door and step outside. You stretch your arms high above your head, working out all the kinks that had accumulated during the drive. Vinyl has already popped the trunk and is unloading bags. Octavia exits the vehicle, and you notice that one side of her hair has been flattened by her nap. You decide not to point it out.

“Have a nice snooze?” Vinyl asks.

“Exceptionally,” Octavia replies, then moves to the back of the car to help unload. You take up an armful of bags and move to the door. You unlock it with Vinyl’s key and push it open.

Vinyl’s cabin looks like every cabin should. Rustic, full of warm colors, decorated by several animal heads and a fish on a plaque. Everything looks very comfortable. What you didn’t expect, however, is the assortment of musical instruments scattered about. A violin, cello, bass, trumpet, several guitars -- acoustic and otherwise -- and an upright piano. You whistle appreciatively. “You weren’t lying about your dad being a music lover,” you call back.

Vinyl and Octavia appear in the doorway. “Oh yeah,” Vinyl says. “He’s a bit of a nut. Let’s get unpacked, then we can hit the lake. We’ve got two bedrooms, so . . .”

“Couch,” you call.

Vinyl frowns. “No, you should have a bed.”

“Couch,” you repeat firmly. You set your suitcase down on the couch to assert your point.

Vinyl shrugs. “Suit yourself. Sheets in the hall closet. Make yourself at home.”

Octavia disappears into one of the bedrooms, pulling her luggage along behind her. Vinyl does the same, claiming her own room. You don’t have to do much to unpack, so you finish long before either of the girls. While you’re waiting, you sit down at the piano and flutter out a quick tune.

“Do that again,” comes Octavia’s voice from behind you. You jump. She had appeared behind you without the slightest of sounds.

“Octavia!” you yelp. “I . . . sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.”

Octavia nods at the piano. “Play that again.”

You obey. It’s a simple melody, all in C Major and with only your right hand, something you had just conjured up moments before. Octavia sinks down onto a chair. “I’ve never heard you play.”

“I’ve never heard you either,” you say, still playing. You give her a sideways glance.

Octavia smiles, and her gaze drifts to the cello propped against the fireplace. “If you wanted . . .”

“Please do.”

Octavia stands. “Excuse me.” She points at the piano bench. You stand and she opens the lid, revealing stacks of sheet music. She leafs through them, pausing on one every now and then, then putting it back in the stack. One seems to catch her eye, though. She looks it over for a long while, her lips pursed. She looks up, hesitates, then turns it for you to see. “It’s a duet, if you’d like.”

You look over the music. Not especially difficult, you’re sure that you wouldn’t have any trouble sight-reading it. “I like the look of it. Won’t we need two sets of music, though?”

“I already know it.” Octavia sits down with the cello and begins tuning, plucking at the strings until they sound perfect. Her face seems clouded, as if concerned about her music choice. Or, not concerned, but more . . . apprehensive.

You smile and sit back down at the piano, placing the music in front of you. “Then lead the way, Miss Melody.”

Octavia begins to play.

You’re so stunned that you almost miss the cue for the piano to cut in. Octavia’s music is breathtaking. She has a beautiful quality to her playing, so precise and soft. Sweeping yet gentle. You try your best to keep up with her, accenting her cello with your keyboard. You play softly as not to overshadow her.

Octavia has her eyes closed, her fingers dancing spellbindingly across the strings, her bow sliding rhythmically. She plays with a wild abandon, throwing her whole body into the music. Her face bunches up as the music reaches a crescendo, squinting tightly.

You stop watching Octavia and look back at the sheet music; the music is growing increasingly more complex. Your hands fly across the keys, fluttering wildly. You gaze intently at the music, following the notes across the page as they’re played.

Eventually, the music slows to a close, leaving one last lingering note fading into silence.

You let out a breath which you didn’t realize you’d been holding and open your eyes which you didn’t notice had closed.

Applause. A slow clap coming from behind you. Vinyl lays sprawled on the couch, her glasses propped up on her head for once, revealing her piercing magenta eyes. “Encore, encore!”

“Thanks, Vinyl,” you say.

“Hot dang, kid! You mentioned you played the piano, but that was unreal!” Vinyl heaves herself into a sitting position and leans forward. “Now be honest with me. Are you mortal? Or are you some god of music that came down for a visit?”

Wordlessly, Octavia stands and places the cello back in its place. She then turns and walks to her room, disappearing inside. As she turns to close the door, you notice tears on her face. You gaze after her, confused. “Uh, is she okay?”

Vinyl’s grin fades. She gives you a grim look. “She will be. It’s just that that song has . . . uh, sentimental value. Give her a minute.”

Not comforted by Vinyl’s words, you’re tempted to go knock on the door, to talk to Octavia. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, she has to play it at least once every time we come up. This happens every time. Though this is the first time she’s had a partner since . . . well, since a while ago.” Vinyl stands. “Want to go out on the lake for a bit?”

Her sudden change of subject is suspect, but you go along with it. “Okay. Will Octavia be alright if she finds we’re gone?”

“We won’t be gone long, I’ll leave a note.”

You go down to the lake with Vinyl, relishing the cool air, the smell of the woods, the afternoon sunlight paled by a thin cover of clouds. The tranquility can’t dissuade you from worrying about Octavia, though. Playing with her had been incredible, something that you had fantasized about for the longest time, ever since you had learned she’s a cellist. And yet you feel empty. Not for the first time, you wonder about Octavia’s past. Vinyl had said it was “rough”, but that hardly sufficed to explain.

Vinyl unties the canoe and you help her shove it into the water. You both board, balancing carefully as not to capsize it. Taking an oar in your hands, you push off the shore, sending the small craft streaking out into open water.

“How long will Octavia need?” you ask.

“I’d give her about half an hour. You need to stop worrying, though. We’re here to relax.”

“You said she hasn’t had a partner in a while.”

“Yeah, I did. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

“Care to . . .”

“No, I wouldn’t. Sorry, but I’ve told you, it isn’t my place to say.” Vinyl sounds angry. It worries you. You’ve never heard her like this; you’ve never seen her crack in the slightest, not since the day you met her. “I just wish we could have gone at least a day before I get hit with the silent treatment.”

“I’m really sorry, Vinyl.” This trip she’s been looking forward to for so long has started on a low.

She snorts derisively, digging into the water with a particularly fierce stroke. “Not your fault, I guess. She chose to play that, you were just along for the ride. She’s just . . . hard to deal with sometimes. Had to get out of the house to let out some hot air. Bad vibes inside, you know?”

“I get it.”

“It’s been so long since she had an incident. Last one was before she met you.”

“Incident? You mean that she . . .”

“She curls into a little ball of emotions and hides from the world.” Vinyl says it flatly, emotionlessly. Something in her mind seems to be wearing thin. “She’s been doing so well lately that I hoped I wouldn’t have to see her like this anymore. It hurts.” Vinyl sets her oar on her lap and looks down. “You can only put on a happy face for so long.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“No, don’t. At least . . . not yet. Let’s have some fun while we’re here.”

You sigh. “Okay. How’s your happy face?”

“Recharging.”

You and Vinyl aimlessly drift around the lake, not speaking to each other. As you go, you try to work yourself into a positive mindset, ready to make the most of the rest of your day. Vinyl seems to be doing the same; after a period of silence, she starts whistling cheerily. Once satisfied that you’re in a well enough state, you signal to Vinyl that you’re ready to go back.

You return to see Octavia standing at the shore. She has her arms folded and feet close together, but as you come closer, you can see that she’s smiling. Relief washes over you. You wave jovially. She waves back.

“I made dinner,” she says as you and Vinyl beach the canoe. “Come get it while it’s hot.”

You and Vinyl share a glance. You hadn’t been gone for that long, which means that Octavia’s . . . incident . . . had to have been brief, if she had made dinner in that time.

“Thanks, Octavia,” you say. “But I thought it was my night for dinner.”

“I’ll trade you for breakfast tomorrow.”

You shed your life jacket and toss it into the boat. “Deal.”

“Oh, thank heaven,” Vinyl says. “I’m starving!”

Octavia gives her an amused look. “You were eating nearly all of the drive, how are you still hungry?”

“I’m a growing girl! I need nourishment!”

“Keep telling yourself that, Vinyl.” Octavia beckons, walking back up to the cabin. Vinyl looks at you and gives the thumbs-up, grinning.

The smell of food wafts out as Octavia opens the patio door. Laid out on the table are three steaming plates of pasta, a large bowl of salad, and a dish heaped high with garlic bread. You moan appreciatively. “Octavia, we said dinner, not a feast.”

Octavia smiles and looks down. She intertwines her fingers shyly. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you,” Vinyl says. She sits down and upends a container of parmesan cheese over her plate. You sit as well.

Octavia hesitates. “Is there anything you need?”

“No, this looks amazing. Sit down,” you assure her. She obeys, sitting down next to you and taking up her fork.

Vinyl, with all the elegance of a charging rhino, digs in. She has her face close to the plate and shovels pasta down her gullet with alarming speed. You follow her lead, but more moderately. Octavia’s cooking is remarkable. “Okay,” you say after swallowing a forkful. “Where did you learn to cook? Because this isn’t normal for a high school student.”

Octavia looks exceptionally pleased with herself. “My grandmother is a chef by profession. I’ve picked up on a few things.”

As you eat, the sun descends, painting the sky a brilliant tapestry of pink and orange. Evening light reddens the landscape. You don’t need to look at your watch to discern that it’s getting late.

“I, for one,” Vinyl announces. “Would not say no to an early bedtime.”

You and Octavia nod in agreement. Traveling always tires you out. “Agreed,” you say.

“Before we do, though . . .” Octavia says. “Vinyl could we get out the ladder?”

“Ladder?” you inquire. Neither of the girls acknowledge you.

Vinyl springs up. “Sure, but that means that you two get to clean up dinner.”

“I’ve got dinner handled. No, really,” you say, as Octavia opens her mouth. “You made it, I’m going to clean it up.” She smiles in thanks.

Despite your assertion, Octavia still helps, bringing dishes to the sink for you to wash then wiping down the table. Vinyl disappears out the door after donning a pair of boots and work gloves. “Where’s she going?” you ask.

“To the shed. It’s a little overgrown, so she’s bringing protective gear.”

“To get the ladder, I presume?”

“Yes. You’ll see.”

Minutes later, you hear a knock at the door. Vinyl peeks through the window, waving. She beckons to you and Octavia. You follow Octavia outside, to find that Vinyl has set up a tall ladder against the cabin, leading up to the roof. “After you.” Vinyl grins, waving you up the ladder. Octavia leads, you follow, and Vinyl brings up the rear.

You reach the top. The sunset has splayed out across the entire sky, uninterrupted by any signs of civilization, a brilliant fiery spectacle. “Wow.”

Octavia sits on the slanted surface, wrapping her arms around her legs, and looks out at the sky. Vinyl nudges you and gestures to Octavia with her head. You give her a quizzical look, and she pushes you a little more firmly. Relenting, you sit down next to Octavia. Vinyl sits on your other side.

“It’s something else, isn’t it?” Octavia says.

“Breathtaking,” you say.

“Magnificent.”

“Marvelous.”

“Beauteous.”

“Resplendent.”

“Pretty,” Vinyl comments.

You and Octavia both look at Vinyl, then the three of you laugh. Vinyl raises her arms above her head and lays down flat on the roof. You follow her lead, and Octavia shortly after.

Three awkward high-schoolers lying on a roof. Strangers you had been months before, but your friendship seems like it’s lasted eons. Everything about this moment, the beauty, the tranquility, feels right. You could lie here for the rest of your life.

“Do you think that we . . .” Vinyl starts.

“Shh,” Octavia shushes.

“But we . . .”

“Shh! No more talking. Just . . . enjoy.”

Vinyl closes her mouth. She lifts her glasses off her eyes, folds them, and lays them down at her side.

No one moves for what has to be nearly an hour. The warmness of the sky mellows into deep blue, then to black. White pinpricks start appearing, dotting the black openness one after another. A crescent moon climbs above the horizon, washing you in pale light. The air cools, but not uncomfortably.

A snore finally breaks the reverie.

Vinyl had fallen asleep.

You and Octavia stifle your laughter as best you can. “Well, this is a predicament,” you say.

“I don’t think we can get her down the ladder,” Octavia agrees.

“I was willing to try,” you say jokingly. “She can’t be that heavy, can she?”

“You’d be surprised. Try to wake her gently.”

You poke at the sleeping girl. “Vinyl?” you croon. “Wakey-wakey.” Vinyl stirs but doesn’t wake. You try harder, speaking louder. “C’mon, Vinyl we need to get you inside before you freeze.”

“Mrhm,” Vinyl mumbles. She pushes herself up on her elbows. “Where am I?”

“Roof. Looking at stars, remember?”

“Huh. You let me fall asleep?”

“We didn’t have much say in the matter, Vinyl,” Octavia says. “If you put your mind to sleeping, there’s no earthly force that can stop you. Do you think you can get down safely?”

“Yeah.” Vinyl yawns widely and stands. She descends the ladder slowly but confidently. You and Octavia follow. At the bottom, Vinyl has her head pressed against the door, eyes closed. Octavia wraps an arm around her, propping her up before opening the door.

“I’ll get Vinyl to bed,” she says. “Good night.”

“Good night,” you repeat. Too tired to fetch bed clothes, you simply lower yourself onto the couch and close your eyes. The yellow glow in front of your eyelids disappears as Octavia turns off the lights.

You breathe deeply. The cabin has a musty, earthy smell. Not unpleasant, by any means. Strangely comforting. Outside, you can make out the sound of water moving, of leaves rustling, of crickets chirping, all blending into a wild symphony.

Today has been a remarkably good day.

Your tired brain registers another sound, a softer and much closer sound.

Footsteps, coming in your direction. You slowly open your eyes to see a dark figure standing over you. She bends down until her face is inches from your ear. The scent of coffee reaches your nose.

Octavia.

“Thank you,” she breathes. Her breath tickles your face. “For everything.”

Before you have any chance to formulate any coherent thought, Octavia leans closer. You freeze. Her lips brush lightly on your cheek. She withdraws, then disappears into the darkness like a spectre, leaving you wondering if you’re in a dream.

“What the hell . . .” you whisper to yourself. You bring your fingers to your face, outline where her lips had made contact. That had been very real.

It’s a good long time before you’re able to sleep.

Octavia makes no mention of the late-night incident the following day.

This further contributes to your theory that you had imagined the entire thing. But no, you know deep in your core that Octavia had kissed you.

But why, though?

Yes, you had long been pining after this mysterious girl. Yes, you had wished, fantasized about a moment like that, for the longest time. Yes, a month ago you would have been ecstatic.

But now, you don’t know what to think.

Octavia has become one of your best friends, and you’ve come to accept that. You realized that there was an outstandingly slim chance at there ever being a romantic connection, so you had contented yourself with friendship, and a remarkable friendship at that.

Now that she’s opened the door for you, you don’t know whether or not to take that step. You don’t know how you would take the step.

Cabin life is slow. Lots of card games and drifting purposelessly around the lake. Enjoyable, of course, but for once you’d appreciate having a little less time alone with your thoughts.

What does Octavia see in you? Why had she opened up like that? Does she expect you to reciprocate? What had been the turning point? Question after question pounds at your consciousness, until you’re forced to shut them out because they’re interfering with your mood so much that Vinyl notices.

“You alright?” she inquires. You had been sitting on the couch, staring off into space. Octavia is outside, reading on a lounge chair. Vinyl, who had been plucking at a guitar, now looks at you with curious eyes. You notice that she hasn’t been wearing her trademark glasses all day. It’s a nice change. You like talking to her face, instead of those two purple mirrors.

You blink a couple times then force a smile. “Yeah, just tired.”

“Sleep alright?”

“Yeah. The chill vibes from this place are just rubbing off.”

Vinyl laughs. “I feel you, man. If you need to take a nap, feel free to crash in my room.”

“Thanks, Vinyl, but I’m alright.”

Octavia pulls open the patio door and strides inside. She’s wearing a yellow sun dress and wide straw hat, and looks simply too good to be allowed. She has a light paperback tucked under her arm, a slip of paper marking her place.

Vinyl places the guitar back on its stand. “Good book?”

Octavia shrugs. “Not particularly, but it doesn’t require much thinking.” She sets her book down on the coffee table and moves to the fireplace, where the cello is sitting. You sit up straighter -- Octavia hadn’t played since your duet yesterday and you’re eager to hear more.

Octavia sits, bow in hand, and makes some small adjustments to the tuning pegs. Not bothering to find any sheet music, she closes her eyes and begins to play.

And, just like that, you’re in love again.

You sit, enraptured by this ethereal performance, your eyes affixed firmly on the cellist’s face. Octavia really is beautiful. You had realized it before, but now . . . now you have a hard knowledge of the fact.

Octavia doesn’t seem to be playing anything from memory. The verse is too freeform, she has to be improvising. But her adaptability is astounding. Wave after wave of music, each just as breathtaking as the last, never repeating, never faltering.

Even after she stops playing, the sound reverberates in your ears. Only the sound of Octavia’s voice, speaking your name, brings you back to earth.

“You know, it wouldn’t be too late for you to join the orchestra,” she says.

You laugh weakly. “And have to try to compete with the likes of you every day? Sounds exhausting.”

“I mean it, we don’t have a pianist at the moment, so you’d be welcome. If you wanted.”

The offer is tempting. “I’ll think about it.”

You check your watch. The afternoon is steadily creeping on, heralding the evening. Despite being the complete opposite of busy, time seems to be flying by.

The rest of your day is more of the same. You read a lot; Octavia drives out to town to rent an old, cheesy action movie that you all have a lot of fun poking fun at; Vinyl takes her turn at dinner, preparing an adequately-tasty ensemble of grilled cheese sandwiches. As evening falls, Vinyl instigates a walk around the lake, which you gladly agree to.

Not many words are exchanged during your walk. You feel tense; you want desperately to talk to Octavia, but you don’t know how you would do it. You three are together for so much of the time, you doubt you’d be able to get Octavia alone.

Disappointingly, you go to bed more frustrated than you were before.

The next day is more of the same. Only now, the lethargy is starting to chafe. You’re bored senseless, your discomfort heightened by your infuriation at your inability to talk to Octavia. Taking Vinyl’s lead, you put on a happy face, trying your very hardest to make the most of the time you have.

And again, you find yourself looking out the window at the sunset.

You stack the last of the recently-scrubbed dishes to the side, where Vinyl is on drying duty. Octavia, who had made dinner again, sits with her cello, her music wandering randomly through the cabin.

“Anything you want to do before we head out tomorrow?” Vinyl asks.

Octavia answers almost immediately, her recital pausing. “The fire pit outside. Could we light a fire?”

“Sure.” Vinyl looks to you. “Do you know how to start a fire?”

You vaguely remember your dad teaching you when you were a kid. You also remember not paying attention to the process; you were too excited by the marshmallows your mother was busy putting on sticks. “Yeah. Can’t be that hard, right?”

It can be that hard. Can, and is, as you come to find out. A good twenty minutes is wasted while the three of you struggle to get a flame going. But, after a fair amount of cursing, the paper you had wadded up at the bottom catches, and the fire spreads to the bigger kindling surrounding it. You, Vinyl, and Octavia share a cheer as the yellow-orange inferno explodes into life. You toss your poker stick to the side and sit heavily on a log. “See?” you say. “Nothing to it.”

Octavia sits down next to you. Closer than she would have a week ago. Your apprehension is rekindled, but you’re determined not to let it affect you. Vinyl sits opposite the two of you, leaning in close to the fire to warm her hands. Nobody says anything for a time; you’re too entranced by the dancing flames. Thin yellow tendrils reach skyward, breaking free of the crimson depths of the fire. Sparks, tiny glowing darts, leap this way and that, burning briefly bright, then vanishing.

Suddenly, Vinyl leaps up. “Marshmallows!” she cries, slapping her forehead. “I’ll be right back!” She sprints around the cabin, already pulling the car keys out of her pocket.

“Vinyl!” you call after her, but the girl is already gone. The sound of an engine firing up, then the scream of tires and crunch of gravel as she tears out of the driveway.

You and Octavia are left alone, an opportunity you’d been searching for for days, but now that you’ve encountered it, you don’t know what to do. Octavia doesn’t speak; gazes deeply into the fire, the reflection of flames dancing in her irises.

You need to say something. You need to understand a lot of things about Octavia if you’re ever going to find peace. But where do you start?

“Octavia . . .” you start. Maybe if you prelude the conversation, you’ll be less inclined to back out.

“Mmm?”

“Can we . . . talk?”

Octavia looks away from the fire and meets your gaze evenly. Her brow furrows. Something about your tone must have sounded foreboding. “I suppose.”

“It’s about the first day we got here.” You pause, collecting your thoughts. Try as you might, though, they just seem to slip through your fingers. You clear your throat. “Right after we arrived. We played that duet, and then you . . .” You can’t bring yourself to say the words.

Octavia looks away from you, folds her arms. She purses her lips.

“I just want to say,” you say. “You don’t need to be afraid around me.” That was the wrong thing to say. That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Octavia glances sharply in your direction. Her fingers tighten around her arms, turning white with exertion.

“Sorry, I mean . . .” You try to run damage control. “But it’s just that Vinyl told me you hadn’t played with a partner in a long time, so after, when you . . .”

“Vinyl told you?” Octavia’s voice comes out a whisper. “Vinyl told you what?”

You swallow. You’re in the middle of a minefield. One wrong move and this could all blow up in your face. Stop saying stupid things, idiot. “She just told me that you hadn’t had someone to play that song with.”

“What else has she told you?” Her voice has a hard edge.

“Nothing! I mean . . .” Octavia’s stare holds you captive. “She just thought you needed a friend.” Why would you go there? Why on earth would you go there? Too late to turn back now, you monumental disaster. Try explaining yourself out of this one. “Back on the day when we first met, Vinyl asked me to try to be your friend. She told me how . . . hard it’s been, so I told her I would.”

“She asked you . . .” Octavia stops. She has a look of horrified disgust on her face. She clenches her jaw. “So that’s why you’re here? You’re here because Vinyl thought I needed protecting from the terrors of the world? Is that what you’re trying to do? Protect me?” Her voice is deadly quiet.

“Octavia, it wasn’t all Vinyl’s offer that convinced me. The truth is . . .” You take a deep breath. “I was interested in you long before I knew who you or Vinyl were.”

Octavia laughs vindictively, waving it off. “Oh, you think I don’t know that? You wear your heart on your sleeve, I knew it from the moment you walked into class that day.”

Your breath catches. “You knew?”

Octavia’s eyes glint. Moisture is forming in them. “Yes I knew. It made me so happy to realize that someone was interested in me. But I didn’t know you. That’s why Vinyl took advantage of you, because you were an unknown. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. You seemed different. I even cared for you.” She pauses, and you flash back to the kiss, seemingly so long ago.

“Octavia, I just wanted to know why . . .”

“Is that why you’ve stayed for so long?” Her voice rises in pitch. “You wanted to figure out what’s wrong with me?”

“No, I just . . .”

“You just wanted to play therapist, to be some kind of white knight to carry me off into the sunset?”

Octavia’s words cut you deeply. Try as you might to argue, there is some truth to it. You wanted to be the person to help her, to make her . . . normal, again. “That’s not true!” It is true. “I just wanted to be there if you needed me.”

“Needed you?” Octavia steams.

“Or anyone . . . I just wanted to help. Vinyl said that you’d pushed everyone else away.”

“The fewer people to let your guard down around, the fewer there are to hurt you.”

“Octavia, I don’t want to hurt you! I don’t want anyone to hurt you!” you say, your own voice rising. “I thought that I . . .”

“I don’t need you to fix me!” Octavia rises to her feet. She faces you, furious. She’s crying in earnest now. The fire silhouettes her figure in a terrifying penumbra. “Do you want to know why I am who I am? Why I keep everyone at arm’s length? Why I’m this special case who needs constant care?” she spits venomously.

You don’t dare respond. An angry Vinyl is one thing. This . . . is something else entirely. You have no one else but yourself to blame; you had talked your way into this mess. You had trod to heavily, stepped on too many toes. Tried to be too protective.

“I’ll tell you why!” Octavia takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a rush of words. “My father killed my mother and brother in front of me!”

The revelation explodes out into the night, bursting free from the girl.

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. You can’t breathe. “Octavia . . .”

“That partner that I haven’t had? My older brother. Dead. Killed by the man who raised me. That’s not the kind of thing you walk away from unscathed. So if you think you can do what an army of psychiatrists couldn’t, stop wasting your time.”

After glaring solidly at you for a moment, waiting for your reaction, Octavia whirls and stalks up to the cabin, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoes across the lake.

What have you done?

Act 3: Perdendosi

You’re numb. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but whatever it was couldn’t have been further from the truth. Her father . . . had killed her mother and brother. In front of her.

The pieces begin falling into place. She avoids talking about her past. She lives with her grandparents. She doesn’t let anyone in, because she’s seen what happens when she does. And she’s stayed quiet, stayed strong, this whole time.

Tears begin falling from your eyes. You choke back a sob, but it’s futile. You put your head in your hands, shaking. The unfairness of it all tears you apart.

You allow yourself the tears, but when you hear the sound of an engine approaching, you immediately begin to take deep, steadying breaths. By the time Vinyl’s footsteps approach, you’re completely collected.

“Hey, uh, where’s Octavia?” You look up. Vinyl has a large bag of marshmallows dangling from her grip. “Did something happen?”

You sigh, and it shudders a bit. “I messed up, Vinyl.”

“What?”

“I messed up.”

Vinyl sits next to you. “What happened?”

“She told me, about her dad.”

“Oh, hell.”

“How can you keep that kind of secret for her? How has it not killed you?”

Vinyl is somber. “I try not to think about it. I try to pretend she’s still the same friend I had before it happened.”

You gaze into the fire. The flames had diminished slightly, but you have no will to stoke it. “She’s not going to forgive me for that.”

“How bad was it?”

“I dunno. Bad.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. You want my honest opinion?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re gonna have to try really hard to make that up to her. She didn’t talk to me for three months when I found out.”

“How did you find out?”

“She wasn’t at school for half the year, so I eventually tracked her down. Her grandma told me everything. That woman is the sweetest little thing you’ve ever seen, so at least I knew that Octavia was in good hands. Still . . .” Vinyl rubs her neck. “Terrible thing.”

You curse softly under your breath.

“I don’t suppose you’re in the mood to roast marshmallows,” Vinyl says. She tears the bag open with her teeth.

“Not really, no.”

“Well I’m gonna. Want to talk?”

“No. Sorry, but I need a minute.”

Vinyl nods. She impales a marshmallow on a metal rod and thrusts it into the fire. The flames lick hungrily at its white softness. Within seconds, the marshmallow ignites. Vinyl withdraws it, blows out the fire, then gingerly extricates the blackened husk from the stick. She pops it into her mouth without hesitation.

Her casual attitude annoys you, but you can hardly blame her. You had somehow expected her to feel as shaken as you are, but of course Vinyl has known all along what Octavia’s story was; she’s learned to cope long ago.

“Do you know the details? She didn’t tell me much.”

Vinyl frowns at you. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

You don’t respond. The fire has sunk low, leaving only telltale flames here and there. A hot bed of glowing embers coats the bottom of the pit, a mesmerizing, swirling desert of orange and grey. Up at the cabin, one of the bedroom’s lights go out. Octavia has gone to bed.

“I’m sorry, Vinyl.”

“Hrm?”

“That we had to end the trip like this. I shouldn’t have ever asked.”

Vinyl sighs and shrugs. “You had to find out sometime. Here’s as good a place as any to do it, I guess. No worries, I’m still having a good time. Hey, come on,” she says, seeing your downcast face. “Cheer up. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

You don’t believe it for a second. No amount of reassurance can disprove that something had snapped tonight. You’re determined not to see Octavia any differently now, but honestly, how can you not? This changes everything about your relationship. Vinyl seems to read your mind.

“You’re overthinking it. This’ll blow over and you’ll be friends again.”

She’s probably right. It may take a little while, but with the right coaxing, you should be right back where you left off. But not yet. You’re not ready to work through this; you don’t know how.

“I’m going to bed,” you announce. You stand and turn away from Vinyl. “Would you keep an eye on the fire?”

You don’t see Vinyl’s expression, but her tone, her hesitation, paints the picture for you. “ . . . Yeah. No problem. ‘Night.” Her tone isn’t angry, or sad. Just . . . disappointed. That’s the final straw for you. Through all of this, Vinyl had stayed constant, being the driving force pushing you and Octavia together. Unwavering, uncomplaining . . . you had never once stopped to think about the toll Octavia must be taking on her best friend.

Octavia’s room is silent. You’re not sure what you would have heard -- soft crying maybe -- but there are no signs that she’s awake. You lie down on the couch and fold your arms across your chest, staring at the darkness above you. The faint, flickering glow of the fire tosses an orange splash across the ceiling, then is suddenly extinguished. Seconds later, the door creaks open, then shuts immediately. Vinyl doesn’t speak to you; she pads across the floor and disappears into her room. Light spills out from under the closed door for a moment, then she turns the lights out.

You don’t sleep well.

The drive home is uncomfortable.

Octavia takes the back seat and stays silent the entire drive, even through Vinyl’s vociferous music selection. You don’t dare look back at her, so you’re not sure if she stays awake for the duration, or naps. Yourself, you’re exhausted but can’t bring yourself to sleep. You and Vinyl periodically take turns driving.

This drive feels much longer. Being trapped in your own mind hardly helps -- your consciousness is a disastrous mess of anxiety and worry. You want so badly to help Octavia, but the prospect of working around such an elephant in the room scares you. How do you return to normalcy? Will Octavia even let you try?

Arriving back at your home comes at a surprise. You’re dropped back into reality by Vinyl hitting the breaks and cutting the engine. “Here we are,” she announces unnecessarily.

“Thanks Vinyl, Octavia,” you half look over your shoulder but don’t meet Octavia’s eye. “That was a blast.”

“Need a hand with your bags?” Vinyl offers.

“Nah, I can manage. Thanks.”

You assemble your bags in a small pile outside the car, then wave to Vinyl. Octavia is looking at her lap. Vinyl waves back, then kicks the engine back on. She reverses out the driveway at breakneck speed and thunders off. You palm your house key and sling a bag over your shoulder. You’re home.

You don’t unpack just yet. You toss your bags on your bed haphazardly and sink into your desk chair. Mindlessly, you boot up your computer and flip through all the unread notifications that had piled up while you were gone. Nothing too exciting, except . . .

An email catches your eye. The name of the sender is familiar, but only vaguely. You open it hesitantly. You notice the Canterlot school insignia in the top left corner, and remember where you had seen that name before -- the school’s music teacher.

It’s an invitation. An invitation to join the Canterlot Chamber Orchestra as a pianist. Evidently, Octavia must have put in a good word for you with the man in charge. You smile absently as you scan the information. Come early to school Monday . . . clear a space in your schedule . . . Best wishes, blah blah blah.

The prospect excites you. The last time you had earnestly played the piano was for recitals when you were twelve. Six years later, it’ll be nice to play with purpose again. And . . . you frown momentarily, struck with sudden concern. To be with Octavia.

You join the orchestra without a hitch. The conductor, a portly little man with a toupee, instantly admits you after a brief audition. The students in the orchestra are just as responsive -- the class has a very tight-knit feel to it, so you’re welcomed with open arms. The music is challenging, but nothing you can’t handle. You’ve joined, however, at an inopportune time -- the Hearth’s Warming Eve performance is fast approaching -- but catching up is no trouble.

Unfortunately, the cellos are placed far from your piano, so Octavia’s music is drowned in the collective ensemble of the orchestra. Octavia herself rarely looks your way, treating you with the same frostiness that you had received on the drive home. You barely notice, however. During your down time, you talk -- or rather listen -- to a bubbly, purple-haired violinist named Symphony, who is over-the-moon excited to welcome you to the orchestra, and a more conservative boy named Royal Riff, who is polite to a fault.

“ . . . So next week we’ll start practicing with the choir for the finale,” Symphony spouts, forging wildly ahead on her exhaustive explanation of the upcoming performance. “So the room’s gonna get a little crowded, ‘cause there’s like, forty extra people in here. But it’ll be fun! The choir’s full of great people. Like Sunset Shimmer, I’m sure you’ll like her . . .”

You inadvertently tune out from what Symphony is saying. You appreciate the distraction she provides, you really do, but trying to stay attentive is even harder than when talking to Vinyl Scratch. You keep your gaze affixed on her face, nodding every now and then to keep up the interested look, but allow your thoughts to wander.

“Do you have plans for lunch?” Royal Riff interjects.

Startled, you come back down to earth. Both violinists are looking at you expectantly.

“Um, kind of. Did you have something in mind?”

Royal Riff shrugs. “Nothing worth distracting yourself over. No matter.”

This brings up a whole new issue that you hadn’t considered. Lunch in the tea room. What’ll that be like? With Octavia being so frosty, you don’t know how she’ll react to sharing a meal with you. You’re tempted to take Royal Riff up on his offer, though you don’t even know what it is, but you’ve made a promise to Vinyl. You need to try.

The conductor retakes his podium and silence falls as he raises the baton. Symphony and Royal Riff turn forward, bringing their instruments to their necks. Your fingers alight on the keyboard, ready for the cue.

The baton falls, and you begin to play.

A few hours later, you pull open the door to the tea room, only to find it devoid of either of your friends, which piques your curiosity. Normally, either Vinyl or Octavia beats you here and has started on tea. Today, no one. You don’t bother turning on the lights; the sunlight from outside illuminates the room well enough.

You don’t often prepare the tea, but you’ve watched Octavia enough to understand the process fairly well. As you begin, you hear the door open behind you and you glance over your shoulder. Vinyl slips into the room.

“Hiya,” she says, falling onto the couch. “No Octavia?”

“Dunno,” you reply. “I saw her this morning, but not since.”

Vinyl remains quiet as you finish brewing. Octavia still does not show up. You get out three teacups, just in case, but you aren’t optimistic. Even after giving the tea a few more minutes to seep, Octavia remains conspicuously absent. Vinyl has taken a seat at the table, her feet propped on Octavia’s chair. You place a steaming cup in front of her then take your own seat.

“Don’t suppose you’re in the mood for a game of chess?” Vinyl says halfheartedly.

“Not really, no. Sorry.”

“Me neither.”

You had forgotten your lunch today, so you and Vinyl sit in silence, occasionally sipping.

“Do you have Octavia’s address?” you ask abruptly.

Vinyl raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” she says, prompting you to explain further.

“I thought I’d go visit after school. Just to check up on her.”

Vinyl looks at you with mild concern. “You sure about that?”

“No,” you reply honestly. “But I figured it’d be worth a shot.”

Vinyl sighs heavily, downs the rest of her tea, then gives you the address. “Need me to write it down?”

“No, I can remember it. Thanks.”

“Just . . . be careful.”

The words “be careful” sound strange coming from Vinyl Scratch, but you heed them nonetheless. “Thanks.”

Octavia lives in a rather nondescript house. More nicely presented then most, with a fresh coat of paint and vibrant green lawn, but it doesn’t stand out from the rest of the homes on the street. Its demeanor is much like Octavia’s herself. A car is parked in the driveway, a lavish black convertible that you’re certain isn’t Octavia’s.

You make your way up the flagstone path to the front door, a heavy wooden slab adorned with a thick pine wreath. A shiny brass knocker stares you in the face, but you knock on the wood instead. A dull thud reverberates, but you’re not sure if anyone inside heard. You’re tempted to knock again, but as you raise your fist you hear footsteps approaching. Not Octavia’s -- too brisk, to heavy. The door opens, and you’re met with a pleasant-looking elderly woman wearing an apron and a light dusting of flour over a flowery dress. The aroma of something warm and sweet wafts out.

“Hello,” she says. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi,” you say. You had expected Octavia to open the door. You’re not sure what to say to her grandmother. “I’m, um, a friend of Octavia’s. From school. Is she home?”

“She is,” the woman says with a smile. “Would you like to see her?”

“Yes, uh, if that’s alright.”

“Come on in.” She steps aside and beckons. You step inside. The decoration is nice, but very dated. It looks like the epitome of any old person’s home. “Have a seat, I’ll be just a moment.”

Nodding in thanks, you sink onto a yellow sofa. The furry thing you had taken for a cushion next to you meows irritably. It uncurls and sits up, revealing its true form to be a chocolate brown cat. The cat regards you balefully. It’s look clearly says, “You’re not welcome here.”

Octavia’s grandmother ascends the staircase, disappearing into the floor above. “I hope you don’t mind cats,” she calls back. “Crescendo is a tad territorial, but he’s all talk.”

“Not at all,” you reply. You raise your hand for Crescendo to smell. He sniffs briefly, then turns away from you and curls back up into a coil. Fine then, you think. I didn’t want to talk to you either.

You hear muffled voices from above, to faint to discern any meaning from. One sounds like Octavia’s. One voice raises slightly, then both fall quiet. A few more words from Octavia’s grandmother, then silence. Footsteps now, only one set. Your heart sinks. Your suspicions are affirmed when Octavia’s grandmother reappears at the top of the staircase and begins to descend.

“I’m sorry,” she says, a forced smile stretched across her face. “Octavia has taken a bit ill. This may not be the best time.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” you say, standing. Crescendo meows at you again. “It’s not that important, I can talk to her at school. Hope she feels better.”

Octavia’s grandmother gives an apologetic look, then leans in close. “You aren’t her boyfriend, are you?” She winks conspiratorially.

“What? No, no I’m not.”

“Hmm.” She smiles innocently. “One of these days, perhaps.”

Not bothering to ask what she means by that, you move to the door. “It was nice meeting you.”

“And you as well. Take care of yourself.”

“You too. Goodbye.”

The door closes behind you. You swear under your breath. You’re almost certain that Octavia isn’t sick. She didn’t want to see you, that was all. How are you supposed to help her if she won’t let you in?

You start walking, head down, hands in pockets. Anger swirls in your chest, rising to heat your face. All you had ever tried to do was be Octavia’s friend. At one point, you had even tried to be more than that. And what had you been met with? Nothing.

But no, you rationalize, Octavia has been one of your closest friends for months now. She only pushed you away when you tried to get too close.

Your anger stamps out the voice of reason. She has no right to be angry at me. I’ve been nothing but accommodating.

Can you really not allow her a day to be upset?

No, I can’t. I’ve done nothing to deserve this.

That’s just unreasonable. How many times have you needed to take a break from a person? Remember that time when you spent a week away from Eiffel and Noteworthy because they laughed when you told them your elementary school crush?

This is different.

Not especially.

Yes it is. She has no right to be offended.

You don’t know that. You don’t know what she may be going through right now.

You forcibly shut off the shouting match in your head. Arguing with yourself just makes you more upset. A breeze chills your spine, and you zip up your jacket. A patch of clouds cover the sun, darkening the sky.

If Octavia is going to shut you out, then so be it. You’re beyond caring.

Right?

“Hey, Riffs?”

Royal Riff turns around. “Yes?”

“What are you doing for lunch?”

“Many of the orchestra and choir students are eating in the choir room. Would you care to join us?”

“Sure.”

Symphony turns around and beams delightedly. “Great! There are so many people I want you to meet!”

“Looking forward to it,” you say with as much enthusiasm as you can muster. “We should pay attention though,” you say as Symphony opens her mouth, undoubtedly to launch into a long-winded introduction of said people. “Looks like we’re about to start.”

The conductor retakes his podium and silence falls as he raises the baton.

The baton falls, and you begin to play.

Hours later, you join the throng of people pouring into the choir room. Surprisingly, the room is already packed with people. You scan the crowd for Symphony or Royal Riff, but find neither. You step to the side, away from the stream of bodies coming through the door.

“Looking for someone?” says a voice behind you.

You turn to see a very pretty girl, her hair a fiery swirl of red and yellow, looking at you. “Um, kind of. Have you seen Symphony around?”

“No, but I was going to meet her here. She’s probably just not here yet.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Do you want to sit with us? I’m Sunset Shimmer, by the way.”

You introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too. C’mon, let’s go find a seat.”

You follow Sunset through the crowd. She leads you to a large group sitting in a corner and you balk a little. That’s a lot of people. It’s too late to turn back now, though, so you hesitantly take a seat next to Sunset. She smiles warmly and introduces you to the people surrounding. You know most by name-- Rainbow Dash, Rarity, Fluttershy. Some others you recognize only their faces. You nod politely after each introduction, but stay quiet.

Your pocket vibrates. The message on your phone’s screen is from Vinyl:

“Where r u?”

You shove your phone back in your pocket. You’ll talk to Vinyl later.

“Something come up?” Sunset says.

“Nah, nothing important.”

Sunset nods. The conversation had started up in full around you, leaving you in the dust. After a minute, Symphony and Royal Riff show up, holding hands, and take a seat beside you, giving you someone to talk to.

The crowd is intimidating. You feel like the outsider of the group, which, in reality, you are. Symphony and Royal Riff are fine company, but seem to be more interested in talking with each other rather than you. You’ve entered the game ten steps late, and it’s all but impossible to catch up. Sunset, though, is more accommodating. Even while keeping pace with all the conversations taking place around her, she still finds opportunity to chat with you.

After a while, your phone vibrates again:

“Where r u?” Vinyl writes again.

And then, a few seconds later:

“Octavia’s here.”

“Are you sure you don’t need to take that?” Sunset asks concernedly.

You swipe the notifications away irritably. “It’s fine, really.”

Fine. What a word for it. Is this fine? Is Octavia? You hadn’t even stopped to consider it, but is Vinyl? Come to think of it, Octavia is probably angry with Vinyl too, for going behind her back with all the scheming. Vinyl had brought it upon herself, though, you reason. Whatever chewing out she has to sit through, she has no one but herself to blame. Angrily, you shove your phone back into your pocket and glance down at your watch; ten more minutes.

Ten more minutes until you can escape. Until then, you let the chatter wash over you, feeling like a beacon of solitude in this sea of sociality.

When the bell finally does ring, you jump to your feet eagerly. Not bothering to say goodbye to the group, you sling your backpack over your shoulder and make your way through the milling crowd around the door. You burst free into the hallway and make a left, striding purposefully in the direction of the Psychology classroom. Rounding a corner quickly, you accidentally collide into someone.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, looking to survey the damage. You freeze.

It’s Octavia.

She stands still, her hands clasped together at her chest. Her mouth opens, but stays silent. She looks like she wants to say something, but your accidentally vigorous greeting has belayed her words. She closes her mouth, then opens it again. “Symphonic . . .” she starts.

You look down and walk past her, leaving the rest of her sentence trailing after you. The general mumble of the crowd obliviates her words, thankfully. Whatever she had to say, you’re not interested. Something about seeing Octavia doesn’t compute, though -- she has Art this period, why would she be all the way down the music hall? Art is the furthest class away from the choir room; why would she take such a detour?

Is it you? Did she come to see you?

That makes no sense either. How would she know that you were there? The only people who knew were Royal Riff and Symphony. There’s no way she could have overheard.

You push thoughts of Octavia out of your mind as you sit down in Psychology. Despite the distance you had to walk, you’re still one of the first ones in the class. You glance up at the board, going over the agenda for the day, then pull out your textbook and start reading.

Vinyl texts you several times throughout the class, all of which you ignore. You’ll talk to her later, when you’ve cooled down sufficiently. When that might be . . . you’re not sure. You’ve always had anger issues. You don’t blow up at people or flip tables or anything like that. Your anger is silent and perseverant, festering inside you with no way to escape, and you’re left to fume while it gradually dissipates. This anger could last days.

“Sorry. Can’t talk now,” you type out one-handed under your desk, after making sure the teacher’s back is turned.

A few seconds later: “K. Txt me after school,” from Vinyl.

Her perseverance is admirable, but infuriating. You need time to steam, and you don’t want to explain all of that to Vinyl. Pushing the problem to later, you stealthily slip your phone back into your pocket and resume your note taking. But your focus is gone. You read over the lines on the blackboard a dozen times before registering what they say, scrawl down something unintelligible in your notes, then immediately forget what you had written.

Physics is not much better. Having the liberty of sitting at the back of the room, you put your head down to rest your eyes. You don’t know for sure, but you may drift off once or twice.

When school gets out, you don’t even consider texting Vinyl. You mute your phone, plug in your earbuds, and walk home. After cranking out tomorrow’s homework, you microwave a package of pizza rolls and flop onto the couch. The TV is on, but only for the purpose of background noise. Your eyes unfocus, blurring the moving picture into an incoherent psychedelic swirl.

When your parents get home, you give automatic answers to their questions, putting little thought into anything but popping roll after roll into your mouth.

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Do you have much homework?”

“No.”

“Meet anyone new today?”

“No.”

The last one is a lie, but you don’t want to explain Sunset. You don’t want to explain why you didn’t eat lunch with Vinyl and Octavia.

After a time, the questioning desists and you’re left alone to watch the awful sitcom that had been playing in the background. Your food had run out, to your dismay. You’re tempted to go heat up another batch, but standing up seems to be outside the realm of possibility right now.

The living room gradually darkens, too slowly for you to notice, until you’re sitting in the pitch black with only the glow of the TV illuminating the room. Time for bed.

Despite your tiredness, you are forced awake by your thoughts. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes, absently watching a spider make its way across your field of vision.

You still care about Octavia, there’s no sense in denying it.

So why can’t you talk to her? All those months ago, you had dreamed of being the one to sweep her off her feet. To be the one to completely understand what she’s going through, to be the one she confides in. But now . . . you have no real reason for your avoidance.

You’re angry at Octavia for taking a day to fume, while here you are, taking much longer than that. Thoughts and emotions swirl about in a dizzying loop, until your weariness takes hold and knocks you out.

“This next assignment will be done in pairs.”

The words you had dreaded to hear ever since kindergarten, now even more so. You look down at your hands. You can feel Octavia’s gaze on the top of your head, but don’t give her any acknowledgement.

Three weeks ago, before you had gone on your trip, you would have met her eye.

You feel a tap on your shoulder. Gratefully, you turn to look. A fellow orchestra mate, Beauty Brass, taps the paper in front of her and gives you a questioning look. You nod and turn completely to face her, but not before glancing covertly at Octavia. She’s staring at Beauty Brass, frowning. She, you notice, is partnerless. Guilt tugs at your stomach, but you ignore it, focusing on the assignment instead.

The rest of the hour crawls by. Vinyl texts you once or twice. You reply in one-word answers.

You eat lunch in the choir room with Sunset and her crew. You’re still the outsider, even after coming several times now. The majority of your time is spent in silence, laughing at a joke every now and then in an effort to feel included.

You miss the tea room. Even if you don’t want to see Vinyl or Octavia, you still wish for the peaceful solitude that the room provides.

You go home, do homework, then sit in front of your computer until it’s time for bed.

Rinse, repeat.

Loneliness sets in. You have a plethora of acquaintances, but you had pushed away your only two real friends. You want sorely to make peace with Octavia, but you’re not ready for the ensuing conversation. Before the trip, you had smiled at her when passing in the hallway. Now, you look at your feet.

Unexpectedly, you begin to gravitate towards Sunset Shimmer. Often times, despite the hubbub of the crowd, you are able to have a one on one conversation with her. She seems earnestly interested in you and your life, asking about your friends and family, hobbies and interests. Interestingly, she is particularly interested in hearing about Vinyl. Given Sunset’s own musical background, you’re not surprised that she’s curious about Vinyl’s work. More and more lunches you spend with Sunset. Your initial nervousness around the crowd dissipates over time, but you still prefer not to be an active participant. You’re more casual, more open around Sunset, though.

Every now and then, thoughts of Octavia bubble into your consciousness.

Despite your chilly attitude towards her, you still see Octavia every day. The routes to class coincide perfectly, so you always know exactly when and where you’ll see her. You know when to look down, to pretend she’s not there.

Then, one day, you don’t see her.

Her seat in Literature is conspicuously devoid of an occupant. Then later, at that intersection on your way to P.E., you don’t see her either.

The next day as well, you don’t see her. Or the next. All the normal intersections you normally find her at, nothing. You find yourself hoping to see her as you round a corner, but you never do.

You wait another day before texting Vinyl your concerns. It takes you nearly an hour to swallow enough pride to tap out the four-word message:

“Have you seen Octavia?”

It takes another hour for Vinyl to respond. “Didn’t you hear?”

“???” you reply simply. Vinyl’s tone, evident even over text, is worrisome. Her immediate reluctance to answer. You stare at your phone screen, waiting. You’re tempted to call Vinyl, but you’re not sure if you’re ready to have a verbal conversation. Instead, you wait.

Another few minutes, minutes that last hours, before Vinyl responds.

“She got in a car accident last week. She’s in the hospital.”

All the breath is driven out of your body. You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut.

Car accident. Hospital. A strange combination of words; the likes of which you’ve only heard in movies or books. The kind of thing you don’t think about as being a real thing, the kind of thing that only happens to other people. But to other people . . . everyone else is other people.

“What happened? Is she okay?” you manage to type.

“She’ll be alright. It wasn’t too bad. The other guy isn’t too hurt either.”

“How’s she doing?”

A long pause. “She’s been better.”

You have lunch in the tea room with Vinyl the next day.

Your relationship with Vinyl hadn’t taken the hit that it had with Octavia, but it is still awkward. The conversations had been less open, less familiar. Less like conversations and more like small talk.

Vinyl’s spark, the characteristic that drew you in from the beginning, had smoldered. She slumps in her chair, forlornly looking at the table. Like her, you don’t eat -- you hadn’t eaten since the previous evening. You hadn’t made tea either; you simply sit across from each other at an empty table, neither of you sure what to say.

“Have you gone to visit?” you ask.

“Yeah. Every day since.”

“How’s she doing?”

Vinyl snorts derisively. “Not great. Not only is she strapped to a bed with a broken arm, collarbone, and three ribs, but she’s got to worry about all the school she’s missing and the performance coming up.”

You can relate to Octavia’s pain. A few years back you’d been bedridden for a couple of weeks because of illness. Getting back into the swing of things after that kind of thing can be extremely difficult. “Are you going today?”

Vinyl nods wordlessly. She taps a pen on the table, sounding out the beat in her head.

“Can I come?”

Vinyl shrugs. “Don’t see why not.”

“Thanks.”

“Keep in mind, you haven’t talked to her in a couple weeks. If there was any time to tread carefully, it would be this.”

“I will.”

The rest of the school day passes at a snail’s rate. You rehearse conversation after conversation in your head, wondering how you’ll talk to Octavia when the time comes. Each imaginary exchange sounds more awkward and tasteless than the last.

After the final bell rings, you meet Vinyl at the parking lot. She doesn’t greet you. You don’t greet her. The two of you walk in silence to her car. You drive in silence to the hospital. You stand in silence as Vinyl talks to the receptionist. You wait in silence for the elevator.

Your silence is broken by Vinyl lightly knocking on the door leading to Octavia’s room, then slowly pushing it open. The room inside is nearly bare, housing only a bed, a small chair, and an ugly-looking mass of medical machinery. The smell of antiseptic, of sterility, permeates the air. Not necessarily a bad smell, but a somewhat unsettling one.

Your stoic outer shell isn’t often cracked, but the pitiful sight of Octavia’s frail form nearly breaks you.

She’s a mess of sterile white bandages, with an IV protruding from her arm and disappearing into an alien-looking device at her bedside. Her hair is unwashed and messy. She has a stack of books at on her nightstand, with one lying open in front of her. Her complexion is pallid, face devoid of any blood. Her gaze is vacant, staring unseeing at the wall opposite her.

When she sees Viny, she smiles weakly. Her gaze moves to you as you follow Vinyl into the room and she pauses, frowning slightly.

“Hi,” you say, forcing as much of a smile as you can.

“Hi,” she repeats, after a brief pause.

Vinyl sits down heavily on Octavia’s bed, causing the whole thing to bounce. “Brought you the tunes you asked for,” she says, handing Octavia a stack of CD cases. “Let me know if I missed anything.”

“Thank you, Vinyl.” Octavia sifts through the CDs, studying the titles one by one.

You remain standing awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt the two girls. Octavia, while battered and broken, doesn’t actually look too distressed. In actuality, she looks more tired than anything.

“How’s your day been?” Vinyl asks. “Nurses treating you alright?”

“It’s been fine. The staff is exceptional here.”

“Food okay?”

Octavia sets the music down and rolls her neck uncomfortably. “Food could be better, but it’s more of the stillness that annoys me.” You and Vinyl look at each other concernedly. “You don’t realize how much you miss walking until you aren’t allowed to do it.”

“When you get out of here, we’re gonna be going on some long walks, believe me.” Vinyl reaches into her backpack and pulls out a stack of books and loose papers. “Got the homework you needed.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t kill yourself over it; you’ve already dodged death once this week, I’d hate for it to be for nothing.”

You glance at Vinyl with alarm. Even for Vinyl, the joke seems overly tactless. “Vinyl . . .” you say warningly, but to your surprise, Octavia smiles at the joke.

“I suppose not,” she says. “Thank you for coming. I do enjoy the company.”

“Now hold on a second,” Vinyl says, grinning. “It sounds to me like you’re trying to kick us out.”

“Not at all. Feel free to stay all night, if you like.

No longer able to ignore the tiredness in your feet, you pull up a chair and sink into it. Octavia’s gaze follows you as you move. Despite her tired-but-cheerful tone, there’s still tension in the air. You hadn’t spoken a word to Octavia since the night at the cabin. You don’t know what to say. Thankfully, Vinyl is more than capable of doing all the talking.

“So Royal Riff and Symphony finally made their whole shindig official, and to be honest, it’s a little gross. Holding hands and baby voices and all that nasty. And you know Applejack? Her big brother in college started dating Rarity, which is all sorts of weird. And Flash Sentry broke up with that new girl, forgot her name. So now every eligible bachelorette is lining up at his feet . . .” Vinyl blunders on with the gossip, oblivious to the disinterested look Octavia is giving her.

You unintentionally tune Vinyl out. Your gaze rests on Octavia’s hands, folded neatly on her lap. It’s hard to ignore that one arm is in a sling. You can’t bring yourself to look higher than that, though; you’re not sure what meeting her eyes would do.

“And what’s up with you?” You snap back to attention. “You look like someone died,” Vinyl says, referring to you.

“Vinyl!” you say incredulously. Vinyl had never been the most sensitive of people, but you had thought she would have the decency to tone it down at a time like this.

“What?” Vinyl asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t . . . say that kind of thing!”

“It’s fine,” Octavia says. You look to her questioningly. Her face had flattened, all the emotion wiped from it. Her levity is baffling; her own near brush with mortality should elicit at least some concern, but here she is going along with Vinyl’s jokes, not a care in the world for insensitivity. “If I wasn’t able to cope with a few tasteless jokes, I would have abandoned her long ago.”

You smile gingerly, not quite knowing what to say.

“How are the rehearsals coming along?” Octavia asks, filling the uncomfortable silence.

“Fine. The evening practices are a bit tedious, but it’s really coming along. Do you . . .” You pause. “Do you think you’ll be well enough to perform?”

Octavia frowns and looks down at the stack of music Vinyl had given her. She rifles listlessly through the cases. “I’m not sure. The doctors say that I can leave in about two weeks, but that’s only tentative.”

“I mean . . . with your arm and all.”

Octavia plasters on a false smile. “I’ll be well enough. And if I’m not, I’ll play anyway. No one has to know that it’s broken.”

“That’s the spirit, girl,” Vinyl chuckles. “Play through the pain; the art must come first.”

“Precisely.” Octavia sets the music aside, placing the stack on top of a small heap of get-well-soon cards sitting on her nightstand. You immediately feel guilty for not writing one, for not being aware of Octavia’s condition. “Now, what has been happening at the school? What of importance,” she adds when Vinyl opens her mouth.

“Not much worth noting,” you shrug. “Rehearsals. Midterms coming up. Couple people having nervous breakdowns. More rehearsals.”

You and Vinyl bounce off each other for a while, filling Octavia in on the goings-on during her absence. Octavia listens with rapt attention, hungrily taking in any news of the outside world. She really must be taking her solitude hard if details about school-sponsored pep rallies are enough to pique her interest. Once you’ve exhausted current events, conversation splits off into your customary territory: anything and everything.

It’s as though the past few weeks have been erased from your timeline, like nothing has changed in your relationship. The gulf that had been erected between you and Octavia falls to pieces, and you’re free to speak your mind again.

You didn’t realize how much you missed Octavia’s sense of humor. The subtly clever jabs in just the right places that poke just enough holes in your dam to start a flood. How she complements Vinyl’s inordinate whimsy so well, tampering the storm with her composure. Her truly remarkable understanding, of Vinyl and of you.

The sun crawls below the horizon, darkening the room slowly enough that you don’t notice until you’re sitting in the dim twilight. You yawn behind your hand, checking the time. You had been here for nearly four hours, though it didn’t seem so.

Your fun is halted when Octavia laughs so hard that she bruises her already cracked ribs. Wincing in pain and wiping away tears, but still laughing, Octavia mutely gestures at you and Vinyl. You’re too busy guiltily giggling at her predicament to respond in any way.

Finally, Octavia takes a deep, stuttering breath. “Get out, before you kill me right here and now!”

You glance down at your watch, sighing. “Yeah. We should probably go. Try not to break anything else, how about?”

Octavia glares at you, smiling. “Don’t count on it.”

You and Vinyl reluctantly stand and file out the door, waving behind you as you go. When the door closes, Vinyl elbows you playfully, but painfully. You open your mouth in protest, but she shakes her head and points down the hallway. Understanding, you nod. Whatever Vinyl wanted to say, she didn’t want Octavia to hear. Once you get into the elevator and the doors slide closed, Vinyl drops the pretence.

“Congratulations. I’d say that all bridges have successfully been mended.” She slugs you on the shoulder, adding to the pain in your arm. “That went way better than I thought it would. You may as well just marry the girl right now.”

“Ha ha,” you say, thumbing the button for the first floor. You turn away from Vinyl so she doesn’t see your cheeks reddening.

“But you’ve gotta keep the ball rolling. That means you’re coming tomorrow too.”

“I was planning on it.”

“Sure you were.” Vinyl turns around to inspects her reflection in the mirror on the back wall. She tousles her electric hair and adjusts her glasses, peeking over the rims to get a better look. “You’re not just saying that to spare my feelings?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s not your feelings that I’m worried about hurting. I feel bad enough that I haven’t been coming up to this point.” You lean up against the wall next to her.

“Yeah,” Vinyl says thoughtfully. “You’re gonna have to make it up to her somehow.”

“Huh?”

She smiles sweetly. “You’ll think of something.”

You and Vinyl aren’t as talkative during the drive home. You’d burnt out your batteries during the past couple of hours, so you’re perfectly content to be left with your thoughts. You say a brief goodbye when Vinyl drops you off at home, then immediately go inside and lie down on your bed.

You’re gonna have to make it up to her somehow. Vinyl’s words repeat themselves over and over in your head as you stare at the ceiling. How, though? Flowers? No, too overt, and Octavia is not a perpetuator of that kind of cliche. Something meaningful, not just an empty gesture because Vinyl told you to. Something to make up for how horrible you’ve been. Something to show her you still care.

The answer comes to you, in one glorious stroke of inspiration.