Snap Decisions

The girl writhes on the floor beside the foot of the escalator. She is moaning in pain, no hint of the emotions from a moment prior. The boy is aghast, staring at her with a transfixed expression of guilt and worry, and also lacking any fight in him. There are no thoughts between them. No words. He only does what is natural, what is human, and he rushes over to the crowd, calling out for a paramedic. It’s only when his face is transmuted into that which guilts them that the mass of spectators snaps out of their presumptuous trance.

A couple of men arrive with a stretcher. They ask the boy if he is with her. He, not fully comprehending at that moment, gives them a nod. Though every second drags on under the unenviable miasma of anxiety, the mind fails to record it the instant that it passes. And so, time appeared to lurch forward. When his breathing evened, and her moans of pain had subsided, and they were sitting in silence amid the beeping and rushing and coughing of the hospital’s emergency room. It was only then that things resumed their normal course.

In short order, she had grown tired of looking around at all the much, much sicker people. The groans of the elderly, the moans of the young that were in far more serious accidents than her. She was only instructed to ice it and rest here for an hour, but even that was starting to feel overwhelming. Out of a mix of boredom and desperation, she turned to her disgruntled companion.

"This is not how I expected my day to go," she said, wincing in pain.

"You're telling me?” The boy replied, waiting a few beats before deciding to add, “I was waiting all year for that convention. And now I'm stuck here with some stuck up princess that tried to assault me with a particularly fashionable brick. Like holy shit, is this a size 11? It’s huge!”

A snort of disbelief. “What kind of creep can tell just by looking?”

“As someone who’s 1/24th shoemaker, I take great pride in knowing that anything 6 and under is harmless. 7 or 8 woulda just given me a bruise. A 9 or a 10 might get me a few days off school for the damage. But an 11? With these kinda platforms? I could’ve been the one getting carried away on a stretcher, for god’s sake! And all over what- Versace?"

"Pfft. Not like you'd know Versace if it hit you in the face."

"It almost did! That's kind of my point here."

"All right, no one's forcing you to stay here," she said, before she blinked away the glimmer of the exit sign in her eyes and turned back to him. "But you're right. I'm sorry for trying to kill you with my knockoff Versace."

His mouth hung open for a second. Clearly, he hadn't been counting on an apology, and his eyes swam with insults and snappy comebacks that were all neatly thrown out the window now. He cleared his throat.

"And uh," his voice was cracking a little bit, "I'm sorry for getting you that sprained ankle."

"It's no big deal. They said I'll be fine with ice and rest."

He looked relieved. Too relieved.

"Oh," she continued in falsetto, "Oh no, I mean the pain is simply unbearable. At least promise me, promise me that you'll tell my mother that there shall be one less mouth to feed by tomorrow."

He snickered. "Okay, I'll admit it. You got me with that one."

There was a short silence as a nurse wheeled by an old man on a ventilator that seemed to be on his very last legs. More out of the desire to avoid the 1:00 a.m. level thoughts than to clear the air, the boy spoke up again.

"Listen, I'm only gonna say this once because I'm hormonally horny and emotionally drained, but you seem- different. From the others."

"Like I pause to stop and process reality in literally any capacity?"

"Basically. How did the four of you even wind up as friends to begin with?

"Oh, you know how it goes," she said, gazing off down one of the long, sterile hallways. "You're just some awkward, bumbling girl in middle school that asks to sit at their table. They, also being awkward, bumbling girls, sheepishly nod and take you in. And because you don't have the social grace or mental energy to look for somewhere else to sit the next day, you come right back to them."

"I'm not sure if I follow. Where's the part where you become horrid, man-assaulting harpies?"

The girl cast him a glare. "I'm getting to that." Then her gaze shifted back into their reception room. "So the four of you become thick as thieves, and you practically grow up together. You teach each other how to do your makeup and help each other with homework. You talk about your first kisses, your first times. You go to the movies and have cute sleepovers and learn about all the gossip that goes on and over your head. And things are good, great even. But by the time high school rolls around, you can feel this distinct, off-putting vibe. It's as if you've become entirely different people over a single summer vacation."

The boy scratches his head. "Are you sure you weren't just different people all along?"

"I guess you're right, yeah. And even though you only keep getting more different from them as time goes on, you try your best to be exactly like them. You buy the new clothes, or whatever off-market knockoffs are available. You read up on all the fashions just in case. And you never step out of line or say how you really feel about things because for all you know you're going to be next on the chopping block where all the others go. It won’t be cruel, and it won’t be quick, but you’ll find yourself inching towards the opposite side of the fence. Day by day, hangout by hangout, conversation by conversation."

"What I don't get," the boy replied, his voice and eyes now fully earnest, "Is why you put up with any of it at all."

"Oh come on, you know how it is. It's better to pretend to be a different person than to be alone."

The boy was utterly silent. His eyes visibly widened at words that readily slipped through all the layers of sarcastic armor in the world. It felt as if with a single sentence, the two of them were no longer a popular girl and a nerd, but two awkward, pretentious kids trying to navigate the same, endless maze from two different starting points. The longer the vulnerable pause between them carried on, the more uncomfortably sharp it became.

"Okay, I've got to admit," he said, with a sly smile. "You're much less- unbearable up close."

She chuckled, her face sweetening with relief. "I could say the same for you."

"Oh really? I hadn't figured you even knew I existed."

"Well, you were about as much of an existence to me as a pigeon on a power line. But sure, knock yourself out with the ego boost."

"What I more so meant, wise guy, is how?"

She stiffened. "Promise not to laugh?"

"I mean," he said, waving a hand around the sheer state of the two of them.

Her with a matted dress, a half-body of bruises, and the broken half of a pair of knock-off heels in the hand not holding an ice pack. Him with his sleepless eyes, unshaven peach fuzz, and laughably fake wig overshadowed only by an utterly embarrassing anime getup.

"Okay, I get your point," she said. "I like to people-watch. Like, when we're all eating lunch together at the front of the cafeteria."

"Surveying the realms of your peasants, I gather?"

She let out a single guffaw. "Nah, just watching. Maybe even looking for something I guess. Observing the human animal in its unnatural habitat and such."

"And, if I may so inquire. Just how did humble old me come upon milady's eyes?"

“First of all, don’t use the word ‘milady’ ever again, or I’ll use my surviving shoe. Secondly, it’s almost impossible not to notice the hordes of ogling weirdos staring at us the whole time. And thirdly, because you’re definitely one of those weirdos among many, it wasn’t my eyes, but my ears.”

"Ears then."

"It's hard not to notice Mr.-Hollers-While-Playing-Boardgames-At-Lunch."

“They’re not board-games. They’re war-games.”

“Mr.-Hollers-While-Playing-DnD-At-Lunch, then.”

"It's Warhammer, not D&D. Our DM loathes D&D. He says the company behind it is a soulless corporate behemoth."

"Whatever. The point is that you're not exactly how I thought you'd be either."

"And how's that?"

"The kind of kissless nerd that plays board games at lunch and tries to look cool by telling people how tired and horny he is."

"It's hormonally horny and emotionally drained."

"Right," she snorted. "But you get what I mean."

"Yeah. It's a real Cinderella story, ain’t it?"

"What, because I'm not like my bitchy step-sisters?"

He shrugged. "I was going to say it's because you managed to wear shoes that were a size too small on you."

"Two, actually. Two sizes. It barely fit inside."

"Jesus christ-”

She frowned, likely expecting another insult about her size. It was the kind of frown that indicated the wrong insult at the wrong time could hit an exposed nerve. He opted for something that no one could take too seriously.

“That's what she said."

"Gross," she replied, not skipping a beat. "But yeah, you know how it is. You wake up early on a Saturday telling yourself that this'll be the last time you say yes. Then you tell yourself that you're going to this fashion exhibition for yourself and not them. And then you go anyways. And you wind up with a split lip, a headache, and what was almost a hairline fracture on your fibula." She emphasized her point by shaking her injured foot, only to wince at the pain.

"Look on the bright side though," he said, wiggling an eyebrow lasciviously, "You've got a cute pedicure."

"Pervert."

"I told you, I'm horny and emotionally drained."

She groaned. "You sure did. A whopping three times."

He laughed like a stork choking on the fish in its gullet, evidently quite satisfied with the quality of his precious joke. Then, he sobered up, rubbed the back of his neck, and replied:

"Yeah, I'm sorry about all that. It sucks, plain and simple. I'm not really in a position to complain considering that I got off pretty light. And besides, this talk hasn't gone as disastrously as I'm sure either of us thought it would."

"People are usually more than what you give them credit for at first glance." She said, sighing. "And then, past a certain point they're all the same."

"Okay, settle down there, Sartre."

"I was being edgy, not philosophical."

"Those are basically the same thing."

For a second, she looked genuinely offended. "No they're not!" Then, she paused, and relented, "Sorry, I'm still dealing with the mental trauma of that philosophy paper I had to write about relativistic ontology."

"Philosophy? Isn't that only a subject in Advanced Placement English?"

She looked him dead in the eyes with a flat expression and a slight, smug smile. "My GPA is 3.9."

His jaw hung open like a door with only one hinge. Reflecting instinctively on his own 3.8, he felt his pride as a warrior of the verbal riposte evaporate from the wounds sustained.

"That's," he admitted, "Actually pretty impressive."

"Let me guess," she grimaced, "For a spoiled princess?"

He shook his head. "For anyone really." Then, for good measure, he added, "But especially for a spoiled princess."

She couldn't help but laugh. "My name is Anne-Marie, by the way. Although I'm sure you probably already heard of me from all the rumors that go around."

"I'm Ogden,” He replied, nodding as if he’d ever known her name to begin with. “And I'm just a humble farmer who don't pay no mind to such nonsense."

Anne-Marie's hand shot to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle a laugh. "O-o-ogden?"

"My parents found it real funny too, yeah. It sounds like when someone tries to speak with a potato stuck in their throat. And you can't even make any cute nicknames out of it."

"Not even 'Og? Or Oggy?"

"Especially not Oggy."

"That's a shame. I was going to ask for a cute nickname to put for you on Snap."

"You'd- add me on Snap?"

"I mean," she glanced off. "If you want to just nod at each other in the hallways once in a blue moon that's fine too."

"I'm fine with adding you. There's only one problem," he said, holding up his clearly outdated phone for emphasis.

He had hoped for her to recoil at the scanty pinup girl laying seductively across his home screen. She did wince, but for the wrong reason:

"What is that thing? Does it even have a camera?!"

"Answer for an answer. What is a Snap?"

"Gimme that!" She yelped, snatching the phone out of his hands. "You’re not even halfway to forty, how can you not know what it is?!"

He clawed desperately for his phone, regretting dearly that he had unlocked it just to pull a lame-brained prank. "G-give it back! You don’t know what kind of porn’s on there!"

"Not until I bring you into the modern age, peasant!"

He couldn’t remember the last time that he was able to laugh that way.