The Beginning of Everything

by Robyn Schneider

I still think that everyone’s life, no matter how unremarkable, has a singular tragic encounter after which everything that really matters will happen. That moment is the catalyst—the first step in the equation. But knowing the first step will get you nowhere—it’s what comes after that determines the result.

The funny thing about gold is how quickly it can tarnish.

I wasn’t expecting her eyes—deep and disquieting and dark blue—the sort of eyes that made you wonder if the skies opened up when she got angry.

That was what excited people around here, getting together a mob to shoo the coyote back into the avocado groves, to remove the interloper from our perfect little planned community. No one went looking for adventure; they chased it away.

quiet was safe. Words could betray you if you chose the wrong ones, or mean less if you used too many.

The glow of the streetlight washed over her, and it struck me almost as an afterthought that she was beautiful. I don’t know how I’d missed it those first few days, but I knew it then. Her hair was thrown back into a ponytail, with these copper-colored pieces framing her face. Her eyes shone with amusement, and her sweater slipped off one shoulder, revealing a purple bra strap. She was achingly effortless, and she would never, in a million years, choose me. But, for the next few minutes, I contented myself with the magnificent possibility that she might.

He said that one should look from the tide pool to the stars, and then back again in wonder. And maybe things would have been different if I’d heeded his advice that day on the beach with Charlotte, but I didn’t. Instead, I linked my hand in hers and failed to appreciate the bigger picture, and the only stars I saw were wearing varsity jackets.

And I suppose I should have tilted her face up toward mine and kissed her then, but I didn’t. I couldn’t tell if she was just trying to see if I would, or if she really wanted me to, and I didn’t want to find out.

‘Tell me, what is it you plan to do/With your one wild and precious life?’”

“There are two palm trees planted in an X outside of all the In-N-Outs,” I said. “It’s from some old movie the owner liked, because in the film a treasure was buried there.”

I almost mentioned it, since Cassidy would know what I was talking about, but I didn’t. Not because they’d think I was weird, or nerdy, but because the moment was so perfect that it just didn’t need anything else.

“Because so many girls see you and think, ‘Now that’s a guy I’d like to be just friends with.’”

“You’re not serious.” I leaned in, closing the distance between us and knowing that I would get away with whatever I said next. “I’m as serious as a car crash.” I gave her my most winning smile before heading back to the table.

she’s having a party next Friday.” “So are we,” Toby said. “And I can guarantee you, ours is going to be far better, and far more exclusive.”

So I went to sleep thinking of her, of the curve of her back in a light cotton dress, of her hair twisted up into its crown of braids, of her, leaping from the zenith of the plastic swing set and clearing the sandbox, turning a neat lap around the whole of Eastwood, California, while I stood there, trapped in the dreariness of it all, numbly watching.

Always HI. HI HI. Nothing more. A beginning of an unfinished conversation that I didn’t have the guts to take control of.

I went to sleep every night that week waiting for whatever it was between the two of us to start traveling at the speed of flashlights, but it never did.

As always, she left me wanting more, and dreaming of what it would be ...

It was so frustrating, knowing that, if we were on a tennis court, I could’ve killed him with my backhand, slicing it to land short and watching him run like hell. But this was debate, and my superpowers were nonexistent.

I almost wished he’d debated Cassidy in her ridiculous Harry Potter costume, so she could’ve wiped the smirk off his muggle face.

“And that, Dragon Army,” Austin said, “is why Rancho is the enemy.” “And also why the enemy’s gate is down,” Luke added, earning a few eye rolls for reasons I didn’t understand.

And maybe it was just as well, after all, since I wanted our first kiss to be more than some drunken thing at a debate tournament.

having the strange idea that Cassidy could see me just fine in complete blackness.

If I stretched, our arms would touch. The possibility of it, of our skin meeting under the covers, thrilled me. I wondered if she was thinking about it too.

Her hair spilled off the pillow in a fierce tangle, and it was so incredibly intimate, waking up with her there, in my arms, that I could hardly stand it.

I’m like the proverbial ostrich that kicks sand in your face, my friend.”

wondering how she’d done that, made me go from being upset to comforting her.

And then I wondered if it really mattered. Because every time I closed my eyes, I pictured her nestled against me in that hotel bed, her legs soft and warm against mine, and out of all the things I wanted but knew I couldn’t have, part of me hoped that Cassidy would be the one exception.

I told Cooper, because he didn’t understand Morse code.

because simply saying sorry was too normal for a girl like Cassidy Thorpe.

“The world tends toward chaos, you know,” Cassidy said. “I’m just helping it along. You could too. Just write down a made-up name, or even a fictional character. And to the next person who finds this geocache, it’s as though things really happened that way. You have to at least allow for the possibility of it.”

Her smile was luminous, even brighter than the fireworks, as she shimmied out the sunroof, her legs dangling.

One of the laces on her Converse had come untied, and it swished gently against the hand brake.

“There’s a word for it,” she told me, “in French, for when you have a lingering impression of something having passed by. Sillage. I always think of it when a firework explodes and lights up the smoke from the ones before it.” “That’s a terrible word,” I teased. “It’s like an excuse for holding onto the past.” “Well, I think it’s beautiful. A word for remembering small moments destined to be lost.”

She tasted like buried treasure and swing sets and coffee. She tasted the way fireworks felt, like something you could get close to but never really have just for yourself.

I’d had the inspiration around midnight the night before, and had stayed up until two deciding on the perfect tracks to use. I’d pictured it quite romantically, the two of us in the middle of a crowd of strangers, dancing to the same music. But Cassidy’s smile disappeared, and I had the impression that I’d disappointed her somehow.

she was so beautiful that I could hardly stand it.

It was about being able to dance like Cassidy did, as though no one was watching, as though the moment was infinite enough without needing to document its existence.

She was determined to help me figure out who I wanted to be, now that I sat with the debate team and participated in flash mobs and snuck into college lecture halls.

“because someone else picked it out and put it up in a room meant to encapsulate who you are, even though you have no interest in boats.”

I wondered what Cassidy’s bedroom looked like, if it encapsulated her in a way that mine didn’t.

Going to the movies always makes me strangely exhilarated when I exit the theater, surrounded by the smell of popcorn and everyone talking about the film. It’s as though everything is more

vivid, and the line between the probable and the cinematic becomes blurred. You think big thoughts, like maybe it’s possible to move someplace exciting, or risk everything for a chance at your dreams or whatever, but then you never do. It’s more the feeling that you could turn your life into a movie if you wanted to.

magnificent possibility of kissing Cassidy Thorpe had turned into an indisputable fact of my daily existence, and I could hardly believe my good fortune.

She said his name as though it meant something. As though she didn’t even have the right to expect him to say hello to her in the hallways, and he really was as big a deal as he made himself out to be. It killed me, Phoebe sitting there in her ponytail and glasses, a year younger than me and so tiny that her toes barely touched the concrete, appalled at herself for being the only one of us brave enough to call Luke out on his bullshit.

“It’s like . . . I’m paranoid about people borrowing my laptop because I’m convinced they’ll find some secret document on there that would make the whole world think I’m a terrible person—something I don’t even remember writing. And it doesn’t matter that there’s no document like that. I’m still terrified, you know?”

I realized then that Phoebe knew him infinitely better than I ever would. That Luke had put his arm around her at the movies and his tongue down her throat at debate tournaments, and not once had she ever seemed happy about it, about them.

“Just once I want someone to be afraid of losing me,” Phoebe said. “But the only thing Luke’s afraid of losing is power.”

I put my arm around Phoebe, because she was small and crying, and it seemed like the thing to do.

hopelessly blonde