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IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2019, THIRTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD EVA MERCY NEARLY choked to death on a piece of gum. She’d been attempting to masturbate when the gum lodged in her throat, cutting off her air supply. As she slowly blacked out, she kept imagining her daughter, Audre, finding her flailing about in Christmas jammies while clutching a tube of strawberry lube and a dildo called the Quarterback (which vibrated at a much higher frequency than advertised—gum-choking frequency). The obituary headline would be “Death by Dildo.”
Teen girls rearrange the fucking world.”
“No matter how perilous the journey, it’s never over for true soul mates. Who doesn’t want a connection that burns forever, despite distance, time, and curses?”
“Try chocolate meditation. You stick a Hershey’s Kiss in your mouth and sit quietly, letting it melt. No chewing. It’s about mindfulness.”
And I remember that I’m not lonely. I’m alone.
Genevieve curled up tighter on her side, trying to make herself smaller. She was exhausted. All she wanted was to escape this repetitive, redundant hell.
He’d never composed even one sentence sober, and frankly, he was scared to try. So the writing was on hold for now.
You think I look like an angel? Good, maybe you’ll leave me here with the register while you get my favorite soda in the back. You think I’m a thug? Good, maybe you’ll hire me to rob your ex’s crib. You think I’m fuckable? Good, maybe you’ll give me a place to stay for a month.
“The fuck that means.” “Look, I’m admitting that I care about awards. What do you care about?” “Nothing. I ain’t soft, nigga.” “Ain’t no niggas in here.” Ty was confused. “You Dominican?” “What? No. And Dominicans are niggas. Google ‘African diaspora’ and learn something. Jesus.” Shane shook his head. Time was ticking. “Listen, caring about things don’t make you soft. It makes you alive.”
uuuh lol what
In most schools, eighth-grade boys aren’t terrorized this way. They’re allowed to be kids, nothing on their minds but pussy and Roblox.”
LMAO WTF
“Yeah, you can.” Shane’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “Have faith.” “Oh. Church.” “I mean, if that works for you. But I meant faith in yourself. What do you like?” Ty shrugged broadly. “I guess…planets.” “Why?” “I like…that there’s more out there. I don’t know. I like thinking about other worlds.” He was at a loss to describe something he’d never even thought about. “I…I used to draw the planets when I was a li’l nigga. Stupid shit.”
“That’s dumb.” “Is it? You like Game of Thrones, right?” “No.” “You taught yourself Dothraki. I’ve seen the inside of that notebook.”
“Girl,” started Eva, “I have someone I wanna set you up with. He’s cute cute. Check his IG, @oralpro.” Belinda’s mouth dropped open. “What kind of blessing…?” “Relax, he’s an orthodontist. He did beautiful work on Audre.” “Pass. I’m already checking for the hot produce guy at my Trader Joe’s. I was there earlier, shopping for my vegan-bakery course. It’s taught by the woman who pioneered vaginal-yeast brioche.” “Vaginal-yeast brioche,” repeated Eva. “She’s famous for it.” “There’s more than zero people famous for making vaginal-yeast brioche?”
Khalil didn’t appear until after Cece’s introduction, due to a misunderstanding with his Uber driver. The misunderstanding was that he stole someone else’s Uber and the driver kicked him out.
“Overrated,” pronounced Khalil. “I was supposed to interview him for Vibe once. He kept me waiting in a West Hollywood Starbucks for four hours, then showed up, rambled about a turtle for ten minutes, and ghosted. The story got killed, of course. Clown. This is why Negroes can’t have nice things.”
“You’re co-opting an experience you know nothing about. Eight’s troubled. She self-harms. She’s suicidal. And you idealize it, making her this adorable, sad chick. Depression isn’t a ‘catastrophe of a girl’ weeping a single, pretty tear while gazing out of rain-streaked windows and dropping one-liners. Depression is tragic. Eight is tragic. And a male writer romanticizing female mental illness is inappropriate.”
“It’s true. I’m not a woman,” started Shane. “Exactly.” “And you’re not a vampire. Or a man.” “Bloop,” muttered Belinda.
“And yet Sebastian? He’s one of the most vivid, true portrayals of masculinity I’ve ever read. Especially in the third and fifth books. Sebastian literally and figuratively sucks the life out of everything around him. And he’ll drain Gia one day, too—he knows he will—but he can’t stop himself from loving her. Maybe it’s ’cause he knows that in the end, she’ll survive him. He knows Gia’s tougher than him. By virtue of being a woman, she’s stronger. Girls are given the weight of the world, but nowhere to put it down. The power and magic born in that struggle? It’s so terrifying to men that we
...more
AWHHHHHHHHHH
“You’re not a man,” he continued, “but you write the fuck out of ambivalent masculinity. You’re not a man and it doesn’t matter, because you write with sharpened senses and notice the unnoticed, and your creative intuition’s so powerful you can rock any narrative to sleep. You see. And you write. With Eight, I do the same thing.” He eyed her with an unmistakable familiarity. “I’m just not as good as you.”
“I’m ordering that shit,” said Shane. “I’m new to eating healthy. Like, I’m still on avocado toast. Rich, thanks for your service.”
Khalil was disgusted. “Help me understand this. You won’t talk about racism, but you will open a discourse on hipster pasta?” Shane shrugged. “Health is wealth.”
“One thing,” she whispered, her lips by his jaw. She didn’t want anyone to overhear. “Before I forget.” “What’s that?” “Stop writing about me.” Only Eva could’ve noticed the change in his expression. She saw the flinch. The slow, satisfied curl of his lip. His bronzy-amber eyes flashing. It was like he’d been waiting years to hear those words. Like the girl whose pigtails he’d been yanking during recess all year had finally shoved him back. He looked gratified. In a voice both raspy and low, and so, so familiar, Shane said, “You first.”
MWHHHAHHHAHA
A book was balanced on his lap, and he was reading it with his brow furrowed in concentration, chewing his lip. He looked like he was living the words. That’s how I read, too, she thought.
“I’m Genevieve Mercier.” She pronounced it John-vee-EV Mare-see-AY. He frowned at her. “It’s French.” He gave her a look like no shit. “Is it cool that I’m sitting here?” “No.” “Are you an asshole?” “Oui.”
LOLLLLLL
“Is this a setup? Is someone about to jump me?” His voice was drowsy and bored. “You a dealer? My bad if I owe you money.” “I look like a dealer to you?” “I’ve had girl dealers.” He shrugged. “I’m a feminist.” “I wouldn’t set you up to get jumped. I’d do it myself.” He checked her petite frame. “You’re the size of a Jolly Rancher.”
I wanted to drown in your fucking bathwater.”
“If I’m a vampire, at least let me do cool shit! I spend the whole series cowering in castles, while my cross-between-Serena-Williams-and-Wonder-Woman witch soul mate gets to fight for truth and justice. The only thing Sebastian’s good at is—” “Stop!” she interrupted. “Those scenes pay my mortgage.”
“I admire your ability to write about penises so lyrically. It’s a tricky body part to describe. One wrong adjective, and it’s a tumor.”
He was a runner. A capital-R runner, and you knew he was serious, because he bought Nike Vaporflys, the sneakers the Olympics almost banned for giving runners an advantage. And he was wearing the Garmin Forerunner 945 GPS watch to monitor his pace in pro-marathoner style. Most notable, though, were his elite-grade compression socks, which were recommended by Usain Bolt in an old Esquire he’d dog-eared in some midwestern JetBlue VIP lounge. His gear was fire.
Shane didn’t half-ass anything. He ran as hard as he drank.
And snakes used to ruin him. Just the idea of them. Shane couldn’t bear the thought of those delicate-looking reptiles trying their hardest to travel around their patch of forest while legless and footless. It broke his heart! They were so unfairly handicapped. He used to obsessively sketch pictures of snakes with four legs, until it occurred to him that he was, in fact, drawing lizards.
“It’s like you know something dramatic happened. But you don’t know your insides have been ripped open until after the fact. That’s what falling in love is like. When it’s real, you don’t fall in love with any awareness. You don’t get a say. You get hit fucking hard and then process it later. You know?”
“I ain’t tryna get shot, fam.” “Ty, it was a metaphor.” “Yeah, but like, I just wanna ask her if she wants to go with me to Cold Stone or whatever. Get some ice cream,” grumbled Ty. “You’re doing too much.”
LOLLLL
“Maybe I should ask her if she’s lactose intolerant first.” “Under no circumstances should you do that.”
They were labeled by feeling: COMA (Valium), CHILL (weed), PARTY (cocaine), LSATS (Adderall), WHORE (ecstasy), NUMB (Percocet), and so on.
LMAO WTFFFFF giving seven deadly sins type shit
She grabbed two bags of frozen peas and a chilled bottle of Polugar vodka. Back upstairs, she carefully laid the frozen bags on their faces (for the bruises). Then she placed the vodka on the nightstand. Shane couldn’t wake up without it. That was the third thing she knew about him. With a smug hair flip, she picked up Nicole Richie, spun on her Choos, and left. Annabelle’s haters thought she was a mean coke whore with fake cheekbones—and yes, she did have fake cheekbones, but she also had a very real heart.
“We slept with peas? These yours?” “No. Everyone hates peas.”
“I know. I put the ‘hug’ in ‘thug.’”
And then, for the first time in her school career, Audre let go. “Quick question, Mr. Josh,” she said. “Yes?” “WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCKSHIT IS MY LIFE?” she wailed. Then she apologized. And burst into tears.
“I don’t miss it,” Eva said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Honestly, I’m practically a virgin again. It’d probably hurt.” “I’m so backed up, it’d be over in two seconds.” “Good thing we’re not having sex.” “I, for one, am relieved,” said Shane, with a wolfish smile.
“I look like an electrocuted poodle,” she sighed.
She remembered her first non-self-administered orgasm. They were lying out in the grass by the pool in their underwear, roasting in the swampy DC heat. Shane was listening to her ramble about how Carrie and The Exorcist represented the male fear of female puberty. “I secretly wanna get a period. Just once,” he said as he popped a WHORE pill on his tongue and tenderly kissed it into her mouth. “What’s up with you and horror?”
Good girls were supposed to want a prom kiss from the quarterback, not a face fuck from the hot psycho. But she supposed she wasn’t good, ’cause she was on Shane in seconds, ripping down his soaked jeans and boxers—draining him till he was weak, and she was full.
wat da fuq
“Stay. I’ll make it worth it. I’ll make it so fucking good, Genevieve. You’ll be so happy, I swear. Just gimme your pain; I’ll take it all. Promise to stay, and I’ll never leave. Me and you, forever. Promise me.”
wow. .... im sad
she’d elected to watch her comfort movie instead. This scene always killed her. This woman’s twelve-year-old daughter was up in her bedroom, gruesomely possessed by the devil—while a priest wrote it off as depression. Never mind that the girl was humping crucifixes and levitating. It was an old story, really. Women telling the truth, and no one believing them. Depression, my ass, thought Eva. In the words of Grandma Clo, it’s Satan hisself.
She pulled the duvet closer to her chin, her cheeks blazing, and she had an epiphany. Shane wasn’t a thing to outgrow. He’d always fit. No matter how old or young or sophisticated or raw she was. No matter how much time had passed. Shane was inevitable.
... Bruh im getting sad reading this
She had to apologize. But there was no cute meme to send after you had semipublic ex sex, came so hard that tears sprang to your eyes, and then bolted with your unhooked bra hanging out of your armhole.
EVA: Lol? SHANE: Lol? Seriously? EVA: I’m sorry. SHANE: No, don’t apologize. I more than deserved it. EVA: You did, but I’m still sorry. It was ridiculous the way I left. SHANE: No, ridiculous was me, lying on the floor, alone, with my dick out. EVA: Actually, that was a beautiful sight. SHANE: …thank you? EVA: Np.
“You act like I’m the worst daughter, though,” she said. “Do you know why Parsley was in detention? Tequila!” “She brought tequila to school?” “No. She snuck a tequila-soaked tampon to school in her actual vagina, let it absorb into her bloodstream, and was blackout drunk by fourth period.”
“You don’t date, Mommy. What even is your type, the Invisible Man?”
