Fix by J. Mann (highly illogical behavior .TXT) 📕

first remotely cute outfit I’ve worn in forever. I picture him waking up and remembering the museum, the syrup bottles, what he said. And then I picture his face, crumbling. A mistake. He’d made a mistake. I was a mistake.

A gray minivan slows and pulls to the curb. I breathe. Breathe deeply. Tears stinging my eyes, at how incredible it feels. How incredible I feel.

He steps out of the van.

“Eve.”

“Thomas.”

We both laugh. He has a beautiful smile. I’d never noticed it before, his smile. I was always so afraid of it.

I climb into the van, feeling the warmth of that smile through the back of my rib cage.

We don’t speak. I focus on the road to keep myself grounded while my thoughts flit about the museum, landing on color, shapes, him.

“Why do you always wear that T-shirt?”

He keeps his eyes on the road. There is clearly a reason.

“Were you born there? In Minnesota?”

He glances over at me. He’s deciding. I look out my window so that my gaze doesn’t stop him from saying what it is he’s thinking of maybe not saying.

“My grandmother,” he says.

“Was from Minnesota?”

“If by Minnesota you mean Puerto Rico.” He laughs. “She brought my mom and my aunts to Boston when they were little. She was a… a great person. Anyway, whenever something went wrong, she’d always say ‘Mañana, nos vamos a mudar a Minnesota.’”

I look back at his profile, waiting for the translation.

“Tomorrow, we’re moving to Minnesota.”

I cough out a laugh. Thomas smiles.

“Yeah, because nothing bad ever happens in Minnesota,” I whisper, thinking about my mother. Thinking about how relieved I am that she’ll be home soon.

“Anyway,” he finishes, “she passed away at the beginning of ninth grade and I ordered a bunch of these T-shirts the next day.” He turns to face me full-on, the confident Thomas grin back on his face. “I don’t know a damn thing about hockey. I was just playing with you that day in your living room. I ordered it because it said ‘Minnesota’ and I like the color yellow.”

He pulls under the busy portico.

“I’m sorry about your grandmother.”

His hand lifts from the wheel as if he might reach over, touch me, but instead he runs his fingers through his hair and nods.

Maneuvering around all the buses, he pulls up right where he’d been waiting for me yesterday. Thomas Aquino. Leaning on the van. In his yellow shirt. Reading. What was the book? Poetry. He was reading poetry and waiting for me.

With my head full of him, I stagger out of the van, grabbing at the door handle. He’s by my side. But he doesn’t move, he waits. For me. To reach out for him.

His cheek is rough. His breathing shallow.

“Eve,” he whispers.

My name. How can my name be the best sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life?

This time, he kisses me. Under the portico. With a hundred bus engines revving and a thousand voices ringing out around us. Just his lips. Softly tasting mine. The warm smell of him filling my nose.

When he stops—our mouths lingering close—I catch sight of myself in his eyes. I am so bright.

The echoing of a bus horn breaks us apart. Looking around at the crowd like they all just appeared out of nowhere and my lips still lit up with the feeling of his, I see her. Seeing me. Seeing that kiss.

Lidia.

Me and Lidia

The gym was still warm from

the work of many bodies.

And although the fluorescent lights

shone brightly overhead,

the darkness waiting for us

outside seemed to drift in and

dim the place.

Lidia was always last

from the locker room, but

I never minded.

The practice mat—lying in the

corner by the closed bleachers—was

my little island. It was a place

I got shit

done.

I’d written up my bio lab,

read my English chapters, and

finished the

pointless

worksheet for history.

All to the background hum of

sneakers squeaking and breathless

shouts punctuated by the

slap of volleyball against maple.

“You ready, weirdo?”

Lidia asked,

still flushed from practice,

clean hair dripping.

“Yup.”

Lidia dribbled her volleyball

while I shoved away my books and

stood. Each bounce

following in perfect precision

to the last—even when she

wasn’t watching but instead

noticing a face at the long

rectangular window in the gym door.

Thomas Aquino didn’t see her because

Thomas Aquino was looking at me.

Lidia popped the ball

into the air and over to me

in a single motion,

missing my face only

because I knocked it back

in self-defense.

“Lid!”

“You gotta pay attention,” she

said, sliding her backpack down

her arm to the floor.

“Try it this way.”

Opening her palm, she

dropped the ball onto it from the

crook of her other arm,

popping it up

lightly

into the air.

Catching it,

she demonstrated a

few more times.

Pop, catch.

Pop, catch.

Pop, catch.

While my eyes

didn’t dare

stray to the window.

“Ready?”

“Lid…”

“Ready?”

I sighed, dropping my backpack

to the floor with a clunk.

“Ready.”

“Nice and easy,”

she said, serving.

I opened my palm

and smacked at

the ball.

It rocketed

directly at her face. She

ducked in the nick

of time.

“Whoops.”

I laughed.

“Come on, Eve.

Try.”

“I did

try.”

“Try harder.”

She popped

me the ball.

I did try harder.

I couldn’t help it.

This time,

I hit it up and over

Lidia’s head,

where it ricocheted

off two walls. Yet she

somehow

managed to return it.

I darted and,

despite my brace,

arrived in time to

slap at it sloppily.

The ball wobbled

but made its way

to Lidia.

There.

Done.

But Lidia wasn’t

done.

Back it came.

Spiraling left.

I stumbled,

brace digging into rib,

rerouting it right before

it sailed past me.

She returned it,

again.

But this time

low and short. And

what seemed like suspiciously

on purpose.

I rushed forward,

scooping it up from where I’d

slid to my knees.

Almost missing it.

But not!

Up it flew

in a beautiful arc

where I felt every shade of

red,

orange,

yellow,

green,

blue,

indigo,

violet.

Until…

She broke off the game

with a catch.

“You’re tired,”

she said.

Was I?

I glanced toward

the window, where I

saw a flash of gold glasses

disappear.

No.

No, I wasn’t.

Dry

SHE TAKES OFF. I IMMEDIATELY GO AFTER HER. PRETENDING I don’t hear him. Calling me. Over and over. Instead, I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other while avoiding the threat of random bodies as I struggle after her.

Once I’m through the doors, she’s gone.

Lidia. Always the athlete.

I move around the corner and lean on the