#delphineshigh

“It’s not fun anymore,” she says flatly, and Peggy shrugs. “Is your mom going to care that we’re home so late?”

“We’re before curfew.” Peggy checks her watch. “We’ve an hour to go, as long as we don’t make a racket coming in—I think we can handle that, even at this time of night.”

They get out of the car.  Colleen clears her throat. “So, how was Angie?”

“Fine,” Peggy replies quickly, “she’s very nice, why?”

There’s a hint of a smirk on Colleen’s face. “‘She’s very nice,’” Colleen mimics, and Peggy rolls her eyes. “Not that she isn’t,” Colleen says, suddenly serious. “I think I’d talk to her more if—” Colleen stops, but both of them know what she means. Gloria—the strange weight hanging between all of them that needs to stay unspoken. It’s not that what happened was probably so bad, Peggy reasons, the fallout was the worst—or at least she hopes so.

Privately, Peggy decides to stay away from Angie, or maybe not to make their interactions so obvious. Associations—that’s where the drama starts and people start leaving, Peggy thinks, and she’s made it so far without losing (more) people. Colleen is her best friend—the most important presence Peggy thinks she’ll probably ever have in her life, aside from Steve—but whatever this strange, ambiguous, slightly random relationship with Angie is, she doesn’t want to give it up, either.

“Earth to Peggy?” Colleen sounds uncharacteristically timid as she taps her on the shoulder. “Peggy? Can you unlock the door? It’s getting kind of cold.”

Peggy snaps out of it, shaking her head. It is cold, too cold for this early in September. “Sorry,” she says, and gives Colleen the key. “I’m just tired.”

“It’s okay.” Colleen laughs a little bit. “Daydreaming about anyone in particular?”

“More like night-dreaming,” Peggy sniffs. “It’s late. We should go to bed.”

Colleen’s laugh is deeper now—they know each other too well for this, for any semblance of dishonesty between them. Peggy has to glare at her to get her to shut up.

The house is quiet. Peggy gets the sudden urge to move across the floor completely noiselessly. It’s not working too well. Creak. Old floorboards—Colleen has to stifle giggles. They make it upstairs to Peggy’s room, and everything seems normal, at least until they’re lying next to each on Peggy’s bed, shoulders almost touching, and Colleen’s sniffing and breathing unevenly and Peggy realizes with a start that she’s crying.

“Colleen,” Peggy says softly, and props herself up with her elbow. “Are you alright?”

The girl—and she really is just a girl in that moment, she’s never seemed more like a stranger—shakes her head and turns away. “I just—I didn’t even fuck it up that badly with her. At least I thought I didn’t.” Her voice is thick. “I wanted her to—it doesn’t matter.” Colleen rolls back around, looks up at the ceiling.

Peggy breathes in sharply. “You can talk to me, you know.” It feels like the millionth time she’s said it. Colleen’s weight is shifting on the mattress. A siren goes off a few streets over, blaring in the night.

Only silence otherwise.

“We all have things to get over,” she whispers a few minutes later. Peggy, not quite knowing what to say to that, pretends to be asleep.

----

Carol slams on the brakes. “Jesus—” she hisses, and watches as a deer bounds away from the car. “What the fuck?”

“You almost killed Bambi,” Angie shakes her head. “Gosh, Carol. Get it together.”

“More like Bambi’s mom,” Carol mutters, and Angie gasps in offense. The car starts moving again, past trees and deserted streets.  

“Are we there yet?” Gloria’s eyelids are drooping shut.

“No.” Carol turns, past the Wendy’s. “Am I dropping you or Angie off first?”

“Both of us,” Gloria yawns. “I’m sleeping over at Angie’s—”

“Wait, what?” Angie turns to look at Gloria in the backseat. “Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry, Glo. I forgot it’s Saturday—”

“But you said I could,” Gloria protests, suddenly wide awake.

“Well, you can,” Angie says, sounding apologetic, “if you want to go to Mass with us at eight.”

Gloria shakes her head. “I’ll pass.” She pauses. “Carol? Can I sleep over?”

“Sure,” Carol says, then grins. “I’m definitely not going to church.”

They drive the rest of the way back in silence, Angie silently cursing Howard for living in such a far-off part of town because it means she’s going to be home later. It’s not that her mom is going to be angry when her daughter stumbles into the kitchen at one, she’ll actually probably be asleep, but Angie is expected to be up and in her Sunday best by seven-thirty sharp, or seven-fifteen if she wants to eat breakfast. Angie grimaces at the thought of six hours of sleep on a Saturday night, which she knows will cause a pounding headache to accompany family lunch after Mass.

The car slows to a stop outside of Angie’s tiny house. “Here we are,” Carol announces, and Angie snaps out of it and grabs her bag.

“I’m sorry,” she says, turning to look at Gloria. “Really. I forgot.”

Gloria shrugs. “Whatever.” Her expression softens. “Have fun with Jesus.”

Rolling her eyes, Angie gets out of the car. “Thanks for the ride, Carol,” she calls softly over her shoulder, and walks up the path towards the front door.

Carol waits until Angie disappears into the house, then steps on the gas pedal. “What the hell was that with Colleen, Gloria?” She asks, maybe a bit harsher than she should, but Gloria’s carefully evaded mention or discussion of the situation all night and it’s getting annoying. “Can you not exist in the same room anymore?”

“She’s everywhere these days!” Gloria bursts out. “And now Angie’s getting to be besties with Peggy—”

“They’ve been talking for about a week, what are you even—”

“She makes me feel guilty, like I’ve done something, I don’t even regret—”

“Maybe if you’d told us what happened, we’d be able to help—”

“It’s petty, okay?” Gloria sits back in her seat and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “It’s stupid, petty ninth-grader crap and it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to talk to her.”

Carol scoffs.

“It escalated,” Gloria says through her teeth. “I wish she’d just get over it—grow up a little, you know?”

“Look, Gloria.” Carol sighs. “Don’t rip out her throat next time. Less than a year and you’re both out of here. You can do that, right?”

Gloria rubs her forehead. “I can try.”

---

Angie oversleeps, because of course she does. It’s seven twenty-five when her mother comes charging into her room. “Angela!” She shouts, and shakes her daughter by the shoulders. “This is what happens when you go to parties—you sleep too long.”

Wincing, Angie lifts her head. Her hand scrambles to check her phone, to see why her damn alarm didn’t ring—

Oh. It’s not plugged in. Angie presses the on button and watches as the empty battery screen lights up. “My phone died,” she mumbles, still half-asleep. “Sorry.”

Her mother fires back in fast Italian, ending with “—we’re leaving in ten minutes. You need to be at the door. Understand?”

So much for breakfast. Angie nods and lets her head fall back onto the pillow. There’s a pattering of footsteps coming towards the bed, and then Angie’s head hits the mattress. Her eyes snap open—her mother is still standing over her, holding the pillow in her hand. “Get up,” she tells her, and Angie sighs and swings her feet onto the floor.

Exactly twelve minutes later—much to Mrs. Martinelli’s chagrin—they’re all piled into the car. Angie’s brother Piero’s elbow is dangerously close to her ribs. Her sister Francesca is squirming next to him. Angie’s head droops against the window, and her father starts the car.

“Ouch!” Angie yelps. Piero, pulling his elbow back from Angie’s side, grins.

“Just trying to wake you up.” He’s grinning widely, sweetly—their great aunts used to lap it up and give him extra candy for it.

“That was cute when you were five,” Angie says, rolling her eyes. “Doesn’t work anymore.”

“What were you even doing out so late?” Piero asks, kicking the front seat with his awkwardly long legs. “You don’t have friends.”

“Mature,” Angie replies, just as their father turns around to glare at them.

“Parla italiano, figliolo,” he sighs. “And stop kicking my seat.”

“Si, Papà,” Piero says, then continues in Italian. “So it was a party, right?” Angie says nothing, and he grins widely. “Was it a date?”

“Piero,” Angie says, as nicely as possible. “Shut up.”

“It was a date!” Piero says triumphantly, “and you’re turning red—you really do need a date with Jesus today, Angie. It’s good you got out of bed on time.” He starts guffawing, and only stops when Mrs. Martinelli catches his eye in the rearview mirror.

“Leave your sister alone,” Mrs. Martinelli says, then pauses. “Did you meet a boy, Angela?”

Sighing, Angie shakes her head. “No boys, Ma. Sorry.”

“Boys are stupid,” Francesca says and crosses her arms. “I hate them.”

“Same,” Angie mutters, “same.”

---

Colleen tries to turn a pancake and fails.

“That’s not going to work,” Peggy says from the kitchen table, nonchalantly flipping through the Sunday paper.

“I’m going to fling a pancake at you,” Colleen replies, trying to concentrate. “And stop pretending like you’re reading the news.”

Peggy sighs and puts the paper down. “Why won’t you let me make breakfast?”

The laughter that follows is less than convincing. “You didn’t tell me you were funny, Peggy.” Colleen manages to maneuver the pancake out of the pan. “Ha! Success.”

“I want the first one!” Peggy says quickly, getting out of the chair and scrambling towards the pancake. “I’m hungry. You’re at my house. I get the first pancake.”

“Fine,” Colleen says and lets Peggy take the plate. “Bon appetit.”

Peggy takes a huge bite. “Fanks.”

“Margaret, darling, you can’t be understood with so much food in your mouth,” Mrs. Carter says from the doorway. “Oh!” She exclaims, noticing Colleen at the stove. “Hello, Colleen.”

Colleen flips another pancake onto a plate and holds it out to Mrs. Carter. “Good morning. Do you want some breakfast?”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Carter says and accepts the plate. “Peggy, must you take such big bites?”

“I’m hungry.” Peggy swallows. “Besides, it means I can eat more food faster.” She grins at Colleen, who rolls her eyes and turns back to the stove. Mrs. Carter sits down and –subtly—takes a giant bite out of her own pancake.

After adjusting the small stack on pancakes so that they’re perfect, Colleen carries it over to the table and sets it down. “Breakfast,” she beams, and sits down across from Peggy, who promptly takes another one from the pile. “I don’t know how you have any food left in this house,” Colleen remarks, “with the way you two eat.”

Mother and daughter trade a slightly-guilty-but-not-quite look, and Peggy shrugs slightly. “Well, while Dad’s on his business trip—”

“He’s just such a health snob.” Mrs. Carter rolls his eyes, then gets up. “Tea?” Without waiting for an answer, she puts the kettle on and opens the cabinet, pulling out a teabag. “How’s your father, Colleen?”

“Fine!” Colleen smiles brightly. “The garage is getting real busy these days; he’s doing good.”

“Glad to hear it.” The kettle starts whistling, and Mrs. Carter looks around in surprise. “Oh, that was fast—so, what’s the plan for today, girls? I know you’ve got a test on Tuesday, Peggy, but if you’ve got it under control, I’m not going to make you study.”

“I think we’re going to Colleen’s,” Peggy says. “We’re going to start planning next week’s waffle sale—or pre-planning it, I suppose.” She shudders. “I have my first council meeting with the Margaret and Dorothy Administration tomorrow, with Dorothy lamentably present.”

“That’s that blonde girl?” Mrs. Carter asks, pouring the boiling water into a teapot. “She’s very tall.”

Colleen clears her throat. “The other blonde girl,” she corrects. “I’m offended.”

“Sorry, Colleen,” Mrs. Carter says and carries the teapot over to the table. “Well, I’m sure she’ll be amicable enough in public, right?”

“Let’s hope so,” Peggy says, staring at thin air with a look of vague horror on her face.

---

“Dorothy, we do not need seven waffle irons for this single event, what are you even—” Peggy barely restrains herself from slamming her hand on the table. Dottie is infuriating, and she needs to wipe that smirk off her face before Peggy does it for her.

"Why aren't you assuming more people will show up? You should have faith in our waffles." Dottie leans back, the picture of perfect blonde innocence. Colleen, sitting in the corner of the art room, watches the exchange with a dubious look on her face.

Peggy sighs. "Look, I have faith, I just don't want to cause a hassle –"

A sophomore raises his hand, eager to provide input, but lowers it again when he’s still being ignored several seconds later.

Dottie laughs incredulously. "It'll be a hassle when we don't have enough waffles for all the people that will show up, and there will be many people that show up–”

“You just suggested pickles! Won’t we have enough food?”

“If we have more food, we’ll sell more,” Dottie argues, leaning over the table. “It’s motivation. People see a ton of waffles, people want a ton of waffles, obviously.”

Peggy scrunches up her nose. “Or we have a surplus of food and wasted time and resources on a gamble that doesn’t even seem psychologically logical?”

Dottie’s mouth falls into a perfect O, then she recovers. “I’m sensing a little negativity there, Margaret.”

“That would be a good sense of pragmatism, thank you very much—”

Dan Sousa finally decides he’s had enough and clears his throat loudly, then, running out of ideas, bangs his cane against the table. Dottie and Peggy stop squabbling and stare at him, open-mouthed. “Guys—why don’t we decide who’s making posters and writing the announcement so that people even know this is happening?”

Peggy sniffs, stares at him. “You’re perfectly right,” she agrees after a moment. “Alright then. Daniel? Can you organize the marketing campaign?”

“Lorraine can do the posters,” Dottie bursts out. “She’s an artist, and—” she pauses, and they all look over to where Lorraine is napping, her feet up on the table, “—apparently completely useless,” Dottie finishes, decidedly displeased.

“I’ll do marketing,” Daniel says. “I can have posters up by tomorrow, and I’ll put in an announcement for Wednesday.”

Peggy breathes a sigh of relief. Dottie, pacified, twirls a lock of hair around a pencil. Two freshman senators trade a look of disbelief. Colleen’s absentmindedly biting her nails. The room smells sharply of cleaning spray; paint is flaking off the walls. Everyone is busy not looking at each other, and then the bell rings to signal that they have five minutes before the end of lunch and people begin to pack up, grateful they don’t have to sit in the awkward silence anymore.

“Well, that could have gone worse,” Colleen says brightly when she meets Peggy at the door. They turn and begin to walk down to the hall together. “She could’ve hit you over the head with a baseball bat. You could’ve pushed her out of a window.”

“Very funny,” Peggy says. “It’s not like I wasn’t tempted to.” She has the urge to start whining, but suppresses it. “Seven waffle irons are too much, aren’t they?”

Colleen shrugs. “Maybe,” she says as diplomatically as possible. “Let’s just see what Dan comes up with, okay?”

“Okay,” Peggy repeats. “I’ll see you later—I’m going the wrong way.” Colleen nods and walks off, pulling her hair up in a ponytail. Peggy watches her go, then turns around and walks back down the hall. Mr. Dooley’s room is still closed, so Peggy leans her backpack against the wall and sits down next to it.

“You ready for this test?” Someone asks from above, and Peggy’s head snaps up. It’s Angie, biting her thumbnail and looking worried. “I was going to study, but I ran out of time, so I crammed during French—can you explain this?” Angie hurriedly pulls her notebook out of her bag and crouches down, then decides to sit on the floor and opens the notebook to a page with a lot of question marks in the margin.

Peggy straightens up and scrutinizes the page. “You do it right here,” she says, tapping her finger on the page, “but you forgot to distribute the negative here.”

“Oh.” Angie sounds relieved. “That would explain it.”

Peggy laughs, a light chuckle that makes Angie blush. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“I really hope so,” Angie admits. “I just need a B on this test to keep an A average, and I keep telling myself it’s not that hard but I’m still worried.”

Peggy looks at her sympathetically. At this point, much of the class is gathered around the door, mumbling impatiently. Out of the corner of her eye, Peggy sees Howard cast them a look. Willing him to be quiet, Peggy stands up and offers her hand to Angie to help her up. Angie takes it without hesitation and Peggy pulls her up—Angie’s hand is warm, and when’s she’s standing, Peggy can smell her conditioner. Peggy’s breath catches in her throat, just a little bit, and then Mr. Dooley’s parting the crowd in front of his classroom and unlocking the door, muttering about Mrs. Fry and her ridiculously long staff meetings.

“Good luck,” Peggy whispers to Angie while Dooley’s passing out the tests. “Or should I say break a leg?” She holds out a hand, intending  a high five, but Angie gives her a quick smile and takes her hand instead, squeezing it lightly before she lets go.

Angie dashes out the door almost the second they’re dismissed, Peggy’s question about how she did still unspoken. Slightly worried, Peggy packs up her things slowly, and only notices Howard standing in front of her desk a minute later.

“Hello,” she greets him, brow furrowed. “Is everything—”

“Do you miss him?” Howard asks, seeming distraught. He wrings his hands together desperately, and casts a look around to see if anyone is listening. “Do you?”

Peggy feels the weight in her chest settle, grow heavier. “Of course I do, why—”

“Sorry,” Howard interrupts her, casting his gaze towards the ground. “It’s just that time of year, and I—“ he breaks off. “I miss him so much,” he says and looks up at her then, eyes filled with rare sincerity.

“I miss him too, Howard,” Peggy assures him, and bites her lip. “But we have to let him go— listen to me,” she says when Howard turns his head away from her.  “Listen, Howard, for once. It’s not your fault, you’ve got to move on sometime—“

“Angie has a crush on you, you know,” he says, quietly, so quietly that Peggy can barely make out what he’s saying. “She’s real nice.”

“How do you know that?” Peggy asks, momentarily taken aback.

Howard shrugs. “I have my sources.”

After a moment, Peggy rolls her eyes. “This isn’t about Angie,” she protests and stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t make this about her—she had nothing to do with Steve, and whatever crush or anything she may have on me has nothing to do with Steve.”

“Sorry.” Howard looks pained. “I just—”

“Please don’t bring this up at school again.” Peggy grits her teeth, surprised at how much she feels like she’s going to cry. “Just don’t, Howard. We can talk about this, that’s fine. But not here.”