#queercophine

“What?”

After hesitating a moment, Peggy closes her laptop and twists around in her chair. “You have Angie’s number, right?”

Colleen’s eyebrows nearly disappear under her bangs. “Why, yes I do,” she says, and puts her book to the side. “Do you, uh—” she looks down, back up, and flicks some hair out of her face “—need to contact her?”

“Yes,” Peggy says without so much as a hint of fluster. “For Calculus.”

Colleen nods. “Of course.” She picks up her phone, types furiously for a few seconds, then puts it back down. “Sent it to you.” She smiles impishly and flips her textbook open again. “Tell me what she says—”

“Shush,” Peggy says, blushing now, and turns her phone on.

[5:32] Hi, Angie. This is Peggy.

Peggy pauses, her thumbs over the touch screen, then frantically resumes typing.

[5:32] How do you think you did on the test? You seemed worried earlier.

That sounds so dumb, Peggy realizes immediately after sending, and sighs inwardly. Come on, self-restraint, Peg. Why’d you have to text her?she asks herself. She probably sounded awkward. She probably should’ve just kept it together until tomorrow and asked Angie like a normal person instead of getting her number like a stalker.

Her phone beeps. Peggy sighs in instant relief and picks it up. One unread message– she swipes to see the message without looking at the sender.

[5:34] Howie Bowie: sorry abt after calc. can we talk?

It’s from Howard, not Angie, and Peggy feels just a tiny bit ridiculous about her reaction. Without replying and slightly embarrassed, she turns the ringer off and sets her phone down on the desk, facedown so that she won’t be able to see the lack of notifications. This is ridiculous, she thinks. I’m not fourteen.

“Peg?” Colleen peers at her from over the textbook, worried. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Peggy replies automatically, blinking in surprise. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s just—” Colleen glances at her phone “—Howard texted me—”

“You should really turn your phone off when you’re studying,” Peggy mutters, and Colleen rolls her eyes at the comment.

“Anyways,” she continues, “Howard texted me to tell you to text him back.” She holds her phone up towards Peggy, who peruses the screen with pursed lips.

[5:35] Moustache: i saw peggy read my text. i really need to talk to her bc calc & i know she’s w/u, sorry i upset her earlier. tell her to text me. pls.

Peggy sighs and grits her teeth, then opens up her laptop again. “Thank you for your concern,” she says, with a touch of softness to her voice, “but I don’t feel like talking to him right now.”

After a moment of hesitation, Colleen nods. “I’ll just tell him you’re in the shower.” She types for a moment, then sets her phone down. “Wait, Howard is in Calc? Didn't he take that freshman year?”

“He had a free space in his schedule and wanted to take something easy.” Peggy shrugs. “I think he enjoys bothering Mr. Dooley.”

They go back to their respective work, Peggy writing an essay—which, to be fair, she’s not entirely bullshitting—and Colleen reading about post-WWII America. They’re used to this type of silence; it’s comforting when it’s just the two of them, when another human presence doesn’t actually disturb the feeling of solitude.

After a while, Peggy’s eyes start to water from staring at her screen for too long, at the same three sentences that don’t seem to make sense no matter how she tries to phrase them. “Colleen,” she starts, hoping for a distraction, “what am I going to do about Dottie?”

“What do you mean?” Colleen asks, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t get rid of her, might as well just deal with it.”

Peggy sighs. “I just—I don’t want her questioning my authority,” she explains haltingly. “She seems like a lot of people listen to her, and—” Peggy’s voice trails off. “I actually thought I could get things done this year.”

“Look, Peg.” Colleen shrugs. “Dottie’s scary as hell. That doesn’t mean people actually like her. She’s not going to try and get you impeached, or whatever the high school equivalent of that is.” Peggy whines wordlessly, scrunching up her nose. “Peggy! Stop being insecure!”

“I’m not insecure,” Peggy protests. “I just want to be taken seriously.”

Colleen frowns. “You think people are going to take Dottie more seriously than they do you?” She pauses. “Her name is Dottie, for crying out loud.”

Sighing, Peggy concedes. “Alright,” she admits. “Fair point.” She checks her phone. Nothing.

--

Mrs. Martinelli bustles into the living room with a laundry basket, shooing Piero out of the way with a single glance. “Angela,” she calls into the kitchen, where Angie’s scarfing down a bowl of Cheerios. “Can you iron?” Sighing, Angie carries her bowl over to the sink and joins her mother in the living room. “Do your dad’s shirts first, he has a meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Will do,” Angie says, faking enthusiasm.

Piero, splayed across the couch and pretending to read his World Geography textbook, laughs. “Convincing, Angie! How'd you get into the play?”

Mrs. Martinelli smiles gratefully at her daughter, then turns around and glares at her son. “Quiet,” she tells him. “And get ready for soccer practice.” She disappears into the kitchen.

“Why don’t you have to help?” Angie complains to Piero, picking up the iron and turning it on.

“Practice starts in ten minutes,” he answers. “I have to leave.”

“It’s Monday,” Angie reminds him, “you have practice on Tuesday. Come on, housework is good for you.”

Quickly, Piero shakes his head. “I moved up, remember? The high school team?”

“Right.” Angie clicks her tongue. “You’re a big freshman now.” She studies him, trying to find some evidence that they’re related. There’s not much—he takes after their father, Angie after their mother, or, according to Nonna, their great-aunt Clara. We looked more alike when we were younger, Angie thinks, strangely nostalgic, even though she doesn’t actually remember those times, only photographs. Still, she’s not used to thinking of Piero in high school; she can vividly recall being as old as him, and briefly wonders if he’s struggling in the same way she was.

When she comes back from her thoughts, Piero is staring at her with a bemused, slightly entertained expression. “Angie? You okay?”

“Yes,” Angie assures him. “Go on, you’ll be late to practice.”

“Can I borrow your bag? The strap on mine broke.”

“Sure,” Angie shrugs. Piero grins at her in thanks and piles his stuff into her bag. Angie winces. It’s going to smell like grass and sweat when she gets it back. “Wait,” she says, but Piero doesn’t seem to hear. “Let me get my phone—”

He slams the door behind him, and Angie sighs in resignation.

“Angela!” Mrs. Martinelli snaps from the kitchen. “The iron!”

Shit. “On it, Ma!”

--

Colleen sighs and lets her book flop open on the bed. “You should really text Howard back.”

“I don't have anything to say to him.” Peggy deletes half a paragraph of her essay, biting her lip. “It's not--”

Grumbling, Colleen flips the page. “He seems really worried.” She pauses. “What did he even say?”

Heart sinking, Peggy stops typing. “He... he just asked me if I miss Steve.”

Colleen wrinkles her brow. “What kind of a question is that?” She props herself up. “Seriously, that's fucked up.” She brushes a lock of hair back from her face. “Honestly, what the hell?” The lock of hair falls back into place. “I'm going to text him,” she says decisively. “He needs to step off, stay in his lane, whatever. It doesn't matter. That's just really not okay--”

Peggy shakes her head. “No, don't. Really, don't. He's grieving, we should let him.”

“And you're not?”

Nothing. Peggy looks down at the keyboard; the sting of tears rises in her nose. “It's not that important, Colleen. It'll only make it worse if you get involved.”

“If you say so,” Colleen says, “You know, if you ever want to talk about him--”

Peggy shakes her head. “I don’t.”

“Okay,” Colleen says, till worried but willing to change the subject. “Hey, did Angie ever text back?”

Embarrassment pools in Peggy's stomach as she remembers. She turns her phone over and hesitates before turning the screen on. Two unread messages-- from Howard. She opens them.

[5:50] Howie Bowie: peg im really sorry can you just let me apologize

[5:58] Howie Bowie: i didnt kno who else to talk to

“She hasn't texted back,” Peggy says with a sinking feeling. “Howard texted me, though. Twice.”

“Angie's probably busy,” Colleen assures her. “Theatre practice, maybe?” Colleen's phone buzzes. “Oof. Howard just texted me that you opened his message. I guess he's really worried.”

“Guess he feels a bit shit, then,” Peggy mutters. “Fine, I'll text him back.”

[6:11] Howard, it's alright. If you need to talk you know I'm here for you, but please don't bring it up at school. It's too much.

[6:12] Howie Bowie: thx

“I think he'll live.” Peggy drums her fingers against her laptop. “Colleen?”

“Hmm?” Colleen, having gone back to her reading, doesn't look up.

Peggy hesitates. “Are you really going to quit cheerleading?”

“I don't know,” Colleen says flatly. “Probably not. I just thought—I thought it was time for a change.”

“Not Senioritis, then?” Peggy raises an eyebrow. “It's alright, you know. I think we're all getting a bit tired.”

Colleen lets her head drop onto the bed. “I just want this year to be over,” she says, voice muffled, then rolls over so that she's lying on her back. “I spent four hours doing all my college apps this Saturday. Other than that?” Colleen shakes her head. “Nothing matters.”

“And you think quitting cheer is going to make this year go faster?” Peggy crosses her arms. “You're good at cheerleading. You enjoy it, I don't understand--”

Shaking her head again, Colleen rubs the bridge of her nose where her glasses would be if she weren't too vain to wear them. “I just need to get through this,” Colleen whispers. “Either this year needs to be over or we need to be in high school for the rest of our lives.”

Peggy looks down. “I thought you wanted to be done,” she says quietly.

“I do,” Colleen says, “but it's more complicated than that, it's-- there are, what, nine months separating me from the rest of my life? It seems so long and so short and I don't know what's after it.” She sits up. “I need to be there already. I need to be there or have it not—not coming at all.”

Slowly, Peggy nods. “That makes sense. At least I think it does.” She studies her best friend's face. Colleen looks tired, she has to admit. “I'm sorry,” Peggy says thickly.

“You didn't do anything.” Colleen shrugs. “It's some form of Senioritis, I guess.”

They're quiet for a few moments. Peggy doesn't turn back to her laptop. Colleen pretends like she's studying the cover of her History textbook, running her finger along the worn edges of the binding.

“We're going to be fine, you know,” Peggy says. “Really, Colleen.”

Colleen laughs weakly. “That sounds like a promise.”

“It is,” Peggy says earnestly. She places her hand on the bedpost, gripping the wood. “It is.”

--

“One basket of laundry, freshly ironed,” Angie says triumphantly, setting the basket of neatly folded clothes onto the kitchen table.

Her mother swats at her with a dish towel. “Don't put it on the table. The bottom isn't clean.”

“Sorry!” Angie moves the basket to the floor. “What's for dinner?”

“Mashed potatoes and meatballs.” Mrs. Martinelli casts a glance at the stove. “Your sister requested it.” She glances around the kitchen. “Can you set the table?”

“When is Piero coming back?” Angie complains, but moves towards the cabinet where they keep the plates. “Can't he do something around the house for once?”

Mrs. Martinelli shakes her head. “He's going to be back too late.” Angie rolls her eyes. “It's good practice!” Mrs. Martinelli says at her daughter's pained expression. “You know men are useless at keeping house; if you don't want to live in a pigsty you'll have to do it yourself.”

Angie bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grimacing. “Yes, Mom.”

“That's my good girl.”

Reaching up to get a plate on the top shelf, Angie tries to ignore her stomach, twisting with anxiety and making her nauseous. "I need my social security number for college applications,” she says, desperate to change the subject. “Can you get me my card later?”

“You should memorize that number,” her mother replies disapprovingly. “Have you started your applications?”

Angie nods, finally managing to maneuver a stack of plates from the shelf to the countertop. “I’m almost done,” she says. “It’s mostly just information. And we had to write a personal statement essay in English. So that’s done,” she finishes brightly.

Mrs. Martinelli nods, pleased. She stirs the mashed potatoes. “You’re so far ahead of Matteo,” she remarks. “He hasn’t even started yet.”

“I guess Aunt Julia isn’t as strict about that kind of stuff,” Angie mutters, making her words run together just enough so her mother can’t understand exactly what she’s saying. “Or maybe it’s not even November and nothing matters.”

“Excuse me?”

Angie doesn’t want to turn around to look at her mother’s face. “Nothing, mom. It’ll be done soon.” She picks up the stack of plates and takes them, as fast as possible, to the dining table.

Mrs. Martinelli sighs from the kitchen. “Have you finalized the list of where you’re applying?”

“Far away from here,” Angie mumbles, setting the table. “As far away as possible.”

--

“Maybe Angie isn’t much of a texter?” Peggy shuts her laptop, giving up on finishing the paper tonight.

“Chill,” she says, pressing a few buttons on her calculator. “Why did I take Prob and Stat?”

Peggy raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Already done with history?”

“Ha.” Colleen laughs unconvincingly. “No point.”

Sighing, Peggy sends Colleen a dubious look. “I know you have a test tomorrow,” she says. “Senior or not, you still have to pass.”

“I’ll pass,” Colleen says. “Don’t worry about it, Peggy.”

“Alright, alright,” Peggy says, raising her hands in mock surrender and pulling  out her student council binder. “I need to text Dan about the posters,” she says, more to remind herself than anything else. “And organize the waffle irons-- did we ever reach a consensus on how many we need?”

“If there are 800 students at our high school,” Colleen says, mockingly, “and 75% of people want waffles, and 25% of these people have enough money to buy a waffle, and 35% of the people remaining of the 75% can drum up enough money from friends, but Dottie Underwood--”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “I get the picture.”

“There’s a week left before the waffle sale,” Colleen points out. “Dan’s doing marketing, I’m sure he’s got it under control-- just calm down, okay? Dottie wants this stuff to do well just as much as you do.”

“Or she’s going on a power trip,” Peggy mutters. “She’s going on a power trip and--”

“Now I know why you and Angie get along so well,” Colleen says pointedly. “You’re both overdramatic as all hell.”

“Me? Overdramatic?” Peggy puts a hand on her chest like she’s saying the Pledge of Allegiance. Which she’s never said, actually. Obviously. “How dare you?”

Colleen is about to reply when there’s a knock at the door.

“Girls?” It’s Mrs. Carter. She turns the doorknob and lets the door swing open a few inches, hesitantly poking her head into the room. “Oh, you’re home.”

“Indeed,” Peggy says. She smiles. “How was your day, Mum?”

Mrs. Carter leans against the doorframe, blazer hanging loose off of her shoulders. “Nothing particularly interesting, I’m afraid. I swear my students get stupider every year.”

“What courses are you teaching this semester?” Colleen asks.

“Foundations of Sociology,” Mrs. Carter replies. Colleen and Peggy trade a questioning glance. “Oh, enough, you two. It’s interesting, I promise,”

“If only I could believe you,” Peggy says, feigning sincerity.

“Does Deviant Behavior sound more interesting to you?” Mrs. Carter crosses her arms, a smirk almost identical to Peggy’s ghosting across her face. “That’s my other class. I always thought I found topics more interesting if I could relate to them personally.”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “You’re hilarious, Mum.”

“I do try.”

Colleen snickers.

“Are you prepared for your test tomorrow?” Mrs. Carter asks. “I do hope you’re not distracting each other too much, girls.”

“I don’t have a test tomorrow,” Peggy says, forehead wrinkling. “I had a test today.”

Looking down, Mrs. Carter sighs. “Were you prepared, at least? I really thought it was tomorrow, or I wouldn’t have let you go out all afternoon yesterday.”

“It’s only Calculus,” Peggy protests.

“It’s only Calculus,” Colleen imitates her, just under her breath.

“And it matters,” Mrs. Carter says earnestly. “Have you signed up to retake the SATs?”

Peggy rolls her eyes, looking down at the last moment to avoid her mother seeing. “Not this again.”

Colleen shifts awkwardly. She looks at the wall, at the poster of the Periodic Table of Elements Peggy has hanging above her bed.

“Yes, this again.” Mrs. Carter raps her knuckles on the doorframe. “Take care of it.”

“Alright,” Peggy grumbles. Mrs. Carter smiles wearily and leaves the room.

“What did you get on the SATs the first time?” Colleen asks once Mrs. Carter’s footsteps have disappeared down the hall.

Peggy grimaces. “Good enough,” she says. “I don't even remember the exact number. Mum's just worried. European schools have high standards, I guess.”

Colleen nods. She taps out a few numbers on her calculator and scribbles them into her notebook. “So you're for sure going to school in England?” She looks up at Peggy, hoping to catch her off guard so she'll actually answer.

If Peggy is annoyed at the question, she doesn't show it. “I don't know yet,” she says and shrugs, typing idly on her phone.

“Ooh, did Angie text back?” At this point, Colleen is just grasping at straws to keep from having to do math homework.

“Still no,” Peggy says, humiliation evident in her voice. “I wish I'd just asked her tomorrow, this is getting embarrassing.”

Colleen makes a sympathetic face. “Maybe her phone died.” She raises her eyebrows slightly. “Of course, it's always hard when someone you like--”

“Stop right there,” Peggy says flatly, not even glancing at Colleen as she shoves her laptop into her backpack. “I'd be careful about going down that train of thought.”

“Aw.” Colleen fails to bite back a grin. Peggy shoots her a glare fierce enough to make a lion stop in its tracks. “Guess not,” Colleen mutters, then leaps up from the bed. “Hey, what's for dinner?” Colleen asks brightly, making a beeline towards the door. “I'm real hungry.”

Gaze softening, Peggy gets up and joins Colleen. “That distraction tactic isn't always going to work, you know,” she says.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Colleen says cheerfully. “Maybe someday you'll believe it.”

--

“It wasn't that funny.” Peggy opens the front door. “Really, Colleen.”

“Oh, it was.” Colleen steps through the door, hoisting her backpack up from the floor and swinging it onto one shoulder. “Six bowls of noodles!”

“There was too much water in the pot,” Peggy says stiffly. “And the box slipped. It’s not my fault.”

Colleen snorts and starts walking towards her car. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Peggy calls after Colleen’s retreating figure. She waits until Colleen’s reached her car safe, then closes the door, which locks with a small click.

Upstairs, she surveys her room, getting more exhausted the longer she looks at it. Her debate materials are all in a corner, papers strewn about and crumpled from the way she’s taken to shoving things into her bag lately. My life is falling apart, Peggy thinks, and looks at her closet, which used to be color-coded but is now a pile of clothing that she can’t find the time to take apart and sort out. Her gaze drifts from her closet to her bookshelf, which she spent six hours two summers ago (could it really have been only two summers ago?) organizing with Steve, six hours more spent reading out the summaries on the back covers to each other and laughing than really getting any work done, but the hours went by and they were done and Peggy’s bookshelf was alphabetized by author’s last name, a state which remains preserved only because Peggy doesn’t have time to read anymore.

She sinks onto her bed. She still has to annotate for English and do the Calculus homework that wasn’t due today because of the test, and she can tell her phone is blowing up with notifications just by looking at her desk. What do they want from me now? she thinks, strangely bitter, but stands to retrieve her phone anyway.

There are so many notifications that they fill up the entire screen. “What the hell?” she mutters to herself, then realizes that most of the numbers are from the Student Council group chat. Rolling her eyes, she swipes to open the chat and skims over 26 texts, nothing important, nothing she wants to deal with right now.

The messaging icon is still showing 2 unread messages. More resigned than actively irritated, Peggy opens them.

[7:45] Angie M.: omg sorry my brother accidentally took my phone with him to soccer practice

[7:45] Angie M.: anyway I think the test went ok! with the curve anyway haha. thanks for asking :)

God, Peggy’s relieved. God, Peggy’s embarrassingly relieved, this is ridiculous, she’s not fourteen .   She wants to wait to reply, think about what she should say, but then she remembers that she’s got read receipts enabled and hastily starts typing out a response.

[7:50] Oh, good! You’re welcome, I’m glad to hear it.

“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.”