them changes

Kat didn’t protest that they wouldn’t get that far. Getting on the other side of four years was their part of the bargain; they had to. “And here you are, talkin’ to me,” they pointed out. They initiated the conversation but they’ll reframe it to look like she’s the intruder. “Are you suggestin’ there’s a correlation?” Come on, their lie was the oldest in the book. Kat often reshaped themselves in conversation, intentions as murky as polluted water, but they didn’t think Mary put actual weight on anything they said. “Get used to it,” they dismissed. “That’s more your thing. Don’t wanna steal your shine.” Kat wrestled down a chuckle when her arms fold, tearing their eyes away to the horde crushing the ballroom, breathing in all the good air. “So not Parker,” they intoned. Fuck that guy. “Christ, Mariko, should’a kept Connor’s yearbook on me.” They shook their head ruefully. Fuck that guy. “Her? No, her.” They shifted aim to some unfortunate randoms. “Gettin’ any warmer? I might need another hint.” Mary didn’t appreciate it but they were humoring her and they already regretted it.

“And he knows big words, you’re a real catch,” Kat says sarcastically. “Sorry, my forte’s storin’ my knives, no time for anything else. What’s yours?” Doesn’t actually care, opening their book in case this Brandt dared to open their mouth. “I said it.” And they meant it. 

Kat watches Caleb’s smile widen blankly before he disappears and reappears with two full flutes. Weird kid. Kat takes one, downs it, and pauses, smacking their lips to savor it. “No,” they decide. “You do know we’re gonna be here all night, right?” 

"I still look like a doughboy fucked a waiter,” Kat complains to Priya. Not a jab, just facts. God forbid they openly admit that they think they look good in their borrowed suit. But Priya’s got that wild look in her eye and she’s looking a little disheveled, like she’s been sneaking into closets with someone. A someone that they both knew. “Lookin’ a little red there, Pri,” they note suspiciously, an eyebrow cocked high on their forehead. 

Kat can see that she’s a knockout, anyone can, but her personality makes her more attractive. Takes a lot of confidence to assert and pursue what you want, and they like that about her. Among other things. “Hmm,” they hum faintly, eyebrows raising, as they slowly lean down, the distance between their faces minute but not closed. “Best give me some time. You owe me anyway.”

“Good choice, he’s hot.” Kat would’ve wanted to get Idris alone too, damn. A DILF if Kat’s ever seen one. “You’re all right,” they banter back, no guessing needed, but they drink in Marifer in her dress, so someone’s lying. The amusement is plain on their features, a smirk toying on their lips that they don’t suppress. Didn’t take a genius to know what she’s talking about but Kat specialized in making shit difficult. She did get them on their feet, though, after sliding off the railing. They felt their pockets. “All I have on me’s a shitty iPod,” they conclude. “Call it a hunch, but I don’t think that’s what you’re after.”

Kat isn’t surprised by Jem’s detailed analysis, it was why they asked in the first place. Makes them think. “Counterpoint: Self-Titled’s got Haunted and Frank Ocean producing.” How to say they had an emo phase without saying they had an emo phase. Haunted over Daddy Lessons, that’s for damn sure. “Didn’t peg you as a cowboy,” they stall with a wicked smirk. Cowboys walked among them disguised as everyone else, like serial killers. “Lemonade has its merits or whatever as a record, still should’a won the Grammy” — yes, they’re bitter — “but if I’m eatin’ sand for breakfast, a song called Sandcastles would be my last fuckin’ straw." They shake their head. “Genre variety’s fair, but nah, not for me.” Kat sipped, uncharacteristically precise as they draw out their response. “Guess.”

Their eyeroll is a solid 8.6 on the Richter scale. “Ha-ha, more like she’s really into charity.” Priya’s not deplorable like every other person in this place, so she’s a good match for Mary, in that sense. They make a face at the nose tap — couldn’t help it, couldn’t swat her finger away in time. “Yeah? Heard she didn’t go here,” they lie, folding their arms across their chest. Kat leaned their shoulder against the wall; Gallagher’s spotless and Priya’s rich enough to just buy a new spy school if she’s upset that the suit they borrowed was returned a little dirty. “Oooh, generous, Mariko, but I’ll have to pass. It’s my day off so, no emotional labor.” Take the person out of the minimum wage job, et cetera. “But you could help me strike through some names, we can solve this mystery together.”

“Which Beyoncé album would ya’ want on a desert island with you? Rules are you can only take one. Can’t skip one song, and it’s gonna play the entire time you’re stranded. I’m talking every minute of every day for, like, a week. There’s no wrong answers.” Kat’s not getting stung by the Beyhive today.

“Shame. In that case, you can find fellow student services that-a-way.” Without looking, Kat points at some rando. “And that’s on the house, stud.”