I was rambunctious as a child, always running around and breaking shit. High energy, my nanny would say, but my parents didn't see it that way. To them, I was problematic. A destroyer of fine art and crystal knick-knacks. It was never my fault, not really. Once, when I was five, I shattered an antique vase into hundreds of pieces. Mum nearly had an aneurysm and spent a whole night trying to glue it back together. It worked. Sort of. Some pieces were missing and you could see the cracks but the structure held. The foundation was there. It wasn't completely broken.

That's what I'm holding onto now. That we're not completely broken. That we're merely cracked. There are artifacts in museums around the world that passed through many hands, that have been dropped, battered, scuffed. But they're still standing today. We still awe in their presence. That's because these priceless artifacts are quality-made. The finest material. Often gold.

Gold doesn't lose its value. Even with scratches, its price doesn't change. When it's roughed up, you can melt it and morph it into something else. Sometimes, into something better. Something more beautiful. Something priceless. Something to cherish.

We were gold.

She was gold.

And I was a bloody idiot for treating her like fucking aluminum.

My foot bounces restlessly against the floor as I stare blankly at my computer screen, my thoughts held hostage by the gut-wrecking idea that I might not be capable of mending what I've broken. But I can't let those thoughts win. Not a chance. My parents have deemed me many things over the years; problematic, a mess, a nuisance, and a trait that hopefully be highly beneficial right now- stubborn.

I will fix this. I need to fix this.

My gaze darts to the trash can. Fuck sakes. I really need a smoke. I close my eyes, turning away. No. No. How will that help? It's not like a hit of nicotine is going to magically alter the circumstances. It's not going to make anything better. Only I can fix this. Me. Alone. Not any substance. Not any distraction. Just me.

I hope I'm enough.

"Hello?" The door to the dorm opens a crack, Maxine's head poking through. "Cliff? You here?"

"He's at work," I say, rotating my computer chair. "Just missed him."

"Oh," Maxine nods, slowly waltzing into my room. "Dang it. What are the odds?"

"Was there something else you needed?" I cross my arms, studying her scheming face as she sits on Cliff's bed. "Max?"

"Not really," she says with a shrug, avoiding eye contact. "Just wanted to see how you're doing, you know, how you're feeling about...everything."

"Like shit, Maxine," I state honestly. "Like utter shit."

Max sighs, clicking her tongue. "Just give it time, Ollie."

"You've been saying that for weeks now," I note, a ball of nerves in my throat. "Nothing's changed. She fucking hates me. She won't even look at me, Max. It's like she's deleted me from her surroundings."

"She doesn't hate you, Ollie," Max says, tilting her head. "She's just...hurt and embarrassed.'"

"Embarrassed?" I ask, frowning. "Why would she be embarrassed? She didn't do anything wrong. I'm the one that fucked up, not her."

Max blinks. "Welcome to being a girl in high school."

"What?"

Max clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed with me as she leans forward. "You...man. She...woman. Man....cheat. Woman...problem."

"Huh?"

"Oh dear God," Max grumbles, pinching her nose. "The whole school thinks you cheated on Kenny, which for some unknown reason in the land of the patriarchy, makes Kennedy look bad, not you. So not only is she hurt by your actions but now she has to suffer the consequences of ingrained fucking misogyny. Following along, Knight?"

"That makes zero fucking sense," I say. "This is not on Kennedy, at all. It's on me. She didn't do anything wrong."

"Yeah, I know but the world doesn't work like that," Max says. "Look, I know she's not over you, not even close but you need to give her time. That's all I can suggest, okay?"

"Do I have time?" I ask, jaw twitching as I recall my last encounter with Kennedy. "Redford looks like he's ready to pounce at a moment's notice."

Maxine rolls her eyes. "I wouldn't worry about Sawyer if I were you. As long as he's with Corn, he won't do anything shady. He's actually a nice dude."

I scoff. "Sure."

"Oh come on, Ollie," Max says, standing up. "Have a little confidence, will ya? This woe is me attitude isn't going to get your girl back." Max claps her hands. "Buck up, soldier, and know your worth!"

"Christ," I manage a chuckle. "My own personal cheerleader. Lovely."

"Hey, I'm on hashtag team Ollie," she says. "You might be a total dick sometimes but I think you're good for Ken so I'm rooting for you to unfuck up this situation."

"Well, thanks," I say. "Glad I have at least one supporter."

"Why don't you come to Lemar's party tomorrow?" Max suggests. "Could be a good opportunity to get Kenny alone? Maybe talk?"

"Thought about it but I don't think it's a good environment for me right now," I say, itching for a cigarette. "Plus I don't want to corner her. I want her to want to talk to me. On her own accord."

"'Kay, that's fair," Max says, scanning my face. "Just hang in there, okay? She'll come around. Maybe focus on something else in the meantime?"

"Like what?" I ask, my gaze flicking to my drum sticks. "I don't have anything else now."

"You didn't have to quit the band, Ollie," Max notes. "You could've stayed."

"No, I couldn't have," I mutter. Not with Raven always around. The booze. The drugs. "Not if I want Kennedy back."

"I dunno then," Max sighs, heading to the door. "But do something, cause stressing ain't gonna help you, kay? See you Monday, Ollie. Try to relax."

"Thanks, Max," I say as she leaves the room. I spin around in my chair and power on my laptop, a few new email notifications from my professors popping up. I suppose I should check my grades.

Surely I can't be failing in all aspects of my life.

Just the ones that matter.

***

I got an A.

I have never gotten an A in anything. I could get As, easily. You know, if I cared to actually do the school work or pay attention in class, which I don't. Not often at least. But somehow, I got an A. Perhaps it's an error. Maybe Mr. Takanki's finger slipped. Or he fell asleep on the keyboard. All possible alternatives. All probable.

I blink, staring at the photograph of Kennedy I submitted for the portrait assignment, my lips curling into a soft smile. That was a good day. She was worried she'd look stupid. But she doesn't. Not even a little. She looks...radiant. So carefree. I scan the photo, taking in the colorful leaves flowing around her, the wide grin on her face, the life in her eyes.

This is her.

Unmasked. Unguarded. Uninhibited.

If I really did get an A, it's because of her beauty. Not my skill. Must be.

Taking another sip of Coke, I glance at the clock. It's 10 pm on a Saturday night and I'm sitting in bed, fingers covered in chip dust. Nice. I'm a fucking loser. Seventeen and a loser. Fantastic. Truly. I put on another episode of Bosch and relax into the bed. Whatever. This is my life now. Twenty minutes into the episode, I get an email alert. Pausing the show, I open my inbox and read the mail from Mr. Takanaki.

See? He's going to correct the grade. I knew it.

Mr. Knight,

I hope you're having a nice weekend. I would like to schedule a meeting with you on Monday at 9 am to discuss a possible internship at Quinox Magazine. A friend of mine is the Editor-in-Chief, and she was captivated by the photographs you've submitted over the past few months. This is a fantastic opportunity and seeing as you have not applied to any colleges (according to the career counselor), this may be the perfect alternative for you.

Think about it.

Regards,

Mr. Takanaki

I scoff, rereading the email. Me? Doing an internship? For a bloody fashion magazine? That's ridiculous. He must be wasted right now. Or his friend is wasted. What a joke.

I Google Quinox Magazine and scroll through their website. Hmm. I mean, it's not totally awful. I kind of like the darker aesthetics. The style is good, I guess. Tolerable, at best. My eyebrow quirks up when I click on the music tab. Huh. They cover concerts. Interesting.

For the next hour, I peruse the website, silently judging the photographs and recreating the shoots in my mind. Maybe they do need me. Technique you can learn. Style, you're born with. Take this one-

My phone rings, and I mindlessly answer it.

"Hello?" I mumble, chewing on a Cheeto.

"Y'know, I looked at flights back to the great United Kingdom and some of them were super duper cheap, so I don't know why you're still hanging out here when you could fly home and get out of my life. Cause, really, I am so tired of seeing you everywhere, it's like you're a fucking Starbucks!"

I choke, propping upright. "Kennedy?"

"And another thing," she slurs. "I hate the way you say my name. Kennedy. Kennedy. Kennedy. God, it's so annoying."

"What would you prefer I call you?" I ask, treading lightly.

First contact must be treated with care.

"Nuthing!" she exclaims. "I don't need you to call me anything! I just need you to go away because my mom says, out of sight, out of mind. And I am so sick and tired of you being in my mind, okay?" She pauses, distant music in the background. "So you go, okay? You leave, yeah?"

"Are you drunk?" I ask, ignoring her plea, mildly pleased that she's revealed her true colors. "You should go home, Ken."

She lets out a cynical laugh. "You don't tell me what to do, kay? I tell you what to do. If I wanna drink seven White Claws, I will drink seven White Claws. You are not the boss of me, Oliver."

"Where's Maxine?" I ask as I get out of bed, scanning the room for my keys. Seven drinks? Christ, she's hammered. "Is she there with you?"

"Max is long gone," Kenny sings. "But me? I am standing strong! Like the fucking wall of China!"

"I'm coming to get you," I say, grabbing my helmet. "And I'm taking you to Max's." She doesn't reply. "Kennedy? Hello?"

"Ooo," she sings. "Jello shots!"

And then she hangs up.

Shit.

I dash out of the dorm room and run towards the parking lot, grateful that I resisted the urge to crack open a beer tonight.

As if the universe is on my side, I catch almost every green light as I ride to Lemar's house. The closer I get, the more idiotic I feel. What am I doing? She didn't invite me. She doesn't even want to see me. Shit. Am I being pathetic right now? No, right? She did say I was on her mind. Straight from the horse's mouth.

I enter the gates and pull up in the driveway, my gaze darting to Sawyer stuffing someone in a cab.

"KC, just lay down," he says, keeping the door propped open as he looks at Corrine who's crying. "I'll be back after I drop her off, okay?"

"No!" she sobs. "You can't leave me, Sawyer! What the fuck!"

My blood boils as I march over. "What are you doing?" I ask, looking through the passenger side window of the cab. "Fuck, she's gone." I shake my head. "Why'd you let her drink so much?"

"Go home, Knight," Sawyer states, catching his balance. "I got this."

"Sawyer!" Corrine cries, clasping a bottle of wine. "If you leave with her, we are fucking done, you understand? Done!"

Sawyer runs a hand through his hair. "I said I'll be back, okay? I'm just going to drop her off."

"Why don't you stay with your girlfriend and I'll take Ken back Max's?" I suggest, glancing at Corrine who looks like a rabid raccoon. "Problem solved. Everyone's happy."

"Yes!" Corrine exclaims. "Let him take her." She sniffles. "Stay, Sawyer. Please."

Sawyer shakes his head. "You're the last person KC wants to see," he says, glaring at me. "You're the reason she got so fucked up in the first place. Go home, Oliver. Like I said, I got this."

My jaw clenches. "What are you trying to do, mate? Huh?" I ask, lowering my voice. "Your girlfriend is literally begging you to stay and you're just ignoring her? Why?"

Sawyer briefly glances at Corrine. "She's just drunk now. She'll get over it in the morning."

"You're a bit of twat aren't you?" I scowl, shaking my head. "Can't decide, can you?"

Sawyer scoffs, opening the cab door. "No, I'm just a good friend." He nods at Corrine. "I'll be back, okay?"

I fight the urge to kick the bloody car as Sawyer hops inside next to Kennedy.

My Kennedy.

"I fucking hate you!" Corrine yells, tears rolling down her face as the cab drives away. She hiccups, taking a swig of wine. "I hate him."

"Yeah, I'm not a fan either," I mutter, walking to my bike. I take a water bottle out of the saddlebag and head back towards Corrine. "Here, drink this."

Corrine sniffles, frowning. "Why?"

"Else you'll turn into a fucking grape," I say, handing her the water. "Night, Corrine."

"I don't want it!" Corrine yells, throwing the bottle into a bush. "I'm fine!" She chugs a shit ton of wine. "I'm gonna go have fun now."

"Right," I say, taking a deep breath. "You do that."

Corrine stumbles inside toward a group of people and I look around, a bitter taste in my mouth.

Everyone is wasted. Slurring. Making poor decisions. From where I'm standing, this shit doesn't look fun. It looks like a nightmare.

I'm ready for a dream.

______________

OOOFF. Sorry for the slow-ish updates. real life and stuff.

But how is everyone enjoying the story??? I'm so happy you're all readying

THOUGHT? PREDICTIONS?