Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(7)

Andrew seemed sweet at first. He had a soft smile, a gentleness whenever his fingers grazed mine, and he loved sci-fi like me. When other people were around us, that was the trouble.

He became standoffish. He’d cast side-eyes if I replied to his friend with a sing-song voice. Flush would creep up his neck. He’d say I looked hotter without makeup, but that was only when I wore glitter.

He’d remind me that only kids draw on themselves with marker.

When I swung my arms too dramatically while I walked, he told me I was cuter if I just kept them at my sides.

I could tell he was embarrassed by me. By so much of my outward and less of my inward. I thought: well, that’s an easy fix.

So I tried out being a new me. New clothes. New hair. New style. New demeanor.

It was okay for a little bit. It made Andrew happy, and I think that’s what a girlfriend is supposed to do for her boyfriend. Make him happy. But his happiness never really felt big enough to fill mine.

Maybe I’m just not girlfriend material.

It’s what I’ve concluded in my short time as someone’s girlfriend.

One-night stands. That’s where my heart lies now. It’s nice having sex without the pressure to be the best girlfriend. To say the right things all the time. To make someone happy. I’m not even sure I can probably do that correctly. Sex, I think I can do alright. At least, I haven’t had complaints yet.

Not that I give them a survey to fill out at the end of a fuck.

Whoaaaa, maybe that’s an idea…

Biting the end of my gel pen, I try to shake away that thought and take notes as Professor Morton rattles on. He’s inside my computer. Not literally, obviously. But sometimes I like to pretend that my professor was hit with Ant-Man’s red Pym Particles and now he’s about two inches tall. I pretend that this class isn’t held over Zoom where fifty other students watch him on their own laptops at home. I pretend that Professor Morton is just tiny and giving me an exclusive live lecture.

My imagination makes it more interesting at least.

Balding with small spectacles, Professor Morton stands beside a blank whiteboard that he rarely uses. “Next class there might be a pop quiz.” He makes a show of winking. “So please read through Life on the Jovian Moons by Monday.”

I flip open my Life in the Universe textbook and put a star-shaped sticky note beside the chapter on Jovian Moons. Last year, when I turned eighteen, my mom and dad asked what I wanted to do after graduation.

I was just happy I graduated high school and didn’t flunk out.

My older brother is the one who paved the way for grand, ambitious things. Harvard. CEO of a whole charity that he started. And yes, he did drop out of Harvard, but Moffy still became legendary despite saying no to a prestigious school—and well, it’s a lot to live up to.

People online prophesize that all of us Hale children are destined to be fuck-ups, and while my brother has blasted those low expectations away, I figure I’m going to fall into them like an epic face-plant.

I know my parents will say it’s okay. My mom will remind me to pick myself up after I’ve fallen, and I’ve been so used to that all my life. Being teased, ridiculed—you learn to dust your knees and stand up again. I didn’t think life in my early twenties would consist of more falling.

More failing.

Maybe that’s why floating sounds better. Even if it is sad.

So when my mom and dad asked what I wanted to do after graduation, I simply said, “Can I just wing it?”

They were super cool about it. Even my dad smiled and said, “That’s what being your age is all about. Wing the crap out if it. Figure it out as you go.”

So I’m winging the crap out of it.

After closing my textbook, I swivel around on my desk chair. The little desk is pushed against the left wall while a bunk bed consumes most of the cramped space. The Philly townhouse in the Rittenhouse-Fitler District is astronomically smaller than my childhood home, but I don’t mind. Plus, I get to room with Sulli, and we rock-paper-scissored for the top bunk. She won—no surprise there. She is a champion.

My phone beeps on the desk, and as soon as his name pops on the screen, I quickly check the text.

??In PA. Heading to the townhouse with Beckett. Bringing the sketch for the tattoo with me. You wanna see it? ????– Donnelly





I stare at the phone for an extra-long second, fully aware that Donnelly and I don’t text too often. The black ink on my arm catches my eye. Along the soft skin of my forearm, lyrics from “Dreams” by The Cranberries are tattooed in Farrow’s handwriting, one of my favorite songs and one of my favorite tattoos. I have a couple other ones.

All Donnelly’s exceptional work.

Lately, I’ve had this idea of a more complex tattoo. Whenever I’m super anxious, I’ll trace the letters Donnelly inked on my forearm, and I thought about a tattoo that can be more interactive. One that calms me during those days where I feel like I’m falling and it hurts to stand, so I sent Donnelly a text about a week ago.

Do you think it’s possible to do a fine line tattoo? Only black ink. I want to be able to color it in with marker. Like a coloring book on my body. I heard it can be calming. I’ll pay ofc. Thank you no matter what you decide ??????otherworldly regards, wannabe alien Luna





A week ago, he didn’t hesitate to reply to that initial text. He responded within two minutes.