Fangirl

worried about.”
    “Ugh. Dad. Weird.”
    “You know what I mean. What’s up with you and your sister? You’ve never fought like this before.…”
    “We’re not fighting now, ” Cath said, taking a bite of bacon-cheeseburger pizza. “Oh, geez.” She spit it out.
    “What’s wrong, did you get an eyelid?”
    “No. Pickle. It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
    “You seem like you’re fighting,” he said.
    Cath shrugged. She and Wren weren’t even talking much, let alone fighting. “Wren just wants more … independence.”
    “Sounds reasonable,” he said.
    Of course it does, Cath thought, that’s Wren’s specialty. But she let it drop. She didn’t want her dad to worry about this right now. She could tell by the way he kept tapping the table that he was already wearing thin. Way too many normal-dad hours in a row.
    “Tired?” she asked.
    He smiled at her, apologetically, and put his hand in his lap. “Big day. Big, hard day—I mean, I knew it would be.” He raised an eyebrow. “Both of you, same day. Whoosh. I still can’t believe you’re not coming home with me.…”
    “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m not sure I can stick this out a whole semester.” She was only slightly kidding, and he knew it.
    “You’ll be fine, Cath.” He put his hand, his less twitchy hand, over hers and squeezed. “And so will I. You know?”
    Cath let herself look in his eyes for a moment. He looked tired—and, yes, twitchy—but he was holding it together.
    “I still wish you’d get a dog,” she said.
    “I’d never remember to feed it.”
    “Maybe we could train it to feed you.”
    *   *   *
    When Cath got back to her room, her roommate—Reagan—was still gone. Or maybe she was gone again; her boxes looked untouched. Cath finished putting her own clothes away, then opened the box of personal things she’d brought from home.
    She took out a photo of herself and Wren, and pinned it to the corkboard behind her desk. It was from graduation. Both of them were wearing red robes and smiling. It was before Wren cut her hair.…
    Wren hadn’t even told Cath she was going to do that. Just came home from work at the end of the summer with a pixie cut. It looked awesome—which probably meant it would look awesome on Cath, too. But Cath could never get that haircut now, even if she could work up the courage to cut off fifteen inches. She couldn’t single-white-female her own twin sister.
    Next Cath took out a framed photo of their dad, the one that had always sat on their dresser back home. It was an especially handsome photo, taken on his wedding day. He was young and smiling, and wearing a little sunflower on his lapel. Cath set it on the shelf above her desk.
    Then she set out a picture from prom, of her and Abel. Cath was wearing a shimmering green dress, and Abel had a matching cummerbund. It was a good picture of Cath, even though her face looked naked and flat without her glasses. And it was a good picture of Abel, even though he looked bored.
    He always looked kind of bored.
    Cath probably should have texted Abel by now, just to tell him that she’d made it—but she wanted to wait until she felt more breezy and nonchalant. You can’t take back texts. If you come off all moody and melancholy in a text, it just sits there in your phone, reminding you of what a drag you are.
    At the bottom of the box were Cath’s Simon and Baz posters. She laid these out on her bed carefully—a few were originals, drawn or painted just for Cath. She’d have to choose her favorites; there wasn’t room for them all on the corkboard, and Cath had already decided not to hang any on the walls, out where God and everybody would notice them.
    She picked out three.…
    Simon raising the Sword of Mages. Baz lounging on a fanged black throne. The two of them walking together through whirling gold leaves, scarves whipping in the wind.
    There were a few more things left in the box—a dried corsage, a ribbon Wren had given her that said CLEAN PLATE CLUB , commemorative busts of Simon and Baz that she’d ordered from the Noble Collection.…
    Cath found a place for everything, then sat in the beat-up wooden desk chair. If she sat right here, with her back to Reagan’s bare walls and boxes, it almost felt like home.
     
    There was a boy in Simon’s room.
    A boy with slick, black hair and cold, grey eyes. He was spinning around, holding a cat high in the air while a girl jumped and clutched at it.