Wonderful

The first half of the day passes in a blur of lectures and notes and welcome back’s. There’s so much stuff to do, so many events to get ready for, and Stevie can feel the pressure mounting already. She’s already thinking up prom themes by the time lunch rolls around.

Stevie’s heading toward the entrance of the school when Rachel Armstrong blocks her way.

Rachel Armstrong is, and has always been, Stevie’s competition. Of course, Stevie’s always won - better grades, trendier clothes, more limber fingers (for piano) - but it’s never felt that way. Stevie Wharton has always been the undisputed queen of St. Augustine’s, she is the one person that no one in the entire school fucks with. But it’s always been Rachel who’s been surrounded by those friend things that wanted more than anything to be Rachel. They did everything for her, went to her parties, and even dressed like her. Except they were actually dressing like Stevie.

Like today, Rachel is in her uniform, but over it is a lime green pea coat that looks suspiciously similar to the one Stevie had worn on the last day before winter break. On Rachel’s hair is a thick pink headband, much like the ones Stevie used to wear during her very preppy phase her freshman year.

“Rachel. Hi,” Stevie says, forcing a smile that probably comes out as a grimace.

“Hello, Stevie. How was Paris?” Rachel asks, visibly wincing. Her parents, it was said, hadn’t let her go to Paris and she’d thrown a much publicized tantrum in the middle of the underwear section at Saks.

“Fun. Tons of fun.” It’s a lie, sure, but Rachel doesn’t need to know that. “How was Boston?”

“Super fun.” She winces. “Anyway, I just wanted to ask you about the prom committee meeting today. Are you coming?”

“Of course I’m coming. I’m chair of the committee.” Stevie sees Rachel’s face drops. She recovers instantly, but Stevie notices. “Great. That’s great. I’ll see you there, then.” She steps out of Stevie’s way.

“Yeah, see you there,” Stevie echoes as she walks out.

It’s not that Stevie hates Rachel. Stevie doesn’t hate anyone, despite the fact that she has a terrible personality, and despite the fact that she puts on that “Don’t Fuck With Me” expression as she walks the hall, and despite the fact that, no, she doesn’t have any friends. It’s just that... what’s the point in making these connections - connections she doesn’t know how to make in the first place - if they don’t last and only slow you down in the long run?

So Stevie spends her high school days in a state of blissful solitude. She’s alone, sure, but no one gives her any shit for it, because they all know what she’s capable of. 

(During the eighth grade, she’d stuck gum on Jeanie Ferguson’s hair after she’d made the mistake of mocking Stevie because she hadn’t been invited to the Valentine’s Day dance. Jeanie apologized. Stevie never did, but she did get Connie to schedule an appointment with Stevie’s hairdresser to fix the mess.)

And that’s actually perfect. Stevie relishes being able to be left alone while maintaining status. Most of her classmates, she thinks, are shitheads that she won’t even have to see anymore in six months, so why bother? 

This is why Stevie eats her lunch, alone, at a deli about three blocks from St. Augustine’s. Mel’s. It’s small and never too crowded, and the man Stevie assumes is Mel asks for her order without making small talk, which she’s thankful for. He’s this British guy, kind of short (except everyone is short for Stevie, especially with the high heels permanently welded on her feet) but handsome, somewhere near his mid thirties. He seems pleasant enough, so Stevie’s surprised that there’s no wedding ring in sight.

She orders a BLT, as usual (no, she doesn’t restrict herself to salads and teeny tiny meals, thankyouverymuch) and sits down at the table near the door, also as usual. She takes out a notebook filled with physics notes and tries to concentrate. She doesn’t have any tests coming up or anything, but she needs something to occupy herself with so she doesn’t seem like the lonely pathetic teenager that she most definitely is not.

So she immerses herself in her notes and doesn’t even notice the curly-haired guy walk in, laptop in hand, take his coat off, throw in on a chair, and sit on the table next to her. Nope, she doesn’t notice at all. She just takes a bite off her sandwich and tries her hardest not to look like an animal as she chews.

“You know,” comes Mel’s voice from behind the counter, “I can’t just let you sit there and use my WiFi; you have to buy something.”

“I’m not going to use your WiFi,” the guy says, not looking up from his laptop. “But I could use a tuna sandwich.”

“Comin’ right up,” Mel says. He turns to start to make it, but turns, remembering to ask “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“I’m taking my lunch break a bit early today. I’m sort of working on something, and it’s not like I can do any actual work with Reggie around.”

Who the fuck is Reggie?

“And Reggie is your...”

“Roommate. The world’s worst distractor. Once, he talked me into putting a slip-n-slide in our living room. We almost got evicted.”

“He sounds delightful,” Mel chirps.

He snorts, then gets this pained expression and moans. “Fuck.” He starts rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. Stevie gets a look at the nametag pinned to his powder blue button-up - the sleeves of which are rolled up to his elbows - that reads “Hi! I’m Hugh”.

"What's wrong, lad?" Mel asks over his shoulder. 

"Nothing, I just." He drops his hands to his sides and slumps on his chair. "How the fuck do I write a resume? Like, how do I know if the thing I've accomplished matter to these people, these complete strangers? If I don't know them, how do I know what they want from me?"

"Sounds like a pickle," Mel quips. He moves around the counter to Hugh's table and places the plate next to the laptop. "Wait, you didn't get fired, did you?"

"No, I just." He hesitates before going on, as if dreading the upcoming sentence. "My parents spent all my winter vacation riding me about getting an actual job, whatever the hell that means. I mean, they don't get that there are literally zero positions available for a 25-year-old architect."

"Bullshit."

It takes a second for Stevie to realize that it had been she who had spoken. 

"I - I'm sorry?"

Stevie allows herself a moment to panic before putting her mask of cold detachment back on. "The only reason you can't find a job is because you're not looking hard enough."

"Hey, I looked pretty hard -"

"Then why do you still work at a book shop?"

"How did you-"

"Your nametag, genius." She turns to look at him straight on. "The only thing stopping you from getting a proper job is you."

"Yeah," he snorts. "And my complete lack of knowledge regarding the construction of a proper resume."

"Well that part's easy," Stevie says, standing up and walking over to his table. She leans down and looks at the screen over his shoulder, trying her hardest not to smell his hair (creepy? Maybe). "Well, you have the info part right... But that's all you've got so far. Why?"

"Well, I don't exactly know what to write."

"Let's start with your education." Stevie sits down next to Hugh and slides the laptop in front of her. "Where did you graduate from?"

"Uh, I have a masters in architecture from Parsons."

He literally couldn't be any more attractive at this moment.

"Aren't you -" Stevie starts. 

"A bit young? Yeah." He shrugs. "I skipped a year and my birthday's in June..."

"You look twelve," Stevie says, a little perplexed by this guy and a lot embarrassed by her verbal slip-up. 

"Yeah, maybe that's why I can't get a proper job." 

And this is supposed to be a snarky remark, mocking her. But he says it with a playful smirk ghosting his lips. It's like, he's amused by her, not insulted or even intimidated. It's the kind of look Connie gets sometimes, but Connie has know her for years - she knows Stevie and that she shouldn't take her attitude too much to heart. But this guy. 

Stevie clears her throat. "Well. Let's try to fix that."