Fiction 

Olga

Jadyn D. Aldrich

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              On warm days, Olga typically passed by the Weber house while Frau Weber and her daughter hung laundry outside to dry. Her thin form could be made out between the patchwork quilts and rows of children’s clothes, and Frau Weber would stare out of the corner of her eye until the wind stirred the sheets so Olga was concealed and then vanished. Frau Weber shook her head.

“Why, Gerda, does she not sew the rips in her dress like a respectable young lady?”               Gerda shrugged and grabbed one of her own dresses out of the basket, cold and wet, to hang. The dress had belonged to her Oma and then to Frau Weber and now to Gerda, and it was so thin that she had to handle it carefully.

“Now you can finally understand why I taught you to sew. No daughter of mine will walk around in rags.”

              When Olga passed on cold or rainy days, Frau Weber would watch through the window while wrapped in a quilt and shake her head, but on those days she said nothing about the ripped dress as she sipped her warm, chamomile tea.

None of the neighbors seemed to know where Olga had come from or where she lived. The only person who knew anything about her had been old Frau Rosenberg, who had known that her name was Olga and said she used to know her parents. But when Frau Rosenberg’s son started losing business and her granddaughter came home with her knee scraped and her brown eyes watery after being cornered in the street, the Rosenbergs left, and they took with them any hope the town had of unraveling Olga’s past. But if they knew nothing else, they all knew her routine.

Every morning since she had appeared, she walked the same route up and down the cracked streets. She walked briskly, always wearing the same white dress and with her head slightly atilt. Some of the neighbors pulled their blinds as she passed and hushed their voices, others tried to smile and nod their heads, but hardly any remained indifferent. Herr Jens told Frau Weber that, on a few occasions, he had ventured to speak to her.

              “Guten Morgen, Fräulein!”

              She never responded; she never even seemed to hear him. Then the children paused their games until she turned onto a different street and the adults whispered as she passed.

              “It’s the most peculiar thing, to walk the same streets everyday without a word to anybody.”

              “Perhaps she is deaf?”

              “But the Müller’s dog barked the other day as she passed and she looked.”

              “I suppose you’d have to be deaf not to hear the Müller’s dog at all hours of the morning.”

              “She makes me uneasy.”

              “I think she is harmless.”

              “Harmless? She is either up to something or she is a ghost. Honest people don’t refuse to speak. And what, do you suppose, does she keep in that tin?”

               For she carried nothing on her person but a small M&M’s tin, but she was never without it. Some thought it was money, but Frau Weber said she had no money or she would own more than one dress. Herr Jens said it must contain letters from a lover, but Frau Jens said an eccentric woman like her had no lover. Only the Weber’s youngest child, Heidi, thought it truly contained M&M’s, and the Shmidt’s boy, Joachim, thought it contained a mouse.

              They all wondered where she went.

              One day Claus Wagner, who as a child had been nicknamed “glatzkopf” (because he refused to wait as his mother brushed his hair so that she made good on her threat to shave it off) entered the street while Olga was on her routine. The neighbors looked up and then quickly back down and feigned busyness. Claus stood directly in front of her. He cleared his throat and smiled.

               “Guten Morgen, Fräulein. A beautiful day for a walk! And where are you headed on such a fine morning?”

               Olga stopped. A slight breeze caught the end of her dress so that it seemed to float around her calves. They stood arms’ length apart and she swayed slightly back and forth, her eyes wide and darting from Claus to the street beyond him. A house sparrow’s chirping could be heard in the distance and a few houses down the Müller’s dog barked. Olga’s knuckles were white on the hand which held the tin and with her free hand she drummed her leg in rhythm with her swaying. Claus shifted uneasily and tugged at his sleeve, and when after another minute she made no indication of responding, he stepped aside and stared at his shoes as she walked past him. She hurried around the corner and out of sight, and Claus slowly skulked back to his house with a red face. After that, the Weber’s, the Wagner’s, and the Shmidt’s said she was crazy and that they could not possibly hope to understand the reasoning of a crazy mind. The war had gotten to her. The Jen’s said she did it for some religious purpose, for why else would even a crazy person carry out a task, whatever it be, so religiously? She was drawn through the streets by a force invisible to them which rendered her impervious to their speculations, and perhaps mute. After that, nobody tried to stop her on the streets again.

                What they did not know was that even as a baby Olga did not babble like other babies. When Olga was born her mother said that there had never been or ever would be another baby so beautiful. She said that by comparison she made Rudolf Von Alt’s paintings seem dull and the compositions of Richard Wagner seem childish, all falling short of her own daughter’s complexity and grace. Whenever Olga’s father expressed concern or pointed out irregular behavior, Olga’s mother pulled her baby close. “Just you wait,” she said. “Olga is going to be a little star.” When Olga cried her mother caressed her hair and kissed her cheek and counted herself lucky to have such a healthy little girl. She sang to her and whispered that someday people would line up from all over the globe to hear her little girl’s angelic voice. “

              People will look at you, Olga, and wonder who the mother of such a talented child is.” But when Olga was two, and then three, and still silent, her mother started to wring her hands. She fought with her husband and sat with her fingers to her temples when Olga cried.

              “Tell me what you want!” she yelled. Then she sobbed. “Why don’t you speak?!”

              Once when she was little, Olga had gotten into a can of black paint her father had left out. He had been repainting the trim of their walls, and he worked slowly so as not to mar the white wallpaper with vertical rows of little, pink roses which Olga’s mother valued so highly. She said it was that very wallpaper with its clean flowers and perfect white columns that caused her to choose that house when they were newlyweds. Olga’s father had in truth never cared for the walls; it unsettled him to see the buds lined up so unnaturally, each suspended by the thorny noose of the flower above it. He would have preferred the small cottage in the woods that he had shown his wife first. But he employed all caution in painting the black trim because he cared for his wife, and she cared about the walls. But in his focused endeavor, he had neglected to close the lid of the paint can and hadn’t heard when Olga came behind him, picked up a brush, and tried to make herself useful by applying the paint in wide, well-meaning strokes. She painted with intention and was startled when she heard her mother scream behind her.

              “Ruined! You’ve ruined them, you little brat! My beautiful walls, and now look at them!”

              She ripped the brush out of Olga’s hands so quickly that the wet paint on the end splattered the walls even further. She shrieked again and struck Olga. Then she turned her attention to the walls, gently extended her hand toward them, and then quickly withdrew and spun around to try to find something to clean them with. After that she addressed Olga less and less directly, mainly referring to Olga as “her,” and when she did speak to Olga she often used “bengel.”

              When they sat outside her mother didn’t put flowers in Olga’s hair like she used to and let her father play with her. His attempts at making flower crowns were clumsy. But Olga liked when he would let her hold the match to light his cigarette, his hand over her own so that she wouldn’t burn herself. Mostly her mother looked at the horizon and sat for a long time with her eyes closed. At six, when it became clear that Olga would never speak, her mother left.

              Olga’s father found a second job, cleared his throat often, and began to smoke more frequently. But even years later he still took his time when he painted not to smudge the walls.

              When he had a day off, the two of them would walk together to a certain stream in the woods outside of town. Both walked stiffly until they reached the outskirts, and then their shoulders dropped. The sweet smell of grass and the woody smell of the maple and birch trees diminished the power of the cigarette smoke. When they got close her father would go a little off trail to a cluster of bushes and squat down so that the grass reached his shoulders. “These are blackberries, Olga. They are safe to eat.” The small blackberries were tart. They continued on the narrow path. It would be hard to find if they did not know the way by heart. Olga’s father kicked a stone as they walked.

              “Once, as a boy,” He looked at the leaves overhead which filtered the sunlight down in long, fragile beams. “And far away from here, I was in the woods alone picking blackberries. I had been there a long time, and it was a warm day, and I fell asleep under the bushes. I woke up to the sound of rustling, crashing really, nearby. When I looked up, there was a bear right in front of me.” Olga’s father looked down at her. Her eyes remained fixed straight ahead and a handful of berries were staining her right hand. He grabbed her left one, the one nearest him, and gave it a small squeeze as they continued.

              “I have never been so scared Olga. I froze, but the bear didn’t seem much to notice me and kept eating the berries. I ran the entire way home, over two miles, and told my parents. My father said that I must be mistaken, because bears have been extinct in Germany for nearly a century. He told me to be more careful when I was in the woods and not to come home so late. But my mother believed me. Later that night she held me in her arms and said I was lucky to be alive. She said there is nothing more dangerous than to stand between a bear and what it finds sweet.”

              They kept walking, Olga’s father eating the little blackberries and giving her the big ones. When they reached the stream Olga would light his cigarette. Then they sat side by side on the edge of the bank in silence.

              One day, when Olga was grown, her father received a letter. Then he seemed to take special care in showing Olga how to do things around the house and started selling things they didn’t need. As they sat on the riverbank that Suday afternoon, he studied the landscape for a very long time.

              “Olga, I, I don’t know how to explain this, or if you’ll understand. But I’ve been,” His voice trailed off as he looked at her and he turned to look the other way as though something caught his attention. He kept speaking without turning his head back.

              “I have to go away for a little while, Olga. I don’t know exactly how long. You remember the Rosenbergs? I’ve asked them to look in on you from time to time, but you are so clever, Olga, I know you’ll be alright.”

               He glanced back at her and quickly wiped his eye and then placed an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He reached for his matchbox, pulled one out, but then hesitated. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and put the match back, then pressed the matchbox into Olga’s hand.

               “Will you hang onto these for me, Olga, until I come back? I won’t be long, and when I return, I’ll need you to light my cigarette for me like you always do, gut?” His voice trembled a little and then he fixed his eyes on a point in the distance. He took a train the next day, and several months later Olga began her walking routine.

                The neighborhood did not remember seeing her or her father, and for them Olga was a mystery. But she was simultaneously something of little consequence, just a puzzle for them to devote their energy to and divert themselves from the news on the radio. And because the only yellow she sported was her hair and her chest bore no badge, they paid less and less attention to her. She became as sure and unnoteworthy as the sunrise. Some even took to using her as reference.

               “When did I put in the Rye, Gerda?”

               “Before Olga passed, Mama.”

                Or

“               Hurry, Joachim, to the Jens’ house. Go to the end of the street and turn the same way that Olga takes.”

               As time passed the war began to escalate. Radios were perpetually turned on and ears always perked for an air raid warning. Early one morning the sun didn’t seem to rise, and clouds formed an almost impenetrable ceiling. They said that was why the bomb had dropped onto the church down the street, that it had missed its mark due to the cloud cover. Some said it wasn’t supposed to have been dropped on their town at all, it was just an unfortunate accident.

               Olga had been walking past the church when it was hit. A bystander would have seen her silhouette briefly illuminated against the building and then seen the quick glint of the stained glass, like a lightning strike, preceding the thunderous explosion. She was knocked to the ground and the building collapsed on top of her.

              Miraculously, she was not crushed.

              But the mangled wreck surrounded her so that she was trapped. Beneath the crumbled building it was pitch black, and Olga’s ears rang unbearably. She writhed in pain and pushed at the rubble around her, but without light she would never be able to find her way out. She clutched her tin close to her, she hesitated, suffocating on smoke and dust and darkness as the church walls pressed in around her.

              When they were sure that there were no more bombs, the townspeople gathered around the church to see the damage. They gawked at the wreck. Above it all rose the steeple and its cross, the only thing left standing. Frau Jens just happened to notice a bit of white cloth underneath part of the mess. Herr Weber and Herr Jens worked together to lift the debris around it, and were shocked to discover Olga underneath. Her eyes were red and tears stained her face and she clutched her tin, but she had never called out once. After being freed, she refused to move and sat in the ruins beneath the cross in perfect silence.

              After that the townspeople didn’t see Olga anymore. They didn’t know where she had gone, and they were somewhat surprised to discover that it worried them. Just as she had come, she had seemed to disappear without a trace. The Shmidt's took it as an omen. Frau Weber wondered if they should organize a search party. But the sound of sirens became more and more frequent so that they were forced to worry about their own business rather than worry about hers.

              A full year passed.

              Then another.

              It was not until then that, while playing in the woods, that Joachim and Heidi discovered the little stream. They stood in awe for a moment at the beauty of the clearing and at the smooth and sure gliding of the water. Birdsong and the scent of maple trees made the place feel surreal. Then Joachim noticed something lying in the grass a little further down the bank. It had reflected the afternoon sun’s light so that it caught his attention, but on a less sunny day he would have passed it by. When he got closer, he realized it was an M&M’s tin. Only after uprooting some of the weeds growing over could the unmistakable logo be made out. He picked it up gingerly and showed it to Heidi. The tin was rusted from rain and weathered from sitting so long in the sun. Joachim ran his finger over the top, slowly, to remove any excess dust, and opened it. Inside, perfectly preserved, sat a little matchbox.

​

Do my friends hate me

Kassi Adkins

​

do all my friends hate me?

          “Hey,” I say, walking up to my friends at the campus coffee shop. Chase nods at me. Zoe and Destiny smile at me before going back to the video that Destiny was showing Zoe. I sit down at the large table. I notice Sebastian’s stuff. I pull out my computer, sitting next to Chase.

          “I think biology is going to kill me,” Chase, the pre-med student, groans. “I wish I was an ed major. Life would be so easy.”

          “Hey!” I say, looking up at the smirking man. I let a pout cross my face. “That’s mean.”

          “Those who can’t do, teach,” he says. I cross my arms, feeling a stabbing pain in my chest. I look back to my computer. I feel Chase’s warm hand on my back, trying to make me feel better.

          “I was joking, Bailey,” he says. I look over at him, brown hair falling into his face. “You’re just so easy to mess with.”

          The stabbing pain gets deeper, like a knife is twisting my chest. I just smile, pushing him a little bit before pulling up my assignment on my laptop. I stare at the screen in front of me, mind wandering away from writing about Isaiah 53 for my class to his comment. Is that why they keep me around? Because I’m easy to mess with?

          I feel something poke my sides, causing me to jump. My heart begins to quicken and my lungs tighten. I hear laughter. I look behind me, seeing familiar red hair and green eyes. I take in a shaky breath, realizing that it was just Sebastian. Zoe and Destiny giggle at my reaction to what Sebastian did. I chew on my inner cheek and rub my sweaty hands against my pants.

          “So, whatcha working on?” he asks, looking over my shoulder and at the blank document.

          “I’m writing about Isaiah 53,” I respond, pushing my bangs out of my face. “I have to make an argument that the chapter is about a Messiah. There’s just so much I don’t even know where to start. For example, Isaiah’s pronoun use–”

          Sebastian just nods, pretending to follow along. I then remember my friends aren’t really into analysis or the Old Testament in the way that I am. We all go to the same Christian College, but seeing how the Old Testament points to Jesus and analyzing how Isaiah speaks about who is going to save the world in Isaiah 53 doesn’t interest them like it interests me.

          “–is cool, I guess,” I finish, the words coming out as a sigh.

          “I would never be able to take that class,” Zoe says, shaking her head. “That’s why I took Old Testament history. No analysis there.”

          “What dates do we need to know again?” Destiny asks, putting her phone down.

          “Call of Abraham, Exodus, the different reigns of the kings,” Chase starts rattling off, looking off into space.

          I stare at the blank document in front of me, watching the cursor blink… blink… blink… It's like the cursor is poking at my anxiety.

          My friends continue to talk about the same class they are in. The one I didn’t want to take because I decided that I wanted to dig into Isaiah more. Mostly because I love Isaiah. Maybe I should have just taken that same class so we could talk about it.

I shake my head, putting my hands on my keyboard, running my pointer finger on the bump of the ‘J’ key. I try to remember what my sources talked about. I recall talking about how the viewpoint of Isaiah changed. I remember reading the chapter myself and seeing how Isaiah talked about the Messiah and who He would be dying for. Yet, it’s like a hand pulls me away from that information and pushes me towards something else.

          Could my friends be upset that I didn’t take the same class as them? Do they think I’m nerdy for being so interested in the Old Testament textual analysis? Could they just be annoyed that I am here? Maybe it’d be better if I wasn’t here.

          Do all my friends hate me?

          My lungs contract, the breath being taken out of me. A sick feeling crosses me, my stomach feeling a bit queasy. I feel an overwhelming temperature come across me. It’s somehow so hot, yet so cold.

          As they are talking, I start packing. Chase looks over at me as the other three are deep in a conversation. He raises an eyebrow, silently wondering where I am going. I just smile, hoping he doesn’t say anything as I leave.

          I end up in my dorm, happy that my roommate is gone at work. I set my backpack next to my desk. I sit in my chair, pulling out my computer again, hoping that I could clear my head and try to write this paper.

          “Okay, so Isaiah 53,” I say, breathily to myself.

          I hear my phone ding. I look and see that I have a text from Destiny:

          Destiny: Why did you leave???

​

          I gulp, trying to decide if I tell her that my anxiety is griping at me. I shake my head, typing out an excuse.

​

          Me: The boys were going to distract me like always 😅

​

                  I need to actually get this paper done

​

          Destiny likes the messages, telling me that she will see me tomorrow. I take in a deep breath, trying to push away my thoughts.

          The rest of the night, I worked on my paper, trying to focus on the verses of that chapter. I try pulling all of the information back into my brain. Every once in a while, my brain wanders over to the table set up with the evidence of my friends hating me. It’s an overwhelming presentation that hits deep in my chest. After a couple times of this happening, I go to bed, wishing it would just go away.

          The next day, after I ate supper, I find myself sitting by a tree and reading away at Much Ado About Nothing. My friends are playing Spikeball nearby. They didn’t see me reading when they set up. That’s okay, as I really do want to get my reading done, plus Benedick and Beatrice are so funny to me.

          I notice a shadow looming over me, interrupting me from continuing on with my new-found favorite Shakespeare play. I glance up, seeing Zoe loom over me.

          “Bailey, you should come join us,” she says, gesturing over at the game. “I’m sure someone would let you take their place.”

           I play with the page I’m on.

          “I’m good just being here,” I say, wondering when they noticed me. “You guys have fun.”

          “Bails, join us,” Chase calls out.

          “I really have to do this reading for class,” I present the cover of my book to her.                “Plus, I’m not athletic.”

          That’s true. Well, I’m good at bowling. Other things, not so much. At least, I’m not that interested in sports. The other three come over, closer to me.

          “Come on,” Sebastian says. “You can read about…” I point the cover in his direction. “See, the book itself says it’s about nothing.”

          “Seb, that is not at all what this play is about,” I say. “It’s about two romantic relationships and all of the dra-”

          “Lame,” Sebastian calls out.

          “Come on,” Chase says, squatting down to try and grab my wrists, which causes me to hide them behind my back.

          “It’s okay,” Destiny says with a smile. “If you change your mind, we’ll be over there.”

          "You’re lame, Bails,” Sebastian says, walking backwards, a smile looming on his face. The others laugh a little as they walk back over to their game. I stare over at him. The idea of reading Beatrice and Benedick’s witty banter gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. I stand up, picking up my blanket and walking back to my dorm again.

​

          Am I really that lame?

​

          I look around my dorm room, glancing at the pictures on the wall above my desk. Pictures of my friend group doing different activities cover the wall. I stare at them, wondering how many of those activities they did because they felt like they had to. How many of those activities did they think were lame?

          I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I try to push away the sharp pain that comes with the deep breath. I sit in the chair in the back corner of my room, curling up under a blanket with Much Ado About Nothing in my lap.

          The words become a bit blurry as I try to read. I rub my eyes, trying to unblur everything. My brain is scattered, refusing to take in the words in front of me. I close the book, leaning my head back. My muscles feel tight, my stomach queasy. All that is bouncing around in my head are those words:

           You’re lame, Bails.

           The words from yesterday join in, bumping into each other.

           You’re just so easy to mess with.

           I decide to climb up to my bed, climbing under my blanket, staring at the wall by my bed. The wall is blank, but I can almost see the question form in front of my eyes, fading into view.

           Do all my friends hate me?

           “Hey, Bails,” Alexa says, sitting next to me on our couch. “Wanna do a check-in?”

           “Sure,” I shrug. Alexa is my roommate and we decided to do check-ins to talk about how we are both doing. Plus, it is an excuse to spend time together, as she is so busy with her job and classes, so she isn’t around as much, even though she is in the same friend group as me.

           “Do you want to go first?”

           “It’s all you.”

           “Work has been pretty good,” she says. “It’s been busy, but that’s fast food for you. Classes have been amazing. Oh, you know how I told you about how I joined intramural volleyball?”

           “Yeah,” I nod. I listen to what she is saying, but my mind drifts off a bit too, wondering what I am going to say to her. Do I tell her the truth of how I have been feeling, or do I keep it inside? A voice in my head tells me that she wouldn’t care. Is that voice right?

           “There is this guy on my team, too,” she smiles. “Well, there’s a couple, obviously. But his name is Calum. He’s so sweet. I kind of think he might like me.” She blushes a little. “But anyways, enough about that. What about you? How have you been?”

           “Good,” I nod. “Just working a lot. And homework.”

           Alexa furrows her eyebrows and tilts her head like she’s studying me. I feel my palms start to grow sweaty. I try to fight the urge to wipe them on my pants.

           “Bails, are you sure you are good?” she asks. “Normally you say a bit more than that.”

           “Yeah,” I nod. I then shrug. “Guess there hasn’t been much going on.”

           “You haven’t felt anxious at all?” she asks. “I just know you struggle so—”

           “I promise,” I say, wiping my hands quickly on my pants. “I am doing good.”

            She reaches out, putting a hand on my arm. “I’m here if you need to talk.”

            I just nod, but on the inside I am screaming. I want to talk to her, but I can’t. I don’t want to burden her.

           She’s probably just saying that anyways.

          “Alexa!” Zoe says, pulling her into a hug when we walk up to a table near the back of the cafeteria at lunch. “I missed you so much!”

          “You both have the same classes,” Chase says, as I sit down in between him and Sebastian. “You get to see her all of the time.”

          “I still miss her,” she says. No one says anything about my presence.

          The conversation begins to flow naturally as they talk about a plan of theirs. They all decided that they were going to go bowling tonight. I chew on my inner lip as my chest tightens, not knowing these plans were going to happen. I’m probably not even invited anyways.

           My eyes wander around the lunch room. I see groups of friends, smiling and talking. No one seems left out at all. Voices bounce off the walls of the echoing space. My leg starts to bounce, the voices seem to echo onto my skin, bringing in a crawling sensation. My eyes get fixated on a trash can in the corner. I try to focus on eating the pasta in front of me.

          After eating our food, we all throw away our disposable plates. They all begin to head towards the guys’ dorms’ parking lot, while I begin to head back to my dorm. I hear some feet slapping against the hallway floor, a hand landing on my shoulder. I look up, seeing Chase.

          “Where are you going?” he asks.

          “Back to my dorm,” I mutter.

          “You don’t want to go bowling?” he asks, eyes wide.

           “I didn’t think-”

            I look up at him, nothing else coming out. He shakes his head. He pulls me into his arms. I jump a little, surprised.

           “You are so dense sometimes, Bails,” he says. He pulls away, his hands going to my shoulders. “You really thought we were going to go play your favorite sport without you?”

           I bit my lip, looking down at the ground.

           “Come on, let’s go.”

           “I need my bowling ball.”

            He nods. We walk to my dorm building. I run up, grabbing my bowling bag. I grab my purse when my phone pings. I see a message from Sebastian.

           Sebastian: You better be coming

​

           I need someone to humble Chase 😂😂

​

           I smile, shaking my head. I grab my purse and make my way back down to Chase.  He ends up taking my bowling bag from me. I end up following him, as I guess Sebastian decided to drive over to pick us up so we didn’t have to walk across campus. I end up sitting in the middle seat of Sebastian’s ancient van, listening to the country music he was playing as we make our way to the bowling alley.

           We all pay for three games when we arrive at the old-time bowling alley, and I happily find our lanes. I smile seeing the older computers, instead of the screens most bowling alleys have now. It reminds me of when I was in a high school league. I sit down on one of the blue beat up leather seats and start to do my entire routine. I switch my shoes and put on my wrist guard. I get up to put my bowling ball on the ball return, and figure out where I will start my approach.

          “I always forget that you are so serious about bowling,” Destiny chuckles, setting down the ball she chose. Is that a bad thing? I try to ignore the little bout of panic that rises in my chest. There is no reason to feel anxious. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself.

          Once all of our names are in the system, we begin. I am on the right lane, so I follow Bowler etiquette and let Sebastian go first. I set up my approach, using the floorboards to find my spot. I bend my knees a little, shaking out my right hand at my side. I then place my bowling ball in my right hand, before bending my right arm at my side, using my left hand to keep it steady. I take a deep breath, ready to start.

          Then I feel a presence next to me, throwing me off entirely. I stop, moving out of my approach. I glare at Sebastian, who was jokingly doing my approach. The rest of my friends were laughing.

          “You take this way too seriously,” he says. “This is supposed to be fun.”

          I feel a weight crushing me. The entire night, I can barely focus. I try not to look at my score, knowing my eyes will well up with tears. I do have fun with bowling. At least, taking it seriously for me is fun. I love the structure of having an approach, knowing how to tell when I did something wrong, and knowing how to change things to pick up the pins.

          Tonight is not my night, as I can’t even pick up the head pin. I can’t help but think maybe I do take this too seriously. My brain, though, also runs through every little detail I could have fixed to have done better.

          “Not another gutter,” Zoe jokes. My heart feels like it has been stabbed at that. I look up at my score. 78 in the eighth, and I didn’t even pick up the spare. No way am I going to get my average, and I might not even get over a 100.

          I felt defeated by the end of the night. I try to pretend to have had fun when we get back to the van. It’s easy to avoid my friends’ eyes. I hear Destiny, Zoe and Alexa begin to make plans to watch a movie in Zoe’s dorm. The boys are talking about what video game to play when we return to campus. I just stare out of the window, watching the streetlights pass us. The lights blur, just like all of the anxious thoughts passing through my brain.

          Sebastian drops us off at the building. We get inside and I head to the stairs.

          “Aren’t you coming, Bailey?” one of the girls ask me.

          “I’m really tired,” I answer. “But you three have fun.”

          I end up climbing back into bed, wondering if I really do take it too seriously. Do I take away the fun of it? Do my friends hate me for it?

          I sniff, feeling the warm track of tears fall down my cheeks. I pull out my phone, opening up my text conversation with Alexa. I stare at it for a second, debating on if I should text her. I decide to.

          Me: Hey. Are you busy?

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I stare for a second, wiping my face. I don’t want to seem needy.

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          Me: I just need to talk to someone.

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I bite my lip. That doesn’t help. I think I seem even needier.

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          Me: It’s not a big deal if you are.

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          I put my phone down for a second. I am probably bothering her as she is watching a movie with the girls. Chase was going to play video games with Sebastian, so I can’t text him. My phone screen was fading, but it suddenly became brighter. The three typing dots popped up, showing that Alexa was about to respond.

          I put my phone on do-not-disturb, realizing that she probably was just going to be busy anyways. I put my phone away, curling away into myself. I don’t want to be a burden to her. I don’t want to be a burden to any of them.

          A darkness floods my thoughts, twisting deeper and deeper in my already broken heart. This darkness fills me with the realization that my friends probably just spend time with me because they have to, because it’s the good Christian thing to do to hang out with the girl who is weird, and into things like analyzing Isaiah 53, reading Shakespeare plays and taking bowling seriously.

          They probably all actually hate me.

           Chase: Bails… where are you?

           I’m getting worried…

          Alexa: Girl, are you good???

           You were in bed when I got back at 9pm??

           That’s early even for you

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           Zoe: why weren’t you in the coffee shop between your classes?

            you always are…

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            Sebastian: 😢😢

            Miss you

            Come back and mess with Chase with me

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           Destiny: Hey, you haven’t been answering my texts??? I wanna know if you are                  good? I legit found the last book in that series you have been reading and I                        wanna give it to you!

          I ignore the texts and flip my phone upside down on the cheap, foldout table in the back room of my work. I take a bite of my sandwich as I scan around the crowded room. There are boxes and boxes of items that need to go out on the floor. My eyes wander to the totes that I will probably end up having to put away. I’d rather be in the cooler, it’s easier to avoid my friends while stocking eggs than out on the floor putting away bread.

          They don’t mean it. They can’t mean it. Why would they? They can’t possibly actually care about me.

          I end up shoving my stuff into my locker and go back out onto the floor. I begin to stock the cereal, when I hear a familiar voice.

          “We are just visiting,” Zoe says. “It’s fine.”

           “I just don’t want her to get in trouble at work,” Alexa says. I peek around the corner and see my friends walking towards the aisle I am in. I walk the other way down the aisle and then go around to the next one. I peek and see they did walk by, so I stay in the aisle until I know they are gone. I go back to the cereal.

           “A bunch of people were asking for you, Bailey,” one of my coworkers says over the headset. “I told them I can’t give out that information.”

           “Weird,” I say back, knowing it was my friends.

           Why would they even care about me?

          “Bailey Jane Stewart,” Chase says, following his namesake and chasing me down in the hallway. He grabs my shoulder, turning me around to face him. He looks upset, his eyes scanning my face. “Where have you been?”

          “Busy,” I say, going to turn around. He stops me, grabbing both of my shoulders. I avoid looking into his eyes, my hands going into fists.

          “Have you been avoiding us?” he says, he lets go of my shoulders, his voice wavering a bit.

           “No,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’ve just been busy.”

           “Alexa says you are in bed before she gets back,” he points out. “None of us see you around campus, not even in your usual spots.”

           “I’ve been working,” I say.

           “Bails, we’ve stopped by to see you yesterday,” he says. “You weren’t there.”

           “They’ve been hiding me in the back,” I lie, knowing they did visit.

           “Bailey,” he says.

           “I gotta go.”

           I turn and walk away as quickly as possible. I can hear him following me. I try to ignore him, knowing that things would be better if I wasn’t in my friends’ lives. Then they wouldn’t have to pretend anymore. I ignore him when I hear him call for me.

           I make my way to my car, throwing my backpack in my backseat, which limits me getting off campus and away from Chase as he sits in my passenger seat. I groan, getting in.

          “Out,” I say.

          “Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” he says.

          I cross my arms, leaning back. He wouldn’t tell me the truth. Why would he? I don’t see a point in talking about it, however I can see from a distance why I really don’t want to talk about it. What if I’m right?

​

          What if they do hate me?

          “Come on,” he says. “We all miss you.”

          “No, you don’t.”

           I make eye contact with him as my voice wavers. His jaw drops a little and his eyes widen. I feel a single warm teardrop down my cheek. I wipe it away, looking forward.

          “Please leave,” I whisper.

          “Bails, we all love you,” he says. I shake my head, all the other words that my friends have said get pushed into my brain. I take things too seriously. I am too nerdy. I am just someone they can tease easily.

           “Doesn’t feel like it.”

            “We do, though.”

            “Then why does my brain tell me you don't?” I snap, scanning his face. “It feels like all I am is someone you guys can tease and make fun of. Half of the time, I feel like I’m invisible.” My throat feels like it is tightening as the words come out. “I feel like you all hate me.”

            “We don’t,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll fix it, okay?”

             I keep my eyes forward, knowing that there is nothing for them to do to fix me, to fix the anxious thoughts that loom constantly around me. They can’t fix anything. They can’t tear down my anxiety. That’s not their job.

           “Just–,” I gulp. “Please don’t hate me.”

           “We could never hate you,” he says. “No matter what your brain says.”

           I nod, closing my eyes for a second. Chase pulls me into an awkward hug. I try to relax and let the hug tell my anxiety it’s wrong. My anxiety will always be wrong.

Flash Fiction

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Together at the End

Eryka Kindervater

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               We sat together and watched the sunset at the end of all things, five of us in quiet contemplation. We’d all met in the last year, gathered together perhaps by some force greater than our own. We shared a silence, for there was nothing to say. The waves lapping the shore of the lake. The wind caressing our faces. The sky was a bright orange, shooting from the descending sun. On the water it merged with the blue, slowly fading into an uncertain darkness. One cloud streaked the sky, ending where the sun kissed the earth, like a dragon shooting fire. Like a missile. 

               Missile. We’d heard it on the news: the world was ending tonight or tomorrow morning – certainly by the end of the week. We didn’t know what to do. So we came and we sat at the edge of this dock, watching the end of the day at the end of the world. It was setting behind a large island in the center of the lake. I’d always wanted to take a boat out to see what was there. What if there was a mansion, hidden behind vines, just waiting to be found? If I had gone, I would’ve repaired it, but kept a few vines around it for the look. It would have large arched windows that looked in all directions, and a dusty library full of books that had last been read a hundred years ago. I would have explored the island so thoroughly I could walk it blindfolded. If I had gone, I don’t know if I’d ever have left. 

               Someone told me I hadn’t gone because I was scared the hidden mansion was actually haunted, full of ghosts and skeletons, and snakes that would slither over me in my sleep. Or even worse, that there was nothing to find, that the island was simply ordinary. I’d like to believe that’s not the case, that I hadn’t gone because I hadn’t had time. If I had gone, I wouldn’t be sitting on a dock with those I love most. If I had gone, this fading light would have reflected through my arched windows into empty halls. If I had gone, I might have come to the end alone. 

                Slowly the darkness set in, and the stars winked goodbye for the last time. There were so many goodbyes that still haunted my heart. Each ghost now rose before my eyes. Those I had loved most dearly were not there, for goodbye is easy to say when it seems temporary. But there were ones whose sight sent pangs to my heart. I’d loved them, but had not loved them well enough to know it was good bye. Not close enough to feel like it was worth saying. And so there were no words to fill the void when they were gone. There were too many moments where if I’d known the end was coming, I’d have held them and never let them go. 

               I looked at the girls beside me. Do we say goodbye? Do we fill our hearts with tears and reminiscences? Maybe there won’t be a hole. Maybe we’ll flicker out like a candle. Maybe we don’t need to say goodbye. I wonder, is it really saying goodbye if we’re here at the end, together?