I’m Doing This for You, My Love

[CW: swearing, blood/body horror mention]

I know you want me, Jay. Even though you won’t admit it yet. Even though you keep playing coy, telling me to go away, to leave you alone. What a fun, silly game we play. A game I’m growing rather tired of. You don’t need to keep pretending, my dearest.

We are meant to be—maybe you just don’t realize it yet. What else can I do to convince you? I’ve tried every little thing to show you I care. I made you a playlist of love songs—but since you’ve never seen Heathers the Musical, “Meant to Be Yours” creeped you out. I made you a beaded bracelet in your favorite blues and greens that reads T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R-♥-F-O-R-E-V-E-R. I’ve memorized your schedule, for classes, extra curriculars, when you go to sleep and wake up—I don’t even need to watch through your window anymore.

This morning, to win your heart, I’ve baked homemade cupcakes. In the mirror inside my locker door, I adjust my twin braids, fluff the ruffle collar of my blouse, and place my necklace’s enamel bow charm in the divot between my collar bones. I balance the cake box—polka dotted with red Sharpie hearts—atop my chemistry book and Hello Kitty pencil pouch, and skip down the hall.

But something is different today, isn’t it, darling? I freeze in my tracks. Instead of one of your football buddies, some whore is at your locker. Her skirt is too short for school dress code, her golden hair flows down to the small of her back in impeccable ringlets that obviously took a lot of effort, but in the way that brainless boys (no offense, sweetheart) think that it’s natural. Same with her dumb, dewy makeup that makes her look simultaneously wet and glowing. Nothing about her is natural. But you two laugh, and she demurely covers her mouth as her shoulders daintily bounce. So super performative.

I swallow so that I don’t vomit absolutely everywhere, and strut over, squeezing myself inbetween you two.

“Jay, who is this?” I say into your handsome face, before whipping around to her. As she backs off slightly, I look her up and down with a judgmental brow cocked.

“Sorry,” the whore says, cheeks red. “I’ll catch you later, Jay.” Her eyes stay on the grimy floor tiles as she scurries away like a pathetic prey animal.

“Honey, you look upset. I know what will cheer you up.” I pretend not to notice you watching her leave. I open the lid of the cake box to reveal flawlessly piped strawberry-jam filled chocolate cupcakes. “I called your mom and she told me these were your favorites growing up. This is the exact recipe. Plus, I think she really likes me. Isn’t that so exciting? She said she’s happy that you found such a sweet girl to take care of you.”

“You called my mom?” You blink hard and shake your head as if your hair is full of spiders. “We aren’t—we aren’t dating. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this.” You look a little afraid. It’s so cute! Aw. “I think you need to leave me alone.” You look in the direction that whore scampered off in. Oh. I understand.

“Is it because of that girl?”

“What?” You finally look back at me.

“That blonde. She’s coming between us.”

The bell rings.

The sympathetic look in your eye proves that you still care about me, even though you’re quiet and leave without the cupcakes. I want to collapse and cry into their frosting. I want to get angry and start throwing them at the walls. But I know what I need to do.

Don’t worry, my love, I will fix this.

*

I spend the evening crisscross in my princess-canopied bed, enveloped by a pile of Bashful Jellycat Bunnies, MacBook overheating in my lap. All detective-like, I find everything I can about vapid, blonde Allison Marie Gilliart. She’s not too hard to find—she has 1,632 followers on Instagram. Probably because of the bikini photos. I wonder if these heart-eye emoji commenters know that she’s in high school, or if they’d even care.

“What a slut,” I murmur to myself, vindicated.

I print her profile picture, cut it out with craft scissors, and glue it to bright pink cardstock. I open the scrapbook that I made for us, Jay. Since we haven’t had the opportunity to take any pictures as a couple yet, I’ve stitched together individual photos of you and me—like if Frankenstein was a hopeless romantic—and framed them with glitter glue and love-heart stickers. Allison gets her own page. With a black gel pen, I carve X’s into her eyes so hard it rips the first layer of paper.

Now I realize why my efforts haven’t been working. Allison. Leading you astray like a little homewrecker. But I won’t give up. I won’t let anything—or anyone—come between us. We will overcome this and I will forgive you for your wandering eyes. One day we will look back on this and laugh. Ha. Haha.

For good luck, I light a candle at the alter I’ve built in my closet. A framed headshot of you in your jersey, wreathed by a piece of your chewed gum I picked out of the trash, a lock of your hair, and a musky jockstrap I heisted from the locker room while you were in gym class. On a small strip of paper, I write, “Allison Marie Gilliart,” and hold it over the flame.

She deserves what’s coming to her.

*

It’s difficult, but I don’t go up to you at your locker in the morning. I watch from a distance, of course, but we can’t speak until I’ve destroyed Allison. The restraint creates a deep ache in my chest, that turns fiery as I watch Whore Allison bounce her tits like some anime ditz while you talk. No way she doesn’t stuff that bra. Besides, I should be the one making you smile so cutely. Soon.

.

I find Allison during lunch and perch beside her without asking. Her stupidly big eyes widen even more after noticing me—like a rabbit, she pauses mid-chew of her undressed salad. I straighten my spine extra tall, enjoying that I intimidate her, and smile with all my teeth.

“I’m so super sorry for making you uncomfortable the other day,” I say in my most genuine tone, while imperceptibly tilting my chin up, so I can look down at her. “I’m having a sleepover this weekend. You should totally come.”

“Really? You would want me there?” She avoids eye contact and picks at her chipped, blush-pink nails.

“Of course! You honestly seem extremely sweet.” I put a hand on her shoulder, which calms her slightly, though she still subtly shakes like an Italian Greyhound with an anxiety disorder.

We exchange phone numbers. As soon as I stand and turn away, I drop the smile and roll my eyes. I look down at her name in my phone and gag before copy-pasting the sleepover invite from the group chat, careful to edit the arrival time to 2 hours after The Girls will get there. Also careful to not send the second text where I tell The Girls about how we hate this whore who is trying to steal you from me. I edit her contact to add emojis after her name, “Allison (angry face) (knife) (blood)”.

***

In my room, Dolly, Angel, Missy, and I sit in a circle on the pink plush rug, all looking identical and perfect, all laughing the same squeaky giggle at Dolly’s joke about her awful, balding stepdad. Angel uncomfortably clears her throat, and our heads snap in sync to the intruder—I mean, invited Guest of Honor—timidly hanging in the doorframe, clutching a pillow to her chest like a child. My mom must have let her in. Ugh.

“Omg! Allison,” I stand and clasp my hands together. “We are so super happy to have you over.”

Her eyes dart from me to The Girls on the floor, who nod in agreement. Allison’s shoulders drop slightly.

“You can throw your bag there,” I gesture to the papasan chair in the corner, “then totally sit with us. Dolly was talking about her stupid dad.”

“Step-dad,” Dolly corrects. “He’s a major dipstick, though.”

“We hate him,” Angel sneers.

“Come join us.” Missy scooches toward me to make room, and pats the carpet next to her.

.

As we chat, we each restlessly find new lounging positions throughout the room, and as soon as we’re comfortable, we decide it’s time to get up for more snacks and restart the whole cycle. Except for Allison, who stays in place like an obedient dog, next to the box of powdered jelly donuts, torn packages of chocolate sandwich cookies, and bowls of melty Rocky Road.

Missy hangs upside down off the side of my bed. Speaking as if entirely undisturbed by the blood pooling in her face, she mentions the boy from Kansas that she fell in love with over Discord.

“It’s true love, but we’re so far away. Just like Romeo and Juliet,”

“Not really,” Dolly says.

“Yuh-huh—the two of us can’t be together!”

“Is like, all of Kansas supposed to be the Montagues?” Angel snorts.

“Shut up, Angel.” Missy crosses her arms and pouts for approximately three whole seconds before forgetting to act angry. She slithers off the bed, up to Allison, and excitedly whispers, “Are there any boys you have a crush on?”

We lean in.

Flustered, she sputters, and it takes an annoying few minutes for us to pull it out of her, but she confesses her feelings for you, Jay. It takes everything in me not to throttle her right there, and I focus on the twinkling fairy lights above the locked door of my alter closet. We squeal and tease and act excited for her. But with my suspicions confirmed, we know what we need to do.

“O-M-G.” I drop my half-finished donut, and its red filling splatters across the paperboard. I wipe my fingers on my sweats, streaking them white. “You know what we need now?”

“Makeovers!” The Girls screech, popping up like whack-a-moles.

“Ally, c’mon,” I goad, bending down to grab Allison’s arm and pull her up. She acquiesces. I repeat, “What do we need?”

“Makeovers!” The five of us chant in unison.

.

First, we glue down Dolly’s eyebrows with purple Elmer’s sticks and draw new, exaggeratedly arched ones halfway up her forehead. Remaining in her stripy pj set, wrapped in a feather boa, she sports full-face drag and pretends to know how to vogue for us. Next is Angel, who’s already too beautiful, so the smokey glam turns her into a supermodel, post-airbrushing. After we tell her how stunning she is, she struts up and down an imaginary catwalk, striking a new pose each time. At the end of the runway, we all clap and laugh together, including Allison, who seems to feel fully included now. Walls down. Vulnerable.

“I think it’s our Guest of Honor’s turn!” I shriek excitedly. Allison sits in my vanity chair, before a lit mirror, which exposes her imperfections—big pores, slightly crooked nose, thin lips. I stand behind her, and bend to place my chin on her shoulder, “You’re already hot-to-the-max, what can we even do for you?”

Dolly: “Ally, how long have you been growing out your hair?”

Angel: “It’s giving virgin Catholic school girl.”

Missy: “Have you ever thought about cutting it?”

“Um. I’ve been growing it out since I was a kid,” she hesitates, “I have thought about it, but I’m scared it won’t look good.”

“Oh no, you would look so cute with short hair, Ally,” I coo, running my fingers through her golden locks. The Girls erupt into a reassuring chorus behind me,

Dolly: “Anything would look good on you.”

Angel: “It’d be sooo choice!”

Missy: “So beautiful,”

“You really think so?” Allison evaluates herself in the mirror, as if trying and failing to picture it.

“For sure,” I say, “my sister’s a hairdresser and taught me how to do it. I cut my own hair—don’t you think I look good?” I loosen my twin braids and shake them out in luxurious-shampoo-commercial fashion.

“Ok,” Allsion makes deliberate eye contact with each of us, all hovering over her, as we spew relentless encouragements. For the first time, her voice isn’t choked by nerves, “Ok, yeah! Let’s do it! I trust you.”

We squeal and jump for joy before I regain my composure and return to my place behind Allison’s chair.

“You have to sit still for me,” I say, gently petting her head, looking into her huge doe eyes in the mirror, while The Girls bounce behind us.

After brushing her hair out, I gather it in a ponytail two inches below her unpierced ears, and chop above the hair tie. Nearly a foot and a half of golden hair plops dead at my feet, and I hold in a cackle. Allison’s hair fans out, lopsided around her neck. She looks mortified.

“YES!” The Girls scream in unison.

Dolly: “It’s so gorg,”

Angel: “So hot.”

Missy: “It suits you!”

Allison smiles half-heartedly, like she is actively convincing herself that it isn’t crazy uggos.

“So good, Ally. You’re doing so super good.” I fluff out the shitty bob, “Don’t worry, it’s not done yet. I need to even out the ends now, ok?”

“Ok,” Allison says in the tiniest, mousiest voice. It makes me want to snatch her up in my talons and rip her little head off.

Now, I must move quickly—once I start, I won’t have much time. The Girls stop bouncing, their gaze locked in, their mouths curling wickedly at the corners. The cooing stops, and suddenly the room is eerily silent.

I bring the scissors up, grazing the nape of her neck. She shivers at the metal’s cold touch, but does not pull away. How credulous and naïve. I think about holding the blades to her throat, about digging in, about the screams and cries and blood. Instead, I hold them nearly against her scalp, and I cut. Allison gasps, and I can’t help myself, wildly hacking and hacking away at her hair until she desperately scrambles out of the chair.

“Stop! Stop!” She wails over and over, even after she is standing all crumpled-like on the opposite end side of the room and everything is over. “Why?” She croaks.

Dolly: “Aw, poor thing, sobbing like a baby,”

Angel: “It’s giving 4-year-old’s ravaged barbie.”

Missy: “No, too hideous even for that!”

Allison rushes to her bag and out of the room, presumably to go cry to my mother, and get her mother to come pick her up. How funny! We gather in a circle and clutch each other’s arms and jump up and down, cheering, “Yay!” “We did it!” “So devilish, so smart!” “Yippee!”

***

Monday, Allison isn’t in school, of course. She’ll probably need to shave her head and buy a wig to even show her face again. But I don’t care about her anymore. The important part is, she’s not at your locker.

I remade the chocolate strawberry cupcakes from your mom’s recipe, since you didn’t take them the first time, like a silly billy. Once again, I look pristine and adorable, my ruffles fluffed, my twin braids perfect. I skip to your locker, humming “Beautiful Day” to myself. But something is different again today, isn’t it, darling?

You’re glaring at me, arms crossed, all angry-like. You’ve been scared before, sure, but never angry.

“Jay, my darling, what’s the matter?” I reach out a hand to pet your face and you slap it away. I gasp—how could you? You might as well have slapped me in the face.

“What is wrong with you,” you spit. “You’re a fucking psychopath,” you’re getting very loud and heads turn. People on their way to class stop to watch and whisper to each other.

“I—no—Jay—” I stammer, not knowing what to do in this foreign territory. You’ve never yelled at me before. I want to go back. Undo. Undo. Undo. Please?

“Allison told me what you did to her. Did you think she wouldn’t?”

“I did it for us,” I shrink, hugging the cake box too tightly, crushing the edges. But I try to explain, softly and full of hope, “We can be together now.”

“Seriously, stay away from me,” you slam your locker. “I never want to see your face again.” You turn and storm away. Without your cupcakes. I remain stuck, motionless, until everyone’s eyes fall off me, until the crowd disperses and returns to its normal flow. Like nothing happened. Like my life isn’t totally over.

The first bell rings, but I cannot move. There is a sharp pain in my chest that desperately needs you to come back and apologize. Say you didn’t mean it. Say of course you love me, and it’s so wonderful that I’m willing to do anything for us. Because we’re soulmates.

We are soulmates. I know it. I still know it. I will never stop loving you, Jay. I’ll figure something out. You will forgive me, and you will love me, and we can have our happily ever after. I promise.