35

---

As I walk into Tacony Academy Charter High School, the fluorescent lights above are almost too bright, too clean. It’s Monday, and it’s like I’ve walked into another universe altogether. I’ve been busy being Bloodhound for a while now, and I’m used to the dark and the grime. This place is almost surgical by comparison. It’s a weird kind of nostalgia, a homecoming of the most unwelcome sort, because a school should never feel like another planet.

I’m wearing Lily’s clothes. We’re not the same size, and it shows. The button-down shirt bunches up around my arms, loose around the chest, and everywhere else, and the dark blue skirt hangs lower on my waist than it should. The uniform isn’t exact — kind of a Frankenstein mash-up of what Lily had that looked like the real thing. I tug awkwardly at the hem of my skirt, trying to adjust it without drawing attention to myself. There’s a weight around my arms, or maybe an anti-weight, where the musculature reminds me of my sudden lack of backpack.

My body’s changed, but only in ways that people would notice if they were looking real hard. There are these tiny scars on my face, little lines and curves that someone’d miss if they blinked. Most people’d think regenerative powers would clean all that up, but it doesn’t work that way. Each one is a lesson, carved into my skin. And I’m more muscular now, not like bodybuilder ripped or anything, but there’s a tightness, a solidity to my limbs that wasn’t there before. I feel like a coiled spring, ready to snap, and it’s both good and bad. Good because it reminds me I’m not helpless, bad because what kind of teenage girl wants to look like she could bench-press her classmates?

I feel ill at-ease inside my body now. Like it’s ready for combat 24/7. Like I’m always looking over my shoulder, expecting to see a new suit-wearing menace sent to check in on me.

The hallways are loud, the noise of students talking, laughing, pushing each other around in that casual way teenagers do when they think they’re immortal. I make a beeline for my locker, trying to navigate the hallway without getting tangled in any conversations. I don’t need that right now. I shove my emergency backpack in, slam the locker shut, and let out a quiet sigh. That’s one hurdle done.

Mrs. Foster greets me in the homeroom with that look, the one that says she’s sorry I have to be here. It’s a sentiment I can get behind. The clock ticks and her mouth moves and I jot down whatever she’s saying into my notebook because sometimes writing stuff helps me focus, even if it’s just random notes. I’ll find the important bits later. Maybe. Then it’s off to Math and her sympathetic smile follows me like a rain cloud, but I’m not in the mood to get wet.

She pulls me aside for a moment after class. Singles me out, and tells me that she’s happy to see me back in school and safe. She hands me a small stack of assignments as well as some notes photocopied from my classmates. And a get-well soon card. I don’t know what I like less – people knowing that I was vulnerable, or me knowing that people knew.

I step into Mr. Strickland’s English class and there’s this pause, like the air gets vacuum-sucked out of the room for a second, and then it refills with chatter and the scraping of chairs. Nobody says anything to me directly at first, but I can feel their eyes on me, probably more curious than judgmental, but who knows? School’s weird like that.

Mr. Strickland, up at the front, gives me a smile that’s more professional than personal. “Samantha, welcome back. Please take your seat.” That’s my cue and I sink into my usual spot by the window. The sun’s at this angle where it just barely catches the dust motes, making them light up like tiny stars. I wonder if they’ve been there the whole time or if they just showed up for my triumphant — or awkward — return.

A girl who sits two rows in front of me turns around and flashes a too-bright smile. “Hey, Samantha, good to see you back. We were all worried, you know?” Melissa. I remember her, kinda, but not like we ever had sleepovers or borrowed notes or anything. We… existed in the same space. Did she really worry about me, or is this some sort of social dance that I’ve forgotten the steps to? It takes all my effort just to remember what her first name is. Had we interacted?

“Thanks. Good to be back,” I answer, unsure if her name is actually Melissa or if I’m hallucinating, and there’s no way for her to know that I’m still parsing what ‘back’ even means right now. My fingers fiddle with the corner of my notebook, flipping the pages up and down. It’s easier to focus on that than the weight of her concern, which might be real or might be as substantial as the dust in the air.

The guy next to her, what’s-his-name, also turns to me, and I’m hit with déjà vu. “Glad you’re safe, Sam.” Safe? That word hangs in the air longer than it should, given that we’re in English class and not a therapy session. My thumb folds under my palm. Then it unfolds. I can’t decide if it wants to be folded or unfolded or if it wants to be anything at all.

“Thanks,” I reply, trying not to address him by name in the case that my guess (“Tim”) is wrong, my voice unintentionally flat because I’m trying to juggle a dozen things in my mind, like why are people I barely interacted with suddenly treating me like we’re in the same club of knowing what the heck is going on. I don’t get it, but I’m not about to ask and reveal that I don’t get it. I’ve never been out of school for a week. I don’t even have a cast to sign. How much do they know? Do they know I’m homeless? I feel everyone’s eyes looking straight through my skin like it’s translucent.

Class starts proper after that, Mr. Strickland diving into themes of identity and conflict in literature, and I can’t help but wonder if the curriculum was changed just to mess with me. I jot down some notes, not really processing them, still wrapped up in the undercurrents of the room. Like, it’s weird, I thought I was flying under the radar all this time, but these blips of concern make me second-guess that. Maybe people knew more than I thought, or maybe they’re just reacting to me being gone and coming back like it’s a big deal, even if they don’t know the half of it.

By the end of the class, I’ve got a page full of scribbled notes that look more like abstract doodles and a head full of stray thoughts that won’t form a complete picture. Mr. Strickland assigns some reading, the bell rings, and people start to shuffle out. English class with Mr. Strickland feels like a test I didn’t study for. He has this stack of books in the back of the room that my mom would love, but I just see a pile of kindling for burning through my last good neurons.

He pulls me aside for a moment after class. Singles me out, and tells me that he’s happy to see me back in school and safe. I hand him the single requisite completed essay, with zero passion, constructed over meaningless afternoons in a home that’s not my own. He tells me to keep a chin up.

Finally, lunch. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath and someone told me it’s okay to breathe. I find Jordan sitting at our usual spot, their face buried in some manga with a cover that’s way too colorful. As I sit down, a nervous excitement bubbles up inside me. I’m about to unload weeks of superhero life, real top-secret stuff, to someone who lives it just like I do. It’s kinda relieving. Like the feeling you get when you walk into a room you’ve not been in for a while and see everything still in its place. So, when I set my tray down and squeeze myself into a spot next to them, it’s with a bit more bounce in my step than I thought I’d manage today.

“Hey, stranger,” Jordan grins, nudging me with their elbow. “Miss me?”

“I’ll need to correct my aim next time,” I shoot back, but the sincerity is there, more than I’d like to admit. Across from us, Alex snorts into his spaghetti.

“Hey, can we, like, not talk about you-know-what during lunch? I don’t want another anxiety attack,” Alex says, pre-emptively cutting off any hero chatter, which is both disappointing and relieving. I’m not sure I want to talk about it either. “Plus, you know,” he says, shifting his glance wayward towards the other people talking about the latest chapter of Murder Cereal, which strikes me as a completely incomprehensible title. Friends of Jordan and Alex, I guess — but not mine, since I don’t even know their names. I mean, I’m sure they’ve told me, but it hasn’t really stuck. It’s not really sticking right now. My focus narrows to just Jordan and Alex, because they’re familiar, and I could use familiar right now.

And they’re totally in the dark about the hero stuff. Alex, too, other than “it is happening where he can’t see”. Jordan and I never talk about it anyway, so Alex bringing it up strikes me as slightly bizarre, but I don’t question it.

“So,” Jordan leans back, chewing on some fries, “I gotta say, living full time in my new place is amazing.” They say ‘my new place’ like it’s a freaking condo and not an abandoned building stuffed with junk and barely-fit-for-purpose amenities. “It’s been lovely not having my parental unit on my back. How are you holding up at Lily’s?”

“Ugh, don’t even get me started,” I roll my eyes and throw my hands up like I’m being super dramatic, because maybe if I act like it, I’ll feel it too. “I think all the Chinese food leftovers are gonna make me fat. I swear, I’m developing an addiction to duck meat.”

“You know, I hear there’s a bounty on gooses. Like, you bring in a couple of dead gooses to the local government office and they’ll pay you money. Just in case you were interested,” Jordan says, leaning in like they’ve got the low-down on yet another new opportunity.

Alex’s eyes gleam. “Really?”

“No,” Jordan shoots them down. “But it would’ve been funny to see Sam try it.”

“I would’ve believed you if you didn’t shoot yourself in the foot!” I protest.

“Oh, speaking of bounties,” Jordan cuts in, handing my laptop back to me, wrapped in a firm carrying case. Jordan being Jordan, I assume that this hot pink case is also stuffed with as many dollar bills as it can handle. “Okay, back to the conversation.”

Alex snickers. “I can already see the headlines: Local Teen Transforms from Shark to Goose Hunter. What’s next, Sam? Tackling the pigeon menace?”

“Pigeons are cool, okay? Don’t diss the pigeons. They have, like, this radar in their brains. Bet you didn’t know that,” I counter.

Jordan looks at me as if trying to figure out if I’m joking. “You’re pulling that out of nowhere. Pigeons are rats with wings.”

“I’ll have you know, rats are very intelligent creatures,” I say, munching on some fries. “I read this study where they taught rats to drive tiny cars to get food. You can teach a rat many things.”

“You sound like an old Buddhist master. ‘You can teach a rat many things, young grasshopper’,” Alex retorts in between sips of soda.

“I think rats eat those,” Jordan muses. “I don’t believe you, bee-tee-dubs.”

“It’s true! You can NetSphere it,” I assure him. NetSphere knows all, including things about rat-driving studies and pigeon radars.

“NetSphere knows all,” I repeat, like it’s some kind of incantation. “It’s like the all-seeing eye but without the Illuminati.”

“Ah, the Illuminati. That’s the good stuff,” Alex says, rubbing his hands together. “They’re behind it all, you know? Anime, K-pop, the economy.”

Jordan shakes their head. “You’ve been hanging out on conspiracy boards again, haven’t you?”

“No, I just like saying it. It makes every conversation sound more exciting. I mean, come on,” Alex elaborates. “Who doesn’t want to believe that a secret society is controlling our lives? It adds some… intrigue.”

“Adds a level of distance between you and personal responsibility, more like,” I mutter.

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Sam, you’re talking like you’re part of the Illuminati. Is that your secret identity?”

“Me? Part of the Illuminati? Nah, I can barely keep track of my own homework, let alone control the world,” I admit, finally cracking the lid off my water bottle and taking a sip. I don’t want to get into any other implications that me controlling the world might bring, but I doubt Alex thought very hard of those, so I let it slide.

Jordan looks at me and then at the water. “I still don’t get why you drink that. Water’s so… bland.”

“That’s the point. Keeps me grounded,” I say. “Besides, someone at this table has to make healthy choices.”

Jordan snorts. “Excuse you, my body runs entirely on caffeine and spite, and it’s doing just fine.”

“Sure, that’ll look great on your medical chart,” I say, shrugging. “Reason for admittance: Overdose on bitterness.”

“Hey, bitterness is a lifestyle,” Jordan retorts, grabbing a handful of fries and stuffing them into their mouth.

“And one I’m glad I don’t share,” I respond, finishing off my water. “At least, not to that extent.”

“Uh, hey Sam, right?” I look up from my water bottle. It’s Melissa, the one from this morning. Or at least, I assume Melissa – I still haven’t asked, and I’m not going to. She’s standing at the edge of the lunch table, eyes darting from me to Jordan and Alex, flanked by several of her friends, none of whom I recognize either. I’m already on edge. “You wanna sit with us at lunch tomorrow? Or maybe in science class? After lunch?”

I blink. Like, several times. The gears in my head grind to a halt before reluctantly chugging back to life. “Wait, what?” is all I manage to say.

Melissa’s eyes flick to Jordan and Alex, then back to me. “Yeah, you know, we thought you might want to hang out. If you’re up for it.”

“Uh,” I say, which eloquently captures the whole range of my thoughts right now. “Why?”

Jordan and Alex are dead silent, eyes on me, but their silence is different. Jordan’s is analytical, calculating, while Alex looks like he’s watching a reality TV show and he’s here for the drama.

“Why?” Melissa repeats. “Why not? We just… you seem cool, and we thought it’d be nice.”

“Cool? I’m as cool as a hot pocket straight out of the microwave — lukewarm in most places and dangerously hot in pockets you don’t expect,” I reply, trying to sound witty. Melissa blinks at me a couple of times. “I don’t know what that meant either, sorry. But seriously, why are you asking me? What’s going on?”

Melissa glances at her friends before looking back at me. “Look, no teachers would say why you were gone for a week, okay? But it’s not like it’s a secret that someone’s house got, like, trashed by a friggin dinosaur last week, over in Mayfair. Everyone kinda put two and two together, so, like, you’re the school badass now. Look, we all wear plaid, you think this school has people that get into fights? And you’re, like…”

She looks me up and down. “Totally fine? What’s the word, unscathed?”

My mouth opens, but I don’t speak. I can’t. My mind races from thought to thought like it’s trying to win an Olympic sprint. They think I’m badass? Because they think I survived a supervillain attack? Not because I’m Bloodhound, not because of anything I actually did, but because they think I’m some sort of… survivor? When I speak, I always have to tuck my lips over my teeth to prevent my teeth from showing too much and it always makes me sound kind of goofy. I use F’s instead of TH’s, and now I’m the school badass?

But not, like, for any of the actual badass things I’ve done?

Jordan breaks the silence with a soft chuckle. “Well, isn’t this interesting?”

“An autograph, ma’am?” Alex jokes, elbowing me in the back.

The absurdity of it finally processes, in little chunk-sized bits that my brain can manage. I’m not sure if I should be relieved or horrified. “I’m not giving autographs,” I tell Alex, rolling my eyes. “And I’m not a celebrity, Jeez.”

“But you’re not saying ‘no’ to the badass part,” Jordan points out, a smirk dancing on their lips.

I look at Melissa and her friends, then back at my own. The weight of their expectations, misunderstandings, and assumptions feels like an ill-fitting costume I never asked to wear. “You really think a girl with a lisp is the school badass?”

Someone behind Melissa leans over to speak instead of her. She’s got black hair and tan skin. Pretty. She looks sort of like Gale. “You survived a supervillain attack, dude.”

I blink at them a couple of times. Did I? I guess, in the most literal sense, sure. “I’ll think about it and get back to you,” I end up saying after a couple of uncomfortable seconds.

Melissa shrugs. “Good ’nuff. Uh, we sit over on the other wall, don’t be a stranger, Sammy!”

I shudder as they turn away and begin heading towards the garbage cans lining the cafeteria to dispose of their lunch. I swing around on my chair to face the table full of dunderheads that I count as a ‘friend clique’. “What?” I ask, at their omnipresent grins.

“School badass,” Jordan jokes. “Sounds like you’re about to get recruited for another team of wayward youngsters. Maybe they have a problem for you to solve.”

“Oh, G-d,” I mumble, hitting my head on the table. Anything but more problems.

---

It’s the following Saturday, and I find myself standing in front of a brick building that looks like it’s seen better days. Buildings with peeling paint sidle up against freshly renovated – gentrified, my Dad’d say – ones, kids run around screaming, and a dude is playing sax on the corner. Gale’s directions led me to the heart of Germantown, and I’m wearing this all-black ensemble — a Foo Fighters shirt I snagged from Target with the cash Jordan gave me Monday, black jeans, black sneakers. Goth-lite, Gale called it when she texted me what to wear.

I feel her before I see her, a rustle of wind telling me she’s nearby. Gale — Jamila, I mentally correct myself — appears from around the corner, and the moment I spot her, I forget about everything else. She’s also dressed in all black, loose clothes that conform to her modest style but manage to make her look like a gothic heroine. She still has a hijab on, but it’s a fancier one than what she wears out while heroing, dark and embroidered with intricate silver patterns. My eyes linger on the elegant curves of the fabric, tracing their way to her face. God, focus, Sam. It’s hard to tear my gaze away, even harder to remember to play it cool when all I want to do is jump up and down and scream like a fangirl at a rock concert.

“Hey,” she greets me, her voice smooth like hot chocolate on a cold day. “You look good in black.”

“Oh, uh, thanks. You too,” I stammer, playing with a frayed thread on my jeans. “Your hijab’s really pretty.”

We start walking towards her apartment, and the building looms like it’s seen a lot of life but kept all its secrets. It’s four or five floors, depending on how one counts basements, and she leads me around to the back where their unit is. The hallways we pass through are a blend of musty carpets and aged wallpaper, both too tall and too narrow, like someone tried to pack as much vertical space into the land as possible.

“This place has… character,” I say, trying to choose my words carefully to avoid offending my crush. It feels ratty, kinda like the budget ran out before they could make it nice. The walls are worn and I can see patches where paint has given way to time. But it’s still a home for someone, for Jamila, and that makes it important.

“Yeah, it’s not the Ritz, but it’s cozy enough,” Jamila smiles, her eyes sparkling like she’s sharing an inside joke with the universe. “We’ve been here for ages.”

I could comment on the obvious signs of wear and tear, ask if they’re planning on moving or renovating, but I don’t. Instead, my fingers find their way to my pocket, tapa-tapa-tapping against the fabric. Nervous energy that needs a place to go because suddenly the weight of why I’m here, dressed like this, with her, hits me like a ton of bricks. This is sort of like a date, right? I mean, we’re hanging out alone outside of superhero stuff, and I’m meeting her family, and we’re going to a concert. That’s date-ish.

We reach her front door, and she pauses, fishing for her keys. I take the moment to look around one more time, let it all sink in. This is where Gale — where Jamila—comes from. It’s so different from my world, yet here we are, standing at the threshold of something new and undefined. And for the first time, it dawns on me how much I want to cross that line, go through that door, not as Bloodhound or as a member of the Young Defenders, but as just Sam. Sam who has a crush on her teammate and no idea what she’s doing, but wants to figure it out anyway.

“Ready?” Jamila asks, her hand on the doorknob.

“As I’ll ever be,” I reply. And it’s true. Whatever’s behind that door, whatever this day brings, I’m ready. At least, I really hope so.

The door swings open and a wave of scents and sounds rush out to meet me—spices, cooking oil, and the low murmur of voices. I step inside and instantly spot a glass coffee table at the center of the room. On it sits a hookah, its ornate design contrasting sharply with the utilitarian furnishings around it. The table looks like the most expensive thing here, as if it were a treasure in a sea of well-used relics.

A man is sitting on the couch, puffing away at the hookah. He’s got this stern, sorta regal air about him, dark eyes framed by salt-and-pepper eyebrows. A well-trimmed but incredibly bushy mustache sits neatly above his lip. His face is lined but not old, etched by years of experience rather than age. That must be Jamila’s dad. Across from him, a woman is gently rocking a baby to sleep in her arms. She has a softer appearance, with rounded features and a weariness in her eyes. Her hijab is a muted shade of blue, a simple contrast to the bright patterns I’ve seen Jamila wear. The baby is bundled in a light blanket, small tufts of hair peeking out.

“Ah, Jamila, you’re back,” her dad says, setting the hookah pipe down on the immaculate glass table. His voice is deep, the timbre filling the small space.

“Yeah, Baba, this is Sam,” Jamila introduces me, her tone shifting to something a bit more formal than I’m used to hearing from her.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement. Do I bow? Offer a handshake? I settle for a small wave, instantly regretting how awkward it probably looks.

He surveys me, his eyes landing squarely on my freckle-strewn face. “You’re Irish?”

“Uh, no, Jewish actually,” I correct him, my voice a bit higher than usual.

He nods, knowingly, and says something in Arabic – or at least, what I’m assuming is Arabic – to Jamila. I don’t understand the words, but the tone makes her face instantly flush with anger.

“Baba!” She snaps, yanking a small hand fan from her pocket and swatting at him. This isn’t a playful, father-daughter moment; she’s genuinely offended.

“Hey, what did he say?” I ask, my fingers instinctively tap-tapping on my leg. The air’s suddenly thick with tension and I’m not sure if I should be offended or embarrassed or what.

“It’s nothing,” Jamila dismisses quickly, but her cheeks are still flushed. “You wanna head upstairs?”

“Sure,” I answer, still a bit confused but not wanting to push it. What was that about? The nervous tapping on my leg slows but doesn’t stop.

Jamila leads the way to the staircase, which is more like a steep ladder in terms of space-efficiency. It’s a cramped climb, but soon enough, we’re on the second floor, where four doors suggest the existence of separate bedrooms – four bedrooms, or one bedroom and a bathroom. As I look around, wondering which room is hers, I feel the weight of the day settle into a more defined shape. I’m here, in her home, meeting her family, and whatever that exchange with her dad meant, I’m suddenly intensely aware that I’m stepping into a world much larger and more complex than the fights and friendships of our superhero lives.

Jamila’s room is nothing like I imagined it to be, but I guess that’s the whole thing with expectations—more often than not, they don’t really line up with reality. I was thinking it’d be this neat, structured place. Given her always-put-together appearance and that quiet, mother-hen-like authority she has, I just assumed her personal space would be an extension of that. But, uh, no. The second the door swings open, it’s like stepping into controlled chaos.

Every square inch of the walls is covered with posters. And when I say covered, I mean covered. Band posters, album covers, a mismatch of colors and images that leave no bare wall space. What’s hilarious—or maybe embarrassing, at least for me—is that I can’t even read most of the band names. Like, seriously, I squint at them and it’s like trying to decipher a doctor’s handwriting but in neon colors. My eyes dart from one part of the wall to another, and it’s sort of like trying to read a book while tumbling down a hill. The room’s a mess, sure, but it’s a personal mess. Like, you could know Jamila just by standing here. Clothes on the floor, a stray notebook, and… is that an electric harp on her bed? Now, that’s new. I didn’t know she played the harp, but somehow that seems a very reasonable choice for someone like her.

I’m still taking it all in when Jamila starts to unpin her hijab. She folds it neatly—a tiny island of order in the mess—and places it on her desk. I see her unclasp something at the nape of her neck, and then her bun unravels, dark hair tumbling down her back, past her shoulders, stopping just above her waist. My breath catches. My eyes can’t help but follow the fall of her hair, thick and glossy, like strands of night. I had no idea it was that long, longer than mine. Much longer.

Her face, unobscured for the first time since I’ve known her, makes my heart do this weird fluttery thing. Without the hijab, it’s like seeing her anew. Not that she was ever less pretty before, but it’s different. Her features are soft and her cheeks seem rounder, almost like she’s constantly on the verge of smiling. I get this strange sensation, like I’ve been granted access to something deeply personal. My brain keeps saying, “Don’t stare, Sam, don’t stare,” but my eyes are stubborn rebels and they’re not listening.

I’m sure my face is all kinds of red, and that’s not even accounting for my normal amount of constant redness, of bloodflow under my freckly cheeks. I’ve read enough YA novels to know how these moments are supposed to feel, but experiencing it in real life is something else entirely. It’s like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a romance novel and I can’t help but feel like a bit of a pervert for staring so much. Except, in those novels, they’d find some poetic, elegant way to say all this and me? I’m just thinking, “Wow, she’s pretty,” like a broken record, and trying not to drool. Trying not to stare anywhere unseemly.

“So, have you ever done makeup before?” Jamila asks, and I’m snapped out of my internal monologue that’s pretty much just a loop of “she’s so pretty oh my god.”

“I mean, I know enough,” I reply, making air quotes around the word ‘enough’. “But I’m not like, an expert or anything. Mostly just eyeliner and lipstick. Sometimes I mess that up too.”

Jamila chuckles and opens this intricate makeup case. It’s like a magician’s toolbox but for beauty products, full of eyeshadows, brushes, lipsticks, and stuff I can’t even name. “Would you mind waiting for me to put on some makeup? Gotta look good when I get a nosebleed,” she says, her eyes meeting mine as if asking for approval. She sits down on a small bench in front of a similarly-small mirror-and-dresser, and keeps looking at me expectantly.

“Of course, go ahead. Take your time,” I say, still somewhat entranced. I take a seat on her bed, making sure not to disturb the electric harp lying there. I guess it’s her turn to transform. “Why would you have a nosebleed?”

She begins with a kind of focused grace, almost like she’s painting a canvas. A brush dances along her cheeks, laying down a soft foundation that makes her skin look even more flawless. Then comes the eyeliner, which she applies with this surgical precision that I could never manage. A swoop here, a curve there, and her eyes instantly look more dramatic. I’m mesmerized by the whole process, the way each layer and color adds to the next, turning her into something even more attractive. The eyeshadow’s dark, smoky, making her eyes pop even more than usual. She finishes it off with a deep, dark lipstick that makes her lips look like they could tell secrets.

The only thing going through my head – “Shiny”. Shiny shiny shiny.

“Mosh pit, silly,” she answers as if it’s obvious, despite the minutes-long gulf between question and response. I am afraid to admit I don’t know what a mosh pit is, and I don’t want to ruin the moment, so I just let it pass over me.

And all through it, I’m sitting there, completely engrossed. I didn’t even feel the need to get on my phone or anything, which is like, weird for me. But this is better than any video or tweet or whatever. This is live art. And, God, how does she make it look so easy? If I tried any of that, I’d look like a raccoon who got into a paint fight.

“Do you want me to put some on you?” she asks, breaking my trance. She’s holding a makeup brush like a wand, poised to cast a spell.

I hesitate for just a second, but it’s not really a question. “Yeah, that’d be awesome,” I say, trying to sound way more casual than I feel.

I slide off the bed, moving carefully past her harp and walking over to where she’s directing me—the little stool in front of her vanity. It’s a surreal feeling, seeing her reflected next to me in the mirror. She feels both close and far away at the same time, like she’s in another world but reaching in to pull me toward her. I take a deep breath and sit down, which does nothing to calm the shiver racing up my spine.

“Alright, let’s get started,” she says, rolling up her sleeves like a surgeon preparing for an operation. For a second, I feel utterly exposed, like she’s seeing right through me. But then her brush touches my face and the sensation is so intimate that my mind goes blank.

She starts applying foundation, but it’s like her hands are electric. Every touch sends a little thrill coursing through my body, lighting up my nerves like a fireworks show. This is not helping me keep my composure. At all. I catch her eyes in the mirror for a second. They’re focused, but there’s a slight curve to her lips that I can’t quite interpret. Is she enjoying this as much as I am? Probably not, right? Yeah, definitely not.

She moves on to eyeliner and that’s even worse. Her face is so close to mine, I can feel her breath against my skin. I have to concentrate really, really hard not to look at her, not to meet those eyes, because if I do, I’m going to make an absolute idiot of myself. My hands are clenched in my lap, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I let it out in a rush, pretending like it’s totally normal to be this tense when someone’s doing your makeup.

The eyeshadow comes next. She picks out a shade that I would never have thought to use, something darker, more dramatic. “Close your eyes,” she instructs. I comply, and for a moment, I feel a little less vulnerable. But then her fingers brush against my eyelids and I’m back to square one, heart pounding out a frantic rhythm.

Lipstick is the last step, and by now, I’m a bundle of raw nerves. She applies it slowly, methodically, and I have to keep reminding myself to breathe. It’s like she’s tracing the outline of every fantasy I’ve ever had, filling them in with this rich, intense color.

Finally, she steps back and examines her work. “What do you think?” she asks, folding her hands neatly in front of herself.

I open my eyes and look at myself. I almost don’t recognize the person staring back at me. It’s like she’s brought out a side of me that I never knew existed, that I was too afraid to show anyone else. But as I meet her gaze in the mirror, I realize that it’s not just the makeup. It’s the whole moment—the intimacy, the touch, the closeness.

“It’s amazing,” I say, the words barely above a whisper. “You’re amazing.”

Jamila raises an eyebrow at the word “amazing,” and my throat tightens because, oh God, I’ve said it, haven’t I? I’ve let something slip, something big and meaningful and heavy. My hands feel sweaty in my lap and I keep opening and closing my fingers because I don’t know what to do with them. So I just let loose, my mouth operating miles ahead of my brain. “I, uh, I mean, you’re more than just a teammate to me, Jamila. And not just because we go punching bad guys together, y’know? It’s like, when I’m around you, I feel… different. I’ve got all these emotions, and they’re confusing, and I don’t really get them? But they’re strong and they’re pointing at you and it’s really, really intense for me.”

I ramble on, my words coming out in a torrent, like water through a broken dam. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore; it’s just a lot of feelings strung together with words that are totally inadequate for describing them. I’m scared of how she’ll react, of what she’ll say, but I’m more scared of not knowing, of keeping this whatever-it-is inside me. And I can’t just say nothing, because then I’d be lying to myself and to her and that would be way, way worse. I end up saying something like, “So, yeah. I don’t know if it’s a crush or something else, but it’s something and I really wish it was something more than just us being friends or teammates. I want us to be more, Jamila.”

There’s this silence. Like, you could hear a pin drop, or the faint buzz of a fly ten miles away. It’s that quiet. She’s looking at me, and I can see that she’s thinking, like, really, really hard. And my heart is in my throat, it’s pounding so loud I swear she can hear it.

Then, she speaks, and the words are soft but they slice through me like a blade. “Sam, that’s really flattering. And it means a lot to me, it really does. You’re a great friend, and a fantastic teammate. But I don’t…I’m not a lesbian. I don’t feel the same way.”

It’s like something inside of me breaks. Shatters. Cracks down the middle and splits apart into a thousand little pieces that I’ll never be able to put back together. My eyes are stinging and, God, I’m going to cry, I’m really going to cry, right here, in front of her, like a total mess. I look down, away, anywhere but at her. I can’t face her, not now. I’m trying to keep it together but it’s really, really hard. “I—I understand,” I manage to choke out, but it’s like the words are caught in my throat and I have to force them out. I’m so embarrassed I want to die.

But then, just as I’m about to break, about to turn into a sobbing, blubbering wreck, she reaches out and grabs my hands. Her fingers are warm and her grip is firm and it’s like she’s anchoring me, keeping me from floating away into a sea of my own misery. The room goes still, the air thick and heavy, like the moment before a storm. And we’re just there, looking at each other, and it’s so intense I can barely breathe.

“Look, Sam,” Jamila begins, her eyes searching mine as if she’s trying to find the right words in their depths. “I don’t feel attraction to girls like that. But that’s not to say I really feel like that for guys either. To me, it’s all sort of the same. Gender’s never been the factor that determines who I care about.” She takes a deep breath, almost like she’s steadying herself. “But what I do know is that I respect you. I like you as a friend, as a teammate. I like you more than most of the men my Baba tries to introduce me to.”

My heart stumbles, trips over itself. “Yeah?” It’s all I can manage, a single syllable hanging in the air like a lost balloon.

She nods. “Yes. And to be completely honest, I’ve never felt particularly drawn to guys in that way either. My Baba tries to introduce me to sons of his friends, business partners, you name it. And they’re fine, they’re decent people, but there’s no… spark. You, Sam, you at least make me want to try.”

“Try?” The word comes out before I can catch it, a fragile hope perching on its edge.

“To date. To see if there’s something more between us than friendship or teamwork,” she explains, her words steady but her eyes full of something like vulnerability.

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I can’t stop it anymore. Tears start flowing, brackish streams that boil down my face, hot and burning, tracing my face and smearing the makeup that she’d just meticulously applied. I look like a mess, feel like a mess, am a mess. The colors blend into a grotesque palette on my cheeks, and I feel awful that her hard work is ruined, which makes me want to cry even more.

“Sam, don’t cry, please,” she says softly, her voice tinged with regret. Maybe she thinks she’s hurt me irreparably, destroyed some fragile thing between us. And maybe she has, but not in the way she thinks. Not in a way that can’t be rebuilt or redefined.

I cry harder.

She kisses me.

It’s not like in the movies, where everything goes soft focus and the world spins around. It’s nothing like that. It’s real and raw and intense, like the feeling you get when you’re standing at the edge of something incredibly high, your heart pounding out of your chest. Her lips are soft but the kiss isn’t. There’s something deep and searching about it, something that goes right to the core of me. It’s like she’s pulling me into her, and for that one perfect moment, I’m not lost or confused or broken. I’m just me, and she’s just her, and it’s absolutely amazing.

My hands, which have been sitting like dead weights in my lap, suddenly spring to life. I grab for her, pull her closer, and she lets me. She lets me pull her into my world, into this bubble of emotion and confusion that’s suddenly become so much simpler, so much clearer. And then she’s there, really there, right in front of me, and it’s like the world’s clicked into place.

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