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*May*
You regret promising to give up the whole playing dumb thing while you're at school. You regret, even, for a moment, that integrity's a closer companion than indecency these days.
That's just wishful thinking and you're too old for that—the crow's feet at the corners of your eyes refuse to retract their talons, and they're only digging in deeper in the sticky heat that gloms onto you during a nine AM run, or at quarter to four, when you're still in a high school classroom long after the final bell's chimed.
Because you could totally blame the May heatwave and the school's appalling lack of AC for this bout of brain fog, except you survived a two-hour interrogation sesh one July in a drug dealer's sauna in Rio de Janeiro a while back, so that's a no go.
And Faulkner's not your jam—individual sentences and paragraphs shouldn't span multiple pages, not in your book—but you're tracking your grades like Jocelyn requested and you need at least a C on the next essay exam to stay on course for early graduation, so you're invested in the material.
Relatively invested, at least, or as much as you can be in the moment, because your biggest obstacle to focusing stands about 5'3, has her hair up in a pencil bun, and has already mastered how to write with a perfectly teacher-y mix of cursive and print. She's taking her time, identifying plenty of themes from Absalom, Absalom, and you should be jotting them down, but your eyes drop down to watch her calves flex when she reaches up to write higher on the board and the scent of coconut shampoo blows your way from the fan on her desk and—
Twyla turns to the side, offers a flourish to what she's written on the vintage, 1910s chalkboard—one of the old building's few parts that can match her for wholesome quaintness.
"What's grabbing your interest here, Alexis?"
You trap the tip of your tongue between your front teeth, roll your flavorless wad of spearmint gum around your back molars, bite your true answer into it, and go with, "The whole story-telling theme for Quentin and Shreve. And the way they're, like, toying with the past."
You twist your hands as if trying to fit a puzzle together (like, say, how you glanced up at the Cafe Tropical counter one day and saw your favorite waitress swiping right and left on Bumpkin and realized you wanted her to dismiss every last guy and girl that popped up).
"Mmhmm, okay," Twyla responds, nodding along to your initial point, her blue floral wrap dress swishing ever so slightly as she approaches you with an encouraging smile (you wish she wouldn't; it's your favorite distraction). "Keep going."
You do because you want more for yourself, because you want to attend college and get out and go somewhere eventually.
You do because the longer you talk, the longer Twyla stays with you.
A few weeks later, she greets your elated announcement of, "I got a B on my paper! I got a B!" with a bear hug in the middle of the hallway, school decorum and your previous aversion to outward displays of dorkiness be damned, and if you could bottle Twyla's non-cafe, school-day scent of fresh soap, new chalk, and the great outdoors—she must've been on recess duty—you would.
*June*
"What are you going to do that couldn't be done if you went to the entire softball game, Alexis?"
"Nothing," you concede with a slight huff, "but my routine's helped me find a lot of success, Dad. Going for my runs, going to the cafe, sometimes sneaking in a lil' nap. After all," you tilt your head toward the diploma on the table, "I'm a high school graduate now, so I must be doing something right."
"I'm calling a moratorium on you milking that soon," David pipes up. "It'll be July next week, Alexis. And if I have to playin another dumb game, you can certainly come watch all of it."
You flash him your winningest, brattiest little sister smile. "Then I'll be sure to take a spot right by you in the bleachers. And I can do that thing," you squint, trying to remember the exact term, "it's, like, cat-calling in sports, I think?"
"On second thought," Johnny sighs, quickly enough to cut off whatever David's retort might have been, "maybe it would be best for everyone if you stop by during the fifth inning or so. And no heckling David."
David groans and rolls his eyes before muttering, "That's fine, I guess. Deal."
Your cruelty's best distilled in small doses these days, with the edge shaved down to nothing, but it's still there, nevertheless.
"Deal."
**
Turns out most of the town comes out for these games, and the disapproving stares from so many locals have less to do with your borderline risque baseball jersey—with your legs, not rocking these shorts would be the real crime—and more to do with the fact that you're 5'7 and blocking some key sightlines down the third base line as you settle in on the stands next to your folks.
It's homey, if not a bit hokey, the way so much of life in Schitt's Creek is, but the small-town rhythm is more soothing than suffocating. Some of the time.
Running away from it isn't an option right now, and anyway, that was your go-to move with your family and royal families' spoiled sons and Swiss boarding schools and Charlie Heaton and…
And you've ended up here. Can't hurt to try a different approach.
"That's cool that the teams have actual uniforms this year," you note, mostly hoping that the observation will throw a wrench in your dad's ongoing play-by-play commentary after your mom flashes a "help me" look your way.
"Yeah," Johnny agrees, nodding. "One of Ronnie's friends got 'em a discount."
"Good for her."
"Good for you, too," your mind whispers as the teams switch sides or fields or whatever, because Twyla's dashing out from the dugout to cover the spot near second base, looking sporty and adorable with her hair tied back in a ponytail, lines of eye black smeared over the smattering of freckles on her cheekbones, and high socks lending the appearance of extra length to her legs. She's chatting amicably with Patrick at second and Miguel at third, laughing at something one of them said, and you selfishly hope they feel less at home around her than you do.
That might be a prickle of jealousy, too, at how everyone reflexively smiles at Twyla when they see her, at how her presence alone is a beacon of sunshine in Schitt's Creek while yours skews a bit closer to overcast.
For now, none of that matters, because everyone's focused on the game.
Including you.
When and where Twy's involved, at least.
She helps turn a double play at one point, as Johnny says, stabbing a ground ball on her backhand before leaping, turning in the air, and firing it over to Patrick at second, showing off her body control with precise movements honed from years of yoga.
It's harder not to stare afterward, when she shoots finger guns and a cheeky grin at the batter before he retreats to Ronnie's team's dugout.
Despite your singular interest, the game's captured your and Moira's attention, and the good natured trash-talking between the teams has quieted, been replaced with the tension of a deadlocked, 5-5 affair going into the bottom of the 9th inning.
"If there's going to be overtime, I'd like to refresh my bev-er-age," your mom intones, shaking an almost-empty plastic cup that once contained Jocelyn's famous red wine slushie.
"We'll see if there is," Johnny comments. "Twyla's earned herself a walk to start the inning."
Ivan bunts her over to second, and she pops up after sliding into the base, claps her hands, and calls, "Bring me home!" to Ted, who's stepping up to bat.
"Wish I could do that."
The stray admission passing through your mind gets your breath to catch, and you're choking on air and empty desire.
"'M fine," you lie, taking a long pull from your trusty, ever-present water bottle.
The ping of metal bat on ball shifts everyone's concern off you, thankfully, and gets them to fixate on the play.
Ronnie sticks her glove out, trying to catch or knock down Ted's line drive back up the middle, but she fails, and it flies over second base.
"Oh, oh, they're sending Twyla around to try and win it right here!" Johnny shouts, his eyes widening at the sight of whoever's serving as the third base coach windmilling his arm toward home. "Mutt's charging in to throw her out from center field!"
"C'mon, Twy!"
You yell your encouragement unconsciously and almost jump at the force behind your voice, but it makes sense—after all, she's your best friend.
For a split second, you can see why your dad tried to use baseball analogies so often while you were taking (more like re-taking) geometry. It's all angles shifting on invisible strings: Mutt's throw coming in from the outfield, the catcher shifting to try and block the plate as much as possible, Twyla racing home on a beeline—
She cuts it all to ribbons with a headfirst dive.
"Safe!" Roland rules from behind home plate, as today's relatively unbiased umpire.
The rest of the team mobs Twyla at his verdict, but she ducks out of the group hug after a few seconds to point to Ted, then back at herself.
"Get us some victory beers!"
Her edict raises more shouts for their team's other hero—"TED! TED! TED!"—and Twyla's beaming at him, and you strain to catch part of their conversation as the general cacophony dies down.
"I really thought he was gonna throw you out—"
"As if I'd let us maybe lose because of Mutt. Fuck that—"
You want to see more of this Twyla—her irreverent, snorting laugh, her confidence, her unrestrained, free and easy spirit—and it would be easy, wouldn't it, to invent an excuse for wandering onto the field and talking to her—
"A-lex-is? Are you coming with us to the barbecue, dear?"
Your parents are standing and staring, clearly wondering where you've gone, why you haven't gotten up from the bleachers yet.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming."
Twyla's still talking to Ted and a couple of her other teammates.
Maybe she's not yours to see like you want. Or know like you want.
*July*
Country fairs were never your scene even when your family was flush with cash, so you're not all that excited to try something relatively new.
On the other hand, nearly the entire town's shut down for the 4th of July, for reasons unbeknownst to everyone besides Roland, Jocelyn, Bob, and Ronnie, and Brebner's closed in the early afternoon, so all you've had to eat since lunchtime was another pilfered yogurt cup (thanks, David), some granola, and an apple.
Your stomach grumbles again, and the Wobbly Elm's phone keeps ringing to no end, so your best chance of getting some type of food is at the town's Independence Day extravaganza.
"Why is everything closed when we're in Canada?" you ask yourself, again, but so little in Schitt's Creek makes sense to begin with that it's easier to go along with the strange, the uncanny, the unusual.
The town council had "expressed a high degree of enthusiasm for this year's celebration," according to your mom, enough that they'd upped the entry ticket price to ten dollars.
It strikes you as a worthy price within five minutes of entry. The normally non-descript Schitt's Creek Park is a glowing neon play-land, with rides, games, and food trucks galore.
And you've got no one to share your sense of surprise with.
Making peace with being single had presented some challenges, sure—several nights spent alone at the cafe, pretending you were a total girl-boss in the wake of Mutt breaking up with you—but you're more than fine by yourself these days. Most of the time. When you're not surrounded by happy families, or parents shouting "slow down!" at their kids in a way that suggests more fond exasperation than actual irritation, or teenagers who are nearly drowning in the throes of puppy love. You can't remember the last time a significant other (besides Ted, of course) would want you to wear one of their hoodies, let alone allow you to take one outright, and it's not like you have any prospects. The thought of trawling Bumpkin again makes your stomach turn over, but that might just be your hunger, too.
Your little hope of getting a healthy meal was delusional, you realize now, as you survey your options.
"Pizza can't be too bad," you guess as you work your way towards the front of a line, but shiny pools of grease in pepperoni cups say otherwise.
For once, you don't mind—you've lived so much of your life in denial that being bad in terms of your diet actually feels good.
"I'll take the slice and drink combo, please."
The syrupy Coke might be sticking to your arteries, but you were probably ten or eleven the last time you ate junk food shamelessly, because it sounded good, because you wanted it, and that was reason enough.
You close your eyes to savor the second sip and third bite, and when you open them, you see Twy standing maybe fifty yards in front of you, getting out of the back of Cafe Tropical's immobile food truck, untying an ever-present apron from around her waist.
Leaving her be is the best option. She's probably tired. She probably wants to go home.
You should probably care about all of those factors more than you do.
"Twy!"
She turns back to you, a hint of a bemused, almost devious smile playing on her lips in the moonlight, and thinking of what to say would've been a good idea.
"They've got bumper cars here?!" you shout, motioning to the left with your head since your hands are full between your Coke and your pizza.
"Yeah," she nods, walking up to you, and it's obvious, after a moment, why her eyes keep flickering down and away from yours, toward your paper plate.
You shimmy your shoulders and shake the cup. "I figured I hadn't treated myself in a while. A long while," you add to your explanation after Twyla gives a little, disbelieving laugh–barely more than a hitch of her breath. "So, um…"
God, this is so high school. You're cooler than this.
"Are any of the rides here, like, actually safe enough to go on, or am I risking damage to," you use your hand to make a half-moon around your face, "all this?"
"The tilt-o-whirl definitely shouldn't be spinning that fast, but the bumper cars should be fine, and so is the roller coaster."
"Okay. Okay," you repeat with a nod as you start walking toward the bumper cars, but you've only made it five steps before you realize Twyla's not even trailing in your wake, so you stop and turn around to look at her—she shouldn't be this cute after working a few hours in a food truck—and ask, "You good, babe?"
"Yeah. Sorry. Just tired. Zoned out a bit."
"I can let you get on home if you want," you offer, inwardly cursing your kindness—it may as well be foolishness—
"No, I'll be fine. And really, it'll be nice to get a reminder of how fun the fair can be. I've worked it for so many years now that I've kinda forgotten. So," you watch her smile unfurl slowly, "I'm glad you're here, Alexis."
"Me, too, Twy. And if you're tired," you might as well try to extend the intimacy while you have the opportunity, "how does a pick-me-up sound?"
You hold your pop out for her to take.
"You don't mind sharing?"
You shake your head—it's totally normal to want your best friend to take a sip of your Coke to pep her up, right?
"Thanks."
If Twyla's at all bothered by sharing a straw with you, she certainly doesn't show it, and you're not complaining when your fingers briefly touch as she hands the cup back to you, or when she holds onto you a little bit for support, because the wooden steps leading to the bumper car floor needed to be rebuilt, like, twenty years ago. The cars themselves don't have any glaring defects, though, and you settle into a lime green one.
"Ooh, a clear target. I like it," Twyla's voice comes from behind you.
You glance back to scope out her car—a dark blue one. "You do know I was a getaway car driver in my past life, right?"
"Yep!" she banters back just as cheerfully over some bored teen droning on about safety guidelines for what's probably the fiftieth time that night before he finishes his spiel.
"Enjoy your ride," he says after going around and giving cursory pushes to the lap belts to make sure they're somewhat in place. "The cars will be active after the bell goes off."
Ding!
You turn your wheel to the left and hit the gas, maneuvering around the empty car ahead of you to get into open space—
Bump.
That was almost certainly Twy.
No big deal; you can shake her.
You cut around the slowpoke ahead of you to pass her on the right, bank into the track's turn without hitting the wall, and you're all clear to start dishing out some hits of your own.
Until Twyla emerges on your left, having gone around on the other side. She rubs you out along the wall with a smile and a laugh as she passes you, weaving in and out of traffic, wreaking chaos all along the way.
Twy's laughter rings in your ears, even over the din of carnival music and collisions, and all you want to do is chase it. Chase her.
"You've had enough practice doing that all summer, haven't you?"
"Gotcha!" you shout as you smash into the back left panel of her car later on, making her spin out.
You end up finishing this run of bumper car mayhem closer to the exit than her.
"You didn't have to wait for me," Twyla says when she spots you.
"I wanted to. I haven't really done anything for 4th of July here before, and before that I was," you wave a hand, dismissing your past, flighty self, "generally indisposed by now."
"Well, I'm glad you're not."
You can't tell if she's blushing or if that's just one of the red prize lights playing on her face, and you don't want to get caught staring trying to figure it out.
"Me, too." You tilt your head toward the roller coaster. "You said this is safe?"
"Relatively," she hedges. "As far as carney-quality fairs go."
"Good enough for me."
The small-town thrill of a wooden roller coaster and the caramel-y scent of freshly popped kettle corn suits you pretty well these days, though you wouldn't say no to some international jet-setting whenever you get back on your own two feet.
Twyla nudges your forearm with her elbow as the ride comes to a shuddery halt.
"Babe, look!"
She points up at the sudden burst of fireworks, a shower of purple, pink, and blue, and you're a tick slow to pull your gaze away from her.
"What is it?"
You're normally braver than this with objects of your affection, but it's easier when the stakes only relate to your pleasure for a night.
"Nothing," you shake your head, looking back at the sky, not wanting to worry her at all. "Just enjoying the view."
You have to come up with something—totally striking out with a girl you like isn't your M.O—so before you and Twyla go your separate ways in the parking lot, you say, "Let's hang out more, like, outside of the cafe before school starts for me in September."
"Yeah," she agrees, beaming at your suggestion. "That would be fun."
*August*
Spending more time with Twyla on non-Cafe Tropical terms is fun. It's a delight, really, to gain such casual closeness, to have plans with your best friend at least once every couple of weeks before you have to start college.
It's also exquisitely painful, because Twy's almost always dressed in your clothes when you're hanging out, whether you're at the library, P.J.'s Ice Cream Shop, her apartment, or the park, so you've had ample time to memorized the constellation of freckles that run along her collarbones and shoulders, to consider what colors make her eyes pop the most, to wonder what it would be like to trace your thumb over the bracelets she wears on her wrists while you're holding hands.
"You're coming to the open mic night at the store next weekend, right?" Twyla asks while you're watching Derry Girls.
"Definitely! Wouldn't miss it. I'm excited to hear you and Button jam out."
Avoiding torture used to be your thing (just ask a few drug lords in eastern Europe).
Now you run to it.
**
"Again, we are His and Hers. Or, if you prefer, just Patrick and Twyla," Patrick announces with a laugh, to a polite, yet warm, smattering of applause. "We've got one more song to play, and we'll be here after to enjoy the rest of the performances. Thanks so much for coming out for us and everyone else who's playing music in Schitt's Creek tonight, we all really appreciate it."
He sits back, away from the microphone stand. Twyla adjusts it so it's more directly over her keyboard, and you manage to hold in a cheer. Patrick's a good singer in his own right—as much as David pretends to be embarrassed by or for him sometimes, you know he loves it—but you've never heard Twy shine as a soloist for an entire song before.
Patrick's guitar strumming sounds like a compromise between folk and country, and Twyla's adding in a couple of backing chords to create another layer. It's less of an upbeat tune, with the initial lyrics coming out in a bit of a warble. You instinctively aim a reassuring smile at Twyla, holding it just long enough that she can probably see it before you turn to David to whisper, "They're really good."
"Mmhmm. Although I'm not too surprised you're saying that right now."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He just smirks and shushes you, earning an eye roll for his trouble, but you don't mind the interruption, the reminder to focus on the music and the performers—okay, one performer in particular—because watching Twyla's kind of become your favorite hobby, and in this venue, you're practically invited to do it.
You recognize the pre-chorus the second time it comes around, and you're debating if singing along to the chorus under your breath is entirely too much until Twyla glances up from her keyboard and makes eye contact with you, and you're doomed to do anything but play a one-sided game of Simon Says with her as she sings, "Hold it right there, I don't wanna move, and summer, it begs, begs us to prove that we can last just one more season, and that, there, gives me a reason."
Hope and melancholy blend with a sunset that's backpedaling closer and closer to half after seven, and sure, you could tell Twyla you're into her tomorrow. Or next week.
"Except that's what you said near the end of last month. And earlier this month."
"Well, I wanted to be sure," you argue. "Plus, rushing or jumping into something and hurting Twy is the last thing I wanna do."
"Then start small. Smaller than what's normal for you. Ask her out. One date."
"One date," you repeat to yourself. "Can't hurt."
Your days of spewing bold, 24-point all caps lies are mostly over, but that one's a doozy.
You beeline toward Patrick and Twyla after all the performances are over.
"You two sounded great! My lil' folksy duo," you gush, hugging each of them in turn.
"Thanks, Lex," Twyla answers warmly. "And thank you," she turns to Patrick, "for talking me into this. I hadn't performed outside of the Jazzagals' group setting in a while, probably not since, like, a middle school talent show, but I had a great time."
"Same here," Patrick grins, suddenly looking past both of them at something. "I think I'm being summoned," he notes, gesturing over to David, who's motioning at him to come over. "I'll catch you both around later."
David delivers one of your versions of a wink before he turns away—he can actually do it properly if he wants—and you almost don't hear Twyla's question.
"What was that?"
"Just, um, David being David," you invent before pressing on. "Would you mind if we stepped outside for a sec, Twy? It's a bit crowded and stuffy in here."
"Sure."
The air's cool, nearly crisp, a mild harbinger of the fall weather to arrive in the coming months, but the sun is still strong enough that there's no need for the town's few streetlights to come on yet. You don't mind the lack of illumination—Schitt's Creek is the kind of place where everyone would notice the lights and turn to look and comment.
"Feel better?" Twyla asks as the two of you settle on the bench across the street from the apothecary. "I could pop back in the store or the cafe, get you some water if you need it."
"Yeah, 'm fine. Really," you stress, and, to put the focus back on where you want it, you tell her, "Your singing was so good, Twy. Really good. I liked the last song, especially."
She blushes a bit at the praise. "Thanks. I was a bit nervous about that one—going solo compared to having Patrick singing with me, or backing him up."
"You didn't need to be. I mean, you've always sounded great with the Jazzagals. It was nice to see you own the spotlight more."
"It's not my usual style, but I could maybe give it a try more often," she muses before shooting a grin at you. "Take a page out of your book, a little."
"Well,you've already done that with my fashion, and it looks good on you, so…maybe that wouldn't hurt."
"Yeah," she replies gently. A shiver ripples through her, and she gets up. "Do you mind if we go back inside?"
"Just—just a sec." You catch her wrist. "I was wondering…"
You sigh at your own incoherence and force yourself past it. "I hadn't really thought of how to do this, and I kinda wish I had, but," you hurry on to defuse Twyla's confusion, "would you go on a date with me sometime?"
A pause. A stumbling, slightly hesitant repeat of, "A—a date?"
"Yeah. I mean, I've loved hanging out with you all summer, and I love that we're so close as friends outside of the cafe, but I—I want more. I've wanted more. For a while," you confess, finally speaking aloud the realization you'd had back in mid-July. "And I'm really sorry to bring this up now, if it's even more awkward, but I still can't believe Mutt broke up with you for me. He was an idiot," you blabber on. "You're so thoughtful and generous and funny and—"
Twyla puts a finger up to mildly interrupt, and you have to stop talking to breathe, anyway, so it works out.
"Yes. To your first question. And," Twyla cocks her head to the side, wearing a slightly stunned smile, "I'm sorry, but did you say you've felt like this for a while?"
You nod mutely, slightly too embarrassed to repeat yourself.
"Thank God," she breathes, laughing lightly. "It wasn't just me, then."
"No," you shake your head. "Not at all."
"Love that for us."
You laugh at the reference, at how easily Twyla speaks your language.
"So, I'm usually a kiss on the second date kinda girl, but, um," she glances down at your lips for a beat, and you decide, as you lean in towards her, that you've talked just about enough for now.
"Might as well make sure it'll be good, then, huh?"
You nearly speak the words into her mouth, and you've never felt anyone smile this openly into a first kiss before.
"Now we can go back inside," you tell Twyla as you break apart, loving how she laughs at your declaration, and you don't even bother worrying about what anyone will think as you open the store door and usher her in with your hand on the small of her back.