leonardo l-word wordriff | d2 | fin

[aya]

leonardo (leo) wordriff
aka l-word (affectionate)
aka riff-raff (derogatory)

district 2
eighteen
she/her

rockfall public varsity exy team (captain) - hatchet laveau, nox godsick
cousin - ilyich ames

[aya]

chapters:

1. are you tired of being nice?
2. moving
3. notes on gentrification, family, and reminiscence
4. a terrible commute
5. a love letter to allston mass
6. don't you wanna just go apeshit?
7. the worst best first day of school ever
8. fetch the bolt cutters
9. ceviche
10. accumulating boxes and never unpacking them
11. practical applications of sulfuric acid (makeup)
12. drinko captain
13. red card
14. rockfall ratmas, or, another love letter to allston mass
15. do you think anyone has ever offered a shiv as an olive branch before
16. backup
17. this one is just fluff, but it's cute fluff
18. taking the L
19. penalty shots
20. peak pancake power hour
21. you lose (lalia)
22. emotional iron maiden
23. leo does not know this happened btw (lalia)
24. the quest
25. home
26. like an alternate timeline (lalia)
27. favorite cousin
28. the bottle episode (co-authored by lalia)
29. ten seconds. special occasion.
30. vitriol

chronological order - not recommended reading order:

1. notes on gentrification, family, and reminiscence
2. moving
3. a love letter to allston mass
4. the worst best first day of school ever
5. fetch the bolt cutters
6. accumulating boxes and never unpacking them
7. rockfall ratmas, or, another love letter to allston mass
8. this one is just fluff, but it's cute fluff
9. the quest
10. vitriol
11. home
12. ceviche
13. practical applications of sulfuric acid (makeup)
14. drinko captain
15. are you tired of being nice?
16. don't you wanna just go apeshit?
17. red card
18. do you think anyone has ever offered a shiv as an olive branch before
19. backup
20. a terrible commute
21. taking the L
22. penalty shots
23. peak pancake power hour
24. you lose (lalia)
25. emotional iron maiden
26. leo does not know this happened btw (lalia)
27. like an alternate timeline (lalia)
28. favorite cousin
29. the bottle episode (co-authored by lalia)
30. ten seconds. special occasion.

[aya]

The game is a fucking disaster. Truly.

By the time the buzzer sounds for halftime, it's already 7-1.

In rec league, mercy rules would be kicking in right now. Varsity exy is different — no training wheels. One team being up by 5 at the half is such an anomaly at this level that you don't get mercy. You get to suck it up and spend forty-five more humiliating minutes pretending like you're not just their punching bag.

Leo Wordriff didn't think that her third game on varsity would be worse than the second, or that the second would be as bad as the first.

She should've known better, honestly. Shear Hill's homecoming game was never going to be some kind of comic book situation. Their scrappy, shitty team was never going to have a come-from-behind underdog karmic justice against their long-time rival; they were never going to win on the power of narrative catharsis or righteous anger. Leo's ball handling gets sloppy when she's pissed off.

She hates this fucking court.

Ripping off her helmet, she storms into the visitor locker room, a well of frustrated complaints fighting their way to be the first out of her mouth. "If you don't have the ball," she announces, chucking her helmet at the row of lockers, "you need to play fucking defense."

The helmet clatters into the locker, the aluminum reverberating with a less-than-satisfying thud. There's no dent, despite the force of her throw. The locker's paint didn't even have the decency to scuff, its purple coat still as glossy as when it was built. Which wasn't that long ago, actually, despite the way the Shear Hill visitor locker room already smells like a series of ill-advised attempts to cover ancient sweat and spit with too much body spray.

The other striker takes the outburst personally, rising from the bench in indignation. "Oh, it's my fault you keep losing the ball when I'm wide open?"

"You want me to pass when I've got the entire backfield in my face?" Leo's racket finds its way back into her hands before she realizes it's happening, its heel drumming menacingly against the bench.

Surprisingly, this is enough to get the senior to back down. One humiliating defeat is enough for an evening, and whether or not her teammate actually thinks that Leo is capable of delivering a halftime beat-down to someone a head taller than her, finding out doesn't feel worth it. Arms crossed, they sit back down, though not without grumbling "What's your problem?" to no one in particular.

Leo grits her teeth and turns back towards the lockers once more, desperately willing herself not to start listing them. Instead, she starts trying to scratch them into the glossy purple paint with the head of her racket.

"L-Word hates Shear Hill like she's compensating for something," someone explains. Leo doesn't turn around to see who's laughing; she lets her ears burn and pulls off one of her gloves, trying to scratch through the paint with her fingernails.

"Yeah," she tells the purple door, "that's exactly it." No luck. The finish is too well-applied or her nails are too short. "I'm compensating for your shitty situational awareness."

Someone is saved by the bell — a buzzer signals two minutes until the second half — though it isn't clear who. Leo groans, letting her head thunk into the locker door, lamenting her lack of graffiting progress. Fucking something up off the court is a paltry consolation prize, but damn does she need some kind of win tonight. As the clicking of plastic armor shuffling towards the court swells and abates, someone hands her a shank.

Gotta love that Rockfall solidarity.

[aya]

When her grandfather died, it was either keep the restaurant or keep the house.

The Shotgun Bingo Diner meant more to Leo's mom.

They moved to Rockfall.

[aya]

Tuesday through Friday, Leo's parents ran the diner.

Her grandpa would pick her up from school. When the weather is nice, they'd stroll through the neighborhood — their afternoon promenade, as he called it — heading down to the pond to feed the ducks, or to see a matinee at the theatre, or to poke around the flea market, while he explained the history of seemingly every street, building, lamppost, or empty lot they passed on the way.

"That fire hydrant is new," he'd say, pointing to an unassuming piece of infrastructure. "They put it in back in 63 after the old one got smashed up during the parade." Leo would nod emphatically, like she agreed that something from 63 was new and she knew exactly which parade was The parade. That guaranteed that the story would get to the good part — and there was always a good part.

"That was a good parade. A peacekeeper truck got torched on that corner —" he'd point with his cane to the spot where a 24-hour fitness center now stood, its beige façade utterly charmless next to the dilapidated stone library next door "— right in front of Mrs. Weyes's house." He'd laugh to himself for awhile, then add, "Kneecaps would've loved that," as though that clarified anything. By then she'd met enough of his old people friends at bridge or mahjong or canasta night to accept Kneecaps as a perfectly normal name.

The rotating cast of senior citizens at Wednesday Game Night all had names like Mouse and Drivetrain and Too-Tall and Lady Whiskers and Papa Bear, or else they'd be named something like Allston Mae or Wild Will or Stupid John. Keeping track of who was who wasn't difficult after a bit of practice. Lady Whiskers always had glitter in her beard and Papa Bear only did sometimes; Too-Tall was taller than Mouse but shorter than everyone else; Drivetrain tended to doze at the table and snored like a steamroller, particularly when Stupid John got on any sort of math-based tangent; Wild Will sometimes tried gambling away his eyepatch but never seemed to lose it; best of all, Allston Mae always had a pet rat in her overall pocket — except when she let it onto the table to show off the new tricks it learned.

Leo always found it funny that for a game night, they'd hardly play anything at all. She'd been to enough Saturday Bingoes at the diner to know just how dedicated to moving games along Grandpa Starlight could be. But here they'd deal their tiles or cards or dominoes and spent hours on the same hand, just talking about people named things like Peaches or Shotgun or Strangler, occasionally glancing her way like she shouldn't overhear. That always got her laughing: they'd lean in and continue their conversation at the same volume, thinking they were being quiet. Most of the details were still difficult to follow, but even for a seven-year-old it wasn't hard to figure out they were talking about crimes, or about the war, or about whatever sixty-year-old gossip they thought was too salacious for a child to overhear.

For his part, her grandpa would fill her in during their next promenade. "This used to be a truck depot," he'd say, standing in front of a grocery store. "Once upon a time, Wild Will's siblings would steal some of the trucks with my sister. That's why everyone called her Shotgun."

Leo couldn't decide if it was cooler to have a great-aunt who stole trucks or a great-aunt named Shotgun.

"She made a lot of people very mad," he'd go on, making up Leo's mind that it was cooler to have a great-aunt who stole trucks, "which is why we don't talk about her much."

Details like this always made their Thursday promenades the most interesting. When the weather was especially nice, they'd walk to the street he grew up on, down at the base of the hill. Grandpa Starlight would take Leo's hand, close his eyes, and allow himself to be lead along, calling out the names of the neighbor's houses as they passed them in his memory. "The Zahers'," he'd say, standing in front of a coffee shop; "The Lincolns' — Mouse lived here," in front of a bank, "their grandma taught me the recipe for the crawfish chowder you like right on her front porch here"; "Wild Will's house," now some five-over-ones, "before someone burned it down"; and then: "Ours."

Grandpa Starlight wouldn't ever open his eyes. Leo examines the peacekeeper station in front of them, trying to reconcile his descriptions with the confrontational building behind the barbed wire fence. "Your great-aunt Vi always said it was pretty. Before the war, anyway," he'd sigh, "but I was too young to remember that." They'd sit for awhile while he rested for the journey back up Shear Hill. "I was only four when the bombs took off the roof, so that's how I remember it. The second story was all tarp." It would be quiet for a moment, then he'd poke her in the side, as if that was enough to add levity. "Like that parachute game. Or a blanket fort."

The next day would inevitably take them down the streets where the old buildings still stood: a repurposed theatre that was now a restaurant — "though they still have the original painted ceiling, and their custard buns aren't half bad" — they'd stop in for an early dinner every once in a rare while; a factory building with floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides, now home to the flea market; a brick mercantile that now hosts a hardware store; an old bowling alley that now sits empty.

A short building on an unkempt lot, decorated with faded murals and smashed windows, the bowling alley is unassuming at first glance. On one side, a flickering neon sign advertises a 24-7 laundromat; in the background, the military academy looms. The flaking bricks and sun-bleached sign for "Shear Hill Bowladrome: Home of the Shear Hill Bowling Club! 5 6-time District 2 Champions!" fade into the background behind a chain link fence and this summer's overgrowth of weeds.

Grandpa Starlight liked to spend the most time there, but it never interested Leo much — the bowling alley didn't have bins of used treasures to dig through, or custard buns, or even pegboard rows of hammers and screwdrivers and chisels to examine. Melting in the hot sun and staring at a building that only seemed to get shabbier the longer they looked at it couldn't compare — not even when she saw a family of squirrels climb out of a broken window, one after the other after the other after the other, like a video stuck on loop.

One Friday, a section of the chain link fence was inexplicably missing. A path had been cut through the weeds, leading up to the building and running along the sides. "Are we supposed to go in there?" Leo remembers asking. "Nope," her grandpa replied with a wink, already starting onto the lot, "but that's what holes in the fence are for." Leo hurried after him, catching up as he rounded the corner.

The mural along the side of the building was much more worth looking at than the parts of the bowling alley that were visible from the street. Through the flaking paint, Leo could make out a snake coiled around some sort of tower, squeezing it, and a group of people pulling it down. It reminded her of a fairy tale, the one with the princess and the long hair, but somehow she didn't think that was quite right.

"My father originally painted this on the side of a box car," her grandpa explained, beaming. "He was killed when I was a toddler, I don't remember him otherwise — just his art. My sister kept touching it up, adding to it — it's been so long I have trouble remembering her too. When that rail yard was turned into a brickyard, we transposed it here — that was some years after her."

"The one in the Hunger Games?" was all she could think to ask. Leo knew that her grandpa had three older sisters: the one she met, the one who stole trucks, and the one in the Hunger Games.

"The one who died in the Hunger Games, yes," he agreed.

"Does this make you sad?"

"Hmm." He'd think for a long while. Leo loved that about her grandpa. He always thought about her questions, always took the time to give her an honest answer. Eventually: "Ninety-two years is a long while." Leo couldn't imagine being ninety-two, and sometimes forgets that her grandpa is that old. "I've known a lot of people, and lost a lot of people. I have always missed them, but getting to share them with you takes the sadness out of it."

Leo never complained about the visits to the Shear Hill Bowladrome after that.

[aya]

Rockfall really puts the downward in downward mobilility.

The fastest way from Rockfall to Shear Hill is a walking route: a 100-meter staircase cut into the cliffside of the old quarry, tucked back behind Lodestone Ave.

The fastest way from Shear Hill to Rockfall is to hurdle yourself over the edge.

On some slow weekdays, Leo Wordriff closes the diner on her own. Wipe down the tables. Wipe down the counters. Wash the last few dishes. Pack up the soup of the day and the stale donuts for tomorrow's lunch. Pack up her schoolwork. Hiss at the possums while taking out the trash. Put the pies back in the fridge.

Usually the last customer clears out before ten; sometimes Leo is stuck there until well after midnight. She's slept in the corner booth more than once, resigned to missing the first few periods of school the next day. She tries not to — she'll be on the hook for prep work in the morning. Besides, she has advanced chemistry first period. She likes chemistry.

The Stairway To Hell is unlit, poorly maintained, and a popular nighttime hangout of the aspirational drunks that boast about how tonight's the night they're finally getting out! before decorating the granite with freshly-broken glass bottles, pissing themselves, and passing out in a puddle of their own vomit not twenty meters from the bottom. Leo has diffused more than one altercation with leftover chicken tenders. Leo has gotten held up for her soup. At one in the morning, handing over her lunch is easier than picking shards of broken bottle out of her arm. Speaking from experience. She's never meant it literally when she's described her grandpa's recipes as to die for.

Once she's at ground level, it's a stone's throw home. Cut through the quote-unquote park to get over to Lodestone, down three blocks past the pawn shop and the laundromat and the exotic pet store that's definitely a front for something, take a right onto Old Quarry Road, duck into the first apartment complex past the liquor store. It's the only building Leo has seen so far that has Viva la Slumpia! graffitied in blue rather than black or orange. She has no idea what slumpia is supposed to mean, but it feels accurate anyway.

The hallway smells like trash again — one of her neighbors must've mistaken the communal "take something, leave something" pile next to the stairwell with a literal trash heap. Or else someone didn't feel like making the trip to the dumpster, and the stack of busted furniture, used cutlery, and old magazines looked like plausible deniability. Leo doesn't like dragging the trash down to the Murder Basement, out into the courtyard, and through the awkwardly small tunnel that leads out to the back alley either — even so it's hard not to judge. It's one thing to stencil Keep Rockfall Shitty! on the side of the new housing developments, it's another to do your part by luring more roaches and rats into your living area.

Her keys always stick in the lock, but to make up for it, the front door knob doesn't actually latch, so it's easy to shoulder her way in as soon as she's managed to jimmy the deadbolt open.

It's dark inside 1254 Old Quarry Road Apt. 3., with the exception of the orange glow of the sodium vapor streetlights coming in from the window and the stove clock that reads 01:12.

Leo doesn't make it down the hall to her bedroom; she collapses face-down on the ratty beige couch, shoes on, snoring before her head hits the floral throw pillow.

[aya]

In Shear Hill, the Wordriffs' house was small and uninteresting.

By contrast, their Rockfall apartment feels like an adventure for all of fifteen minutes. Then it feels like the beginning of a horror movie.

The toilet handle is loose — Leo's mom removes the lid to discover it secured to the tank with nothing but an old stretched-out hair tie.

Similarly, the shower head lolls around on its arm as though simply existing in this apartment is too much to bear, and delivers water like a depressed garden hose duct-taped up the wall.

The drawer in the kitchen (singular) is too narrow to fit their flatware organizer; Leo stays in her room when the debate over what should be stored there starts to get heated. She finds a secret compartment high up on the wall, painted shut, and picks at the seams with her fingernails until finally it opens to reveal the treasure inside: a garbage bag filled with pornographic magazines dated forty years prior.

They make the mistake of running the tiny dishwasher exactly once — halfway through the cycle, the water starts gurgling up from the sink drain, dislodging rotted bits of the previous tenant's food and threatening to overflow. The three of them grab mixing bowls and spend the next hour bailing out the sink, carrying the chunky grey water into the bathroom and dumping it into the toilet.

The ceiling light in Leo's room randomly stops working, then suddenly starts again a week later at 3 in the morning.

Eighty or so years ago, when the building was built, it must've been beautiful. The doorways are framed with carved wood trim under the few dozen coats of hastily-applied paint, all some shade of landlord off-white. The penny tile in the bathroom was laid with a simple floral motif, framed with a pattern along the border. Underneath decades of scuffs and splotches, the hardwood floors are still intact and even nice to look at. The main stairwell is wide, marble, with a detailed newell post at the end of the railing. Even the tattered, algae-covered awning hanging above the building's stoop sports an art deco design of a regal woman with a leaping deer standing in front of the moon, and two little gargoyle faces peer out of the stonework.

The charming features stop immediately after ascending the staircase. Visiting the four floors above their apartment is a mistake that Leo and her dad make exactly once. The hallways are lined with ancient carpet that may have been burgundy when they were installed, or may have been hastily dyed some years later to cover up red wine stains, blood stains, or some combination thereof. The fluorescent light bulbs flicker menacingly; one even goes out whenever Leo steps on a particular floorboard. The stairwell turns a horrible shade of faded grey-blue reminiscent of the asylum in one of her comics.

By the fourth story, the floors no longer seem level or plumb with the walls — Leo's dad gives up and returns home, claiming seasickness. The fifth floor has an ominous droning noise, either some haunted bagpipes, or the creaks and groans of a phantom elevator that's no longer installed. The rear stairwell is spray painted with a menacing floor-to-ceiling "No." The roof access door is apparently locked from the outside and rattles like a ghost wearing chains for a full minute after Leo tries to open it. That's enough, finally, to send the ten-year-old scurrying down to the safety of the first floor, into unit number three, bolting the door behind her.

Still, it's not all bad. Leo's dad paints the kitchen cherry red and stencils a flower motif onto the living room wall. Leo's mom rigs up some replacement shelves for the fridge out of cardboard and old shoelaces. They hang the family photos: Leo's parents toasting with her aunts at their wedding; her dad in a cap and gown, rocking wraparound shades and a mullet, holding a sign that says too cool for school instead of his diploma; their family trip to the lake three years ago — not the frigid quarry lake, but the one out in Highland with the real sand shore; Leo's first day of kindergarten, goofy smile revealing her first ever missing tooth; her grandpa, emceeing Saturday Night Bingo at the diner, while a three-year-old Leo sits on the counter, fishing numbers out of the bingo cage to stick in her mouth; her grandpa, holding his two daughters and smiling brightly, so eager for their first family photo that the notices on the information desk at the adoption center are still legible in the background; her grandpa, blowing out nineteen candles stuck into a pie, flanked by a sister on either side; her grandpa, Leo's age, wearing a metal crown as a necklace, all three of his sisters cracking up; her grandpa, younger still, brandishing a bingo card and grinning ear to ear, a dozen old ladies looking on in adoration — in the bingo hall, Leo remembers bitterly, that was down the street from the bowling alley, subsumed by the military academy and torn down years before she was born.

Her mom talks about how there's plenty of space for more photos, about how it's nice they're right down the street from her sister now, and won't Leo like spending more time with her cousin? Leo has her reservations about that: last time she spoke with cousin Ilyich was at their grandpa's funeral, which wasn't a conversation so much as an hour-long lecture about the work that goes into preparing a body at the mortuary, depending on if cremation or burial is chosen, including a detailed breakdown of the raw materials required for various urns versus caskets, and a long side-tangent about the preservation and transportation of cut flowers for bouquets. The time before that, they went to the playground, and when Ilyich cried it wasn't even because they got splinters from the weathered old slide, it was because somehow it was sad for all the dozens and dozens of people who worked on any component of the swing set that it had fallen into disrepair.

Her dad talks about how they're only five blocks away from their old neighborhood, either in denial about his new commute time, or simply deluding himself into thinking that the 33 flights of stairs will hardly factor in. At least his insistence that Leo can go back and see her Shear Hill friends whenever she wants doesn't make him a liar — the amount that she wants is the same as the number of friends who didn't jump right to calling her Riff-Raff the moment she mentioned their move: zero. The immediacy was the worst part. Like they'd already sat down and thought of all the mean nicknames they had for Leo and had just been waiting for the right opportunity to use them.

No, Leo Wordriff's only friend in Shear Hill died three weeks ago, and not even moving to Rockfall could make that any worse.

[aya]

The cathartic high of scratching a cartoonish, if grotesque, dead pig's head into the violet paint of the visitor lockers fades about five minutes into the second half.

They've had eight turnovers — Leo is willing to accept responsibility for no more than three — and just let up another goal. It's no surprise when a fight breaks out down court, but it's still disappointing when both of their first-string backliners earn their second yellow card of the night brawling with each other. (Seriously, the Shear Hill brats are right. there.)

The stands crackle with fuck-you glee at Rockfall's defense benching themselves for the remaining 40 minutes. With a 7 point lead already on the board, the Shear Hill Military Academy Vipers are all but guaranteed to deliver a record-breaking trouncing to their most-despised rivals.

Leo Wordriff played the backline before this year. Before she even steps off the court she knows she's getting the dubious honor of trying to keep the embarrassment of this night from being permanently stamped in the record books. It's the right call — they didn't have a snowball's chance in hell at catching back up before, they don't have a snowball's chance on the surface of the sun now. Besides, the next-best option is their goalie, who's obviously needed elsewhere.

The problem with being damage-control defense is that Leo could have the best game of her life and no one will notice anything other than the scoreboard. Despite priding herself as being a team player, she'd be lying if she said that didn't matter. If the best part of Exy isn't the surge of satisfaction from pulling off a truly excellent play, it's the roar of the crowd that follows. It's knowing that she isn't just crushing it in the background, but that her efforts are being recognized. She lives on the possibility of hearing chants of her name echoing off the plexiglass: "Leo! Leo! Leo!" Or from the bench: "Let's go L-Word! Let's go!"

She quashes the dream for tonight. The Shear Hill crowd is boisterous, hostile, and full of people who suck in every conceivable way. There isn't another audience less likely to appreciate a good play for its own sake if it's made against their own team.

Heavy defender's racquet in hand, Leo takes her old spot on the backline. Their dealer serves, and their strikers manage to pass between each other exactly once before losing possession. The ball makes its way back up the court: Shear Hill's backliner passes to their dealer, who lobs the ball to the striker on Leo's side of the court. (Naturally, Rockfall's strikers make no effort to intervene in any way, having either completely memory-holed Leo's demands from halftime, or ignoring them intentionally to spite her.)

Shear Hill's striker is a head taller than Leo, approaching with a the lazy swagger of a teenager with a seven-point lead choosing between a second-string defender and an offensive player suddenly thrust onto the backline. For the first time since setting foot in this atrocity of a gym, Leo grins. She can't blame him; she'd be overconfident too. Even if the familiar faces on Shear Hill's starting line recognized her from grade school, how would they know that she spent the last five years on defense?

Shear Hill has a superiority complex and a reliable lack of object permanence. They wouldn't remember that last year's indomitable offense was almost entirely seniors, and wouldn't notice that the single scrappy freshman expected to anchor this year's striker line hadn't returned this season. Never in a million years would they think about Rockfall for long enough to consider that this year's strikers might simply be filling the gaps left behind.

Put simply: it's funny that the guy carelessly striding into her zone expects an almost-decent striker out of her depth on defense. Leo Wordriff loves to be underestimated.

And that's all she needs to remember how to have fun with it. She bites back her smile, takes a couple hesitant shuffle-steps in either direction as she approaches, briefly larping as a total novice who's playing the backline for the very first time out of sheer necessity.

The Vipers' striker relaxes even further, not just treating the challenge like it's a scrimmage, but as though this is a practice drill strictly for Leo's benefit. He still cradles the ball vertically, close to his body, but hardly bothers to keep it away from her.

The look on his face when she strikes, explosive, delivering a full-force stick-check into his racquet with such velocity that he hits himself in the helmet with a plastic bonk! will undoubtedly sustain her through tonight's closing shift at the diner. Possibly through the rest of the season.

Mouth agape, like a spoiled toddler being told no for the first time in his privileged life, he stands there absolutely stupefied while the ball drops to the court behind him. When he realizes there will be no referee's whistle, he takes a dive on a delay, either in denial about the hit's legality or desperate to get her ejected so he never needs to let the deep embarrassment set in.

Leo ignores the striker's last-ditch effort to salvage the scraps of his pride, and instead scoops up the ball and ferries it down court.

Catching a glimpse of the Shear Hill striker pleading his case to a shrugging ref, she surges with self-satisfaction. Making assholes look like assholes feels good; there's no denying that.

Jogging back to her spot on the backline, she can't keep herself from rubbing it in when she passes him: "Suck it up, buttercup," she gloats, punctuating the taunt with a mocking half-curtsy. For such a nothing insult, this seems to get under the Shear Hill striker's skin. Scowling, he trots off to go gossip with his team's dealer while the ball is passed back and forth between Rockfall's floundering offense. Every time they glance her way or gesture to her, Leo puffs up her chest a little bit, as though she absorbed every ounce of the striker's bravado in that split second where she made him look like a little idiot baby. She even offers the pair a nonchalant shrug, daring them to underestimate her again and see what happens. Fuck around and find out.

Rockfall's ace strikers eventually lob the ball directly to Shear Hill's goalie, and the enemy dealer calls for a sub, eyeing Leo the whole way off the court. Go ahead, she thinks, tell your team to beware of me. If they're concerned enough to make substitutions just to spread the news of Backliners To Watch Out For, her night is looking up.

After all, Shear Hill's Exy team has the annoying post-game ritual of going out for a celebratory dinner after their home games. Leo has the misfortune of knowing this for the same reason she knows that they're obnoxiously loud, leave a huge mess behind, and never tip. For the first time, she isn't dreading waiting their table tonight. This time they'll recognize her. Meaning: this time she can fuck with them.

Substitutions made, the ball is served. The same striker comes barreling up the court towards Leo, intent on reclaiming his dignity with a full-tilt charge. She has just enough time to plant her back foot, tense her core, and brace for impact. It's less of a body check and more of a head-on collision. There's a flash of fluorescent gymnasium lights, and then she's flat on her back, helmet off-kilter, the goal buzzer cutting through the ringing in her ears.

She eases herself up to a sitting position and adjusts her helmet. It takes her a moment to refocus her vision, thanks in no small part to the smear of blood painting the inside of her plexi visor red. It takes her another to process their goalie offering her a hand up. "— good? L-Word? You good?" she finally hears over the rhythmic din in her head. She's hauled to her feet, blinks hard, and nods once. "Uh-huh." The goalie gives her a gentle tap of camaraderie on the helmet, which is not quite disorienting enough to be concerning.

She takes a deep breath, making heavy eye contact with the ten-foot serpent decal on the wall under the scoreboard, languishing in the nauseating familiarity of its design rather than subjecting herself to the bright red HOME: 9 | VISITOR: 1 glowing above it. It takes another moment for Leo to recalibrate to her surroundings enough to register that the torrent of noise filling her head is the racket of the home team crowd chanting. Their sing-song shout-and-clap sounds like generic nonsense at first: Let's-go-off-fense! clap clap clapclapclap! Let's-go-off-fense! clap clap clapclapclap!

Recognition starts as a head rush. Then her extremities go cold. It's like plunging into the quarry lake too early in the spring: the gym A/C on her sweat suddenly registers as a hundred thousand needles driven into every brand-new goosebump; her heart pounds like it's trying to kick down the door of her sternum; she draws an involuntary breath so deep it's as though it's her first gasp for oxygen after clawing her way out of her grave.

Never in a million years did she think she'd hear her name echoing off the plexiglass. But there it is, unmistakable: Fuck you Riff-Raff! clap clap clapclapclap! Fuck you Riff-Raff! clap clap clapclapclap! Fuck you Riff-Raff! —

[aya]

The worst time to start at a new school is four weeks into the year. Unquestionably. Ask Leo Wordriff how she knows.

See, the first week is for learning classroom procedures and focusing all your energy on making sure not to call the teacher your fourth grade teacher's name — or worse, mom. The second week is for getting acquainted with your classmates: figuring out who you'll sit with at lunch, who you'll play with during recess, and who you definitely don't want to do group projects with. Week three is for easing into academics: finding a subject for your first book report, turning in your first math worksheet, taking your first spelling test.

By the fourth week, everyone is settled.

So, naturally, on the fourth week of the school year, an hour after the day has started, Leo is frogmarched into her new fifth grade classroom by the ancient administrative assistant, her talons dug into Leo's shoulders as though she's had kids try to flee before. (She definitely has. Leo herself considers bolting, if only to put some distance between her and the overwhelming scent of cigarettes and mothballs.)

When they enter the classroom, Leo's new teacher doesn't stop the spelling pre-test. He exchanges a tired glance with the secretary, then Leo feels the talons retract from her shoulders. She's left standing awkwardly near the door, staring at the crowded classroom of kids staring back at her.

"Hel-lo," the teacher says, taking care to enunciate each syllable.

"Uh, hi," Leo starts.

He glances over at her briefly, then returns his attention to the piece of paper in his hands. "Number four. Hel-lo. 'It's polite to greet people with hello. Hello."

"Hello," Leo tries again.

"E-cho," he continues. It's silent other than the scribbling of pencils on paper. "Number five. Echo. 'Do you hear an echo?' Echo."

"I —" she says, feeling her face turn red. This time, the teacher presses a finger to his lips.

"O-bey," he says. "Number six. Obey. 'You must obey the rules. Obey."

Leo scans the classroom for — she doesn't know what. A list of rules posted on the wall? Someone who might explain what she's supposed to do?

A girl towards the back of the classroom makes eye contact. The girl winks, and then, in one fluid motion, fires off a spitball, kicks the boy behind her in the shins, and stares intently at the paper in front of her like nothing happened.

The boy looks up, startled, at the same moment the spitball connects with the teacher's cheek and adheres there.

"Principal," he continues without missing a beat, "Number seven. Principal. 'Slate, go see the principal.' Principal."

The boy — Slate, apparently — splutters with confused protests, while Leo bites back a laugh and fixes her gaze on her shoes, lest she accidentally snitch on the spitball artist with her amusement.

"Tomorrow," the teacher adds, wiping his face. "Number eight. Tomorrow. 'If Slate doesn't get up now, he will have detention tomorrow.' Tomorrow."

The patsy vacates his seat, and though the expert marksman doesn't glance up from her spelling test again, Leo catches the girl smirking to herself.

The rest of the spelling list is read off without incident, and at long last the teacher glances at Leo with an exasperated sigh. "It seems we have a new student joining us," he says, massaging the bridge of his nose, "on the fourth week of school. Why don't you introduce yourself — tell the class your name and where you transferred from."

"Hello," she says, still hung up on the spelling list. "I'm Leo. We just moved here from Shear Hill."

There's an audible groan at the mention of Shear Hill, and Leo starts feeling awkward once more. She tries to catch the spitball wizard's eye again, but the girl's focus is trained on another corner of the classroom. Leo follows her gaze to a quartet of students staring her down and muttering amongst each other conspiratorially.

"Okay," says the teacher. He takes a deep breath, then another, and then another, as if every time he addresses the class it requires him to gather all of his strength and energy. "Does anyone want to volunteer to share the classroom procedures with Leo Shear Hill."

Much to Leo's surprise, there are a more than a handful of volunteers. The kids in the front corner raise their hands with the most enthusiasm, elbowing each other. Again Leo tries to catch the attention of the girl in the back of the class, desperately hoping for another rescue.

"Fine," the teacher agrees, addressing the four kids now practically brawling over the opportunity to show Leo the ropes. "Go ahead and —"

"There's an open seat next to me," comes the casual observation from the back of the room. The spitball sniper gestures at the now-vacated desk of Slate The Scapegoat.

The teacher's eyebrows quirk upward in what must be genuine surprise, considering it's the first hint of any emotion besides exhaustion that Leo has seen him muster. He sighs again. "Sure," he agrees, "That's easier. Go sit with Hatchet."

[aya]

"Have lunch with me," Hatchet says.

Leo nods fervently, in disbelief about how much her day has turned around already. Hatchet Laveau has already given her the full rundown of everything she's missed in the first three weeks, from classroom procedures to social dynamics to the fact that Mr. Guy (who never actually introduced himself) is "never not tired" and "hates having to do even the smallest amount of work" which is probably because "he's sad" since "his husband kicked him out last winter" and allegedly: "there was some good shit in those curbed boxes. Gotta love Rockfall Ratmas coming early, right?" — all sorts of information that Leo would never in a million years have figured out without Hatchet.

"You got lunch money, right?"

No, Leo does not have lunch money. Leo has leftovers from the diner. Her mom even packed her a couple donuts for her first day of school, even though it's Monday — because how bad could a day really be if there are donuts? Leo shakes her head. "Leftovers. All day every day."

Hatchet considers this, then informs Leo of her good fortune. "You're the big winner," she says, noding sagely. "Today is Mystery Casserole Monday." Leo stares at her blankly. "They throw all of last week's leftovers into a pot with everything that started to spoil over the weekend. Sometimes they cover it with cheese, but usually it's gravy." When Leo doesn't look repulsed enough, Hatchet adds: "Last week we had Bologna Surprise and spaghetti with red sauce, so it's going to look, smell, and taste like vomit."

That's vivid enough for Leo to pull a face. "Gross," she agrees. "Glad I've got spanakopita."

"Spana-huh?"

"Spanakopita. Spinach pie. With herbs. And cheese. And onion and garlic and eggs. One of my grandpa's recipes, it's from his —" she winces, then corrects herself "...our diner. My family's." Hatchet nods slowly, like she's following along. Suddenly worried about having to answer questions about her grandpa — which she definitely can't do without crying — which she definitely definitely doesn't want to do on her first day of school in front of the inexplicably cool kid hanging out with her — Leo hurriedly suggests: "You can try some if you want. Split it with me — there's a ton. I've got a couple donuts too — they're a little stale, but they're still donuts."

"Cool," says Hatchet. "Can't be worse than dog vomit casserole." And then: "Let's skip the lunch room so we don't have to smell it."

Leo nods, and follows Hatchet up four flights of stairs all the way to the roof access. A pristine padlock, clearly much newer than the rest of the scraped and dented door, keeps it shut. Hatchet doesn't bat an eye; instead she opens the fire extinguisher panel and fishes around until she fetches a pair of bolt cutters hidden somewhere in the depths. Leo watches, awed, as Hatchet cuts through the lock. "46," she mutters as it falls to the ground, before stashing the bolt cutters, retrieving the useless padlock, and pushing through the door.

Without hesitation, Leo steps out onto the roof just in time to watch Hatchet drop the vanquished lock into a pile with — presumably — 45 of its fellows.

The rooftop view is much nicer than Leo was expecting. Because Rockfall slopes dramatically towards the bottom — on account of being built in an abandoned quarry — the school roof offers a near-360º view of the neighborhood. Leo didn't realize how big Rockfall is. The buildings near the school seem almost-familiar, at least similar to the ones near her new home. But as she looks further away, sprawling, behemoth apartment blocks rise from the depths — taller than the school roof, even factoring in the downward slope. In the other direction, she spots the stairs leading up out of Rockfall, and the smallest hint of Shear Hill poking out over the ridge.

The audible growl of her stomach is the only thing that keeps Leo from admiring the birds-eye view of her new neighborhood for the entire lunch period. Taking a seat on an exposed air vent next to Hatchet, she unloads her leftovers, handing over the paper bag of donuts. "You should pick first," she says. "I don't know what we've got, but there are no wrong answers when it comes to donuts."

While Hatchet contemplates her donut options, Leo hacks the spanakopita into roughly-equal halves with her fork. The spinach pie sheds flakes of pastry shell all over the duct work; she brushes them onto the roof for some lucky pigeon to enjoy later. Hatchet brandishes a bear claw with a "rawr", repeating the gesture a second time when Leo laughs, before plucking off and eating its almond fingernails one by one.

Setting the remaining jelly-filled donut aside for dessert, Leo takes a bite of her piece of spinach pie, trying unsuccessfully to contain the pastry crumbs in her hands. She watches with interest as Hatchet examines the main course and takes an apprehensive nibble. The other girl makes a show of nodding in approval: "Mhm, good —" she offers politely, and then, as if suddenly noticing that it's legitimately delicious, adds, "— like, really good. Your diner's not in Rockfall is it?"

Beaming, Leo shakes her head. "Back in Shear Hill."

"That's got to be pretty hard to get to."

"I guess." Leo doesn't know for certain; she hasn't been back since the move.

Hatchet inhales the rest of her spanakopita, then stands, casually brushing the crumbs off of her shirt. "My place is that way," she offers, gesturing in the general direction of the giant apartment blocks, "so getting to Shear Hill would take me forever. Where d'you live?"

Surveying the view, Leo points to a couple places in opposite directions that feel right, but she can't even remember what color her new building is, much less imagine what it might look like from the air. "There maybe? Or there? It's on Old Quarry Road."

Hatchet nods. "A lot of stuff is on Old Quarry. It runs from there —" she points to a road winding its way up the cliffside on one end of the neighborhood "— to there." Leo follows along as she traces a line that encircles half of Rockfall. "What's your street number? Bet I can find it."

"Uh," Leo flounders, not prepared for a pop quiz on her new address. "12... 54?"

"Near the Corner Value Store, right?" Hatchet suggests without missing a beat. That sounds right, so Leo nods. "Okay. You live in The Cad. Let me give you a tour. That's your block —" she bites a finger off her of bearclaw, then uses the donut to point "— where Old Quarry intersects with Lodestone. See that green sign? That's the liquor store on your corner. If you take a left on Lodestone there —" Leo follows along intently, in awe of Hatchet's familiarity with the neighborhood layout. Too late, she thinks that she should be taking notes. "— it'll take you up to the exotic pet store. Which is definitely a front for something. But they've still got some cute... I want to say... lizards?" Hatchet pauses for another few bites of donut. "Then there's the old rail depot — that's the slow way out of Rockfall —" That's how they moved: an excruciatingly long bus ride, with an even worse transfer to the old mining train that only runs halfway out of the neighborhood. "— and if you cut through Cadmium Park you'll get to the Stairway To Hell — the fast way."

Hatchet gestures at the entirety of Rockfall with the remainder of her donut, now missing all its fingers but the middle one.

"Whoa," Leo says, "you know Rockfall really well." Hatchet makes some kind of face at that. "I'm totally gonna forget all that when I'm back on the ground. You should come over and show me some time. The lizards especially." Realizing that's a lot to ask of someone she just met this morning — especially someone who's already dedicated her whole day so far to getting Leo acquainted with, well, everything — Leo backtracks. "I mean... if you wanna."

But Hatchet just takes the last bite of her bear claw and nods. "Sure," she agrees. "Sounds fun."

[aya]

"The hydraulic winches used to reel in the nets have a pulling capacity of upwards of 40,000 pounds at a speed of 400 feet per minute. So you can imagine that winch entanglement is a serious safety issue for fishing boat crews. That kind of motor won't even flinch at a 200 pound person in the way. It's not uncommon for workers to —"

"Ilyich." Leo looks up from the cutting board and addresses her cousin, who's occupied with stacking and unstacking the coasters on the coffee table. "I appreciate you dropping off my homework. I can't really think about the labor conditions on District Four's fishing boats right now."

"Okay. Would the catch processing logistics be better? Freezer ships are really cool."

"Don't think so. But thanks." Leo returns to dicing her tuna filet. "Terrible pun by the way."

"Thank you. I was saving it. You will hear it again."

"Can't wait."

Three days ago, while idly flipping through her grandpa's cookbooks to pass the time, she came across a recipe she'd never seen before and hasn't been able to get out of her head since. This morning she walked to the grocery store in Shear Hill and spent the last of her tip money on two pounds of high-grade tuna.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know."

"Okay."

One of Leo's favorite things about her cousin is that "I don't know" is a perfectly acceptable answer to Ilyich. It's fine not to know. It's better to admit to it than to say something not true.

"Coach Mom wants to know if you're going to do practice squad. She said —" Ilyich pulls a wadded up piece of paper out of their hoodie pocket and begins to read verbatim: "Please tell Leo that she can start on the practice squad whenever she feels up for it, even if that's the last week in the season. It would be great to have her at practices. If she indicates she's worried about favoritism, let her know that last year we let Becky Haversmith do the same thing when she missed the start of the season because of mono, and Haversmith is tragically uncoordinated."

Ilyich crumples up the piece of paper and shoves it back into their pocket, then looks at Leo expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know."

"Okay."

"I don't know if I want to play again. I don't know if I even like exy."

"Are you gonna do something else?"

"Maybe. Don't know what."

"What else do you like?"

"Chemistry," Leo deadpans.

"That makes sense."

"Does it?"

"Sure. You like cooking."

"Not sure if that counts."

"Of course it does. You do more chemistry when you cook than I do at the forge, and metallurgy is definitely chemistry."

There is silence filled only with the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk of Leo mincing a jalapeño and three cloves of garlic.

"What are you making anyway?"

"Ceviche."

"I don't remember grandpa making that."

Leo shrugs. "The fish doesn't keep very long. It's also expensive. Ask me how I know."

"How do you know?"

"Just bought some." She picks a small cube of deep red tuna out of the mixing bowl and holds it up for her cousin to see.

"That makes sense."

Leo transfers the garlic and the pepper to the mixing bowl.

"Is it good?"

"Don't know. Never had it."

"Oh."

"You can try some if you want. Have you eaten?"

"Lunch or dinner?"

Leo glances at the clock — 3:30. Both later and earlier than what she expected. "I don't know. Guess it doesn't matter. Are you hungry? Want me to grill you a cheese?"

"No, that's okay. I'll try your ceviche though."

Leo nods, then starts slivering an onion. Her knife skills are clumsy and torturously slow, and every time the heel of the blade contacts the cutting board it sends a jolt across her palm despite the glove and the gauze padding it.

"Doctor Mom wants to know if you're still taking your antibiotics."

"Finished them last week."

The onion goes into the mixing bowl; Leo starts working on the lime.

"Also painkillers."

"Tell her I am."

"Are you?"

Leo shrugs. She took exactly one, then spent the next six hours laying face down on her bed trying not to vomit. "I'm taking them to Cadmium Park." The park is an infamous hotspot for recreational substance abuse. Doesn't matter what. It isn't even about money; Leo just needed them out of the house.

Ilyich thinks about this for a while before finally saying: "Okay."

Leo doesn't need to be told that dabbling in amateur drug dealing is reckless and stupid. She knows. "Be gay, do crimes, right?"

"Have you heard from Hatchet?" Ilyich asks without missing a beat.

Leo's fork busts through the rind of the lime; she accidentally stabs herself in the palm of her otherwise-uninjured hand. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, then sets the citrus down and licks the juice away from the spot where two tiny tine-pricks of blood start welling up. The acid stings.

"Coach Mom wants to know if she should —"

"Please no."

"Okay. Also Tank says he hopes you feel better."

Leo has a hard time keeping up with all of Ilyich's friends, in part because her cousin talks about everyone as if their audience is already familiar, and in part because of quantity and variety. If Ilyich knows a guy named Tank, he could be one of the mechanics at the garage that hosts her cousin's metalworking club just as easily as he could be an aquarium dealer or a classmate with a strong aversion to wearing sleeves. There really was no telling.

"He also says you should come check out the vintage AFV he's restoring. He just got it to start." Mechanic, then. "The muzzle break is still no-op but we're going to put a spud cannon on it for fun. You can take a turn firing it if you bring a potato."

"Thanks. I'll think about it."

"Diesel thinks you should come too. She says blowing crap up always makes her feel better after a breakup."

"We're not —" Leo protests reflexively, but there isn't a word she could use to finish that sentence that wouldn't make her feel worse. "...thanks Il. Maybe I will."

"Just don't embarrass me if you do."

"No way. I'm only gonna go if I can embarrass the shit out of you."

Ilyich considers this for a long moment, then nods. "Acceptable."

"Cool." Leo doesn't know how she could possibly embarrass her cousin. There's no disconnect between anything Ilyich does and anything that Ilyich believes, and there never has been.

After adding the lime juice, Leo tosses the contents of the mixing bowl together, then leans on the counter and watches. "C'mere and check this out."

Ilyich moves to the bar stool. They both look on in fascination as the vibrant red tuna gradually desaturates. "It's the acid," Leo explains. "It's not cooking the fish, per se. Just... fucking it up a bit. Y'know. Like acid does."

"Chemistry," Ilyich points out.

"Chemistry," Leo concedes.

They watch it for a few more minutes before Leo pulls out some cutlery. It's interesting. The fish itself is flaky on the outside like it's been cooked, despite still being chilled; still maintaining a dense, smooth, texture on the inside — buttery, but if butter were clean, somehow. Fresh and bright and a little bit sweet. Good overall, Leo thinks, but maybe not worth the expense or the effort.

Her cousin's review is more blunt: "Objectively this is delicious. The texture is weird. I can't tell if it's the most disgusting thing I've ever eaten or the greatest. Let me try another bite." Ilyich does. "Vile. Very tasty though."

Ilyich gathers their belongings and heads to the door.

"Where are you going next?" Leo asks.

"The garage."

"Would anyone there want some ceviche?"

"Probably. But I don't want to carry it."

"Fair enough."

"You can carry it if you want to come with."

"Maybe next time. I think I'm all chemistry'd out for the day. I'll see if a neighbor wants some."

"Okay."

"Bye, Il."

[aya]

The glow-in-the-dark hands of the clock on Leo's dresser reads half past midnight. They were supposed to be asleep hours ago — weeknight. There's not much reason to stay up late; sleepovers have long since become routine. Leo doesn't even bother to ask permission anymore. Her parents have grown so accustomed to the constant presence of their daughter's best friend that they only bother to ask "You're staying over tonight, right Hatchet?" on rare occasions.

The string lights cast warm shadows on the ceiling, underscored by intermittent flashes of lightning. Low rolls of thunder rattle the whole building, the gentle rumbles strangely soothing, like all of Rockfall is a giant alley cat purring in its sleep.

Leo is on the edge of sleep when Hatchet sits up suddenly, emphasized by the swish of her sleeping bag. "Do you hear water dripping?"

"Mmmm," she says blearily. "Raining."

"No but like... inside."

Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, Leo slowly sits up on her bed. "How would it be raining inside?"

It must be a stupid question, because Hatchet lets out a pained, exasperated grumble, but otherwise doesn't dignify it with a response. Instead she turns the light on, inspects the ceiling and, upon finding no signs of indoor rain, hauls Leo out of bed too.

"Whyyyyy," Leo keens when the overhead lights come on, but she allows herself to be lead into the hallway. Hatchet is on high alert, one ear tilted towards the ceiling as if to track some phantom dripping. The bathroom fixtures are thoroughly examined; even the shower drain is scrutinized. The utility closet is cleared next.

When they poke their heads into the spare room, it's clear that the late-night expedition was worthwhile. "You're welcome," Hatchet says triumphantly, and then adds, "Go get your parents. And like fifty trash bags."

It is indeed raining inside. A crack in the paint along the ceiling has spawned a dozen small leaks, dribbling water over the stacks of boxes that fill the room. "Oh, crud," Leo almost-swears, then does as she's told.

Her mom is dispatched to check with the upstairs neighbors about the leak; her dad starts clearing the boxes out of harm's way, enlisting the pair of eleven-year-olds for help. "Sorry to put you to work this late on a school night," he says.

Hatchet just shrugs. "Could be worse."

When Leo's mom returns, soaked, a battle plan is formed. Apparently their upstairs neighbors left their window open and aren't answering their door — either out of the house or dead. Their landlord lives all the way in Highland (of course), making his spare keys completely useless. So, short of rappelling down from their third-floor neighbor's window, their only course of action is to do their best to deal with the leak from within their unit. ("Unless anyone knows how to pick locks...?" her mom asks hopefully. Hatchet raises her eyebrows at Leo, who bites back a laugh knowing full well that her friend has a far more brute-force solution to doors that don't open, but her bolt cutters are no match for a deadlock.)

By 2 o'clock, all of the boxes have been moved out of their storage room and distributed between the living room and both bedrooms. Leo's dad makes pancakes while her mom fashions a makeshift catchment out of garbage bags, redirecting the water into a bucket. Leo unloads the soggiest boxes — fortunately most of the damage was born by the cardboard — while Hatchet sits cross-legged on Leo's bed and sorts through the unloaded contents.

"Why do you have so many boxes of comics?"

"I dunno. Most of this stuff is from my grandpa's, and half of that stuff was from his sisters." Accumulating boxes of other people's things and never getting around to unpacking them seems to be a big part of getting old, from what Leo can tell. She pries open another box, and is greeted by a thick stack of boring paperwork. "Ugh. These tax forms are older than my mom."

"Find another box of comics," says Hatchet, "these ones are all kind of lame. Who has this much to say about turtles anyway?"

Leo abandons the ancient paperwork — Taxes - 38 can rot for all she cares — and diligently searches through more of the thick brown cardboard boxes that held the other comics. The first contains a bunch of hand-stapled pamphlets that must be some sort of paranormal novella — each copy opens with a page full of references to spectres and hauntings and and exorcisms, but the text quickly grows impenatrable from there, and there isn't much in the way of pictures — just a few simple doodles of weapons. The second is full of old journals, ledgers, letters, and bowling score cards.

The third contains the goods. Leo pulls a comic out of the box, still in pristine condition inside of a sleeve of protective plastic. "Whoa." The cover features an extremely buff woman in scant leather armor leaping over a wall of pikes, her raven-colored hair streaming behind her in the wind, a gigantic sword in each hand and a ferocious snarl on her face. The striking title names the woman Xena: Warrior Princess. "Hey Hatchet, check this —"

Oh, Hatchet is checking this one out alright. She leans so far forward to admire the cover that she topples face-first off of Leo's bed onto the pile of Taxes - 38. While Leo is distracted cracking up at her best friend finally doing something slightly embarrassing for once, Hatchet scrambles forward and tidily plucks the comic from Leo's grasp. She studies the cover for an eon, wide-eyed, nodding to herself.

"Guess you —"

"Shhhh."

This sends Leo into another fit of laughter; Hatchet absently swats at Leo, but misses by a mile. Her heart clearly isn't in it — it's contained between the cellophane sleeve in her grasp. "Now this is what I'm talking about," she announces, gently fishing the comic out of its protector.

Leo leans in for a closer look. "That's issue #38," she points out. "Don't you want to start from the beginning?"

"Yep," Hatchet agrees, turning the page, "as soon as you find it."

It doesn't take Leo long to realize that the comics are neatly organized within their respective boxes — sorted by issue number, ascending — and that issue #1 isn't in the box she opened. The only other box of the comics in her room starts with issue #108.

When she returns to her room ten minutes later with the first 36 comics and a plate stacked high with pancakes, Hatchet is sliding issue #38 back into its sleeve. "How was it?" Leo asks.

"Might be the best thing ever. You find the first one?"

"I found the first hundred and forty." She sets the plate of pancakes down on her nightstand and jostles the box of comics for emphasis.

A conspiratorial grin grows across Hatchet's face. "You know..." she says, "being up so late to deal with this leak is going to make it impossible to focus on school tomorrow."

"No kidding," Leo agrees, looking pleased with herself. "My mom thought so too." There's always a spate of absences after heavy rainfall here. Rockfall wasn't built with drainage in mind, by virtue of being built into an old quarry, so flooding becomes routine the further into the neighborhood you go. Even if staying up half the night to deal with a leak wasn't enough to justify missing a day on its own, the inevitable lighter lesson plan certainly was. "We're off the hook."

Obviously delighted, Hatchet gives Leo a high five. "So we're staying up to read these."

"Duh," Leo says wisely, handing over the box of comics and sitting cross-legged on her bed. All of the other comics have been swept off to the side, hastily abandoned in a pile next to Taxes - 38. There's no time for turtles when they have an entire warrior princess saga ahead of them.

"Sins of the Past," Hatchet reads the issue title off of the cover while Leo settles in next to her.

"Anything that starts with the dramatic backstory has to be good," Leo notes through a mouthful of pancake. "I like when they don't make you put the pieces together over like fifty issues."

[aya]

Leo Wordriff
3rd Period
9/9

Lab Report — Lab #4 Practical Applications of Sulfuric Acid (Makeup)

Purpose: The purpose of this experiment was to investigate the properties of H₂SO₄ as a cleaning agent.

Hypothesis: Because H₂SO₄ is a strong acid, hygroscopic, and a powerful oxidizer, it will effectively remove the rust from the railroad spike, dissolve the simulated drain clog, remove the permanent marker ink from Mrs. Collier's marble collection, and denature any proteins or other complex organic molecules it comes in contact with.

Procedure: The graffiti-covered marble, simulated drain clog, and railroad spike were each placed in the bottom of separate 500mL beakers. The beakers were labeled A, B, and C respectively. 50mL of H₂SO₄ was added to beaker A. 100mL of H₂SO₄ was added to beaker B. Roughly 400mL of H₂SO₄ was added to beaker C and an additional 50mL of H₂SO₄ was applied to the experimenter's right hand.

Data and Observations: No data is available for this lab. Observations are only available for the reaction between H₂SO₄ and the experimenter's right hand, as this prevented the experimenter from completing this lab as intended. Roughly 30 seconds after the H₂SO₄ was applied, the experimenter's hand began experiencing an intense itching feeling. This was followed by stinging and searing pain, and then by an overwhelming burning sensation. The burning was intensified when the experimenter's hand was run under water, due to the large quantities of heat released by the reaction between H₂SO₄ and H₂O, which is highly exothermic. Approximately ten minutes later, the location where the H₂SO₄ contacted the experimenter's skin was raised and appeared slightly gelatinous. Patches of skin appeared to be peeling away, particularly on the back of the experimenter's hand near the first knuckle, and had a consistency similar to wet tissue paper. After roughly 2 days, when some of the necrotic tissue was debrided, the experimenter observed that the second metacarpal bone was visible.

Conclusion: Sulfuric acid is a bitch.

[aya]

Not long after The Incident, cousin Ilyich appoints themself chairman of Leo's social life. This is equal parts incredibly thoughtful and deeply irritating. After weeks of Leo successfully avoiding activities via judicious application of noncommital responses, Ilyich lays down an ultimatum.

"Your choices are as follows," they announce, flipping through their planner. "Metalworking club at the garage on Tuesday."

Leo shakes her head. Ilyich's metalworking friends are some of their closest, meaning they're guaranteed to be terrifyingly familiar with the minutiae of Leo's life that Ilyich has deemed important enough to share. If Leo knows the names and occupations of Diesel's last three exes, all of Welda's various food allergies, and the dimensions of Tank's latest kidney stone, she shudders to think what information they might have on her.

"Student Council in Mr. Hill's room on Wednesday."

"Hard pass."

"Book club. Also on Wednesday."

"Haven't read whatever you're discussing."

"I'm sure you can finish it in the next two days. We're reading Bread and Circuses: A Historical Materialist Analysis of the Subjugation of the Districts of Panem, by E. M. Johnwayne, with forward by Add—"

"I promise you I can't. Also, that sounds super banned. Where'd you even get that?"

"One of the boxes from Grandpa's house."

"Can't believe you passed up the motherlode of all comic collections for a bunch of illegal textbooks."

"Yes you can."

"Yes I can," Leo agrees. "What's next?"

"I'm trying to establish a bowling league. The first logistics meeting is Thursday."

"Sounds athletic for you."

"It's basic physics," Ilyich scoffs. "Besides, I intend to be the scorekeeper."

Leo can't help laughing at that. "Fair enough."

"Shall I add you to the roster, jock?"

Leo holds up her hand, still bandaged. "Obviously not."

"Bowl lefty."

"Gonna put up the bumpers for me?"

Ilyich just rolls their eyes. "Friday: party hosted by cheer squad."

"And Saturday?"

"Saturday I lure you and Hatchet onto the exy court under false pretenses and lock you in until you work your shit out."

"Ilyich!" Leo groans. "I think the fuck not!"

"That was a joke," explains Ilyich patiently. "Obviously I couldn't lure you there under false pretenses if I told you I was going to do that." They quirk an eyebrow. "Or could I?"

"You could not."

"Okay. Saturday I tell my moms the truth."

"Snitches get stiches, Il. The truth about what?"

"That I'm worried about you."

Leo sighs. "I appreciate it. I wish you wouldn't tell them that, though." The last thing she needs is getting into some sort of mandatory guidance councilor bullshit. The other last thing she needs is her aunt trying to patch things up with Hatchet on Leo's behalf.

"So you're coming to the party on Friday?"

"Fine. Sure. Sounds like my only option that doesn't involve work."

The party does, in fact, involve work.

"This was not the deal," Leo complains, adjusting the backpack full of bingo equipment on her shoulders.

Ilyich, being Ilyich, had previously agreed to help the cheer squad figure out some party games for their Friday night rager. They had originally intended to debut a friend's tabletop RPG, but that idea was scrapped because it was apparently "not ready to be play-tested yet" on account of being "just a prototype". So not only is Leo now on the hook for emceeing bingo at the cheer squad's kegger, apparently she's the backup option.

Ilyich just shrugs. "Now you won't feel awkward if you don't know anyone."

"Smart."

"Also you won't be able to leave as soon as I take my eye off of you."

"Also smart. And evil. And I hate you."

"I love you too. Thank me later."

To her cousin's credit, Leo does have an easy time integrating with the party. Turns out that drunk teenagers love games that get them more drunk. Bingo is quickly renamed to Drinko even though it has one too many letters. The competing game of truth or dare is quickly subsumed; rules are added to introduce more interactivity and intoxication.

By the end of the night, Leo has been dubbed Drinko Captain and recruited to repeat the game at the combat team's season opening shinding the following week.

When she gets home, she jots down the rules:

DR I N K O

* Bingo Drinko boards are distributed to players
* The Drinko Captain draws a number from the bingo drinko cage (B -> DR, K -> G)
* Players with the corresponding square must select truth or dare in order to mark off their square
* If they fail they must take a penalty shot
* There's No Such Thing As A Free Space: if a player gets drinko using the "free" space, they must complete a final truth or dare from the other players
* When someone wins drinko, all other players must finish their drinks
* Prizes for winning TBD by host. I'm not paying for that shit

[aya]

Rockfall lets up another three goals in the ten minutes it takes Leo to get her head back in the game. Every time the ball gets near her, the crowd erupts with another chorus of Fuck you Riff-Raff!. The same Shear Hill striker takes particular pleasure in challenging her, which is more obnoxious because of how tragically predictable this basic bitch bully behavior is than any other reason.

Still, being on the receiving end of repeated body checks doesn't make this match any easier — especially not after getting laid out that first time. Any other game, Leo would be asking for a sub by now — if for no other reason than to make sure she isn't actually concussed — but Leo Wordriff has always been a team player to a fault. Plus, who would even be able to sub in? Fucking Haversmith?

Every time the Shear Hill shithead comes down the court, Leo thinks harder and harder about the shank that was handed to her: still covered in violet paint, hastily tucked into her sock before the end of halftime. There may be a dozen or so rules governing fighting in exy matches, but as far as Leo knows there aren't any actual rules about stabbing people.

What would they even do? A red card would be beyond worth it. No question. Getting banned from the league? Fine. Expelled from school? Honestly, she could live with that. Jail? Great. Then she won't have to wait the Vipers' table tonight.

Truly, genuinely, the only thing that keeps the shank stashed in her sock is the possibility of her teammate going down with her. Leo couldn't live with that. Literally couldn't, as in, will be murdered in cold blood, thrown down into the lowest part of Rockfall, and left to rot until the next flood carries her corpse away.

But then again if Hatchet Laveau can get away with dumping sulfuric acid on her lab partner in the middle of class, there's no way she'd go down for Leo's mid-game stabbing spree.

So maybe it's fine.

She waits until there are less than ten minutes left on the clock to go for her first yellow card. Really, it's a testament to Leo's bullshit tolerance that she's held out so long. The scoreboard is abysmal. The crowd is assholish. The stadium is a personal affront to Leo's entire family going back at least four generations. And this shitstain apparently has some vendetta against her stretching back to at least the fourth grade but hasn't yet developed the part of his brain that should tell him not to press his luck.

Next time he comes down the court, Leo feigns a stick check then decisively rams the butt of her stick into his stomach. Honestly: hard. Honestly: hoping for internal bleeding, or at least a nasty bruise.

Watching him double over, wheezing, looking like he's about to lose his lunch feels good. Honestly. Leo takes a yellow card, the asswipe takes a penalty shot, and Rockfall takes the rebound.

Leo doesn't expect the fist that connects with her helmet, sending it skittering across the court; the Shear Hill striker doesn't expect an uppercut to find the spot she'd just driven her stick; Leo doesn't expect him to sweep the leg when he goes down; Leo doesn't expect to hit the court again; Leo doesn't expect to be the one receiving the yellow card when she gets back up.

To be fair, she does expect it to get upgraded to a red card when she kicks her helmet in a fit of rage, sending it rocketing into the plexiglass in the direction of the ten-foot decal of the serpent wrapped around the tower that lurks beneath the score board — undoubtedly chosen to "reflect the neighborhood charm" — as if gentrifying the old murals from the Shear Hill Bowladrome somehow makes up for tearing it down to build this monstrosity of a sports complex — but that makes it a thousand times more of a spit in the face — especially since none of the Shear Hill brats chanting Fuck you Riff-Raff! have any idea about any of that —

It's the small red spot blooming on her orange sock that sends Leo storming off the court. Going down for a shiv she didn't even use would add insult to insult and insult and insult and injury and injury. Fucking bullshit.