Marbles

This is a one-shot Penny and Aggie fic I wrote in early 2011. It takes place a few strips into "The Last Summer of Youth: May."

Disclaimer: Penny and Aggie is copyright T Campbell and Gisèle Lagacé, neither of whom are me.

I dreamed about her again last night.

I "woke up" to find her curled at the foot of my bed, purring. She was wearing that same damn top with the horizontal black stripe across her chest, but was naked from the waist down. I froze, not knowing how to handle this intrusion, not sure if I even wanted to.

She opened her eyes, noticed me staring, and smiled. Then, slowly, she began to walk up and down my side, brushing against me. Marking her territory. I let out a whimper in resistance, but her skin felt too soft and tingly against mine (hadn't I been wearing my pink floral Mayfair nightie a moment ago?) for me to mean it. She climbed on top of me, pinned me down and was just beginning to kiss me when I woke up for real to find Charles mounted on my chest, licking my face. I screamed, sending the poor guy scampering under the bed.

It was the sort of dream I'd find hilarious if I were reading about someone else having it. But I can't find it in me to laugh. No, it's not because I'm afraid I'm becoming a furry. It's because I'd thought I was free of all that "do I like girls" angst, as months had gone by since I'd had that dream about her in pink cloud form. And that had in turn been nearly a year after those dreams I had when Sara first opened her big mouth and put the idea in my head. Thanks, BFF. I can't even put it down to your projection issues anymore.

Meanwhile, Penny...how do you tell your other best friend you're losing your marbles for her?

I was leaving school yesterday, heading toward my car, smiling at the new security guard who I think is sweet on me, when I heard her singing. Curious, I walked around to the front and saw her sitting cross-legged on the front lawn. Lisa was teaching her guitar, or trying to, in the midst of all the teasing and shoving between them.

"No no, Ag. It goes A - D - G - A, like this: I'll be your mirror, reflect what you are, in case you don't know. Not A - D - G - C°7 or whatever the hell that last chord was supposed to be. And for Flying Spaghetti Monster's sake, let me adjust your capo. It's slipped down to the wrong fret again."

"Let go. I'll do it myself. You'll break my guitar."

"Yeah, over your head. It'll probably be the best sound you ever got outta it."

"That's it." She laid the guitar aside and began play-wrestling Lisa, blowing her deep blue hair out of her face every few seconds.

God, she's more beautiful than ever. And with the exception of moments that'd be difficult for anyone, like in the days following the Brandi-Xena incident, or that time a few weeks back we argued outside the police station, she's been happier than I've ever seen her. Smiling, laughing, give-and-take snarking with me-like we'd do in the old days, only friendlier-it's as though a huge weight has lifted off her, setting her free.

Some time ago, she told me about a dream she had when she was in the cast (thanks to me) and had a nasty allergic reaction to painkillers. Said it helped her finally make peace with her mom being gone. This was after the police station thing, that she told me. I'd come over to her place the next day, in tears, feeling like s**t over having brought up Melody. She shoulder-hugged me and told me it didn't matter. Not after her dream...epistome? Epiphany? Epiphany.

Now maybe I'm imagining things, but there was one point, in recalling that dream, where she seemed to hold back. She'd described how the tiger had dispatched of Sara, Daphne and Lisa in turn, and was now chasing us toward a cliff, when I (in the dream) snapped out of my shock and began telling her she didn't care about any of us. Then she stopped, as if suddenly remembering something in the telling, and blushed slightly. Or like I said, maybe it was just my imagination. In any case, she picked up abruptly with the tiger's lunge causing me to fall off the cliff.

What had she just remembered, but didn't want to tell me? Had either of us said something so terrible it couldn't have been taken back, had it been said in real life? Or was it the opposite: had we kissed? Had I told her I lov...ike her? Lovike? ...God damn it. How am I supposed to tell her how I feel, if I can't even say it to myself?

I'm not great with words. I can be, but unlike with certain people I know, English was never my best subject. No, I prefer to communicate through fashion. So it was that last week I found myself, at Hot Topic of all places, picking out a blouse with a godawful "Y"-shaped black band. It was the sort of top I'd otherwise never have remotely considered wearing on my dead body, but it was the closest I could find, without my looking like her evil clone, or like we were partners in some hippie sixties duo. I wore it with my best-matching mini and heart belt, the day we did the airport to welcome Sara home. Hopelessly fashion-blind as she is, she didn't even notice. Daphne gave me a "WTF" side glance, but she does that all the time when she thinks Sara isn't looking. Whatev.

So I wore it again today, as we built "Second Looks." Maybe with her seeing it a second time, it could've been a conversation starter the next time we were alone. But Michelle, God bless her, had to ruin everything by calling attention to it, calling me her "fangirl." True, I saved face with my usual élan, but once she took the "pity blouse" message away from it all, if in good humour, my strategy was ruined. Sweet, naïve Shell, without understanding what she'd done, had knocked my marbles out of the ring.

I asked her once why her parents chose the name she did. She told me that "aggie" is slang for a kind of marble, made from agate-similar to her full name-and that Nick loved playing marbles as a kid. Smirking, she told me it's almost if her folks had had me in mind somehow.

"How so?" I said.

"Well, back in the dinosaur days when kids still played marbles, they often used pennies as stakes."

"Or in your dad's case, probably pot seeds."

"Oh yeah?" she said, then stuck out her tongue. "Well, at least he wouldn't have used blood diamonds like your parents probably did."

"Getcher facts straight, Joan Baez. That African warlord stuff didn't go on until long after they'd grown up."

"So you admit they used some kinda diamond to gamble with?"

"I thought we were talking about marbles, not-never mind, Woodstock. Are we doing the mall tomorrow or not?"

That's how it is between us. How it's always been, really, whether we've been half-serious rivals, bitter enemies or close friends. Our convos are games of marbles, taking shots at each other, trying to score. Only the context has changed. Back then it was SRS BZNZ, as Lisa would say. Now it's all in good fun. Whereas she and Lisa show friendly affection by hugging, poking and wrestling each other, she and I do it by snark. Marble-snark.

(I wish she'd wrestle me, or at least hug me. It felt good, that one time she did. Warm.)

As if by coincidence, later that day I found a clear marble, with a sky-blue core, on the sidewalk. On a whim, I picked it up, slipped it in my purse and took it home to polish. It's on my night table. I'm staring at it right now. Like a tiny crystal ball. Will I see my future in it, or twenty possible futures, if I stare long enough?

God, who do I talk to about this? Well, her, duh, eventually, but I could use some advice so I don't screw up what's taken us months to build.

Sara? She'd be the obvious choice. My oldest friend. Gay. Fully out, by choice this time, thanks to her TV show. And close friends with her as well. It's just...I'm not the only one who can be snarky and smug. After all those times she insisted my then-worst enemy (apart from Karen) was really my super secret special luvver, even though that was just her projecting, and my denying it up the wazoo every time, if I even hinted to her how I felt, I'm afraid she'd be insufferable.

Michelle? Shell never really "got" her. And although she's always civil to her now (and without making the production of it that Daphne often makes when I'm around), I think Shell still doesn't.

Brandi? I don't want to bother her with romantic stuff right now. Even after her narrow escape what with the Xena thing, she looked ready to clock Stan earlier today. Not that part of me doesn't think he'd deserve it.

Katy-Ann? She seemed to buy into Sara's shipping that one time. "Any kind of love is preferable to hate." But we've been drifting away lately, the more time she spends with Jack. And my spending time with her and Jack would mean spending time with-ugh-Stan.

Lisa? She means well, and she can put things in perspective when she decides to be SRS-serious, but her advice, on such a touchy subject as her BFF, might be so buried in nervous dork-culture references I'd need a Lisa-English dictionary.

Daphne? Yeah, right.

Fred? We all love him, but all I'm likely to get out of him are "Life is beautiful, it'll all work out" platitudes.

Mom and Dad? Oh sure. Coming out to them as bi, or gay-just-for-her, or whatever, barely a year after running away and being grounded for months? Greaaaat idea, Pen. 'Specially with dad. On the other hand, mom was a total "Rargh! Men suck" feminist back when she was my age, so she might well have experimented...eww! Moving on.

It'd be so much easier if I knew she were into me already. I'm good at being pursued: my old hangers-on, like Brock or Braz, before Cyndi broke him, and of course Rich. At doing the pursuing-Braz, before I was "cool," or Duane, who back then needed a clue and a spine transplant-not so much.

Sometimes I think I read too much into what she may be thinking, or feeling. Like why she wouldn't answer when I asked her, last December, whatever she'd been doing, talking to Xena? Did she think Xena was...well, doesn't matter, because she clearly isn't. Or like her telling me about her tiger dream. Or that time I was at her place and she all but had a nervous breakdown when I was...lukewarm toward her poetry. Had she only gotten fawning praise for it before, from, say, Duane? Or whatsisname, Darren? Did it matter that much to her that I, specifically, liked her work, as though my not liking it meant I was rejecting her, taking her heart from her chest? Winner keeps, loser weeps, like in a game of marbles?

Or am I just telling myself what I wish were true?

I'm staring at the marble still, wondering idly what secrets it can tell me, when I think I hear it buzzing. It isn't. It's my cell. There's a text from her, asking me to call her right away.

"Aggie?" I say when she picks up. "You sound nervous. Is anything wrong?"

"N...no. Nothing's wrong. I just, there's something I've been wanting to talk with you about, something I want-need to know, before we get busy with senior year and heading off to college, and-is it okay if I come over? I'd rather have this talk in person."

"Of course. Um, did I do something wrong? Are you upset with me?"

"No, nothing like that at all. I...You could say it's the opposite. Um, but let's wait 'til I come over, 'kay? ...Penny? You still there?"

"...Yeah. That's cool. See you in a few."

My heart is doing triple-time. You could say it's the opposite. I've suddenly broken a sweat. I'll have to change my top. Maybe the "Y"-thing...no, don't be silly. You could say it's the opposite. Does she really mean...? Okay, girl, deep breaths. Relax for a minute; you've got time.

I lie on my back and pick up the marble. Holding it toward the light just so, I can see my reflection, filtered through the blue core. And then I realize something.

A marble can be more than a means of playing for keeps, all or nothing, of scoring points, even just for fun.

It can also be a mirror. Or better, a window.

THE END