Can't Take It Back

by Animalcrunch12

Blossom of the Powerpuff Girls is stuck in chaotic paradise for her sisters' wedding that's riddled by the politics of supers and her sisters' own complications, while dealing with the attandance of her estranged best friend, Butch Jojo. It's been years since they ruined everything; maybe this is the exact fix they've been needing. After all, what else could possibly go wrong?

2. Decade of Fools

2010

The Snyder's two-story home was an overcrowded, hazy rainbow of strung lights and dirtied furniture from the Seventies. "Paparazzi" rattled its wooden frame. Boxes of spicy pizzas polluted a small kitchen, splashes of Coors Light stickied the laminate floor. Powdery deodorant and bottom-shelf liquor and sweat mixed, the signature scent of teenagers up to their no-good-teenager ways.

Late summer humidity conquered what was left of the AC as Blossom leaned near the sliding patio doors, temple to the walnut wood nailed by Robin's baby photos, in her skinny jeans and puffed-sleeve top, feeling overly self-conscious in her own body. She had grown another inch over the summer; her sisters did not. It's like the nipping of summer bugs, the pondering of if that's what people first notice of her, or if it was the other thing she knew they did.

And Wes should've finished playing by now. He only said it'll be one round, but she's counted three onto four now.

Did he forget?

Was it better for him to be over there?

Maybe she should join him. Maybe that's what he expected. Not for her to let this party move like light until it's something of her past. There's so, so, so much else she could be doing. It was a party, and her sisters were there, somewhere. Tonight, they could be a part of each other's company to celebrate the cauldron they'd once shared.

She should go.

She should do foolish things.

She should do the smart thing.

She should be able to—

"Blossom of the Powerpuff Girls."

She blinked at a hoax among her eyes, Butch Jojo approaching her, an easy smile and drink tipped forward. He had on jeans, a NASA t-shirt that was faded but looked soft.

"Butch."

"Happy Birthday!"

"Thank you," she got out, shifting away from him. There couldn't be else for him to say.

"Nice party."

Blossom shrugged. The compliment didn't do much; she didn't plan it.

Thirty awkward, awkward seconds went by before Butch asked, "Where's Wesley?"

"It's Wes," she corrected, brisk. But her finger pointed through the cramped room of bodies, to the entry space where you would've seen the beer pong table, the blond-silver of Wes' head with his lacrosse teammates, their skin ruddy and mouths wet from room-temp beer.

"We should join them."

Blossom's shoulders lifted, a turtle going into an uncomfortable shell. "What."

"You'd be a killer." He flexed his wrist, mimicking a pong throw. "Gotta sharp eye."

"You don't know me," she said plainly.

Blossom could barely look at him, being so rude, it embarrassed her into pink cheeks, but Butch let out a harmless laugh.

"Fair enough."

"I don't drink, anyway," she threw out, unneeded justification she couldn't control. Her shoulders hitch higher. "Not yet, at least."

"That's cool."

Blossom couldn't agree, because it seemed like she was the only one at this party not doing so, or how she didn't want to due to the effect it'll have on the development of her prefrontal cortex, and—

"Then you're coming outside with me," he said.

She stared, frowning at the perfectly fine suggestion.

But it's Butch.

Their last meaningful interaction happened when they were eleven, along with gut punches and laser-beam lacerations. She didn't understand why he gifted her a pleasantry.

She's seventeen today; they've become too old for a trick.

Yet, Blossom glanced at those lounging on old patio furniture, a game of Never Have I Ever close to finishing. Then back to Butch and his impatience.

Maybe he really meant to have her company, maybe he had no other way to make use of the time. Maybe it wouldn't be a waste if she spoke to, at least, someone at this party, as pathetic as that might be.

It wasn't like Wes would be leaving his friends soon, anyway.

She told him okay, and followed out the sliding door, watching Butch dump out his near-full cup on the lawn. She didn't know what he had before, but he refilled with Sprite at the coolers left to their device.

The sky was a nightshade blue, and they sat down by the pool, a normal distance between former-childhood-enemies-turned-acquaintances-for-one-night applied. Jeans rolled to mid-calf, flats discarded to dip her feet into the tepid water. Gardenias decorated the surface, petals shining like pearls in the moonlight, sweetening the sticky, melancholy air.

A minute or two must have gone by, and she decided if they were going to sit here, she would rather not continue the discomfiture she's had so far with him.

"How's your night going?"

"Alright."

"That's nice."

"Yeah."

"Well, I…" Had nothing else to say to him.

He waited for a moment, leaning back on his hands, only to chuckle when she didn't go on. "So… Got any big plans for seventeen?"

She should have a lot, she was only a teenager for a little longer.

"None I could think of."

"What about dancing?"

She furrowed her brows. "What about it?"

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do now? Like in that one song?"

"I…" Blossom stared blankly. "I don't believe that's true."

"Come on. You just gotta—"

"I don't like to dance."

"Ah." He sipped on his drink, looking anywhere but her. "Alright."

Five wretched minutes later, Blossom's confident they were created to never speak to another besides exclaims of the other's defeat.

"I should—"

"I gave Boom a ride to this," he told her, right before she could run away. "Wasn't exactly my plan for the night."

She regarded him, at the other chance he's given her in this short span, the final ring to snug onto a bottle-green game. Blossom wasn't sure what she would win if it landed, and the stakes were low. Absurdly low. Blossom didn't do whims, she never found fortune in them. But the toss, it's a lazy reflex of the wrist, a might as well, just for her sharp eyes to see the results.

"Are you confessing to being a party crasher?"

"Doesn't count."

"It makes sense."

"You're profiling, Puff."

"I meant why else would you be at our party."

"You and your sisters are okay."

"You don't talk to us."

His head tilted, squinting his eyes in muse. "I fuck with my counterpart."

She withdrew her feet from the water to hug her long legs as she turned to him. "It is nice. You and her being on good terms."

"We lucked out, I guess." He reached into the pocket of his jeans to reveal, what Blossom assumed, was a joint. "Don't hate each other like the Blues. Don't have a weirdo like Brick to, I don't know, relate with?" Rolled paper limp between his lips, a hand covered around his mouth, ready to ignite. He paused, eyeing her, words muffled by the joint. "You won't narc?"

"No." Buttercup and Bubbles have stumbled home late at night, marijuana smoke reeking on their clothes plenty of times. Whether it had been them or not, it's a transgression Blossom didn't prioritize in judgment.

"Thought so." It was a misdirect, his inquiry. Hidden from any eyes beside her own, in his cupped hand, evergreen sparked illicit from his tips. A wisp of smoke, and a cherry bloomed. He held out the joint, a gentleman's offer before his own taste. "Want?"

She shook her head, cheeks reigniting, slowly saying, "I don't do that, either."

Blossom waited for him to apply pressure like a peer, to make a snide joke, but he smiled the same. He was considerate enough to blow his smoke in the other direction.

"I do suppose you're right. Brick is…" She tried to find a word, something decent to say about the person created in her likeness. "Polarizing."

Butch laughed, demanding, "Don't do your nice thing. Brick believes in the devil."

She stared blank again. "The devil is your literal dad."

"Right! That's how you know."

Blossom was mortified by the small snort she allowed. His smile grew, a glimpse of his teeth. The sharp point of a canine.

"But you like your brother."

"Hell yeah. That's my buddy." Butch took a hit of his joint, exhaling the sweet-dank smoke to his right. "Doesn't mean you should deal with his bullshit."

"He keeps to himself."

"You could say that."

"He's not as obnoxious as when we were kids."

Butch scoffed in the way you do when you know someone through and through, better than anyone else can speak upon. "That fucker is a freak."

Not that she was one to keep track of such things, but, "I can't remember the last time he's tried… at anything lately."

"That's because he doesn't like any of you." He paused, letting out a knowing chuckle Blossom didn't care to know about. "Well, most of you."

Blossom creased her brows, discerning. "Then I was right. He keeps to himself."

"Nah, nah. You can't pull that. Get him around someone he fucks with, and he's like," he thought about it. "You know, he's like a misunderstood attention whore."

Blossom paused. She smiled. She didn't know how much she needed a good laugh until her head was to her knees.

"That's not a real thing," she told him.

He had been laughing too, huffing out a, "We should've brought him."

"He would've been miserable." She watched the other gardenias float away, the silver water of the moon's motion.

"Exactly," he said. "Birthdays scare him."

"There's no way that's a real thing."

"Dead ass. The clowns, the people, the singing. The latex balloons! It's a good thing we've never really had them."

"Birthdays?"

"Yup."

"But you were born," she said dumbly. They're the only sober ones at this party, but if you overheard right now, you might think otherwise.

"That's not the point."

"Is it not?"

"No!"

"Then explain," she insisted.

"Nothing much to it," he said. "Mojo would call it C-day instead—for, like, Creation Day. And we kinda don't do anything 'cause of circumstances, you know?"

"The prison toilet is a hard subject."

"That's fucked up." He grinned, the waning light of his joint pointed at her. A lick of orange-red inundated in evergreen. "You know that's fucked up."

She hummed at that, not hiding her smile. Those on the patio furniture had gone back into the house, leaving them to the balmy night and its deviant chance. Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream" carried outside.

Blossom said, "You should celebrate it. One time, at least."

"Maybe." He's impassive with his smirk. "Might get a party like this."

"If that's what you want."

He stared at the house. "Just like you?"

She squeezed her knees tighter, taciturn. "What else do you do for a birthday?"

A decade from this moment, Blossom could still recall the only time she saw him frown that night, moonlight and distance preserved in her mind like a flower pressed between pages.

He shrugged, turning away to let smoke escape his mouth. Blossom wondered if he was trying to hide, if he didn't want to be seen without his placidity. "Who's idea was it?"

"Princess and Robin."

"Bet Morbucks was pissed to have it here."

"I don't believe there's a time when she's not."

It wasn't a joke, but Butch cackled as if it was, too loud for anyone to find humor in something she's said. Blossom turned her cheek from him, fingers lightly brushing a passing gardenia before the tips fully brown in ruin.

"They roped Wesley in on it?"

"Wes," Blossom corrected again, eyes narrowed at his imp smile. "And yes. He'd said it'll be a surprise."

"Nice."

"It is nice."

He stubbed out what was left of his cherry on the pool's ledge. His eyes went from her to the houseparty to her again. "What were you really wanting tonight?"

Blossom blinked. "I didn't want anything."

He chuckled. "Right."

"I'm serious."

"Whatever you say, Blossom."

She agitated. "I don't care for what you're trying to do—"

He held up his hands. "Woah, woah, woah. It's not like that."

"Then?"

Butch shrugged, rippling water around his submerged foot with a small kick. She didn't know if it was the moon's harvest of shimmer, or if there was a tint of color to his ears. "Just wanna know what you like."

She frowned at that. Not for his cordial attempt, but for him to ask. To know.

She could've looked impressed by this carouse, could've talked to others. She could've pretended.

She should have liked this.

Instead, she wallflowered the second Wes left her for a "quick" game. And then Butch—he must have been trying to make up for it. Because he saw her alone and being uncool and lame, and no decent person, no matter their past villainy, would allow such on another's birthday.

She couldn't decide whether to be ashamed or to allow it to be nice of him.

But she began to tell him anyway. "There's a botanical garden. Upstate near Metroville." Blossom looked towards the petals of the nightshade sky. "They have this lawn that goes on and on, and I want to lay in the sun, and close my eyes, and not have to think about… anything."

There was a pause, and Blossom glanced down at Butch, face burning from the admission of an entirely boring idea.

He smiled at her, and Blossom did think he had something to say then. But Buttercup was at the glass door, declaring to her, "Get your ass in here! We got candles to blow!"

She stood, almost telling Butch I'll see you around.

"Thank you for the conversation. It was surprisingly decent."

"Commander," he saluted.

She and her sisters were surrounded by the crowd to a table's end, amber flickering from fifty-one candles stuck into the sheet cake decorated with blue, green, pink frosting.

Singing happened. Robin grabbed Bubbles' phone to record as Hanout held her sister's hand, serenading her as if his voice was only to be heard. Princess laughed at Buttercup's expense. Wes slipped his slim self through to their side, hand grazing Blossom's hip, kissing her cheek. He smelt like beer and the earthy musk of his cologne. Blossom was glad to have him here, to wrap her roots back onto the trellis of him.

They came to the final note, urging them to "Make a wish!"

Bubbles bent down gleefully, jumping back up with clapping hands.

Buttercup rolled her eyes and was quick to get it over with.

For Blossom, she watched the moment passing by. Her hip leaned into Wes. Glowing faces of their observers, and followers, and schemers. Dim, colorful lights and the smog of this youth. Tiger-lily hair gathered in her hand. A strong breath. Thin smoke moving like a spiderweb spotted by moonshine. She's older. She's the same. It's slow. It's confusing. It's too fast. It's spectacularly normal.

It's Butch, standing where he'd found her, all the way in the back, taller than most. His easy smile and Blossom knowing it was only for her.

---

"Press lighter on the brakes, Bubbles."

"Like this?"

Blossom lurched forward in her seat, then was thrown back into it.

Passenger side, ready for a university lecture in a jacket with elbow patches, the Professor kept a patient smile. He's gotten more salt than pepper, but his demeanor was still kind and spry. "A smidge more."

"I'm a smidge more from throwing up," Buttercup said. She's slumped in the backseat of the Professor's rented sedan along with Blossom.

They're in their school-mandated uniforms, shamrock sweater vests with Oakley the Oak Tree stitched on the right breast and white polos underneath. Buttercup opted to wear khaki slacks compared to the pleated skirts and knee-highs Blossom and Bubbles wore. These days she liked thick charcoal around her eyes, popping out the green of her, and kept her nails in chipped black paint.

"You're not allowed to complain," Bubbles sang merrily.

"It was one accident! Doesn't mean I should be banned!" Said accident involved the blowing of a stop sign and Carl Jusscarl's garbage truck. Hence, the rental car they've been using for the past month.

The Professor coughed in the clumsiest manner, changing the subject. "First day of junior year. I can't believe how fast it's all going."

"I can," Buttercup yawned to her window. "Can't wait for this shit to be over."

"Buttercup," Bubbles said.

"What. That's my opinion."

Another not-so-graceful stop at a red light, Bubbles turned to the Professor. "It won't change anything. We're still your girls."

He smiled fondly at the thought, the grace of his age on display. "That's all I could hope for."

Blossom sighed at the glass of her window. The sun wasn't up, purples and blues waiting for a touch of gold. Their neighborhood blurred from the drive, lawns and cars, the same houses, the same people. It wasn't long until they were at Oaks High.

Now in the front seat, the Professor leaned over to the passenger window. "Have the best day. See you at dinner."

"Bye, Professor," they choired like they have since their making.

They watched him drive away, other classmates coming and going from the drop-off location. Bubbles had a duffel bag along with a fluffy teddy bear backpack, the nearby cheer squad calling out for her. Shifting her racquet bag onto the shoulder not currently holding a tote, Buttercup inched towards Princess' Lexus LX in the lot. The three glanced at each other for a moment.

Then, they separated.

---

"I think it's insane."

"How?"

"Because… " Wes emphasized knowing he didn't really have anything to follow. His hand squeezed the skin right below her skirt's hem. "Can't it just be insane?"

Blossom pressed her back into the passenger door, finger to her chin, making a show of her thought. "I don't believe it's justified."

"Come on," he laughed. "You're killing me, Blossom."

"Only have to convince me."

"Convince you?"

"Yes. Convince me."

Blossom grinned watching Wes' silvery brows shoot up in challenge. They were in his Toyota Camry, parked in her driveway like most autumn days after school. AC blasting. Radio off to give their fullest attention. They sat in the house's shadows, her legs draped across his lap. Wes' thumb made circles on her knee.

Wes Goingon had been Blossom's boyfriend since the eighth grade. Bubbles liked to say they were destined since Wes and Blossom were paired on a Pokey Oaks field trip and ended up holding hands on the way back from the zoo.

He's a statue crafted by the most delicate hands. A Roman nose, an intense gaze, prominent chin, broad shoulders leading into slender hips, these pouty lips. Even his complexion was the shade of Michelogao Buonarroti's work, the palest human to be but never seeming to burn like Blossom did.

"I just think they should give us a break. We've made it to state, like, two years in a row. Obviously, we'll be alright."

"They want to make sure you're not distracted."

"I feel distracted knowing they're supervising everything. All because Teddy failed one class last year."

She resisted the urge to state Teddy Kodas had also failed three other classes the year before that, only getting by last year because he'd paid Susie Jenkins to do his biology homework.

"What is there to worry about?" She reached for his hand on her thigh, poking at his fingers. "If you feel shaky in a class, I can help."

"You're sweet. Thanks." He smiled down at their hands. "How did your day go?"

"It went."

"You have nothing? Come on, this is our time to vent. I can't just talk about myself."

She curled her finger around his, tight enough to feel a pulse but not enough to cause him to wince. "I know. I…"

Blossom thought about her sisters. Bubbles and Robin and Kim giggling by their neighboring lockers. Buttercup and Princess claiming their staircase on the third floor. Hanout walking Bubbles to fourth period. Buttercup going through the lunch line with Mitch Mitchelson and Harry Pitt. How Bubbles was at cheer practice right now, Buttercup would be over at Princess' to work on their doubles team play; as Blossom just sat in a car.

"I have Brick in my Calc class," she said. "He wasn't the happiest to see me."

"Did he do that snarl thing?" He laughed like when they were kids, eyes crinkled with a vigorous nod like everything was stomach-clutching hilarious.

"Close enough."

She left out how she'd tried to ignore Brick's attendance in the class, but at the very sight of him, was instantly reminded of you know, he's like a misunderstood attention whore.

She may have rudely laughed a little then. So, you see, his glowering hadn't been entirely unwarranted this one time.

"God, I forget that dude exists," Wes said. "Remember how obsessed he was with you?"

"Not sure if obsessed is the correct term."

"Blossom, he wanted to be in every class with you."

Yes, their schedules had once been twin, even in extracurriculars. But it had been a forced rivalry. Blossom never cared. And from her insouciance, nothing meritable left for him to claim, Brick fell victim to the gifted kid burnout, settling himself into the general student body besides mathematics.

"It was an attempt of ego."

"Yeah, sure." His cheek pressed into his headrest. In the shaded daylight, his eyes were smooth steel. Cool and durable; Blossom thought those were the best words to describe Wes. "Those Ruff guys. Why are they even still around?"

Blossom could glance out the back windows, watching the neighborly mundane. Arden Snyder grabbed letters from his mailbox. A toddler pedaled a tricycle, their dad close by to observe. Cars returned to their driveways. The Fitzgeralds across the way just planted a rose bush, its snowy petals almost looked like gardenias from where she sat.

"What does it matter?"

"That's insane to say."

"How."

"It needs better justification."

Blossom's brow lifted. "Are you doing this?"

"I don't know." He grinned, indecorous. "Think I need you to convince me."

Her hand went to his arm, tugging on his ivory sleeve. "Come here then."

He laughed as Blossom kissed him. Her hands cradled his sharp jaw, bringing him closer and closer until his knees dug into the seat's gray fabric. He parted her legs, and her tongue swiped into his mouth. He tasted like wintergreen, smelt like pomade and Polo Blue. The cool touch of her skin goosebumped his. Her vest gathered together as his hand slipped underneath, fingertips brushing the bottom curve of her breast. She lifted into him, nose gliding against his cheek, catching her breath.

Smiling, she asked, "Should we go inside?"

Wes let out a breathless laugh. This close, his vision was a stormy night. His lips were a deep shade of pink, swollen and extra pouty. He looked at the clock on his radio and frowned.

"I really shouldn't."

Blossom blinked, along with a long swallow. She forbade herself to venture into disappointment. "Oh."

"I'm sorry. I," he sat up, snaking out the hand that'd been close to her nipple to push back his messy hair, "really am, but Teddy and I have a tee time in like ten minutes."

"It's okay." Blossom smoothed down her shirt, not looking him in the eyes. She could feel the color staining her skin. "I should start my homework, anyway."

Wes laughed, loud as a balloon pop. "Homework on the first day, Blossom? Now that's actually insane!"

---

The first day of junior year was through, and the Professor wanted to celebrate with broccoli casserole. It was stinky and cheesy with a good crunch from packaged crispy fried onions.

The kitchen and dining space hadn't changed much, with its sage walls and white cabinets and mid-century table. Appliances were getting dated, their refrigerator making an occasional clunk every now and then. There's a calendar highlighted by green and blue events. A hook where the Professor's yellow-ruffled apron stayed. Postcards from Nanjing, Oxford, Munich from research assistants held by museum magnets to decorate the aging fridge. Mustard-colored light filled the room from the glass-bowl chandelier.

"Can I be pulled out of Algebra II?" Buttercup asked. She hadn't taken a shower yet, still in spandex and a sports bra. Sweat had dried on her skin, hair sheen with grease. She stunk more than the casserole.

The Professor chewed thoughtfully across the table from her in his robe and tartan pants. "May I ask why?"

"'Cause math is dumb."

Bubbles giggled next to the Professor. She had hair clips in to keep wet bangs out of her face, wearing an oversized t-shirt and leggings.

"Not a compelling argument for me to present to the school." The Professor lifted a brow, a teasing smile. "Now is it?"

"Fine. How about… I have enough math in here." Buttercup tapped at the side of her head. "I'mma go pro soon, right? I think I know a good amount to get me through. "

The Professor considered her. In Wes' lacrosse sweatshirt and heart-printed sleeper pants, Blossom glanced between them. She found the casserole to be lukewarm.

"I believe—" Buttercup's phone vibrated against the table, earning a stern look from the Professor. Or at least, his best attempt at what stern could be. "Buttercup. Phones off at dinner."

"Yeah, yeah. I know." She slid open her phone still. "Sorry, I forgot. I—" Buttercup's jaw tightened. She looked jaundiced in this light as she muttered, "What the fuck."

The Professor cleared his throat. He did not have an issue with the profanity. He did have an issue with Buttercup's disruption to the sacred time when they're finally together.

"What is it?"

"It's nothing," she attempted, snapping her phone shut. Blossom was shocked it didn't break off its hinges. "It's Princess. Really nothing."

"Buttercup."

She looked over at Bubbles for a long breath, her head hung a little, somber and repentant to say, "It's the Townsville Star. They have a new article… With pictures."

---

The article would read like this:

Puff Girls Go Wild?

"The city of Townsville appears to have had a rager.

It was just two weeks ago citizens were celebrating the beloved Powerpuff Girls' seventeenth birthday, and those who are classmates with the girls, appeared to have partied hard at a local residence. Not only were monstrous noise complaints made, but sources of the Townsville Star have confirmed large amounts of underage drinking had occurred.

We can attest Bubbles and Buttercup of the Powerpuff Girls were among those participating in the misdemeanor. This is the most recent indiscretion to be attached to Townsville's former superhero trio.

"They've had identity issues," a classmate states. "Ever since the Super Species Protection Act, they've been pushing limits."

Pictures of the night have been attained, presenting the girls in scantily-clad clothing. Close sources also revealed Buttercup had been seen dancing indecently on male classmates, while Bubbles had been spotted getting hot and heavy on the lap of her boyfriend, Hanout Anoush.

Looking back at the other Puff scandals…"

The thousand-word mudslinging would only mention Blossom near the end:

"Their leader, Blossom, has not been mentioned in the night's fun."

---

"Miss Bless-em! Miss Bless-em! Are you reading to us?"

Blossom paused her shelving, hands to her knees as she smiled at five-year-old Tubert Onestone. He was going through a wizard phase that October, wearing a silver-star-pointed hat. Ash-brown hair got in his eyes, a grin taking up half of his small head. His mom, Rebecca Onestone, stood a few feet away, kindly observing.

"Of course." She nudged towards the half-full cart that needed to be put away. "I'll be right there."

"Promise?" Tubert adorably said the word as pro-mist."You can't miss storytime."

"I wouldn't think of it."

Blossom returned her cart to the book drop-off and gathered her supplies for the scheduled afternoon storytime, heading towards her absolute favorite place: the children's book-nook. It was a cozy corner where half of a fiberglass tree was sculpted into the wall, twisting branches full of fabric leaves, this explosion of green confetti above them. The wooden furniture was about a foot tall, and if a seat wasn't available, her little listeners could plop themselves down on the softest shag rug.

"Miss Bless-em!" the pint-sized crowd cheered. Blossom could never mind their mispronunciation.

"Hello everyone." Seated in the corduroy reading chair, she scanned through her regulars and their parents, noting Abby Gabriel lost a front tooth and Simon Sayes wore Lightning McQueen pajamas this week instead of his standard Buzz Lightyear. "Tell me. Do any of you like olives?"

A choir of "ew!" brought out a laugh from her.

"Be honest."

"No!" they cried out.

"No one likes olives at all?"

"Duh," Donna Letago said. Last week, she'd excitedly told Blossom she wanted to look like her when she's fifty. Blossom rather take it as a compliment than whatever else may have been implied.

Blossom asked, "What about magic?"

"Magic!" Tubert exclaimed. He stood, waving around a stick he must have found outside, spellcasting them all. "I can do magic!"

Blossom awed at his abilities, and brought up the question of whether they would change their minds if there was such a thing as magical olives. Thus, segueing into Olivia and the Magical Olive by Lindsey Perkins, illustrated by Cornell Michaels.

There's something about it. Her kinder-aged audience, their enthusiasm and "oohs" and laughs and claps as she goes into the next book and another after, all beamish because they know her as "Miss Bless-em", the best storyteller in Townsville.

By the time she's closed the final book, they're complete mellow with sleepy eyes. She waved as parents cracked their knees to stand and head home with their mini-mes, and then she cleaned the book-nook, straightening and wiping down furniture, gathering garbage, reshelving any abandoned books lying around.

"Need anything else?" Blossom would ask Carrie at the front desk once done.

Carrie Reynolds, the septuagenarian Pokey Oaks County Western Branch Manager, wore lilac everything, including her short hair and cat-eyed glasses. Her voice was like butterscotch candy, and she'd been the one to interview Blossom, not realizing she was a Powerpuff Girl until her third week; she blamed the failed recognition on her cataracts.

"Oh." Carrie glanced down at her wristwatch, pressing thin lips together. "You know what? I think we're good for the night." She smiled, gently patting Blossom's arm. "Go on. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Blossom nodded politely and went to gather her leather backpack from the lockers in the employee lounge. Dinner that night had to be take-out. The Professor and Buttercup were in San Diego for a USTA match—at the moment, her sister was ranked seventh in the country—and Bubbles had a date with Hanout at the house.

The library sat on Mulberry Tree Street, and if you walked two blocks, you'll find Townsville's Chinatown.

An arch greeted you into the neighborhood, twin dragons sat on top of green-glazed roof tiles. Neon blinked and fizzed, each restaurant proclaiming they had the best noodles. Red lanterns strung across balconies. Peking ducks hung from their necks in windows, skin browned and shiny like sunbathers drenched in tanning lotion. Stores sold silky clothing sets and trinkets. Streets jammed with tourists and pedicab drivers, beauty schools and karaoke bars. Old couples with their shopping wagons, always dressed in the comfiest and coolest apparel combinations.

Blossom could hear the sizzle and crackle of oil in a wok. Smell the vanilla wafer of fresh fortune cookies, hot spices braised into aubergines. Feel the warmth of food stalls selling king prawns and crispy pork belly and steamed bao buns.

She walked past a bakery named Sugar Mei, getting a glimpse of this guy behind the counter. He's in all black, too tall, practically sky-high compared to those around. His athletic arms fitted for romance covers the geriatric crowd at the library clawed over. She only saw him from the profile. Full lips, a bump to his nose, a strong jawline, these thick brows. It was a nice profile.

Blossom kept at her pace, thinking he kind of looked like Butch Jojo.

When she really thought about it, he looked a lot like Butch.

She paused.

She turned back. Just for a better look.

It's him.

Blossom chewed hard on her bottom lip. She had to have stood there for a minute. Maybe more. A family grumbled at her for blocking the door. She needed to get out of the way.

Either go in or walk away.

Talk to him, or let time keep him in a childish mindset.

Be the same or a little difference in a routine.

She opened the door, allowing the grimacing family of three before her. A bell chimed to alert their entrance, the smell of yeast bracing her. Butch had a customer service smile, speaking to the family. His eyes flitted behind them, confusion visible, just for a second, but then his mouth lept higher, roused out of standard professionalization.

Blossom pretended not to notice, her eyes devouring the small bakery with its sand-textured wallpaper of plum blossoms and dark maple tables and subfuscous rattan lights. A glass case displayed savory and sweet pastries wrapped in plastic, another for chilled treats. Overhead, a menu listed milk tea options and dumplings to order.

The sour bunch finished ordering, taking a number card to the front window bar. Blossom stepped forward, he leaned into the counter. He had the same smile as her birthday, and wore a black ballcap like Brick would—maybe the style was genetic.

"Blossom."

"Butch."

"Don't think I've seen you here before."

"I happened to be walking by."

"And stopped for big ol' me?"

"I was hungry."

He held her stare. "I can help with that."

"What do you recommend?" She glanced away at the cases again.

He gave it a thought.

"I can do you better." His arms were crossed against the countertop, sliding towards her as if to tell a secret on a playground. "I get off in twenty. I know a place around the corner."

"Are you saving me from eating here?"

"Not at all, but I believe in happy endings, you know?"

"Is that a bawdy joke?"

He blinked at her. "What."

"Never mind."

"Alright." He said, "What are you thinking, then?"

"It's tempting."

"Don't back out on me."

It could be no big deal. Butch has proven to be finely conversable, and Blossom was already here and needed to eat.

But what would they even talk about now?

Their schedules didn't overlap; in the near two months since their last, there hasn't been another chance to interact. They're individuals with no need to spend time with another, let it be extended and alone. They're fundamentally, morally, molecularly made to be incompatible.

Yet, Butch watched her, expectant and so casual about it all, and Blossom thought about how regressing it would be. No need to propitiate. To predict his interest with her neutrality. No circumventing of opinions, of tones that could possibly tread bossy.

She'd been a villain from his view; he couldn't have any worse to think of her.

"Twenty," she checked.

"Twenty, and we're out," he confirmed. His smile deepened, left cheek indenting. Blossom hadn't known he had a dimple before then.

She waited at a table. Checked in with Wes (he's golfing with Teddy and the boys but said he dearly missed her). Read a chapter of some dragon fantasy she hated from the first word, wishing she could DNF. Caught a glimpse of Butch and a woman in her late fifties, hush behind the counter. The woman couldn't be a hair past five feet, but appeared to be vexed, smacking his arm, while Butch only laughed her off.

Thirty minutes, and he approached her. "Ready?"

"Ten minutes ago, yes."

Butch chuckled, holding the door for her. It had been sunset, orange tender to the purples above, all the lanterns and neon aglow. Their walk was short and silent as they slipped into an alleyway. The restaurant had an eight-seat bar, cream walls and stools, soft lighting. Ballads from the eighties played. A place of nothing extraordinary to draw you in, something to obliviously walk by for years.

"It's Sichuan," Butch told her when they sat down in the furthest seats from the entrance. It was only them and some elderly man contently slurping noodles.

"Never had before." A glance over the single-page menu, she said, "This is where I may consider your opinion."

"I don't know." He arched a brow. "Can you handle the heat?"

She shifted a slight degree in her stool towards him, chin in hand. "I run cold."

His eyes lightened, a firecracker, and there was that dimple making another appearance. "Hotpot then."

He ordered for them, speaking to the man behind the counter with an air of familiarity. She watched the exchange, surprisingly curious about it all.

"How long have you been working over here?"

"Two summers, maybe." His fist held up his head, body the mirror of hers. "Been eating here every other week."

"Mojo put you and your brothers to work?"

He guffawed. It's loud without restraint, filling the hallway of a restaurant. "Just a good way to get out of the volcano, you know? And pays, so." His gaze dipped, mouth ticking upward. "Can't believe you still got that thing on."

Blossom glanced down at the school uniform underneath her rose cardigan, cheeks inflamed. "I volunteered straight after."

"Really."

"Yes. At the library."

"Like right down the road?"

"That'll be the one."

"No shit. What do you do?"

She shrugged. "Put books away. Help with events. What you think."

"Right."

"And I read to our younger crowd."

"Cool." She expected the cloud-over, the inescapable dull that followed. But Butch still smiled at her, waiting in case she had more.

"It is nice." She swirled her straw around, staring down at the bar as she spoke. "It's the best part of my week. I don't even care when they're sticky and hug me—and they're sticky all the time."

"And it feels piquant to… to be able to give them something," she continued, forcing through the awkwardness of, essentially, a stranger peering into her. But it felt good to have no need to masquerade. "I want to help them fall in love with reading, to love it as much as I do."

"That's so fun."

Blossom let out a small laugh. She searched for the teasing in him; there was no way he meant it.

"It's not working at a bakery."

He considered that with a smirk. "It's not."

"You like it?"

"It's chill. Miss Flo is good to me."

"Miss Flo," Blossom repeated, making the connection. "She didn't look too pleased with you earlier."

Butch's jaw slacked for a second but stayed assured. "Miss Flo would kill for me."

Their server approached with a variety of small plates. Thinly sliced beef and white fish, chunks of chicken breast, zucchini, whole scallops, dried tofu skin, potatoes, baby bok choy, winter melon, shiitake mushrooms, fresh udon, lotus root. Then a deep, stainless steel pot was placed on the glass burner of the bar. He unveiled a split, boiling broth seething with chilies and Sichuan peppers.

One was milder, Butch explained to her, the least daunting opaque and scallions floating on top. The other broth colored to match the chili's skin, a reckoning for the senses.

Her sinuses had already opened from a mere whiff of heat, and her first bite of beef cooked in the pot became covered in bits of chili and pepper. It was numbing, so hot, hotter than anything Blossom ever consumed, but it suddenly became stimulating, and she couldn't help wanting more. Frost beneath her veins melted in excitement, cool sweat dampening her forehead and bangs. Her lips tingled, tongue swelling, steam escaping her mouth. Face absolutely flushed.

She blew her running nose in a napkin, glancing to see how Butch was favoring, laughing at his florid cheeks, the rim of his ears scorched the chili's color.

"What," he said, mouth full.

"You're getting all pink."

He swallowed slowly. His usual rasp burnt deeper. "You're all red."

"Happens easily for me."

"Brick, too." Butch cleared his throat with a chuckle, sniffling a couple of times. Sweat lined his forehead as well, and he lifted his hat to run a hand through loose curls. A single ringlet stuck out when the hat laid back into place. He stabbed a skewer through a baby potato to cook in the chili-dense broth. "How are things in Puff land?"

"Buttercup has a tournament this weekend. The Professor went with her."

Butch only nodded. He pulled out his potato, letting it cool down on a plate.

"He's doing alright after all that Star shit?"

"Oh. Um…" Blossom fiddled with a paper napkin, folding, smoothing its edges. "He's disappointed, mostly. She and Bubbles aren't grounded, but…"

It'd been over a month since the Townsville Star went public with their hit piece, and it wasn't like the Professor had been overly severe, that's never been his sort of parenting. But Buttercup and Bubbles weren't able to come and go as they once had. Not without asking, not without a detailed run-down of times and whom it'll be with. Only trimming at the trust that once existed.

Blossom still wasn't sure if it was her sisters or it's the people of Townsville. Maybe both.

"I get it," Butch said. "That article was fucked up."

She blinked, incredulous. Blossom didn't take him as someone who cared for gossip sites.

"You read?"

"Boom made a good recap."

"It was excessive. As was the assembly."

Two days after the article, Oaks High held "The Dangers of Underaged Drinking: The Sobering Truths And You!" Administration wanted Bubbles and Buttercup to publicly apologize during it to set an example. Be the moral superiors they all knew the girls were.

Buttercup had told them to eat barbed wire.

"I heard."

"Heard."

"Yeah."

"I don't know why I didn't expect that. You're—" She cut herself off from saying anything unwise.

"Say what you gotta say, Blossom." He stared at her, this faint grin and his blase. There was no chance for fools when it came to him. "You can't hurt me."

Blossom frowned. It's nothing but a simple truth, but she frowned as if she'd lost money on a dumb bet.

"You're not around," she said, no care put into it because, like he said, there would be no hurt. "Buttercup says you skip a lot."

Buttercup and his schedules were of the C-minus variety of jocks and slackers that would do better if they just had the sense to apply themselves. Buttercup had once told her Butch would only show up for exam days if he could.

"You hideout on top of the history building," she pointed out.

He nodded. No shame about it. "People don't notice."

"They don't."

They were quiet for a moment. He finally ate his cooled potato. She pondered if this acknowledgment would turn her into a bully, keep her an enemy in his sense. Never to be more.

Evergreen eyes swept over her, the corner of his mouth lifting as he swallowed. "Didn't think you would order your sister to keep tabs on me."

Her blood was a river of lava, face kept fierce. "That's not true—"

"Habits are hard to break—"

"Don't." She held a finger to him. "You're messing with me."

"Of course I am." He bumped his elbow into her arm, the first they'd ever touched without prepubescent violence. "Can I not?"

"We'll see how far it goes," she said, plain enough. His grin had been anything but.

They paid for their meal and stepped out into the first hour of the night. There was a crispness to the air, brittle oak leaves scraping across concrete. A shop burned incense nearby. They stopped before Sugar Mei, Butch cocked his head to the street.

"This is me," he said towards a black Volvo wagon parked parallel; it had to be from the previous century. His hands were in the pockets of his black jeans, leaning back into the passenger door as if he needed to slouch. She couldn't recall a second where his posture hadn't been atrocious. "It would be scummy of me not to offer a ride."

"I don't mind a walk."

"There's some real fucking weirdos in this city, Blossom."

"I like my chances."

He chuckled with a shake of his head. His profile turned away from her like it had when she caught a glimpse of him through the window. Neon caressed his features as would a paramour.

"If it was anyone else."

"But it's not," she said, smiling.

He smiled back, a flash of his canines again as he straightened up, keys in hand. "Give me a second."

He went inside Sugar Mei and came out with a sweet bun, handing it to her.

"This has red bean paste," he explained. The bun sleek with a yolk wash, black sesame sprinkled on top.

"This is your best?"

"Something to start you off." Already at the driver's door, he stopped to fold his arms across the car's roof. "When you read to the kiddos again?"

She blinked, shifting her stance. "Tuesdays and Thursdays, depending."

"Well, if you happen to be walking by again."

"Maybe," she said, only because she liked the jest, and has begun to know he would too.

"Cool." His fingers saluted her. "Commander."

---

"We should paint our nails."

Bubbles sprawled out on the living room's turquoise sofa, wearing fleece pants and a pink half-zip sweater. Blossom sat cross-legged on the navy carpet in her brown-sugar crewneck and light-washed jeans. Their coffee table held hostage by her APUSH textbook, notebook, flashcards, colored highlighters, pens, and backpack. The TV, upgraded to a 60-inch flatscreen, played Buttercup's latest match live, rallies and grunts making up for the lack of chatter.

Blossom hadn't looked up from her homework, too caught up in the War of 1812's gunpowder to realize Bubbles' intended audience until she added, "Wouldn't that be nice, Blossom?"

"Oh, um." She glanced back passively. "I still have a good chunk of reading."

The AC clicked on. Buttercup hit a smash, the delicate voice of the commentator announcing it was 40-15 in the second game of the third set. Blossom capped the pink highlighter she used for dates, and reached for the yellow to identify vocab terms. A sigh came behind her, and Blossom tried to resist its moroseness.

But it's hard.

So provokingly hard to ignore Bubbles' annihilating boredom and innocent attempt. And even harder to ignore this wasn't an often.

Spin around Blossom's carousel of memories, and you'll find times of Bubbles' everlasting phone calls, or Bubbles' gal pals over for a slumber party, or Hanout and her sneaking upstairs deceived by the seemingly silent house. You'll see her and Buttercup extemporaneously speaking of a movie at the Silver Screen Theater, or a new boba cafe, or a huge sale at the Townsville Mall they decide to check out.

Her sisters didn't have bad intentions, Blossom knew the blame had different sides. And it'll be one more night before their home would meet its capacity, but Bubbles was here, actually here with her. Wouldn't it be nice, for them to be a them?

Even if it's brief, Blossom thought it would. She didn't know when next she'd have Bubbles like this.

"I could use a break," she told Bubbles. Her smile too shy for their age, too fearful for their kind, as Blossom watched her sister perk up. "Nails would be nice."

"Yes!"

A blue streak zipped upstairs and back, the vanilla-scented man-made wind scattering Blossom's notecards like snowflakes, pens and highlighters skating all over. Blossom moved inhumanly to pick it up as Bubbles laid out a catty of polishes and foam toe spreaders and a nail tool kit.

Once together again, Blossom offered her right hand. Bubbles went straight into filing, her touch satin-soft and warm.

"I wish I had nails like yours," Bubbles said.

"You do."

"Not at all! I break them all the time at practice."

"Oh."

"It's so tragic, but it's for a good reason, I guess."

"Right."

"They're just so brittle. But yours." Bubbles brought her hand closer as if Blossom's nails were diamonds in need of grading. "They're so strong and pretty. It's like your hair all over again."

Blossom grimaced at that particular mishap. "Please don't cut them off."

"Ah!" Bubbles laughed, bluffing her offense. She lightly tapped the back of Blossom's hand. "It was a mistake! I wouldn't dare!"

"Good."

"So… how's Wes doing?" Bubbles asked after pushing back Blossom's cuticles.

"He's fine."

"I heard the lacrosse team got put on, like, probation?"

"They need to keep their grades steady, that's all."

"That's normal."

"I told him the same. Still, he's been a bit anxious about it."

Bubbles hummed, moving to file Blossom's left hand now. "Boys think in exaggerations."

"It depends."

"They so do, Blossom!"

Blossom's lip twitched upward. "How about Hanout? How's he doing?"

"Ugh." Bubbles breathed something a bit melodramatic. "He's super cute and all, but he can be such a bug sometimes."

"What happened?"

"Nothing really."

They stared at each other as if needing the reminder this didn't have to be a playact. They were never cast into the role of behaving as if they're only roommates made on Craigslist. They could share these things. Small, silly things. Big and horrendous things.

They really could.

"We, um." Bubbles rolled her eyes a little, getting back to work on Blossom's hand. "We fought a bit last night. He's kinda mad I've decided to try out for the spring play. He thinks it'll affect his performance, even though they haven't held auditions yet. So what performance is he talking about?"

"That's… odd ." And a bit egotistical, but Blossom didn't know much about the guy to feel right to say.

"It's just theatre stuff. It can be cutthroat, and weird to explain. I don't know. I've," she paused for a long moment and shook her head. "I've been, not like second-guessing, but maybe getting uneasy about it."

She stopped picking at Blossom's left cuticles. She turned to the TV to see Buttercup had won her match. Southern California sun, thick sweat sparkling her skin as she laid exhausted like a starfish on the court.

Bubbles smiled affectionately at the TV. Then said, "I think I'll settle for ensemble. It'll be fun. Not as much pressure. Nothing too big to get in the way."

Blossom knew she shouldn't have a say. What did she know? What really did Bubbles allow her to know? Her input would be domineering, unwelcoming. It would be wrong. Just another reason why they haven't been a them.

But among all, it was the hardest of the night to keep from encouraging her sister when it felt right.

Her brows furrowed furiously, and Blossom pressed in fretfulness, "But you want this, Bubbles. Ever since you and Robin would act out those skits with your stuffed animals. Remember Later Gator ? You kept "eating" Robin's friends." Despite her mild frustration, Blossom let out a reminiscent laugh for Bubbles' baby face, sheepish and timed well as Robin had wondered where all her critters went. A decennium, it was still funny to her. "That one was my favorite."

Bubbles blinked at her, cheeks touched by the cutest shade of pink. "I forgot about those."

She wasn't the kind to be burdened by remembrance as Blossom was, but if she had to be, Blossom's grateful to bring her a childhood tale they could both grin about. That it's something coming back to you at the right time, by the right care.

Bubbles looked down at their hands, together. She squeezed a little. A thank you Blossom knew she would always mean. "They were pretty funny."

"Ahead of their time."

Bubbles giggled hard at that, and minutes later, she's sorting through her polishes. "I'm thinking cherry—Ooh, no! Mint green?"

Unable to delude herself into the idea, Blossom shook her head. "Clear coat."

"Fine," Bubbles huffed out in a long breath. "Only because you have such pretty nails."

Bubbles pulled Blossom closer, prime focus on even strokes. Nitrocellulose pungent in the air. The AC had come to a stop. Blossom glanced at the couch's wall, to the molecule paintings the Professor loved. She wondered how he was doing, how he and Buttercup had gotten along.

"When do you think it'll be normal again?"

Bubbles took her time to answer, and Blossom was patient with her.

"I don't know, really. The Professor… I know he means well, but we really screwed up, and I know he misses how it used to be for us, but he also has to be a parent raising three supers."

"He does."

"I try to remember we're not the first to ever be publicly caught. And I know we were in the wrong, but we're not this bad thing they're trying to make us out to be. That we've..." Bubbles scoffed this tiny scoff, a bunny scrunching its nose. "That we've lost our way. It has nothing to do with that. It was a party, and we wanted to celebrate with our friends, and… we thought we could trust them."

"I'm truly sorry, Bubbles."

Bubbles smiled, saturnine. "Thank you."

How outrageous it was, to befriend another and then leave them to be chased by pitchforks. And for what? A quick buck? Petty revenge between teens? An article they'll never get to claim, only to have proof their word once mattered? To just see the mighty fall further?

Blossom wished she had better to say. She wished delicate words and apologies could make a difference. That her fury could sheath the tentpoles of Bubbles' saddened regrets, be the keeper of her sister, never letting another "friend" wander in and ruin her.

But Bubbles has never asked for that. She's handled the media circus with more dignity than most could perform. She wasn't in tatters. She didn't bankrupt her soul. She's still Bubbles, the show going on.

Blossom needed to do the same.

"What a terrible night," she said instead, not sure if she even meant it.

"It wasn't." Bubbles screwed the cap back on the clear polish, searching Blossom's nails for any flaws. "It was bonkers amount of fun. I'd like to keep it like that."

"Oh. Good," Blossom said quietly, and she thought to tell her version of the night, of the bizarre lottery of friendliness brought by a Jojo, when a vibration came from a couch's cushion.

Bubbles groaned at the caller ID.

"It's Hanout."

Blossom nudged her knee. "Answer it."

Bubbles hesitated, finger hovering over the decline button. She looked aggravated, she looked… sorrowed?

"Should I?"

Blossom felt compelled to say the opposite. "Yes."

She nodded once, catching it on the last ring and standing to go upstairs for privacy. "Hey. I'm glad you called…"

Blossom wondered if Bubbles would come back. Her catty still remained, and Blossom wanted to return the service, to continue this softening moment.

But an hour passed and it didn't seem likely. Tennis coverage ended, a local news program droning in the background. Blossom tried to get entrapped back into the War of 1812, but couldn't take the British invasion seriously anymore.

She ended up gathering her things for her room now, about to stuff them into her backpack.

Except something glinted inside. Something wrapped in plastic.

She had put the sweet bun in her bag to eat last night but got distracted by Wes' recap of his latest nine holes.

It was still fresh and soft. Her teeth sunk, tasting butter. Pillowy dough. An earthy, nuttiness from the black sesame seeds. She never had red bean paste before, it had been decadently smooth and not overly sweet. If she hadn't known, it could've fooled her as a chocolate spread.

Blossom licked her lips when finished. If that's only to start off, then what more awaited her?

---

Tuesday, Blossom had another shift at the library. She recommended middle-grade novels to a wide-eyed, bashful preteen looking to expand her reading catalog. Cleared out the book dropoff from the morning. Assisted Carrie in picking out Harvest Day books that weren't overtly pro-colonizing for next month's display. Then it was storytime.

Settled into her reading chair, Blossom asked, "Who's here for a story?"

Small hands shot up along with shouts of "Me!" Their giddiness barefaced, never phony in their expression of emotions.

She opened Pinely The Ivy by Michelle Yoo, illustrated by Derrick Yoo. Her eyes scanned the book-nook as she read. Tubert added a robe to his wizardry. Hollie and Dollie Golly, four-year-old twins, picked at their earwax, offering the other to give it a good sniff. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

It was halfway through her last story, Blossom glanced up to notice a tall figure looming over the half shelves separating the regular folks from the children's section.

Blossom stumbled over a word, and Butch raptured a grin. She had to clear her throat, adjusting her posture and correcting her misspeak.

What the heck.

How long has he been there?

What kind of joke was he trying to include her in?

Oh god, had he heard her do the feathery whisper of Linguini and Rigatoni's tortured, sonorous tone for the Pasta Monster?

Well— It didn't matter if he did.

But when she turned the page and looked up again, he was still there, enraptured by a tale of ninjas journeying for the sacred maraschino cherry to finish their Sensei's ice cream sundae. His smile becoming massive and goofier with each new excerpt.

By the end of it, parents and caregivers gave a decent applause, while Butch pounded his palms together, thunderous across the entire building. Patrons sent dirty looks towards the book-nook, and children broke out of their book-induced calm, a few riotous and stomping around. One let out a terrified cry.

Butch remained unphased by the lunacy he created as the others grabbed their diaper-bags and nudged their newly-hyper children toward the exit.

"You're here," she said. The half-shelf kept them a foot apart, but he was already folding over it, chin in hand, closer than necessary. Dressed the same in all black, as was her and her school uniform.

"I'd happened to be walking by."

Blossom gave him an unimpressed look. "You're of the kind we end up banning."

"I'll take that as a compliment." He pointed towards her reading chair. "Nice digs."

"It is."

"I didn't know you could do that."

"I came out of my cauldron with a college-ready reading level. It's light work."

He laughed way too loud for the library. Someone definitely shushed him.

"The voices, I meant. For a moment there, I really thought you were a Lasagna Monster."

"Aren't we all Lasagna Monsters?" she said, sardonic.

Butch laughed again, and it came with another shush.

"Really am gonna get banned," he attempted to whisper.

Blossom leaned a little into the shelf. They were at eye level. Amongst the musty carpeting and paper that's traveled through many homes, Blossom could smell something a little sweet, something with a little spice. Everything warm. But she couldn't exact it yet.

She whispered back, "You really are."

"We can't have that. Won't get to see you read again."

"It's okay."

He grinned. "It would be terrible."

"Why are you here, anyway?"

"Damn. That's how they let you speak here? To a member of our great, arborous community?"

Blossom put on her most polite smile. "I'm sorry. May I help you with anything, sir?"

He thought about it. "I'm good."

"Butch." She didn't want to be a goose in whatever this may be. "Tell me."

"Fine," he breathed out. "I had some time to kill before my shift, remembered you might've been reading to the lovable squirts." He shrugged, eyes gauging her lazily. "Wrong?"

"No, it's not. It's—" What? Weird but also nice. Like incredibly nice to even remember; more so, be apparent in his enjoyment.

Before she could figure it out, he looked down at his phone, wincing a little. "Shit. I'm late, but um." Butch stared intently at her. "If you get off soon, it's cool if you hang at Mei's."

Blossom pressed her lips together, never allowing herself to be a court's jester.

They've hung out twice, which was plenty enough, but they weren't the worst of times, and he's been something close to amiable in retrospect. His reasoning for so, she wasn't sure. But would it be so bad if she just went along?

Noncommittal, she said, "I do have more to try."

"You do." He slapped a hand against the shelf's worn wood, snapping his spine straight like a glow stick. "Just think about it."

---

She didn't really have to think about it.

Tuesdays meant Buttercup's motley crew of friends would be over for their weekly b-horror film night, and between Mitch's shrills, Lloyd and Floyd Floyjoydson's arguing, and the mere nasal of Princess, Blossom never could focus. The simple solution presented itself in the lofi beats of Sugar Mei's playlist, a secluded table to herself, and pan-fried summer dumplings.

Other than dropping off her plate, there hasn't been an interruption from Butch.

Instead, the bell chimed and chimed. Sizzles came from the kitchen. Blenders whirled. A timer went off, the aroma of scallion bread and curry paste and eggy custards. Families stopped in for a treat before dinner. Two guys poked at their tiramisu, stumbling over words, the cumbrous first date jitters. Halfway through, it began to rain, inciting a late rush for those seeking shelter with the inability to ignore their sweet tooth.

Blossom had finished an essay for AP Lang, a Calc assignment, prepped for the debate against Opal High in Metroville next week. She thought to start on a lab write-up for Chemistry but Butch approached, finally, a tray in hand.

"You're still going at it?"

"I'll call it for the night."

He sat across from her. On his tray, there looked to be takoyaki balls topped with nori and bonito flakes, an aioli to dip, and tall milk teas, both a vibrant purple. Butch broke the paper packaging of his chopsticks, splitting the wood apart. He gestured with his chin for her to take the other drink.

"Thank you." Her sip was creamy and perfectly chill, mildly sweet and nutty, the subtle vanilla of a taro root.

"Busy ass night."

"Not the usual flow?"

"We do alright." He chewed on a fried ball, speaking with improper table manners. "But I'm used to breaks in between, you know? Couldn't come and annoy you more."

She deadpanned, "Yes, that's why I'm here."

"Knew you were smart enough to catch on."

She tried not to chuckle as he did. They were alone in the restaurant's dining space. Rain continued to patter outside, the street's neon looking like colorful glitter thrown against the droplet-coated windows.

"When do you close?"

"Ten minutes from now."

"Wait. What time is it?"

"Almost ten-thirty."

She shot right up. "I need to get home."

"Chill. I'll give you a ride."

"No. It's fine."

He shrugged, popping another ball in his mouth. "Soak then."

Blossom narrowed her eyes at him, then the dripping door.

It had to stop soon, right?

"I could wait," she begrudgingly decided, sitting back down.

"Good idea."

They spoke of their day, about the passing weekend. Nothing too much, nothing beyond their comfort.

"Oh! Why are you still here?"

They turned to a woman standing before their table. She wore an apron stained by what Blossom hoped to be just raspberry puree, these thick lenses that magnified her eyes and orthopedic tennis shoes. Blue eyeshadow laid thick, overwaxed brows, black hair pulled into a low ponytail. Golden skin still smooth beside the pressing of crow's feet.

Hands on her hips, she scolded Butch like the helicopter Pokey Oak's moms did at gluten. "I thought I told you to leave."

"Gotta eat, Miss Flo."

"Why? You're already so big."

"You're right. I should stop eating food altogether."

"Yes. That would be good for us all. You should not get bigger."

Thoroughly amused by their interaction, Blossom couldn't keep back a small laugh. Miss Flo's moon-sized eyes turned to her.

"Ah. You're the little friend that keeps distracting my employee."

Butch's jaw tensed but the rest of him was permanently laid-back, while Blossom's smile had been trained by cameras and ribbon-cutting ceremonies. "I'm sorry for any trouble given."

Miss Flo held up a hand. "It is not you in trouble. It is him." She poked Butch's broad shoulder. "You introduce me."

"Blossom, Miss Flo." His hand shifted between them, but his stare stayed on Blossom, far too open for boys their age. The marionette string pulled by indifference and common decency couldn't tug her away. "Miss Flo, Blossom."

The name didn't draw a reaction, nor did Miss Flo look to be aware of who Blossom may be. To her, Blossom may just be Butch's distracting little friend.

She put up a hand to shake, and Blossom clasped it. "Oh. Your grip is so strong," she fonded over, leaning a little into Butch. "Good. I like it."

"Thank you," Blossom replied.

"As I told Butch, you get out of here. It's late, and you're too young. Don't waste it."

Blossom snuck a glance at Butch. He lifted his brows. They could barely keep it in.

"We won't."

Alone again, they still stared at another, ferocious grins for the foregone awkward but not so, so awkward exchange.

"What—"

"I swear—"

"—was that?"

"—she's not insane."

And then they're accomplices in this humor they've stumbled into, robbing another laugh from the other's lungs as soon as the job looked to be done. It's a tale for them to sneak away with, bonded by their moment of cahoots.

Butch put a finger to his lips like the husher at the library. "Shh! She'll come back out." But it only made her cheeks ache and that mortifying snort came out. "Blossom."

"I'm okay," she wheezed out. "I'm good."

"You better."

"She's adorable."

"You're only saying that because she picks on me."

"How could she not?"

"Hey, stop," he said in a sham offense, still rustling out laughs.

"You were right," she said. "She is a killer."

"The very best."

Eventually, he finished his takoyaki, their milk teas drained complete. The Open sign flipped to Closed. Rain persisted, not satisfied just yet, and Butch elbowed her at the door.

"Just let me give you a ride." His voice too low for a courteous offering, not a plea but close.

She hesitated, questioning how a person who had only been a horrid evocation a couple months ago could make an idiot of her? He should be rude and abrasive and unkind and disgusting. Not this.

Blossom shouldn't be okay with any more time spent with him.

"Fine," she told him, not soft but close.

They made a quick dash to his Volvo parked right out front, water pelting against their superhuman skin. Bangs stuck to her forehead, flats squishy after misstepping into a puddle. Inside his car, Blossom fought the urge to look in the mirror.

She turned and laughed at the mess of Butch's curls and how he shook off the rain like a labrador retriever. Those puppy dog tails, they were a hard instinct to ignore.

"Thanks," she said dryly, letting him see where his excess water went.

"Shit. Tell Wesley I didn't mean to get you wet."

Blood exploded beneath her cheeks. Her smile must have had a mind of its own, because there's no way Blossom would ever think in the right mind that his audacity and crassness to be so amusing.

A finger, glossy from a clear-coat, accused him. "You're bad."

He simply shrugged, insouciant as Blossom was coming to know in him.

Ignition turned on, dash lights illuminated him in a blue-green. It took a little, but cold air came from the vents. His radio didn't look to be the original, something updated to play CDs rather than cassettes. The interior smelt a little like weed.

Blossom looked down at her feet and backpack, turned towards the backseats, astonished.

Butch furrowed his brows. "What."

"It's," she couldn't get over it, "clean."

"I'm offended!"

"Serious?"

"Nah." He admittingly said, "You should see my room."

Blossom chose, respectfully, not to reply, and Butch shifted into reverse, looking back. His grip rested on her headrest, a strand of hers getting pulled by an incidental finger. He was too, too, too close to her with his sugary-spice scent deluging her. There was a bit of earthiness to it.

He had them going from zero to forty in seconds, already out of Chinatown before Blossom could blink.

"Do you know where I live?"

He chuckled, eyes on the slick roads. "Of course. I drive by it every day."

"Not funny."

"Too far?"

"Yes."

"Alright. No stalking jokes. Got it."

"You're taking notes?"

"You're Blossom of the Powerpuff Girls," he said, matter-of-factly. "Seems right."

Streetlights glimpsed into the car. Wipers moved languidly to remove the rainfall. Butch flicked on a blinker, turning right. Blossom was humiliatingly glad he hadn't noticed her touched smile.

"Something interesting tonight," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Miss Flo didn't recognize me."

"Yeah," he said, exaggerating the word. "She doesn't get supes and all that."

"That can be nice."

"Right." They came to a red light, and Butch gave her a brief look, eyes a forest ablaze. "There's not, uh… not a lot of places," he told her, earnest and quieter than what she's gotten from him before, "that would be okay with it. I'm just lucky she didn't care after the complaints."

She shifted in her seat, fingers forming into a fist. A terrible habit the little girl in her made. No matter how much time in dormancy, it's still a part of her.

"They have?"

"It," he huffed out a breath, pausing, and said, "it's whatever. Miss Flo took care of it."

"A killer, right."

His mouth lifted a little. "A killer."

Green light, he pressed steadily on the gas. In which Bubbles was nervous and brake happy, Butch seemed to employ a reckless lead foot.

"I'm sorry," she eventually said.

"You don't need to do that."

"It's been almost a decade."

"People tend not to change their minds."

"They don't," she almost murmured. They were quiet for a few minutes, not ready for that conversation.

Another stop light and Butch pressed play on his silent radio. An indie band came on, this cool palette between pure pop and crunchy shoe-gaze. Their lead singer had a soft style, a pretty lower range. The lyrics were nonsensical but catchy. The perfect earworm kind of music.

Not Blossom's preference, but she didn't mind at all.

It's absolutely not what she expected Butch to listen to.

"Boom's band made a demo," Butch said, and Blossom was pleasantly okay with his ability to read her mind then.

Blossom's mouth gaped a little. "This is Boomer?"

"Sonicboom, really. But yeah. That's Boomy Boy."

"I didn't know he was in a band."

"Don't keep all Ruff tabs equally?"

"Not a real thing."

Butch chuckled. They entered the South Pokey Oaks neighborhood. "I really thought they would be ass, but they kind of fuck."

"Best way to describe them," she said wryly.

Blossom watched as he smiled to himself. "It's been crazy good for Boom. Don't think he's ever been so committed to anything."

"That's good," she said. "It's nice to see you supporting him, too."

He slowed, parking in front of her house. His eyes low as he turned to hers. "He hasn't always been open to it, and… yeah, I'm trying."

"I think it's admirable."

"It's not much," he said, tone getting all quiet with her again. His body angled in her direction, back of his head touching the window. Even in the car, Butch had to lean somehow. "Doesn't change the obnoxious shit from when we were kids, you know? But we're okay."

"Siblings are hard."

"Yeah."

Rain hadn't lightened. Butch had turned off his headlights upon parking, considerate to her neighbors but also this strange knowing she wasn't going to exit immediately upon arrival.

He gave her something more, something out of the zone of comfort. She could make the same steps along the thin rope. Trust in him like he's trying to with her.

But it had been late, and Blossom found it too early.

"Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it."

"You're good." With his easy smile, he said, "See you Thursday?"

She left him with a not-so-opposed, "Possibly."

Blossom's steps were featherlight into the house, almost allowing herself to float. White light came from the television left on. No one was awake, and she let out a relieved breath.

She almost made it up the stairs before hearing, "You're home late."

Blossom glanced down from the top of the stairs to Buttercup moving out of the shadows of the kitchen with a full trash bag in hand. She must have been cleaning up after the horror night.

"I needed a quiet place to study," she explained evenly. "But it rained."

Buttercup blinked her illumined eyes. "It did."

"I had to wait it out."

They both looked to the front window, the shadowy water steadily trickling down, reminding the household of its existence regardless of invitation.

"I see." Blossom had expected the typical judgment of her sister. But Buttercup reached for the remote on the coffee table, leaving them in complete darkness. Buttercup went towards the garage, surely to throw away the trash in hand. Uttering an aloof, "Sleep well, Blossom."

---

The Pokey Oaks Country Club was located on the southern edge of the city. Surrounded by draped oaks, its self-proclaimed world-class golfing garnered much interest from the affluent in Townsville and the neighboring Citiesville. Eighteen holes of towering dunes, sandy fields, a pristine lake, dynamic contours of the land. Along with, there's the lakeside lodge that offered dining, billiards, a luxurious spa experience, an infinity pool, and a fitness center.

Practically, Wes' entire life has been gummed together by the Country Club. It's where his parents met. In the second-floor bathroom his mother, Nonna, had gone into labor and would later deliver him in the arriving ambulance right outside. It's where six-year-old Wes would meet his best friends in the daddy-and-me golf tournament. It's where he spent most of his time outside of Blossom or school.

That being, it's rare for Blossom to come along with him, but it had been Teddy Koda's birthday. Wes wanted her to be there, and Blossom couldn't argue why not. That's how she ended up in the club's steakhouse, the only girl to the fifteen teenage boys. Not even Teddy's girlfriend of the semester, Abigail Gale, had received an invitation.

When she and Wes arrived before seating, hand-and-hand, the guys had quieted, and Teddy, a short and stocky brunet with a patchy beard, dropped his smile at the sight of her, muttering, "Oh."

Zaffre Lake Steakhouse delivered sweeping views of the dunescape and the still waters of its namesake lake. Burnt mahogany, pristine glass, soft flavescent lighting. The carpeting hasn't been updated since the eighties but has been kept thoroughly shampooed. It smelt of fresh grass and cigar smoke of the closeby gentlemen's lounge. All men were required to wear a coat, no hats or flip-flops allowed. Menus proudly reminded they only served DeBRAGGA USDA Prime and dry-aged beef, and the wine list went on for five pages.

In ann off-white turtleneck, chocolate mini, and knee-high kitty-heeled boots, Blossom cut into her baby wedge salad, it covered in heirloom tomatoes, house-smoked bacon, slices of English cucumber, pickled red onion, blue cheese crumbles, and creamy roasted garlic dressing, listening to Teddy and Pablo and the guys talk about a new 5 iron—Or maybe it was a driver?

Wes sat close, their knees touching beneath the clothed table, dividing his attention between her and still entertaining the main conversation. He looked cute in his dark sports coat and slim fit trousers, this knitted red sweater underneath.

"Cathy asked me if you can change a par the other day," Dylan Dillion said from the opposite end of the table. The guys chortled obnoxiously at this.

To cease the urge of rolling eyes, Blossom looked over to the Christmas tree near the vacant piano bench as a distraction. Silver tinsel glinted. Ornaments of golf balls and carts and shorts. Its star crafted from broken clubs.

Pablo Cabrera whistled. "Hell of a dealbreaker."

"I don't know." Teddy swirled a glass of merlot. His parents served on the club's donor board, no IDs were necessary. "It's better for them to be unaware."

"It is hilarious," Donny Mindme said.

"Right," Teddy nodded, and the table laughed heartily at the thought of the silly, silly girls they've pursued.

Blossom could feel Wes' vision land on her. There was a blip of guilt passing through him, its presence etched in his marble complexion.

"Why not?" Wes said after dancing along the ring of fire for a moment too long. "Why not teach them?"

"Why let it become their thing?" Teddy let out this baffled chuckle, looking at the others for their thoughtless backing. "They'll invade our space. Ruin the peace. Let's keep it for the men."

"I don't know. I," Wes briefly turned to Blossom, smiling, "I think it would be cool. Instead of it just being a me thing, it could be a we thing. Why wouldn't I want to have something else for us to share?"

It was quiet, that anxiety-including silence that only confirms you have indeed ruined the fun. Pablo coughed awkwardly, the faint mumble of pussy only super-hearing could pick up. The stare Blossom gave him had been frore—he wouldn't even look in her direction for the rest of the lunch.

"Wes, come on."

"I've even offered to teach Blossom a few times."

Teddy rolled his shoulders back, leaning into his leather chair. His smirk smug, surely stepping right up for this headlining show Wes unintentionally starred her in.

"Is that so? How come I haven't ever seen you on the fairway, Blossom?"

Teddy didn't have the processing to understand the socio-economic elitism of the hobby and country clubs themselves, or how she opposed the detrimental environmental impact of golf courses. Nor would it be appropriate to tell these boys who haven't evolved enough to develop a multi-faceted personality outside of the sport that Blossom simply did not have an atom in her that cared to learn.

"Timing hasn't been right. We're both incredibly busy," Blossom replied, and Wes nodded in support. She smiled saccharine at Teddy. "But I'm eager for the day I'll be out there."

Teddy looked as if he had more to say, as if he wanted something flashier to enthrall, but their runner approached with entrees, and the boys got distracted by their meat.

Blossom only ordered the salad, adding nothing to the knives cutting into filets and cracking of lobster tails and slurping of oysters. She tried to find something to carry her attention away, but it was an all-boys club of the same ongoings of her table, just twenty to forty years later on.

The guys were speaking about a movie now, some buddy-cop film Wes and her saw a weekend ago. She didn't find it humorous as they did, as they quoted lines and bits, and Blossom didn't want to be rude, but she discreetly reached for her purse, checking the time. She let out a heavy sigh, realizing there was too much left.

Wes nudged her side. He meant it to be teasing, she tried not to appear annoyed by his intrusion.

"In a rush?" he whispered, sounding like a schoolboy when their friend got called out by the teacher.

"Bubbles is going to have friends over later," she told. "I wanted to see how much quiet I would have after this."

"Oh, nice. I'm glad the Professor is still letting your sisters be social."

Blossom stared at the empty plates, the uncorked wine bottles on their table other patrons didn't parody offense over.

"He's fair."

"You're talking about your sisters?" Teddy cut in from across the table. His cheeks were ruddy, and there was a dab of steak sauce on his hairy chin. He huffed out a laugh. "God, what were they thinking? People are watching you!"

Blossom didn't want to engage with him, especially when discussing this matter. But even if she did, Teddy wasn't going to let her get a word out, barreling right through with his showman mouth.

"I don't get it. I mean, man. You're not immune to these things. The Supes Act happened for Christ's Sake! Major Glory and the Justice Institution follow it with no problem, right? Why is it so hard for others to—"

"Teddy," Wes warned. But it's Wes, so it came out without any real bullet-sweating pressure.

Teddy made a face, almost appalled to be namechecked. "It's Blossom! She's, like, the only normal one. There's no hurt feelings. Right, Blossom?"

"Dude, you're being a dick," Wes continued. "Chill."

They stared at another, tension whacking the table harder than a mallet to a mole.

But Teddy let out another laugh, the rest of the table joining in on their ringleader's production.

"Fine," Teddy relented, and Blossom pondered if he would have given up so easily if it had been her to reply.

Later, when in the car, no heater on because he knew Blossom hated it, Wes would sigh out a cold cloud from the driver seat. "I'm sorry for Teddy being," he paused, "well, Teddy."

Blossom didn't care to put more thought into Teddy Kodas. "He was rambling."

"He was still being a jerk."

She shrugged. "It happens."

Wes shook his head, reaching out for her cheek. "Why don't we go to Bonsai Gardens? The ice rink opened today. We can turn this Saturday around."

"You're not going with them?" The boys had agreed to meet back at Pablo's house.

"Rather be with my girl." Blossom smiled at that, letting Wes give her a sweet kiss. He was almost as cold as her, and against her lips, he murmured, "Are you sure you're okay?"

What else could she say?

That Wes should've known better than to bring her? That Teddy has never liked her and there's a good indication as to why?

That she kept calm by entertaining the thought of shoving Teddy's head through the golf club star atop their tacky Christmas tree?

That she didn't understand why Wes would keep company like Teddy and the others? That she wondered if he was anything like them when she wasn't around?

But Blossom trusted Wes. He's only given her the best of him, she didn't feel the need for either to be upset.

"Don't worry about it."

---

2011

Blossom stood under the breezeway of Copper High School's drop-off lane, waiting and greatly frustrated by her waiting.

With the Professor having flown to Baltimore that morning after dropping her off for a green chemistry initiative, Wes skiing in Park City for the weekend, and Bubbles only holding a learner's permit still, Blossom had mentioned this mounting complaint to Butch an afternoon after volunteering and studying at Sugar Mei again, and that she'd been considering the city bus once her debate tournament finished. But Butch had volunteered, reassured her attempts of it's fine, you don't have to, and promised he'll be there right after.

He was fifteen minutes late.

She sucked in a cold breath, the sour sewage of Citiesville inescapable even on the pristine, high-tech school campus in the city's suburbs. A scarf snug around her neck, pinkening hands stuffed into the pockets of her long, camel-taupe coat covering her uniform. She didn't shiver. Didn't curse at the January weather and its reasons to give them cold shoulders.

No, her indignant thoughts shoved hot coal, fueling an instructable heat in her chest.

Tardiness was a character flaw she didn't understand. If you say you'll be there, you should be there. It's not hard, especially with Butch's disregard for the state's speed limitations. And while Blossom may excuse a minute or two, traffic or an unforeseen circumstance, it should be something you prepare for. Hell, Butch could've, at least, texted her he was running late. They had each other's numbers now, they'd gotten to that point of shared knowledge of another.

But she had no messages.

What if he forgot?

Blossom blinked away an icy chill, mouth pressed firm. Her teammates had lingered. Susie Jenkins and Roy Old discussed late-lunch spots in Citiesville to try. Rachel May sat cross-legged, papers flying in her notebook as she waited for her dad's rusty truck to squeak into the parking lot. Auditorium doors behind them swung open, Clara Clearly and Mike Believe chatting with their defeated opposition.

"Blossom, you're still here?" Clara asked. Her, Mike, and the Copper High student they befriended paused next to her, curious but affable.

"My ride is late."

"Ah." She clicked her tongue, glancing at Mike's cherry Mini-Coop then to Blossom. "ETA on when they might be close?"

"I don't." She should've called Butch, know where he's at, but the annoyance of reminding, of needing to know he hadn't just left her alone. That he could've found something better, just something else he rather do. And, well… Blossom would rather not know then.

"If you want, maybe," she turned to Mike, that kind of telepathy developed from a decade-spanning friendship, "We could give you a ride instead?"

"We so could," Mike pitched in. He's dark-chocolate eyes and a permanent smile, dirty-blond hair tucked underneath a skull-stitched beanie Blossom felt she'd seen somewhere else before, still baby-faced well into their teens. "We're heading to my place to play a couple of games, too. Kim and Tyler from the Matheles will be there. You should join."

"I have been looking for a Taboo partner." Clara smiled at Blossom, true to her intentions.

Blossom did like Clara Clearly. They've never been close, but Clara has been the first to compliment any changes to Blossom's debate strategies, and Blossom always thrilled at Clara's prepotent rebuttals that leave competitors in stutters. She was punctual, asked rousing questions in class, was clever but never rude about it. She has slim eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, big cheeks that made for a pretty smile, coiled hair worn in these practical yet cute buns. She volunteered at the Townsville soup kitchen, donated socks she crocheted to the displaced, had the same AP and debate schedule as Blossom along with Mathletes and was president of the Biodiversity club; but she still had time for friends.

For that, Blossom considered their offer. She really did.

But then, Butch's Volvo finally showed up in the parking lot. Braked, he rolled down his window with a roguish grin. "Ready to go, Commander?"

Blossom rolled her eyes, and Clara gave her an addled, maybe an absorbed look?

"Butch Jojo," she said in such a strange way. A dark eyebrow ticked upward. "You get along?"

"Yes," Blossom said, clipped. "He's fun."

Clara nodded. There may have been a flex of a smile. "I'm sure."

Blossom made her goodbyes brief, thanked them for the generous offer, and slid into the familiar passenger seat. He's in an olive Sherpa jacket, finger pressing to roll up her window, garage rock playing from the radio, and he barely had the heat on. She preferred the faint weed of his seats to the rot of Citiesville.

Once she clicked in her seatbelt, Blossom turned to tell, "You're twenty minutes late."

"I know." He peeled out of the parking lot. "Whole dickjam on the Redwood Bridge."

She hummed her irritation.

"Also, I stopped for hot chocolate." Without taking his eyes off the frosty road, he reached for one of the paper cups in the car's holders and unceremoniously presented it to her.

The cup warmed her freezing fingers, and she sighed loudly. As much as she worked to shovel her coals of vexation into place, they barely powered that peculiar furnace in her.

Instead, she felt ridiculous, like a nauseating nuisance, and so far removed, it was getting sadder than she expected.

"I'm supposed to be mad at you."

Butch snickered out a laugh. "Like you could."

"I could." She took a long sip, sugar and heat staying on her lips. Blossom stared at him, knowing there was no hurt in painful honesty with Butch, but still tried to be cool and confess indifferently, "I thought you forgot."

"Blossom, what the fuck." He made a face, brows gathering. They weren't at a red, but Butch made sure to look at her when saying, "I'm not going to forget."

"I know," she murmured, averting her eyes to the passing signs. It's a tender coal that snuck into a pile that'll only grow and grow to burn slow.

---

Blossom spent most of spring break in solitude.

She read twenty books, twelve of which she's already perused and annotated prior. Studied for finals that'll be proctored a couple months away. Tried to sleep in and sleep early, but only slept for a few hours. Made good use of an empty house with a closed bedroom door and Wes. Watched movies with the Professor on the Classic Movie Channel, where the Professor would ask if she had plans the next day with friends, and Blossom had answered with an ambiguous depends on them.

To her defense, Blossom would've preferred to volunteer every day, but Carrie wouldn't schedule a shift no matter how many times Blossom explained she didn't mind. Carrie insisted, Take all the books you want, but you will not be spending your break here.

And it would be on Thursday afternoon, when she's in the living room, halfway through book three of Stephanie Lisbon's Dusk series when her phone vibrated beside her.

Butch: no storytime

Butch: how could you not

Butch: these are the youth

This was how Butch Jojo texted. Rarely punctuated. Broken down into separate messages when they could justifiably be a complete sentence. Leaving you so curious that you have to reply.

Blossom: Carrie forbade me for the week.

Butch: ROUGH

Butch: off today

Butch: u doing anything

Blossom hesitated.

She knew what the (non-punctuated) question meant.

Knew it would be the first without an excuse of storytime or happen to be walking by or a calm place to study. She knew that would make this not a charade they'd been playing for months. Knew it could possibly make them able to say, yes, we are.

Her mind ticked through a wheel of all excuses for why they shouldn't before her monotony landed on:

Blossom: I'm completely free.

An hour later (Butch had been seventeen minutes late to pick her up), they're at the Mini Malph's station near Bonsai Gardens Park. While he pumped gas into his Volvo, Blossom ordered sandwiches at the food counter inside. A Philly cheesesteak with extra peppers for him, a turkey sub drenched in vinegar for her.

ICE-E machines churned bright cherry and glacier-blue slush. Hot dogs glistened on the rotisserie rack. Someone asked for a scratch-off and a pack of cigarettes at the register. "Use Somebody" by Kings of Leon played on old speakers. A faint stench of gasoline lingered around the small shopping aisles. The tiled floor was sticky, and fluorescent lights hummed to be changed.

She wore high-waisted jeans and a loose, muslin blouse, paired with white Keds. Blossom thanked the thirty-something sandwich artisan, paper-wrapped sandwiches in hand, and grabbed cans of lemonade from the refrigerated section.

There were three in front of her at checkout. Blossom glanced out the windows while she waited, spotting Butch at pump eleven. He's casual in a Townsville Gladiator t-shirt (their local minor hockey league team), black shorts, and a pair of Nikes.

She watched as he shook and then put back the gas pump into its slot. It was such an ordinary action, she's observed Wes do it plenty of times from the passenger seat. But it's Butch Jojo, you could never guess he's a walking science experiment among them.

He looked up then. A megawatt grin that could've been captured from a low orbit satellite, he stared right into the store's tinted windows and waved.

Seriously.

He activated his x-ray vision for this?

There are dumber ways to get caught, how could a person be so reckless as such?

In spite of her florid skin, Blossom kept straight ahead to the moving line, going on to pay and thank the college-aged cashier.

Butch had slid into the car after she blanked him, and left the doors unlocked for her.

"Got everything?" he asked once she was inside the vehicle.

"Believe so." She clicked in her seatbelt. Their impromptu picnic in a plastic Malph's bag by her feet. "Maybe something sweet?"

"Nah." He reached into the (still mind-blowingly tidy) backseat for a black backpack that didn't look to be getting much use. "Got that covered."

"Of course."

"You'll like today's," he teased, hands back on the wheel as he accelerated out of pump eleven's space. "It's a bit of a tester."

"I do love a test."

He smiled at that, more to himself than her, the undern light deepening his olive skin. "I know."

---

They ate under a Japanese Maple. Branches sinuous like capillaries, its pointy leaves the shade of red blood cells. There's a spring coolness, a small wind carrying pollen and happy bees and new seeds to be planted. Birds chirped all around. Damp dirt and the smell of green grass. The sun deciding to be fair and kind, not overly harsh, and they sat cross-legged in its welcoming mood.

They're far from the sunbathers of the park's sandy lakeshore, practically unknown over three field lengths away. An elderly couple shared a bench to read a newspaper. At a picnic table, a mini-van mom attempted to calm a rambunctious group of ten-year-olds to eat their late lunch.

"Whatcha been up to this week?"

Blossom pushed strands of shredded lettuce back under her hoagie roll, avoiding his curious gaze. "Studying. Reading a lot."

"Seems like the perfect Blossom week."

She ghosted a smile. "You could say."

"No Wesley?"

"Wes." Her correction was a mild irritant that's a constant with Butch. "I've seen him enough, but mostly stayed home. Not much else."

"I'm glad you had nothing. I was getting so antsy in the volcano."

"Miss Flo forbade you too?"

"No. Couple of morning shifts, actually." He shrugged. "Mojo has business shit in Tokyo, and Brick would rather be in Hell than fuck off with me."

Blossom chuckled quietly. "Bubbles has barely been home because of rehearsals."

"For that spring thing?"

"The play," she tried to understand.

"I guess?"

"Yes. That spring thing."

"Nice," he said. "Boomer went camping near Joshua Tree."

"Weird," she said. "Buttercup went camping near Joshua Tree."

"Their friend groups tend to circle each other. Checks out."

"I've never noticed."

Butch leaned back on his right hand, taking a long sip of lemonade, his Adam's apple bobbing smoothly in the extension. He wiped the back of his hand at his wet mouth. "We gotta be the only ones with nothing."

She frowned a little. "We're doing this."

"That we are, Blossom." He lifted half of his sandwich, tapping it against the one in her hands. "Aren't you glad I'm not the worst?"

"If I had a reason to."

He gave her a long look. "Come on. Don't pull that shit."

"Are you digging? Because you're above that, Butch."

"I'm not," he swore with a loud laugh that may have scared off a nearby pigeon.

She took a vinegary bite of her sub, studying him and his easily tanning skin and the delicateness of the rope they walked. With a swallow, Blossom thought it would be fine to give him just a star-sticker of a compliment. "I'll only say you're nicer than expected."

"Nicer."

"Yes."

"I guess you would be the expert on that."

"I'm not particularly nice."

His eyes slanted, jaw flexing. "Who told you that?"

Teddy Kodas. Princess Morbucks. Most of their classmates. Her sisters. The editorial staff of the Townsville Star and their outrageous amount of loyal subscribers.

"I didn't have to be told."

"I don't like that." He frowned plentifully, brushing away the bread crumbs on his lap to avoid her stare.

"But it's true."

"Come on."

"You know me." Months ago, she'd said the opposite, and months ago, he thought that fair. But he has gotten to her a bit, he has really tried. Months forward, Blossom could say those three words now, and she thought that fair. "I'm not trying to make this about myself."

"Because you're too nice." He continued before she could reply, "If I asked you to think of the ways I've been an uncut dickhead over the years, you would do the humble thing and spare me."

Intently, she leaned towards him, her knee almost bumping his. "Wouldn't get far if you're searching for times of me thinking of you, Butch."

Sunlight snuck through the branches, catching his eyes, turning them meadow-green, and Blossom could only think of him asking what she would've liked instead, simply because he wanted to know.

"See. You spared." Butch beamed at her, jesting, "You're being nice, Blossom."

Their conversation went on. About the people they saw across the park and the stories they made up together about them. About music they liked (grunge for him; study piano for her) and artists they're most embarrassed to like (redacted to avoid further humiliation). About a few animes Butch was into. About the convoluted plot of the Dusk series, and they jokingly promised (but really meant it) to see the first Dusk film when it premiered in the fall.

Eventually, Butch pulled out plastic-wrapped buns from the backpack he brought. Slight green crackling, they were cooked a light brown underneath, polished as a river rock. "Made this morning."

"Will it top last week's cream horn?" She still craved the buttery mascarpone, the shot of espresso in the tiramisu cone-bread fusion.

"Ooh! This is a question I like," he said as she bit into the pastry.

It crackled, a satisfying crunch, perfectly cooked with the inside soft. Vegetal grassy and slight bitterness of matcha, the zesty pop of lemon, the dough's sugary notes. But then there's a warmth that comes in. Peppery, a strong floral and pine.

Cardamom, she determined.

"Butch," she said, almost amazed as a child witnessing their first magic trick. Crumbs stuck to the corner of her mouth, abandoning her table manners with a half-full mouth. Forget what's appropriate, she had to let him know. "Yes. It's an incredible yes."

"You're not fucking me?"

"Absolutely not."

"Nice." He then admitted, breezier than the park's spring air, "That's an idea I've been messing around with."

"You," Blossom swallowed, tone calm when she felt unbelievably uncalm. "You made this."

He shrugged. He freaking shrugged it off. So mind-bogglingly, down-right-criminally blase, it drove Blossom insane.

"Yeah."

"Since when?" The technique could not be something done on a whim, she was sure of.

"Actually." In spite of the maple's shade, the shells of his ears became haematic as its leaves. "I've been learning for a, uh," he thought it over, "a yearish?"

"You have not told me this."

"It's not a big deal."

"Wrong."

"It's for pansies."

"Nope." Blossom sharpened her eyes. "You will not say that. Not with me."

"Fine, but really it's just a dumb hobby."

"You work at a bakery."

He rolled his eyes, crumbling his wrappers together. Now, both hands woven into the grass, holding his weight, he tilted his head. "It's nothing crazy. It helps, and… Yeah. Keeps me from ticking, you know?"

"How many," she asked, "of your own have you been passing off to me?"

"It's a mix," he confessed. "Miss Flo knows her shit."

"She does, but you do, too. I haven't had a bad thing."

"You're being nice again, Blossom." His smile was too sweet for a boy made from snail goop. Blossom had to look away before he rotted her to the bone.

After finishing her matcha bun and throwing away the remnants of their lunch, Blossom proposed, "Would you like to walk around?"

"Or." He reached into his backpack, pulling out a worn football. "Hear me out."

She frowned. Besides the stagnant crime fighting and muscle atrophy with each passing year of her preferring to stay behind a desk, Blossom didn't particularly see the enjoyment of matters in the sporty realm.

"Wrong sister."

"Nah. I think you'll rip."

"Congratulations. You've found the one thing I don't have the slightest lick of how to do."

"I'll teach you," he said gladly.

She agitated. Considering further disagreement. Considering if she wanted to kill the buzz he had from this afternoon already. Considering if there's anything wrong if she lets him have his fun for a little, considering if she's a lion already tamed by his gregariousness.

She considered if she thought too, too, too much, and should just tell him okay already.

And that's how they found themselves standing in the open field of the park. Most were packing away from the lake, off to their homes or early dinner reservations or another adventure on its own. Blood-spattered branches swayed with a new gust, the sun hanging on for a couple more hours of pleasantries.

Butch tossed her the ball, letting her get a feel of its smoothen leather. She held it by the end, like a tissue to dispose, and Butch laughed at this approach.

"Okay, first. Don't hold it like that. You wanna have it here." Brazen, he reached for her, placing her fingers on the white stripes of the ball, his touch relaxed against her tensity. "Mostly on the laces, make sure it's always on top like this. Then your thumb," he guided the single finger down, "should be here. See, your hand is an L. It'll be how you'll control the ball."

"I understand." She waited for him to step away, but his hand skimmed down to prop her elbow for the ball to reach near her ear. He almost pressed into her back, leaning over her shoulder. Her senses chewed on the sugary-spice of him, and she got out a quiet, "That's all?"

"Well." The word was delusory, a haunting, non-mortal. It's for her, only for the super in her to have.

His touch dropped to her waist, fingers squeezing the soft fabric of her shirt, ordering her right hip to turn an angle. She could feel the steadiness of his breath, the heat of his exhale. The tightness of his stomach against her back. He held the warmth of the earth on a long summer day, and it was a corporeal response, the giving of her weight into his hold, the brief shutting of her eyes. A deep inhale through her nostrils, and she smelt the resurrected herbage of spring, the leathered ball she held through his dare. The baked spice of him and its engulf.

It finally came to her then. The reminder of him.

Gingersnaps.

He smelt like a whole tray of them.

"Then you're going to." She flinched, beyond aware of her body and his too. His hand wrapped her arm again, leading her through proper wind back motion, showing when to release. "That'll get you started on a spiral. Think you got it?"

She kept her breathing even as his, and shifted away a little, getting a better look at him.

Butch hadn't let go of her.

"Can we run through it one more time?"

---

They passed the pigskin around for almost an hour. She expected Butch to be good, considering you don't teach something you're poor at, but he had a transfixing spiral. Blossom still didn't care for football, but she got how one could watching him throw.

"You're getting good," he had complimented at some point.

"I'll have to thank my teacher," she said and launched a hard one right at his chest. He whistled at the heat of it, his grin valorous to her power, still that little boy twitching for equalling destruction.

They weren't softening throws, becoming these torpedoes instead, stinging their palms to bright colors. Blossom laughed at her acrobatic catches, Butch nearly took down a tree with a zipping flick. They kept taking steps back to add their strength, daredevils to how much they could get away with being ordinary.

Her throwing shoulder held a mild soreness, a thrilling state she didn't expect to miss sincerely. Dirt stained the pure white of her Keds. Her cheeks ached, too wide to care. Sweat slicked, the tingle of that something more in her blood pulsated.

She took another step back, the distance of an actual football field between them now, and positioned her arm back—

"Hey! Can you quit hogging the field? We wanna play too!" a whiny voice said to her. She looked over to see the lunching ten-year-olds from before staring flatly at her.

Her arm fell. "I'm sorry. I," she glanced to Butch, who was already jogging over to her, "We didn't mean to take up the whole field."

One of them snorted, a pudgy redhead in a navy shirt. "Whatever you say, lady."

Lady was a new one, she'll give him that.

"What's up?" Butch asked when beside her. A dampened curl had fallen into his face, the corner of Blossom's mouth crook a little at its sight.

"We're in trouble."

He chuckled, turning to the little rascals. "Is that so?"

"You're field-hogs!" A dark-skinned boy with a buzzcut and a Citiesville Science Center shirt accused.

"Yeah! And you're getting smoked by a girl!" said a scrawny blond in a peach-collared shirt.

"A girl. Ew!" the other two cried.

She turned to Butch, but he was already regarding her with low lids, a momentary forgetting. "She is pretty gross."

"Back at you," she said wryly.

He jostled her side, jocular. "But you're the one with cooties."

"That means you're infected!" remarked the twiggy blond.

"Nah," Butch told them, finally breaking away from her gaze. "I'm immune."

She chuckled at what counts for immunity, and the redheaded boy said, "Then why are you so bad?"

"Hey, hey. You can only hate if you can back it up."

"We can!"

"Then let's play."

"You're on!" Each flashed a toothy grin before running unannounced. They almost reminded Blossom of another rowdy trio.

"You're abandoning me?" she said to Butch.

"Totally am." His smile was innocent and boyish. "Gotta teach these snotty brats how to ball."

"They're ten."

"So?"

She shook her head. "There's something wrong with you."

He scrunched his fingers together. "Just a little."

For a while, she stood by, watching them play around. They laughed at Butch for bobbling a ball, and he went significantly easier, ensuring no humans would be harmed. Instead of throwing back and forth, they seemed to be playing two-on-two which was slowly but surely morphing into, perhaps, a little unfair three-on-one.

"Thank God you two were here." It's the mom in charge of the boys. She looked to be in her late thirties, wearing capris and a v-neck shirt, the kind of woman to buy Live, Laugh, Love wall art. Thin cheeks and exhausted eyes but she had a friendly smile. "They've been giving me the run around all week."

"They do seem like they would never make things dull."

"That's for sure," she laughed, and she told Blossom her name was Karly.

"Which one is yours?"

"Lenign." She pointed at the scrawny blond, and Blossom smiled politely as if Lenign was a normal given name. "Owen and Daniel have been his best friends since diapers."

"That's sweet."

"It is. The friendships you make when you're young, they really transcend who you become."

Blossom could understand, but really, she didn't.

They watched as one of the boys grabbed at Butch's leg like a feral cat, the other jumping onto his back. Lenign leapt last, and Butch allowed the three-way pile on to be his downfall, landing safely on the soft grass.

"He's good with them," Karly said absently.

Blossom nodded, her smile lambent for a past foe who's outgrown all her excuses made for the sake of an invulnerable no. For the slow work he's made, all by being his raucous and intrepid and thoughtful self.

"Mom! Mom! Did you see me absolutely trash him?" Lenign came running, along with Owen and Daniel.

"I did!"

"That's right. I'm the best!" Lenign flexed his bony arms, and Blossom bit the inside of her cheek to keep from juvenile snickering.

"Don't listen to him," Butch said, once again standing beside Blossom. His hair was messier than before; an orderly urge of hers begged to muse a hand through those unruly curls. "He cheated."

"You wish I cheated, old man!"

"Ooh! Burn!" Owen and Daniel exclaimed.

"Alright. I think it's time to get you three home for dinner," Karly announced. "Make sure to say thank you for playing with you."

They pouted, begrudgingly getting out, "Thank you."

"Yeah, for sucking," Daniel added.

Owen said, "Yeah, you sucked so hard."

"You don't even know what that means," Butch practically exasperated.

A moment later, Blossom waved goodbye to Karly and the boys as they marched back to her minivan, asking Butch, "Was it worth it?"

"No! Those motherfuckers were mean!"

Blossom may have laughed so hard, she snorted again.

---

Evening would come. They stayed in his car, engine running in the park's emptying lot. Radio played low. Windows halfway down, you could faintly make out the lively noise of a nearby brewery, the night bugs roaming, birds saying their parting crows. The sun disappeared from the occasion as the moon decided to show face.

She and Butch talked about this and that, and even felt fine when there wasn't anything needed to be added, knowing the day was over but why couldn't they wait, just a few more seconds before it really ended?

Butch had been staring out to the empty field they'd joked and played in, oaks swaying with a breeze, its leaves dyed violet in the night's blue. Passively, he asked, "You've been to the Science Center?"

"In Citiesville?"

"Yeah."

"Butch," she said. "Look at who you're asking."

He laughed softly, a sound she hadn't heard from him before. Blossom relished a little she was able to bring it out of him. "Right. You're a mega nerd."

"Mega might be too light." He did that laugh again, and Blossom regarded him, slow as a glacier's movement, as her climates have warmed to the emission of him in her routine. He's doing that window lean, lax in the angles of himself. His hair still too messy to deal with. "Why do you ask?"

"Nothing much. One of those twerps wore a shirt for it today." He put his eyes on her. "That place is too cool for him."

"Again, they were ten."

"Tough shit. He's still uncool for it."

"Not agreeing."

"That's fine."

"But it is a cool place," she told him. "When we were younger, anytime the Professor and I had days alone, I would beg him to take me."

"Mojo would take us a lot, too." He chuckled to himself. "Only time the three of us would agree on an activity."

The logic of Blossom's brain couldn't place Butch and his brothers there, impossible for the neurons of her to spark the image of Butch thinking any scientific method to be cool.

"I wonder how it's changed," she commented. "It's been years."

"They have a human body exhibit now. You're like shrunken down, and you exit out the butthole. It's pretty rad."

"Formative."

"Extremely."

"We should go." They already jokingly made future movie plans, so why not this?

His eyes flared, eager and mischievous in saying, "We should." He pressed a foot full on the brake, shifting into reverse. "Right now."

"Wait." She blinked, incredulous. "It's past eight. It's surely closed."

"Trust me," he said as they sped towards the direction of Redwood Bridge, to Citiesville and its sleek buildings and booming tech hub. "We'll be fine."

Her hair was firelight in the speeding air, cool vapor of Arbor Bay seeping into the car. Butch expertly wove through lanes, passing suspender cables and the flickering of the bridge's overhead lights. Blossom watched him, this wild decision, the wild driving, his wild joy.

She couldn't stop smiling.

When they reached downtown Citiesville, Butch parked in a nearby garage tagged by colorful graffiti. The stench of garbage bags boiled on the street was ever-present. Warm steam drifted out of storm drainages. Art deco buildings, steel built and scraping the sky, checkered by office spaces still occupied or vacated for the night. A city bus hissed nearby. Horns blaring from the congested overpass. No souls from the grimy city walked by. Streetlights an eerie yellow, their footsteps echoing against the crumbling pavement.

No stars in the blue night. They didn't exist in Citiesville.

The Citiesville Science Center had to be one of the few areas where oaks grew mighty in spite of the industrialized smog. A glass-topped building, it spanned six floors with a terrace on the fourth for private events. Inside, the main atrium was ivory marble and banners promoting new attractions, a spiral incline to reach each section until the very top. It held a taxidermy hall, planetarium theater, replica fossils, space junk that's fallen into the state, STEAM lab, and a kiddie play zone.

Venturing towards the main entrance, Butch abruptly motioned for them to go left.

"Why?" she asked, brusque. No longer on pavement but browned grass, they neared the brick building's back. A utility box hummed, and of course, it wasn't well-lit.

"So." He stopped at a ladder that led to the fourth-floor terrace. "Upstairs, there's a maintenance door. No alarm trip."

"Breaking in." Blossom's stare narrowed. "You want to break in."

He blinked, aloof. "Your point?"

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Not only is this illegal." She laid a hand on her chest, his lingering eyes followed the motion. "But to think I would?"

"Blossom," he said. So much sangfroid, it's ruining. "You had to know."

She shook her head, she would never, she—

She didn't know why she tried.

She knew the second he shifted them in gear, and Blossom didn't protest, she didn't ask what he really meant because then they would have to do this.

Instead, she went along with the ride, more than a clueless participant. All because she was having too much fun.

But games have to come to an end. She could forfeit here, tell Butch she didn't want to play anymore. And then…

Then the loser doesn't get a prize, they don't get the glory of laughter and luck of sharing a good moment with another. No. They sit at home alone, stultified as their young life passes by, wishing they hadn't been such a sore.

"There's no alarm," she repeated.

"No alarm," he confirmed. "There's only one guard. Hector. He's lazy and getting old, so he only patrols once."

"I see."

"Don't worry about the camera shit. It plays on a loop from ten years ago." Blossom raised a brow at that as Butch began to climb up the ladder. He simply explained, "Mojo."

At the top, he watched her from the ledge, challenging, practically egging her on. She stared up at him, and wondered what they would've been if they had been born normal. If they had begun this younger, on a sandlot or fairground, if they had played pretend, making up stories of pirates and fantasy worlds only built for them?

If they had a childhood spent in the sunlight of another, would they be in such a rush to make up for lost time?

Her hand curved the ladder's metal, foot stepping on. A siren wailed, the natural song of the cityscape. It was somewhere, blocks away from them, but it sounded too close and Blossom near jumped out of her skin. Butch's booming laughter should've immediately given away their delinquent behavior.

"Jeez," he huffed out in his comedy. "It's like you've never committed a crime before."

"I'm ignoring that." A deep breath, and she's climbed onto the fourth-floor exterior with the cackling buffoon. They never did consider how they could've easily floated instead.

Butch pressed into the door, and look at that, there had been no alarm, not even her eardrums picking up on a silent frequency. Perhaps, the city's unfunding can do some good.

They walked along a darkened hallway that led straight into the human body exhibit Butch'd mentioned. The pink walls of compressing tissue, slowly in and out by an inch, the lungs breathing even in the abandon of the night.

Blossom ran a hand along the risen vessels, able to admire the details without ankle-chomping tikes and their boogery-hands. It smelt of recently applied disinfectant spray, the small lung cavity lit only by Butch's evergreen and her pink.

"Not bad for a first crime."

"You're wrong."

"Huh?"

"You're wrong. It's not my first crime."

"Oh." He stopped before the chamber of the heart. His grin colored by her, canines soaked pink like rabbit's blood of a feasting wolf. "Blossom of the Powerpuff Girls has a rap sheet?"

"It's expunged." She stared him down on this battlefield of honesty, where he was not the adversary, not anymore, but evolving into a trustable confidant. A thrum of the organ ahead, Blossom could listen to both as she said, "But once, I had stolen. Graft theft for the Pro Excellence 2000."

"That like a vibrator?"

Blossom glared at him, skin deepening a heart's red. "It was a golf set."

His smile left his eyes. "Wesley could've afforded it, Klepto."

"It wasn't for Wes," she corrected. Aggravated at his assumption she would do that for just a boy. "It was for the Professor."

"Oh, nice."

"It was humiliating."

"It made you human," he reasoned. "We're capable of mistakes, you know?"

"I'm not sure about that."

"But it makes it easier." His finger came close to her, right by the eye, almost a caress, his Chemical X stare ardent, the cast of her very own in his softened features. "For what else we're guilty of."

He's almost slouched into her, and she took a breath, he let out one. A heart whooshed by their ears, in her chest and in his.

"You said someone complained before. At Mei."

"Not just someone." He sounded exhausted, something she wouldn't understand. But Blossom could try. "It's everywhere."

"How bad?" A hard look phased over him as he stubbornly shrugged. Blossom pressed, a leader checking in on a wounded troop, "How bad, Butch?"

Eyes rolled as he turned to the sculpted structure of life's most vital source. Blossom wished he hadn't. She wished she could grab him, face to face again, to be this close, so painfully close with another.

"Blossom, forget—"

"I care to know." Now, she's the one taking up his space, fingers lightly pressing into the bent of his firm arm. Not to exploit or even the score, but because Butch deserves someone who does care. Because she wanted to be the person he could trust, too. "I'm not going to forget."

His jaw slacked. Gaze falling to what little lay between them. He huffed out a breath, and it may have lasted hours, how long she would've waited for him.

"It happened when I first started." He's barely a thing amongst the heartbeat. "A community page or some shit. They were boycotting for a while. Warned about how I would steal, or destroy the place. Some harassed her about it, pushing for me to be fired." He's on her, sharpened fury, a surgical knife into her tough skin she found an honor to bear. Speaking through teeth, he told her, "They got the fucking pigs involved."

Blossom studied the way his anger became him. The impatience and resentment, the fears and acceptance dealt in his hand. The boys weren't above the law, they'd caused real damage to their hometown, but they also had been children formed by a supervillain and the literal devil. They can see the faults in past lines. They could still think the same. They've grown when those around them won't. They've had so much stolen from them.

They deserve a fair chance to be their own person, just as she and her sisters were.

"I don't… If it wasn't for Miss Flo telling them to fuck off, it could've been just another thing, you know? Like here, we had to sneak in after hours because they would just stare, and actually tremble and just—Be so fucking ridiculous, all because… because…"

"We exist," she finished for him after a beat, and he gave something of a mirthless smile.

"We're not allowed to be normal."

"We're not normal." Verdure, he glowed. The little girl in her would've liked the nature of him, if only she'd known better. If only she hadn't been just an observer until these days spent in the wild of him. "That's how we were made."

He breathed a laugh. "Yeah, well. At least you got a pot."

"Hey, prison builds character."

"You would know."

"I actually do," she smiled.

It's slow, but his grin ripens to the point of splitting open, eyes crinkling to her color. "You're being so nice, Blossom."

They ventured deeper through the body. Dodging foam pieces of digested foods from the stomach acid's ball pit playfully tossed at the other's head. Went down the plastic slide for the large intestine. Crawled on their knees through the smaller one, feeling like fat hamsters stuck in its tubing due to ignoring the height restriction. Giggled like degenerates at the bladder's bouncy, yellow floor.

"Is this—"

"The almighty anus," Butch announced as they approached the puckered hole of an exit. He took a sweeping look at the hyper-realistic ridged, pink walls of the room, whistling. "If only I was an ass man."

Blossom grimaced. "Formative as I thought."

He cackled. "Correct."

Once defecated from the exhibit and in the marbled atrium, AC blasting and floors polished with a lemony scent, they debated the choice of fossils on the third floor or going to the planetarium.

"I would like to see the stars tonight," Blossom decided.

"Hell yeah."

The planetarium held rows of smelly, cushioned seats to look upon the spherical roof, a control center with the projector right behind the last row. Without its presentation, it was nothing but silence and ceiling tiles to count in the dark.

"This place hasn't changed."

"No kidding," he said. "They still use the same recording from the eighties."

"With Chuck E. Cheese?"

"With Charles Enter-fucking-tainment Cheese."

Blossom glanced over the buttons of the control panel. A headset was left, resting before a day full of minds to fascinate with the cosmos. "Should we put something on?"

"Might as well." Without an investigation, he just pressed a button.

With a reverberating crackle over the dated sound system, projections of swirling galaxies cast on the ceiling. An energetic, nasally, faux New York accent announced, Well, hello there! It's me! Chuck E. Cheese! Are you ready to get this party rolling?

"Shit! Fuck! Shit!"

"Turn it off," she whispered harshly. "Turn it off!"

Butch and Blossom moved superly fast to get the damn mouse to shut the hell up. She didn't know who did it, but the projections zapped off, the terrible sponsorship tie-in silenced.

"Too close," Blossom breathed, but Butch grabbed her hand, jerking her behind a row of theater seats. They crouched down, and Blossom gave him a confused face. "Why did you—"

But that's when her ear twitched. The jingle of a key ring, the impending footsteps of someone who's not rushing but not moving at leisure either. A flashlight flitted across the theater, and through the spaces of the seats, Blossom could make out the silhouette of a paunchy, bearded man. Butch put a finger to his lips, entirely rich coming from him and his careless volume. He still held onto her hand.

Hector, the security guard, had been poor at his job as Butch had claimed, deciding after a once-over, a head scratch and a hmph that his investigation was complete.

"He won't be back," Butch said, and Blossom believed him.

"What button works for the projection, and not the sound?"

"Let's see." He perused the motherboard, ah-ha-ing when he spotted a manual. He handed it to her. "Your speed."

She hated that he was right, and thanks to section four, part b of the planetarium tech guide, they were able to get the projection working minus one entertainment mascot.

For this night only, there'll be stars in Citiesville.

"Not to be a cornball, but this…" He walked along the aisle, only to lay down on the carpeted slope. Long legs stretched out, hands holding up his weight, head dipped back as Jupiter's hologram whizzed by. "This was always my favorite."

Blossom took the steps to be by his side, slipping down to the floor, just so apart. She tipped her head back like him. "Sentimental, are we?"

"Ridiculously." His arm bumped hers. "I've been here so many times, I kind of memorized the rat bastard."

She laughed. "There's no way."

"Oh man, what a good time it's been seeing the stars shine bright as my stage. Don't forget kids, it's half off on a cheese pie if you tell your local Chuck E. Cheese franchise you've been here with me," he quoted to her full amusement.

"I didn't know you could do that."

"Blossom, I remember things. I do use my brain."

"The voice. You nailed the vaguely Brooklyn accent."

"Ah." He chuckled, flitting his eyes to Perseids unraveling into silver threads ripped from darkened tapestry. Maybe it was her illumination on him, or maybe it was his ears turning a deep color once again. "Guess it's something we share."

"I suppose." She let her back touch the carpet, which had to be years past a deep clean, the kind of funk you'll feel a thick layer of until showering, her hair spreading like orange marmalade. Her hands entwined on top of her chest. "Tell me more, Mr. Cheese."

"I'm a joke to you now."

"Far from it."

He searched over her for something like deceit, but he won't find it. She's never had a reason around him. His body laid down next to hers, arms crossed behind his head, the distance of his skin like pottery fresh out of the oven.

"Have you ever heard of the Big Bang? " he told her in that silly rat-mouse voice that didn't fit his salt rock rasp as the projection simulated the universal start. " Oh boy, what a show! It had been all quiet, you see. Nothing, I mean nothing out there, folks. And then," he paused, turning to her as the tiny change, a speck of energy exploded an unimaginable force, bright lights flash across them, the heat and heavens and time and all things matter, this galaxy, this system, our planet, continents and states and cities, a trespassed building, a planetarium show, Butch Jojo.

Even in the blinding projector light, pink was bright in his evergreen as he said, "Became everything. "

---

Blossom had barely stepped through the threshold of their home before the Professor poked his head out from the kitchen and said, "Oh good, Blossom. Can you help me after you're settled in?"

"Okay," she replied, skeptical of the request. Ever since the Thanksgiving debacle of 2002, she's been banned from touching a kitchen appliance that wasn't a microwave with pre-set buttons.

But sure, Blossom can help.

Backpack upstairs and changed into soft pants and a Read-A-Thon t-shirt, long hair twisted into a bun to avoid contamination, Blossom joined him. The preheated oven warmed the small space. Afternoon light snuck through the blinds, a golden shade of May. The Professor had on his ruffled apron, the familiar tobacco of his pipe affectionately on him. Water boiled pasta. Tomato sauce and ricotta and bundled asparagus awaiting their turn on the counter.

"How was your day?"

"It was okay." She shrugged. "It's only been reviews for our finals lately."

"We won't have to worry about getting As on those."

She smiled. "No, we won't."

"Can you open this?" He handed her the sauce jar. "I've spent just about five minutes trying to get it."

She did it in one twist. This might be exactly why humans fear them.

The Professor laughed at her ease, the scent of sweet tomatoes filling the room. "I loosened it for you."

"Of course."

At the kitchen table, she waited for further instruction, but the Professor went on to rinse the asparagus and make a tray for the oven drizzled in olive oil and spices, stuffing the boiled manicotti with pungent ricotta that's dressed in the red sauce. While he did this, he mentioned something about her sisters. Buttercup having a doubles match that weekend. Bubbles having been nominated for an Applausey Award for her supporting role in the Oaks High production of Footloose.

Then, he said: "Have they spoken to you about the summer?"

Blossom blinked. Why would they?

"No."

He hummed at that, failing to mask his frown when rinsing his saucy hands. Steam of the hot water rose, and it must have knocked into his admirable, big brain that they won't be telling her, because he explained, "The Morbucks have invited you girls to their summer house."

Buttercup, she wanted to interject, they'd invited Buttercup.

"It's in Oregon. They said you could bring a friend. I think Bubbles is asking Robin to come along, and it would be for the entire break."

"That's a long time."

"It is a long time."

A cardinal pecked curiously at the window, furious as it flew off after its fooling. The oven creaked in its roast. Their fridge groaned, just to be heard in its old age. Sweat formed on the Professor's long forehead from the kitchen's gathering heat. A silent beat extended between them.

Her love for the Professor went to the moon, but she wished he would get it over with.

"What do you think I should do?"

He shook his head. It's a small, restrained gesture. Almost a twitch. "Oh, Blossom. Whatever you want. I don't worry about you."

Her chest hollowed, releasing a, "But for them."

"I," his shoulders fell, an exhausted sigh, "I don't know. I know we've had enough time. I do hate all this. I try my best—"

"You are doing your best."

The Professor smiled warmly at her, and it deepened the lines of his eyes.

"I want your sisters to have their freedom, but to that extent… I wish I could better check in."

"That's understandable."

"It's a heavy choice." He wiped his hands on a stained dish towel, averting his darkened eyes. Cook-time on the oven ticking down. "I suppose it wouldn't be fair if all of you weren't to go."

Finally.

How long were her sisters going to think it was fine for her not to know? Had they predicted this part of the Professor's consideration?

But her sisters weren't schemers; they barely could plan. They probably didn't think that far, so giddied by a summer away after their probation period.

There's too much for Blossom to consider. It's too much time away. It'll throw off her daily schedule. It'll be with the Morbucks. It wasn't what she wanted for the horrid season.

But the Professor doesn't worry about her, he's asking her of this, and it's her sisters.

Blossom would do anything they needed.

She traced the table's wood, its varnished gloss, the permanent mark made to its life, saying, "I think I'll go."

---

Blossom has never looked Aureate up on a map, never thought to visit the beaver state, but here she was in this quaint and secluded town.

It's all swollen roots and cool mist, radiance and salt. Cedar, pine, fir. Farm after farm, spearmint, sweet cherries, onions, marionberries. Seal pups slept on sand grains. Elks roamed the forest right outside her window. Shore bluffs made of granite that'd been worn smooth by ancient glaciers. Seagrass swaying to any song the wind brings. Leathery green lichen crusting on rocks, well beyond the water's reach. The constant churn of an ocean's gray.

On their first night, Robin and Blossom would be left alone on the patio couches to stargaze amongst the fire pit. Unlike Princess, Blossom liked Robin Snyder despite their once friendship distancing out to cordial and brief interactions. Robin has helped balance the sprightly of Bubbles with her soft-spoken, equable nature. Her chestnut hair almost rivaled Blossom's in length, and Robin's style matched the decade her parents purchased their furniture, full of soft pastels, fringe skirts, and bell bottoms.

Flecks of embers from a fire between, both comfortable in the quiet they shared until Robin said, "This summer is going to be such fun."

Blossom smiled tersely. "It should be."

"It's cool you were able to come."

"Yeah."

"Bubbles wasn't sure you would agree." Smoke drifted in the air. Buttercup's throaty laugh echoed from the opened doors of the hoary home. There were real stars above them, and Robin passed Blossom a kind look. "She's really happy you did, though."

Blossom blinked. It didn't shock her, but it—she wasn't sure what it made her feel. It was an intangible rush in her chest. To deny. To wrap it tight into a pretty bow, in case this all unravels and she could think back again on these simple but nice words that her sister supposedly felt. To know things like these shouldn't delay a reaction like it was currently.

She began to formulate a response. A clarification? A mutual assortment? A switch to a more feasible arena of topics Blossom could easily conquer.

But then, Princess was heard demanding, "Robin, get in here! You gotta see what Hanout sent!"

Robin, for what it's worth, gave an apologetic smile as she stood, briefly explaining, "Can't believe he broke up with her again." She rolled her baby-blue eyes licked by orange flames. "Now he's trying to be sorry."

"Me either," Blossom agreed plainly as if this passing of information had been known prior. As if Blossom understood how many times again meant.

---

Their June days were spent exploring Historical Aureate. Drinking lavender lattes, devouring plates of boysenberry pancakes at the Silver Buck Diner. Purchasing touristy sweaters in their signature colors. Robin and Bubbles practicing lines for the fall play. Princess and Buttercup rising with the mellow sun, the early dribble and thwat of a tennis ball. Phone calls with the Professor to reassure of nothing wicked. Beach days, their darkening skin and Blossom's reddening, the four in the frigid Pacific, her remaining on a towel to read. Popcorn for movie nights, sea breeze welcomed in by windows left opened.

July snuck in slowly. Red, white, and blue all down main street. Cherry-stained lips and too many popsicle sticks. Chlorine and salt scented their hair. Bikini lines branded into them. Chocolate sprinkled cupcakes from a box, Buttercup's flipping of charcoal burgers. An inflated water slide, dish soap to make it extra slick, her and Bubbles going down together, Bubbles clutching onto Blossom, telling through giggles, This is so much fun. Waving sparklers around, shapes and words and just what contents. Blurry polaroids of them. Fire popped into the night, showering down as they lay in dewy grass. The reaching of a sister's sweaty hand, the best squeeze there ever could've been.

Midnight, they've all gone in to come clean from the long summer day, smoke thick on them. Blossom showered and changed into a camisole and sleeper shorts, skin slightly damp. She checked her phone left on a cream dresser. Rarity, but she had a few messages waiting.

Wes: Missing you right now.

He attached a picture of Zaffre Lake, a lime-green pinwheel bursting above its smalt water. It had been sent around seven that night.

Blossom:

She went to the next unread in the group she shared with the Professor and her sisters. He had also sent a photo, a juicy sirloin cut to a beautiful red-pink of medium-rare.

The Professor: I'm the grill master.

Buttercup: nice

The Professor: Gave it a little salt and pepper. A two-minute sear on each side. Butter to baste.

Buttercup: nice

Bubbles:

Bubbles: https/doi/10.1161/circulationaha.109.924977

Buttercup: im not reading that

Bubbles: You'll learn one day!

Blossom chuckled but felt the thread didn't need an hours-too-late addition. She went on to her last texts.

Butch: hows the big o

Butch: is that like

Butch: what they call it

Butch: the big o

Blossom noted the recent timestamp, sent only twenty minutes ago. Fingertips moved along the keyboard, a rollercoaster of typing and deleting, deciding not to reply until morning, deciding she'll reply now, typing again, deleting all over.

It's a simple question. All it took was a harmless it's nice or pretty.

Blossom: Hey.

She typed and typed and typed. Paragraphs like it's an English essay needing to pass the term. As she read over for, heaven forbid, any grammatical mistakes, her hand buzzed with a new message.

Butch: hey

Blossom almost laughed at how stupid this all was. A thumb pressed on his name, and it's short, the line dialing him, the ringing as she pressed the phone to her ear.

"Blossom," he answered, obviously caught off guard. He must have been settled in for the night, his voice too low, almost husky. "Hey."

"I know I'm calling late. I—" She began pacing the lamp-lit room as she dealt with the awkwardness of calling someone for the first time, unannounced, and figuring out if they were cool with that and if they even liked speaking on the phone, and if you've overestimated if they even liked you enough to want to be bothered by your number. "—had written something, but it got annoyingly long, and I thought this would be better. Is that okay?"

"Yeah." A chuckle followed, a subtle rumble stuck in his throat. "You're okay."

Blossom's lips quirked briefly. "Okay."

"So tell me, how's the big o?"

"It's not called the big o."

"You sure?"

There's a pause. She stared at the vase of wildflowers on her dresser she had gathered days ago, much-needed color for this phantasmal home. She held back a smile.

"Quite honest," she said, "I'm not sure."

Another throaty chuckle. He must be lying down, and Blossom imagined him in the dark of Mojo's volcano home, his cast onto the industrial ceiling, fingers picking at his ever bedhead. "So, how'd your fourth go?"

"Delightfully patriotic."

"Careful there. Any more star-spangled and you might summon Glory there."

She let out a terrible snort. "A nightmare that would be."

"Yeah, that guy fucking stinks."

"Can't disagree."

"But it's going well up there? Morbucks isn't making you do weird rich people stuff, like yachting or money laundering or, like, dressage?"

"Do you even know what dressage is?"

"Fuck no." They both laughed at that.

"She's been fine. Only three meltdowns so far."

"Tough."

"For a Morbucks town, it's nice."

"Yeah?"

"There's more trees than Townsville."

"Always thought the arbor city title was out of our league."

Blossom went to the edge of her bed, back sinking into the extra-firm mattress, watching her ceiling as he must be. "Should we make a formal complaint?"

She could hear his smile. "For sure."

"You should see how red I've gotten."

"Like a tomato?"

"I should be thrown at a floundering D-list comedian." Moonlight shined through her window, delayed fireworks lit by lousy neighbors with no consideration of quiet hours popping in the distance. Quiet, she's softer than intended, "You can see the stars here."

"Really."

"It's endless."

He spoke slow in his sandpaper tone, but it was soft like her, "Better than the planetarium?"

Blossom smiled at the evergreen memory.

"It's close."

---

The next night, same time, she was lying in bed just as she knew he was, phone heating against her cheek as he told her, "Miss Flo has been bugging me about you."

"For good reasons, I hope."

"You could say that," he laughed, raffish.

"Not reassuring at all."

"You're fine."

"I'm not being banned, right?"

"Never."

"Good. I would like to keep my study spot for next year."

---

Another call, she said, "I read the most terrible book today."

His laugh was muffled to keep neighboring rooms from hearing. "Do you ever like a book you read?"

"Well." She thought about it. "No. I don't."

"So how is this the book's fault?"

"Because it's not hard to write something coherent," she argued with a grin.

"You eat this shit up."

"I don't."

"Blossom."

"Hey. Do I read terrible books on purpose? Yes. Do I think said books are deserving of better ways to describe a love interest than piss-your-pants type of hot? Yes. Both can apply."

"You're fucking with me." She proceeded to read him the full quotation, and Butch didn't even bother anymore to quiet his midnight cackling.

---

Hazy morning light of the achromatic kitchen, one hand stirring a spoon in honey-sweetened oatmeal and chia seeds, the other concealing a big yawn, Blossom blinked blearily as she listened to the phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder.

"—then, Pablo got absolutely wrecked wakeboarding. He had whiplash for two days! I told him to keep it easy, but there was no reasoning with him."

"There isn't," Blossom replied, fighting back another yawn. Between her previous late-night conversation with Butch and Wes' spontaneous before-the-clock-turned-seven dialing to detail a lake weekend with the boys, Blossom could fairly say she hadn't entertained much sleep before accepting Wes' call.

"All those flips and stuff. I mean, come on. You're asking to be injured."

"Right."

"Teddy was—"

Blossom barely heard what he'd said next. Not because of the Teddy mentioned (although, it relieved any guilt she would've had for not fully paying Wes the rightful attention), but because Princess and Buttercup had passed by the kitchen.

Sweaty already at this early hour, rackets in both hands, their spandex colored to black and gold respectively. Princess, ever the master of side-eye, couldn't resist the chance in their passing. Her voice faint, probably the lowest Princess' brashness could perform, she asked Buttercup, "Who the fuck would Longlegs be talking to?"

And Buttercup, in the brief glimpse she had of her sister, shrugged and dismissively said, "Probably narcing to the Professor again."

---

"I know it's fucked to say, but he tries," Butch opened up on a particularly rainy night in late July. Lightning glimpsed into the home, downpour fogging the glass of her window. The eucalyptus candle on her nightstand glowed on the walls, shadows stretching. She's lying on her stomach as he continued, "For as much as a mutated, maniacal monkey could, he does."

"I'm reserving my judgment."

"I mean, if anyone's allowed, it's you. He's tried to murder you."

"He wasn't very good at that."

Butch made that soft laugh she's brought out of him infrequently. "Me and the bros, too."

"Hard to think which you take after more."

"Him barely acknowledges me and Boom."

"Someone likes Brick that much?"

"Hey," he laughed quietly. "But yeah. Brick's a full-blown satan worshipper."

"There's worse he could be," she considered thoughtfully.

"Right."

"But Mojo."

"That old chimp."

"Detail the domesticality of my archenemy."

Butch guffawed at her lame joke, saying, "He makes a stupid-good fried egg. Will get super anal about getting the yolk just right."

"I can imagine."

"His favorite band is Nickelback."

"Unironically?"

"Everything about Mojo is unironic."

"Fair.

"And like," he paused to pull on the taut cord of trust between, making sure it was stable before telling, "when SSPA happened, and they were like either find a home or go to juvie, and we were like oh shit, and showed up at the volcano in a panic. Brick had this whole scheme to get him to let us stay, and Boomer was so close to crying like a bitch from it all, but Mojo," his fondness gripped Blossom forcefully, "he just let us in, our rooms already set up."

"It was an adjustment, you know? We'd been on our own for so long, and Mojo would have us work on some new laser with him, just letting us tinker and fuck around, and he would get so pissy, going on hour-long rants when we would screw shit up. But the next day, he would always let us try again."

"Heartwarming."

He let out a chuckle. "Stop."

"That came out bad, didn't it?"

"Nah." She could hear a smile from his voice. "I get it… Maybe it's fucked to actually admit this… But when the gov made him do the legit thing and adopt us, the clerk was an idiot and screwed up the paperwork. They thought Jojo was his last name, and that's why we're Jojos now, and I," he paused again, a thick swallow even she could feel. "I kind of like having that association to him. He was there when it mattered. My brothers don't get it—But it means something to me."

A few days after their creation and the Professor had been cruelly and wrongly jailed, Mojo had been there for her and her sisters. He had taken them in, nefarious reasons being, and they'd created the observatory Butch and his brothers now called home. Forever the subject of Mojo will be complex for her, no matter the years or bureaucratic prevention of feuding or episodic niceness he's proven.

That being, whatever amount of good that exists in Mojo, the good she and her sisters had falsely experienced in a small dose, Blossom liked knowing it had been saved for Butch and his brothers instead.

Supervillains, she has learned, can hold multitudes.

---

Three a.m., they're still on the phone on the first of August. Too late to be talking to each other, but Blossom was fully under her covers, curled onto her side, and they were speaking with heavy eyes and sleepy whispers.

"I'm glad I decided to be here this summer," she told him. "But sometimes, I feel like a bystander to it all."

"How so?" She could hear rustling on his side, the sweeping away of bed covers. He must be sitting up, so intent on listening. It meant too much to her.

"I'm fifth wheeling on two duos, and… Bubs and Buttercup haven't always been the best at including me. Sometimes—Sometimes it can feel like they are sisters. And… And we've gotten along fine here." She was rambling, close to incoherency, but Butch didn't stop her, he didn't ask for better explanation or deny these sprinting thoughts finally breaking out of their locks. "But it's also… We haven't spoken about anything real in years. When we do try, it's not enough. And I know whatever has happened these past weeks, it's only because there's so few here with them."

"That can be hard."

"It is." She sucked in a breath. "It's easier for them. It comes naturally. The conversations they're able to have with others. The openness. I can't even process it, I… I can't seem to figure out how I could ever be a part of that."

"Why not?"

"I… I feel immovable," she confessed to him because honesty was the only way she knew how to be with him.

"Sometimes, I think my childhood was too eventful. We fought monsters and bad guys before bedtime. There was always something new… And it's… it's like I've been watching my sisters live their own lives, and I could do that too," she continued, face holding only the slightest bit of heat from vulnerability. "It's all passing by me, and I want to join in. I thought I would get better at it by now. But it's the hardest for me."

"Blossom," he said so, so, so gentle, there may have been no brute left in him, "not to be a monster dick here, but you do this weird thing. It's like," he considered his words, "it's like you remove yourself. Like you're afraid people will notice you're there."

It's a strange thing to be born a leader, a childhood superhero, someone of such power, only for your everything to be forbidden. What circulated beneath her sisters and Butch and his brothers and her skin had become wrong, and they all had to adapt and make peace in the ways they could.

But where do you go when you once knew your importance? When that's been all everyone would call you around for?

Because now you're too old to be the hero you once were, and you barely know your power anymore, and no one needs you to boss them around. Because you're the kind of person who gets left alone at their own party, so uncool it could be written onto your gravestone. Because the Townsville Star never mentions you unless it's the point out you're never involved in the fun.

Because you know you're a complete, massive, without a doubt, gigantic loser.

Her sisters. They're a good time, and had interesting things to say, and made others laugh, and always had something going on, and weren't afraid of making mistakes, big public mistakes, and they had so many, many friends. They're the epitome of a teenage dream, the kind of girls made for that ABBA song Butch had mentioned on her seventeenth.

Whenever it's someone new, people who have become acquaintances and strangers, even when it's her sisters and the Professor, it's all Blossom could think about; how they would rather her be someone else, someone like her sisters, someone better.

She'd rather spare those she interacts with. Never give them enough to ask for an opinion they won't like, never bring further conflict, never let them figure out what's amiss.

She blinked roughly against her silken pillowcase, murmuring, "You're not wrong."

"I just think you gotta say fuck that," he said. "Why not let people know you?"

"People tend not to care."

"Some are braindead, right."

She chuckled lightly. "I'm not made like Brick."

There's a pause.

"I mean, yeah. Think I would notice if Brick had tits."

She groaned, heated face smooshed into the soft pillowcase that smelt like rosemary shampoo. "Don't make me get used to you like this."

"Blossom," he said. "You're already used to me."

"How I ever let that happen," she replied, sardonic.

"Guess it's only fair for making me imagine Brick with tits at this ungodly hour."

She tamed a loud laugh with a hand to her mouth, and explained, "I meant, I'm not a floozy for attention like him."

"Dude. Who the fuck says floozy?"

"I do!"

"Floozy," he repeated.

She nodded into the fabric, amazed she could tell him what had felt so scary like a trapeze act without a net; but he caught her, his hands strong and assuring, and able to still make her laugh after the terrifying leap still rattling through her body.

"Floozy."

"You don't need to be like that. You're far more than what could be imagined," he said, fervid. "You really fucking are."

Her face buried against the pillow again, too much to hear anymore. After another inhale, something like composure returning, she told him, sincerely, "You are, too."

---

In the remaining days, Blossom would wake at dawn to hike around the Douglas Firs with Bubbles and Robin. Turn the pages through another awful book. Swim laps in the pool.

And as the golden highlights blurred through the crisp green trees, boots to the mushed forest floors, munching on Robin's homemade pepita granola. As she tried to retain the poor prose, incessant metaphors, a novel's thin plot points. As her hair thickened in the chlorine, cool heat in the air, stars exclaiming for her attention.

The dice of her mind kept rolling the same outcome: I have to tell Butch about this.

There hadn't been a night where they didn't call since the fourth, and it's almost harebrained to think this all became because of one night a year ago when she'd been so chokingly lonely.

Maybe it had been pity. An elaborate con, a laughing stock for his private amusement.

Maybe it had been something less honorable, unneeded of explanation.

Maybe he intended for it to just be quick niceties.

Or maybe Butch had been like her library kids who say how they feel and show it too, who have fewer ulterior motives and if they wanted to play with another, they simply ask.

She's in her room, suitcase packed, summer sun fading into her room. Phone to her ear, a finger ran along a Polaroid taped to the wall. She and her sisters had their arms extended, Bubbles and Buttercup holding her hands, both with a leg kicked up in the air. They haven't posed like that in years, practically a trademark for them. All toothy smiles in the bleary smoke of the night. Bubbles wrote in the photo's white with blue sharpie, her pretty cursive, Still your girls

"What's the plan for tomorrow, Commander?"

"Please," she groaned. "We don't have to do anything."

"Sounding like a true party animal."

"I know."

She's eighteen tomorrow. She has a little longer as a teenager, but she's starting to realize there's still so, so, so much time left.

Butch let out a low laugh. "It'll be good for you to be back."

"Will it?"

"I've been looking forward to it."

"So you can annoy me on your shifts."

"Nah," he said in his casual zeal. "I miss my friend."

Blossom has always walked a tight line, careful with her words or being too strong or veering too far from order while everyone jumped into chaos. But lately, she found herself testing this courage, the strength of the rope's cord. That she could make herself everyone's safety net, but that didn't mean she couldn't have her own.

Blossom's smile was a showstopper. "I miss mine, too."

---

Next Chapter: Brick isn't such a bad option for a future brother-in-law. Buttercup and Blossom do a little snooping. Some fun is had at the local tiki country bar.