Chapter Text
Reaping day was always rough for Wyatt, even before he was eligible. He remembers being only eleven years old— nearly twelve— and getting followed home by a group of much older boys. Once they had him cornered, he was left with a black eye and several bruised ribs. All for the crime of being a Callow.
After that incident, Wyatt always tried hard to keep his head down and go unnoticed. He never made many friends at school, he hardly spoke in class, and, as the youngest Callow boy, he was given the grace to stand far from his brothers at the Reaping ceremonies before they aged out. But for all his efforts, his folks made a hundred in the opposite direction, and his reservations hardly served as a shield. Once he was deemed old enough, his pa showed him off like a trophy, constantly bragging about his son’s quick thinking and natural gift for oddsmaking. Notoriety came bundled with his name, and every attempt at invisibility only seemed to put a larger target on his back.
It didn’t matter how hard he protested or how frequently he abstained from placing bets. Wyatt would always be seen as the seedy, calculating son of Jethro Callow. The least he could do to make Reaping day a little more bearable was splurge a little extra change on something sweet.
He’d made it something of a tradition. Each year, he’d take some of his modest earnings from the betting ring down to the Donners’ Sweet Shop and purchase a quarter-pound of saltwater taffy. The customer service was usually alright; the girl who helped him was always the same, a year or two younger than him with shiny blonde hair and blue eyes.
Wyatt worked out pretty quickly that she wasn’t just one girl, but two: identical twins. Yet, despite their resemblance, it seemed like they couldn’t be more different.
One of the girls wore her hair tied in a neat ponytail and kept her appearance minimal. She had a mild-mannered temperament and was always polite and polished. The other girl let her hair flow past her shoulders and was always adorned with jewelry that must cost more alone than the Callows made in five years. Unlike her sister, she ran cold. Not mean, exactly, but Wyatt always felt judged when he walked in and she was behind the counter. Because of that, she interested him much more than her twin did.
People talked, as they so often do— not usually to Wyatt, but he was keen to pick up on the small things— and he eventually came to learn that her name was Maysilee.
After that, he couldn’t help but notice her around school, even if they were in separate grades, following in different circles, living lives that hardly intersected.
Now, on the morning of the 48th Reaping ceremony, Wyatt was fortunate enough to slip away from his family long enough to fulfill his tradition. His ma had already stuffed him into his finest outfit— a forest-green button-up shirt with cream suspenders and brown dress pants— the fanciness of which has been balanced out by the way he slugs down the street, shoulders hunched, careful not to draw any attention.
It worked, for the most part. Meaning no one bothered him, but he did garner a few glares from passersby. It grew less and less as he worked his way to the merchant side of town, where his face— and by extension, his name— was nearly unknown. There were only a few merchant men who liked their dice since most didn’t feel the need to gamble to make a quick buck.
The bell on the door let out a soft, musical jingle as it closed shut behind Wyatt, and he made a straight line for the candy counter, his hands shoved comfortably in his pockets. The first thing he noticed were the layered necklaces, placed neatly in a stack around her neck. Maysilee was the one working today.
She didn’t notice Wyatt as he approached, her back turned to the counter. Even when he cleared his throat, she didn't look directly at him. It took a moment before she looked over her shoulder and sighed, propping herself up on the counter.
“Welcome in. How can I help you?” she drawls.
Wyatt hesitates for a moment, despite getting the exact same thing every time. It’s during his pause that Maysilee brings her eyes up from the register, meeting his.
“Oh, you,” she says, not unkindly, but it takes Wyatt off guard nonetheless. She recognizes him? It wasn’t like he was a regular customer; he only came around on Reaping day and a few other special occasions. “Half-pound of saltwater taffy coming right up.”
“I only need a quarter-pound,” Wyatt corrects her. He didn’t expect Maysilee to remember his standard order at all, even if she got it a little wrong.
“I know. The extra quarter is on the house. Reaping day isn’t fun for anyone, but I’d bet you have a lot of slips in that bowl today.”
She was wrong, actually, but he couldn’t fault her for her assumption. Wyatt never needed to take out any tesserae, but he was a rare case for the Seam. He was lucky in a way his brothers weren’t; they had both resorted to tesserae before the Callows struck gold at the Hob.
This year, he only had five slips compared to Maysilee’s three. The odds should be in his favor.
He didn’t correct her, though. “Well, thanks.”
Maysilee reaches up for the big glass tub of assorted taffy, scooping them carefully into a big paper bag she had pre-set atop a hanging scale. Wyatt watches quietly as it sinks slightly with every scoop. Eighth of a pound, quarter-pound, three-eighths…
“The grape ones are my favorite,” Maysilee offers as the dial hits the half-pound mark. “I really like the way the purple dye mixes in when it’s on the taffy-puller. It’s awfully satisfying.”
Wyatt furrows his eyebrows at her. She had never tried to make small talk with him before, so why was this year any different?
“Huh,” he says. “Guess I’ve never paid enough attention to the individual flavors to notice.”
It was something of a lie: He usually favored the root beer flavored taffies, and he always gave the— disgusting, in his opinion— black licorice ones to his sister.
“So, you just shove them into your mouth without checking the flavor?” Maysilee looks at him like he’s crazy as she ties up the paper bag with a ribbon. She sets it down on the empty countertop in front of him, tapping her well-manicured fingertips against the polished granite. “What’s even the point in getting something with variety, then?”
“I didn’t say that I never paid attention to the flavors,” Wyatt explained, suddenly feeling defensive. “It’s mostly a texture thing, anyways. Having something soft and chewy during the Reaping helps me cool down a little.”
“Listen, I get it,” Maysilee carefully plucks a deep purple taffy from the jar, reminding Wyatt all too much of the way Drusilla Sickle looked year after year, drawing names from those large, see-through bowls. Wyatt swallows heavily, his nerves creeping back up his neck, when Maysilee hands the candy out to him. “Here.”
He lets her drop it in his hand before removing the wax paper and popping it right in his mouth. The first thing he notices is how juicy it is, and although he can’t remember the last time he had fresh grapes, the flavor feels just right; sweet, but not too sweet.
Mouth still full, Wyatt mumbles: “You’re right, it is good.”
Maysilee looks exceedingly proud of herself as Wyatt reaches into his pocket and fumbles around for the proper change. He dispenses it on the countertop and takes the paper bag in return. Maysilee smiles at him. It might be the first time he’s ever seen her smile.
“Well, it’s quarter ‘til noon. I get off soon enough,” she says, like it’s an average day instead of a time when either of their lives could change forever— or end. Most likely end. “I’ll see you at the Reaping.”
“Sure thing,” Wyatt returns, as if they’d ever have any time for chit-chat, being on opposite sides of the pen and several rows apart. He holds the bag up in some kind of awkward gesture. “Thanks for the candy.”
“Anytime.”
Wyatt can hear her counting the change as he makes his way to the door. He’s already halfway through the threshold when he hears Maysilee call out: “Hey, you’re fifty cents over!”
By the time 2 P.M. rolled around, Wyatt had already made his way through a good third of his taffies. He made his way to the town square, surrounded by a gaggle of his siblings and with spare candies stuffing his pants pockets to the brim.
It’s his little sister, Clara’s, first Reaping, and he grips her hand tightly as the silhouette of the Justice Building looms in the distance. He can feel her tiny body shaking against his, and he’s just as nervous. The last two Callow kids eligible for the Reaping.
What cruel irony it would be if they were picked. What would his pa do then? Continue to bet on them as if they weren’t his own? The sheer thought of it makes Wyatt sick to his stomach, but he knows he has to stay calm and set a good example for the scared, impressionable girl at his side.
Before they get in line to check in, Wyatt bends down on one knee in front of her. “Now, what did I say your odds of getting reaped are?”
Almost robotically— just as he had told her— she says: “Zero-point-zero-one-two-five percent.”
“And how small is that, Clare-bear?”
“Near zero.”
“That’s right,” Wyatt pulls her into a hug, smoothing down the back of her hair. Dark and curly, just like his. “You’ll be alright. I promise. Plus, Ma told me she’ll take you for a special treat if you’re well-behaved.”
At this, Clara sniffles, and although a weak smile forms on her face, she still looks like she’s going to burst into tears. So Wyatt continues: “You can’t tell her, but I’ve got a treat for you, too.”
He reaches into the pockets of his pants and pulls out a handful of the ever-so-controversial black licorice taffies, tucked away just for her. The ones he hates, but Clara adores. Her face lights up as he carefully lets them trickle into her palms.
“Thanks, Wy,” she says softly, hiding the candies in her gingham dress.
“Any time, kid. Just remember…” he presses a finger to his lips, the way he always does when he’s trying to calm her from a meltdown. But this time, he winks: Their little secret. “Shhh.”
Clara winks right back, and Wyatt releases her, letting her get in line to join the other twelve-year-old girls in the pen.
He watches her leave before scanning the area for familiar faces, someone to stand close to during the Reaping. He notices a few stray cousins already obediently standing in front of the Justice Building, as he tries not to think of his own odds: Zero-point-zero-six-two-five percent. One in nearly sixteen-hundred.
He thinks to himself something that he would never admit to Clara: His odds, like hers, are close to zero. But that’s the problem. They’re not zero.
But they could be worse. His eyes land on poor eighteen-year-old Flint Hawthorne, who Wyatt knows has more tesserae than he can count. There’s no possible way he feels good about today’s Reaping, but Wyatt still has two more to go. After today, Flint will be off the hook. If he makes it past the Reaping, that is.
Wyatt can’t shake the nausea he feels at the thought of it. Now that he’s older, the odds of him personally knowing the tributes are significantly higher, and he can’t imagine having to evaluate the odds of one of his classmates’ survival. They were never good.
It’s not like he’s even lived to see a victor arise from District Twelve, anyway.
Obediently taking his place in the crowd, Wyatt settles on the youngest boy in the Diggs family— Jed, he thinks his name is— figuring it’ll cause the least amount of drama. The Diggs are Seam, but have a reputation for being on the meeker side. Definitely not the type to try and pick a fight if the cards don’t fall in their favor.
They exchange a look— Jed doesn’t seem too interested in making conversation, which Wyatt appreciates— and wait for the ceremony to begin.
The anthem plays, as always, and Wyatt’s zoned out by the time Mayor Allister steps up to read the Treaty of Treason and a few other words. The same thing every year. At this point, Wyatt’s got the uninspired, repetitive speech memorized word for word.
To pass the time, he methodically scans the crowd for anything unusual. A distraction. Of course, this year’s crop of twelve-year-olds is as upsetting as always, but this time, Wyatt’s eyes stop on Maysilee Donner. On the determined, angry look set in stone on a face normally etched with disdain. Although he can’t tell if she’s annoyed at the Reaping itself, or at Drusilla Sickle’s hideous outfit, he admires her boldness either way.
At least, he does until her eyes meet his, and he feels caught. His eyes dart away in near-record speed, a chill running up his spine. Wyatt Callow will make it a mission never to cross Maysilee Donner.
This year, Drusilla Sickle is dressed in an awful, feathery romper that makes her look like some sort of deranged scarlet ibis. The look is completed by a white beret and heels that must be at least ten inches tall. She takes her place on stage and taps her long, artificial talons against the microphone.
“Ladies first,” she croons, her voice almost taunting. Wyatt braces himself for the worst, praying that Clara’s name won’t be the one drawn. Drusilla pokes around the bowl for an almost comically long time before coming up with a lone slip of paper. “The female tribute for the 48th Hunger Games is… Mariposa Hawthorne.”
Wyatt lets out a sigh of relief before he realizes that someone’s little sister had been drawn. Just not his. And his heart aches for poor, vulnerable Flint, who must be swimming in guilt. It should’ve been him instead. What could he have done differently to prevent this?
Both things Wyatt would’ve thought had he been in Flint’s shoes.
The answer was nothing, of course. To Wyatt’s understanding, the Reapings were rigged left and right, and he factored that into his odds, always considering which people would sell the best story. Mariposa was a name that managed to through the cracks. Wyatt knew she was his age, but like him, she kept quiet and he hardly knew anything else about her. But she looked delicate; very delicate, her undersized body shaking uncontrollably as she takes her place next to Drusilla.
The thought of evaluating her every move for the next few weeks made it even more sickening. It was why he didn’t go out of his way to make friends— Wyatt didn’t want to have to commit the ultimate betrayal.
“And the male tribute is…” Drusilla’s hand shoots into the other bowl, but this time, she snatches a slip up quickly. “Clyde Blanken.”
A name Wyatt isn’t familiar with, but he watches as the boy approaches the stage. He’s older: sturdy and strong. If Wyatt had to guess, probably already working in the mines, and he looked confident. Not much of a long shot for Twelve. Still a long shot nonetheless, of course. But sometimes they made the best bets.
Wyatt lets out a long, shaky breath as the Reaping concludes, shooting a look over at Jed Diggs, who looks eager to pass out.
“Hey, buddy,” Wyatt puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re looking a little green. Let’s go get you some water, yeah?”
Jed nods silently, and apparently everyone was eager to get home, so they’re two of the last people to leave the square. Fortunately, a rusty red water spigot pokes out from one of the nearby shops, and Wyatt helps Jed sit down against the cool brick wall.
“Here, cup your hands like this,” Wyatt demonstrates, layering his hands in a way that ensures minimal water will leak out. “And I’ll pour it for you.”
Jed obliges, and Wyatt runs the water, watching as Jed takes a long, slow sip from his makeshift cup. “Thanks. I just have lots of brothers, you know? Lots of people to worry about. People who rely on me.”
“Don’t I know it,” Wyatt grimaces. He doesn’t even know how his pa would continue to run his business if Wyatt were reaped, and although his brothers were both aged out, he still had Clara to worry about.
He and Jed sit in a rather comfortable silence as he ponders this, before his nerves take over. Clara. Where was she now? Wyatt’s head shoots up and he searches around, but she’s nowhere to be found.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta run. Family stuff,” Wyatt shuts off the spigot. He’d feel worse about leaving Jed if the color hadn’t already started to return to his face, his eyes less wide, his lips less cracked. Jed gives him an understanding nod and leans his head back against the wall.
Wyatt looked frantically for his sister, which proved to be exceptionally difficult, as people had resumed their regular lives, milling about as if two children hadn’t just been sent to their inevitable deaths. But she couldn’t have gotten far.
He finds her in an alley near the sweet shop, surrounded by discarded wax paper. Her hands tremble as she removes the last taffy from its wrapper, and Wyatt’s too relieved to feel mad at her.
“Clara, why’d you run off?” he asks, leaning down next to her. She looks up at him with wide eyes.
“Got scared,” she murmurs, her mouth full. “I saw the Peacekeepers rally those kids into the Justice Building and I couldn’t stop thinking about how that could’ve been you, Wy. They’re both around your age.”
“Don’t worry about me,” says Wyatt, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing her tightly. “I’ll always bounce back. And you did so well at the Reaping, Clare.”
She looks up at him when he pulls back, tears in her eyes. “You think so?” Wyatt nods. “Will Ma still get me my treat? Even after I ran off?”
“I’ll make sure she does,” Wyatt places a kiss to the top of her head. “And if she doesn’t, I’ll make up for it somehow.”
The offer seems to calm her down, and she lets Wyatt help her up before climbing onto his shoulders.
They’ve almost made it to the front of the sweetshop when Wyatt notices a very large and very disgruntled Flint Hawthorne. And he’s brought friends. Wyatt recognizes one of them— a Chance boy— but the others’ names escape his memory. Wyatt wasn’t sure what a group of boys like that would be doing in this part of town, especially after one of their sisters had been reaped not even an hour beforehand.
It was easy enough to pass it off as a coincidence until Flint’s eyes locked on Wyatt’s, the snarl on his face hard to ignore.
He quickly leans onto the ground and lets Clara dismount.
“Go home,” he said. “You know the way. I’ll be back soon.”
“But—” Clara begins, but Wyatt shushes her.
“I promise, I just remembered I had an errand to run.” Hesitantly, Clara nods and bounds away towards their house.
He just doesn’t want her to see this.
Flint is twice as big as Wyatt and eight times as tough. That, combined with the recent loss of his sister, is enough to make him a formidable threat.
Wyatt doesn’t try to run. He knows it’d be pointless. Plus, Flint has backup. All of the Chance boys are on the athletic side and Flint’s not too bad himself. The smartest thing to do is face it head-on and retain some of his dignity.
“Hey, Callow, what’re Posy’s odds?” Flint calls out to him as he rapidly approaches. The worst part is, Wyatt can’t even bring himself to hate Flint for this. He’d probably act the same, had Clara been reaped. “You gonna bet on her, too?”
Wyatt doesn’t answer immediately. “No,” he says, truthfully. “I don’t gamble.”
“No, you don’t. But the rest of your piece-of-shit family does,” Flint bites back. “And you just sit there, enabling it.”
Wyatt doesn’t have a good response to that. He knows it’s true. He hardly reacts, too, when two of Flint’s friends grab each of his arms, restraining him as Flint steps up to spit in his face.
“Your people—” he snarls. “—are no better than the Capitol. You just sit there and profit off the very Games they use to keep us on the ground. You’re disgusting.”
He gets one good punch in— straight across Wyatt’s face, drawing a thick stream of blood from his nose and an eye he knew would be black the next day— and raises his hand for another before a girl’s voice interrupts him.
“Get your hands off of him!” Wyatt recognizes it instantly and winces, not from the pain, from humiliation. He thought he’d taken the hit like a good sport, but the idea of someone so hoity-toity seeing him like this made him feel so… inferior.
There she stands: Maysilee Donner, rolling pin in hand, on the steps of the sweet shop. She continues: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Stay out of this,” Flint turns his head to look at her, scanning her fancy sage-green dress up and down. “Not like you’ve ever had any stake in the Reaping, anyway.”
“I don’t think a boy who looks like he uses snail mucin for hair gel gets to tell me what I can and can’t care about,” Maysilee snaps, tapping the rolling pin against the palm of her hand. “So leave him alone, slime boy. Sounds like you’ve got bigger fish to fry. Such as that hair. Truly, it’s awful.”
Wyatt never paid much thought to it, but now that she mentioned it, Flint did look rather slimy. He let out a weak laugh, regretting it immediately after.
“You think that’s funny?” Flint hisses at him before turning his attention back to Maysilee. “This douchebag’s folks are gonna go make money off my sister. I don’t think I’ve got bigger fish to fry than that.”
That’s when it clicks for Maysilee; she must not have known who Flint was. A flash of sympathy crosses her face before she says: “We aren’t responsible for our folks.”
“That would be true if he didn’t work for them of his own volition,” spat Flint. “What are you gonna do about it, anyways? Hit me with that pin?”
Maysilee steps off the porch, wielding the rolling pin out in front of her. “I could. But mostly, I was just gonna go tell my pa. He knows people, so either you let him go, or you spend the night in the slammer.”
Flint’s glare hardens, and it’s in this moment that Wyatt truly understands just how much pain he’s in. It’s hard to be mad at someone so damaged.
“Come on, you’ve already messed up his face enough,” goads Maysilee. Flint sighs and motions for his friends to unhand Wyatt, which they do with much force, shoving him down into the gravel. “Now, apologize.”
“Apologize?”
“You heard me,” Maysilee gestures from Flint to Wyatt with the rolling pin. “Apologize to him.”
Flint and his goons mumble a halfhearted “sorry” before Maysilee lets them disperse, making her way over to help Wyatt up. By now, bruises have started to form on his biceps where he had been grabbed.
“I guess we haven’t been officially introduced. I’m Maysilee,” she gingerly offers her hand to him.
“I know,” Wyatt blurts out, immediately regretting it. Great, now he sounded like some kind of creep. “I’m Wyatt.”
To his surprise, Maysilee responds with: “I know.”
Oh. He studies Maysilee’s face for a moment, but can’t quite decipher her expression. It’s not cruel, or even cold. She draws back her pink lips in a tight smile as Wyatt shakes her hand. That’s when it hits him: It’s understanding.
“You really didn’t have to do that,” Wyatt shakes his head. “I mean, I appreciate it, but it’s not new to me. Or even undeserved, really.”
“I saw you help that boy,” Maysilee says. “You’re a good person, you know. Not so bad as some people think.”
“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”
“No,” Maysilee shakes her head. “But you’re not the only person who knows how to observe. And I know what it’s like to have a reputation.”
Wyatt knew that was true; not many people were fond of Maysilee Donner, from what he’s heard. But he knew it’d be inappropriate to agree, so all he says is: “Oh.”
“Come on, let me fix you up. You look absolutely ghastly.”
“I was just punched in the face,” Wyatt reminds her, somewhat insulted, even though he knew that’s probably not how she meant it.
Maysilee smiles at him. “That’s not an excuse.”
“I’d like to think it is,” Wyatt huffs out a laugh and lets her lead him into the sweet shop, which has closed down for the rest of the day.
“Sit down behind the register. I’ll be right back,” Maysilee commands, disappearing behind a beaded tapestry into the back of the shop. Wyatt obeys, taking a seat on a cushiony barstool next to where Maysilee normally stands when she works.
His eyes scan the shelves, taking in a rainbow assortment of candies and chocolates, and realizes that he’s never paid much attention to anything but the taffies. He’d decided on one thing and lost sight of everything else. Maybe keeping an open mind had its merits, Wyatt hadn’t known how much he’d been missing out on.
He’s staring down a tub of fluffy marshmallows when Maysilee returns with a basket full of supplies. “Got your eye on something?”
Eye. Singular. Very funny, Maysilee, Wyatt thought. “Just the marshmallows.”
“Oh, those. They’re stale, don’t bother with them,” Maysilee rolls her eyes, retrieving a wet rag from her basket. She kneels next to Wyatt, placing it over his black eye. “Here. That should help.”
“Thanks,” Wyatt holds still as she starts to clean up his bloody nose, taking out a fresh, dry towel to finish the job. “You sure know the protocol, huh? I’m guessing it’s not from personal experience, though.”
“My best friend works the pharmacy,” Maysilee explains. “And she’s so passionate, it’s hard not to exchange skills.”
“Skills, huh?” asks Wyatt, cocking his head to the side as Maysilee rummages through the basket, looking for something. “What are your skills?”
“Fashion, mostly,” she answers, coming up successfully with a container of some sort of cream, applying it to the area around Wyatt’s black eye. “And makeup.”
“Well, you’re definitely very fashionable.”
“Thank you,” Maysilee smiles at him and exchanges the cream— which provides near-instant relief to Wyatt’s face— with a sort of green paste. “I like to think so. Although you could do with some… advice. You kind of look like a tree.”
It was true. So true that he couldn’t even be mad about it. Dressed in cream, green and brown, combined with his tall, willowy frame, he resembled some sort of perennial. He supposed there were worse insults, and settled on uttering a mild-sounding: “Ouch. My mother picked it out for me.”
“Well, then your mother could do with some advice.” Wyatt figures she’s only teasing and tries to not let it bother him, but he loved his mother.
In an attempt to change the subject, he asks: “What’s that paste?”
“It’s just a color-corrector,” Maysilee explains. “It’ll even out the purple of your bruising and make you more presentable.”
She finishes with the “color-corrector” and squirts a tube of some peach-colored substance onto the back of her palm, mixing in a bronze powder to darken the color a little.
Maysilee grabbed the side of his face to steady him, and who was Wyatt to try and stop this girl from helping him? the mixture felt weird as she applied it to his undereye. Not bad, just weird.
“There, now you look decent,” Maysilee says after she finishes working. She hands Wyatt a mirror. “What do you think?”
Wyatt examines his face carefully. His bruise is only barely visible beneath the layer of makeup Maysilee applied to his face, and he’s impressed. Without thinking, he says: “I think that you aren’t what people say you are.”
Maysilee responds with a look that Wyatt can’t quite decipher. For a moment, he’s worried that she’ll blow up at him, before she finally speaks. Soft, and jarring compared to her usually strong tone.
“Thanks.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is to me,” Maysilee shrugs. “No one ever calls me nice, not even my own sister.”
“Okay, well, I didn’t say you were nice,” Wyatt gives her a smile. Friendly enough.
“Oh, shut up,” Maysilee shoves his shoulder gently. “I was going to offer to redo your makeup for you until your eye gets better, but I guess I don’t really have to.”
“No, you don’t. My family won’t ask too many questions,” Wyatt hesitates for a moment. “And maybe you’re not nice, but you’re kind.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, nice is very surface-level. It’s being polite, small favors, good at conversation, giving compliments,” Wyatt fidgets with the strap of his suspenders. “But kindness comes from a deeper level. It’s genuine compassion. You can say all the right things without following through, but you could also do all the right things without being too palatable. Which do you prefer?”
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” admits Maysilee. “I guess I’d rather be the second one.”
“Me, too,” says Wyatt.
“I don’t know, you seem to be both,” Maysilee stands from her position on the floor and starts to pack up her makeup kit.
“Well, I try.”
“Trying is enough,” Maysilee gives him a small smirk. “And for future reference, maybe you need to be a bit meaner. Don’t let them push you around like that.”
Wyatt doesn’t respond. Partially because he knows she’s right. But there’s also a small, biting part of him that believes he deserves it.
It’s almost like Maysilee can see right through him. “I’m serious.”
Wyatt rubs the back of his neck, still not knowing what to say. “I should probably get home. Thanks for the help.”
“Okay,” Maysilee blinks. “I meant it, though. Stop by tomorrow morning before school, and I’ll redo your makeup. No one has to see.”
“Alright.” Wyatt makes his way to the door, giving Maysilee a small wave as he steps outside into the cool July air, letting the door jingle shut behind him.
Despite all his fears, maybe keeping one friend around wouldn’t hurt.