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The guy was mediocre. That was the only word for it—perfectly average. Maarja stared at Jüri from across the cafeteria, his unremarkable face half-hidden behind an even more unremarkable sandwich. He chewed slowly, like he was savoring it, which was baffling because the school’s soggy ham on rye wasn’t worth savoring. Yet here she was, forcing herself to watch him like it was research. Like if she stared long enough, some spark would ignite in her chest.
Next to her, Lenna blew a raspberry into her apple juice, sending tiny bubbles skittering across the surface. “You’re doing the creepy staring thing again,” she announced, not even looking up.
Maarja blinked, tearing her gaze away from Jüri’s methodical chewing. "I’m not staring," she muttered, slouching lower in her chair. The cafeteria table was sticky under her elbows, and she wrinkled her nose. "I’m just... observing."
Lenna snorted, tilting her head so her side fringe flopped into her eyes. "Observing," she repeated, drawing the word out like it was a riddle she’d just invented. "Like a scientist. Or a stalker." She tapped her fingers against the juice box, a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like the intro to one of their band’s songs.
Maarja shrugged, picking at the peeling laminate on the cafeteria table. “I’m just wondering, is it weird that I find it really hard to find a man hot? Or is it just all the men here are like, inbred or something.” She flicked a piece of laminate across the table, where it landed in Lenna’s untouched apple fritter—pilfered from Piret’s bag earlier that morning.
Lenna blinked at the laminate, then at Maarja, her expression sliding into something dangerously close to amusement. “A question,” she said solemnly, holding up a finger, “posed like a riddle. If a tree falls in the forest and no one’s around to hear it—”
Maarja groaned and snatched the laminate out of Lenna’s fritter before she could launch into another nonsensical metaphor. “Never mind,” she muttered, stabbing at her own sandwich with unnecessary force. The bread squished under her fork, oozing mayo. “Forget I said anything.”
Lenna leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, her brown hair spilling over her wrists. “But you did say something,” she pointed out, her voice lilting like she was narrating a children’s story. “And now it’s floating in the air between us, like a... balloon. A sad, deflated balloon.”
Maarja groaned, tossing her fork onto her tray with a clatter. "You speak like *Confucious*," she muttered, butchering the pronunciation so thoroughly it came out sounding more like "confuse-us."
Lenna gasped, pressing a hand to her chest like she'd been scandalized. "Blasphemy!" she declared, her voice rising several octaves. "You've insulted the great philosopher *and* my entire worldview in one breath. That's got to be some kind of record." She paused, then added thoughtfully, "Unless it's a riddle. Is it a riddle?"
Maarja shoved her chair back so hard it screeched against the cafeteria tiles. "I'm going to find Piret, she actually speaks like a sane woman." she announced, like that explained everything. It didn't. Lenna just blinked up at her, still holding her juice box like a prop in some absurdist play. She looks at it, eyebrow raised, and murmurs to herself. “Wonder if i can make cider with enough of these…”
The problem wasn't the walking away—Maarja did that plenty. The problem was her knees buckling slightly when Lenna's fingers brushed the back of her wrist as she stood. "Wait—" Lenna started, but Maarja was already speed-walking toward the hallway like the cafeteria was on fire. Which, metaphorically speaking, it might as well have been.
She nearly collided with Piret rounding the corner, the taller girl juggling three apple fritters in one hand and her guitar case in the other. "You look," Piret observed through a mouthful of pastry, "like someone who just realized their favorite shirt shrunk in the wash." Crumbs tumbled down her band t-shirt as she tilted her head. "Metaphorically speaking."
Maarja groaned, rubbing her temples. "Why does everyone keep—never mind." She swiped one of Piret's fritters and took an aggressive bite. "Hypothetically," she mumbled around the dough, "if someone was... re-evaluating their taste in people. How would they know if it was, like, an actual preference shift or just temporary insanity?"
Piret shrugged, licking powdered sugar off her thumb with the dedication of someone who considered apple fritters a sacrament. "You're asking, like, the least romantically and sexually interested person ever," she said, gesturing vaguely with her half-eaten pastry, "but I would say to take your time, and think. It's not a race to get linked up with someone." She punctuated this wisdom by shoving the rest of the fritter into her mouth, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's.
Maarja watched a crumb tumble down Piret's shirt and disappear into the abyss of her band logo. "Easy for you to say," she muttered, picking at her own stolen fritter. "You and Katrin are basically married already." The words came out more bitter than she'd intended, and she winced internally.
Piret rolled her eyes so hard Maarja was surprised they didn’t get stuck facing backward. “Me and Katrin? Nahh...” She snorted, brushing powdered sugar off her sleeve like the idea was physically dirty. “I would go *crazy*. She starts decorating for Christmas *in July*.” She mimed hanging a tinsel garland with exaggerated, deranged enthusiasm, nearly dropping her guitar case in the process. “Last year, she tried to convince me to wear matching reindeer sweaters—in August. Said it would ‘get us in the spirit early.’” Piret shuddered. “The only spirit that would’ve gotten me was the kind that haunts abandoned asylums.”
Maarja opened her mouth—probably to say something defensive or self-deprecating—but Piret shoved the last apple fritter toward her like a peace offering. “Look,” she said, voice uncharacteristically earnest around a mouthful of pastry, “if you’re gonna obsess over someone, at least pick someone who doesn’t chew like a cow with sinus issues.” She jerked her chin toward the cafeteria, where Jüri was still methodically dissecting his sandwich like it held the secrets of the universe.
"Right," Maarja muttered, tapping her fingers against her thigh like she was counting off a list, "so no people with eating issues, no creepy men, no people who speak in crackhead riddles, and don't celebrate Christmas in July. Got it." She nodded decisively, as if this narrowed things down to something manageable instead of leaving her with approximately zero viable candidates in the entire country of Estonia.
Piret blinked at her, then burst into laughter so sudden it sent powdered sugar flying from her lips like confetti. "Oh my god," she wheezed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, "you just eliminated, like, *everyone*. Including yourself." She pointed at Maarja's half-demolished apple fritter, which had been mauled with the same enthusiasm as a dog tearing into a stuffed toy. "Exhibit A: your eating habits."
"Maybe I’ll get married to music instead," Maarja muttered, flicking a crumb off her ripped jeans. "Or heroin. Either or." She said it with the same casual detachment as someone debating whether to order fries or onion rings, but the way her fingers twitched against her thigh betrayed her.
Lenna, who had somehow materialized beside her without making a sound—a skill she’d perfected over years of creeping up on people mid-crisis—tilted her head like a confused puppy. "Heroin is a bad husband," she announced solemnly, as if this was ancient wisdom passed down through generations of stoned philosophers. "Very clingy. Doesn’t let you break up." She nodded sagely, her side fringe flopping into her eyes. "Music, though… music is a *lover*." She said the word like it was a secret, drawing it out until it sounded more like "luh-ver," complete with a theatrical eyebrow wiggle.
Maarja scoffed, flicking a stray crumb off Lenna's shoulder with more force than necessary. "You should not be pretending to be smart when you still sleep with a nightlight at your ripe old age," she shot back, mimicking Lenna's theatrical cadence.
Lenna gasped, clutching her chest like Maarja had just revealed state secrets. "The nightlight," she whispered, eyes widening dramatically, "is for *ambience*." She leaned in conspiratorially, close enough that Maarja could smell the faint apple juice on her breath. "And also," she added, voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper, "the ghosts."
Piret snorted, sending a fine mist of powdered sugar into the air between them. "Oooo, ghosts," she echoed, wiggling her fingers in mock-spookiness, "like the ghosts of the brain-eating amoeba that starved to death in your head, Lenna?" She punctuated this by tapping Lenna's forehead with a sticky, sugar-coated finger, leaving a faint white smudge above her eyebrow.
Lenna blinked slowly, like a cat processing an insult. "The amoeba," she said solemnly, "was *framed*." She wiped the sugar off her forehead with the back of her hand, then licked it clean with the gravitas of someone delivering a closing argument. "It was just trying to *understand* my thoughts. Very tragic. Like Shakespeare."
Maarja rolled her eyes so hard she briefly saw the back of her own skull. "Okay, Shakespeare," she muttered, flicking another crumb off Lenna's sleeve. "Piret, have you seen Katrin anywhere? We've got band practice in like..." She glanced at her wrist where a watch would be if she ever wore one, then at the wall clock behind Piret's head. "Twenty minutes, and she still hasn't sent me the new keyboard arrangements."
Piret shrugged, licking powdered sugar off her thumb with the reverence of a sommelier sampling a fine wine. "Last I saw, she was in the music room arguing with the metronome." She paused, considering. "Well, *she* was arguing. The metronome was just... ticking. Menacingly." She demonstrated by tapping her foot in an erratic rhythm that sounded nothing like any time signature Vanilla Ninja had ever used.
———
Maarja flopped onto the battered couch in the band room, arms spread wide like she was trying to claim the entire piece of furniture for herself. "Okay, so," she announced to no one in particular, dragging a hand down her face, "we have Confucius—" she pointed at Lenna, who was attempting to balance a drumstick on her nose— "a schizophrenic—" this time at Katrin, who was indeed arguing with a metronome in the corner— "an apple fritter slut—" Piret, mid-bite into yet another pastry, gave a thumbs-up— "and an emo with sexuality issues." She gestured vaguely at herself before letting her arm flop back onto the couch. "Grand. What a fucking dream team."
Lenna gasped, letting the drumstick clatter to the floor. "That's *Confucious*," she corrected, butchering the pronunciation even worse than Maarja had earlier. She scrambled to pick up the drumstick, nearly toppling over in the process. "And I'm not Confucius, I'm *enlightened*." She said this with such solemnity that Katrin, mid-argument with the metronome, snorted loud enough to startle herself.
Lenna's drumstick clattered to the floor again, forgotten, as she turned to Maarja with slow, exaggerated deliberation. She tilted her head, her side fringe sliding sideways like a poorly hung curtain, and blinked once—twice—before her mouth curled into a grin that could only be described as shit-eating. "Waaait," she drawled, stretching the word out like taffy. "Sexuality issues? Are you gaaaay?" She punctuated this by wiggling her fingers near her temples like she was conjuring spirits.
The music room went silent except for the metronome's relentless *tick-tick-tick*. Katrin froze mid-rant, her mouth still open around some complaint about tempo. Piret's jaw halted mid-chew, a crumb of apple fritter dangling precariously from her lower lip. Maarja's fingers twitched against the couch cushion like she was considering bolting for the fire exit.
Maarja swallowed hard, the couch suddenly feeling like it was tilting beneath her. "Uh, last I checked, no?" Her voice cracked halfway through, betraying her. She cleared her throat, flicking a stray thread off her ripped jeans with too much focus. "I loathe men, but I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to kiss a woman. To be honest." The words tasted like sawdust in her mouth.
Lenna’s grin widened, her eyes glittering with mischief. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "To be *honest*," she echoed, drawing out the last word like it was a punchline. "But are you? Being honest?" She tapped her temple with the drumstick, leaving a faint smudge of dust above her eyebrow. "The heart wants what the heart wants, Maarja. Even if the heart is…" She waved the drumstick vaguely at Maarja’s chest. "A little confused. Like a lost puppy. Or a drunk moth."
Maarja looked at Lenna deadpan, fingers digging into the couch cushions like she was trying to anchor herself to reality. "I'm being serious, I'm not gay," she said, voice flat as a punctured tire. "Like, okay, if I got the opportunity to kiss *one* woman to try it, I *might* do it. But I don't think I'm gay." The words hung in the air like a bad guitar note, vibrating with something that wasn't quite conviction.
Lenna blinked slowly, then leaned back with the dramatic flair of a daytime talk show host. "Ohhhhh," she said, elongating the syllable until it sounded like a creaking door. "So you're *hypothetically* gay." She nodded sagely, tapping the drumstick against her palm. "Like Schrödinger's homosexual. Both gay and not gay until you kiss a girl."
Maarja groaned, slumping further into the couch cushions like they might swallow her whole. "I'm not gay. Stop asking about it, or I'll start thinking *you* want me to kiss *you*." The words tumbled out before she could stop them, sharp and defensive—like a cornered cat hissing.
Lenna's eyebrows shot up, her drumstick freezing mid-air. For once, she seemed genuinely speechless. The silence stretched for exactly three metronome ticks before her mouth curled into a slow, knowing smirk. "Ohhh," she breathed, leaning in so close Maarja could count the faint freckles on her nose. "But what if I *do*?"
Maarja looked at Lenna deadpan and said, "I'd tell you to fuck off. I probably wouldn't kiss any of you guys." She ticked them off on her fingers like a grocery list. "Piret because she's either diseased with some previously-thought-extinct illness or she's got lingering apple fritter breath. Katrin because I'm pretty sure she's taken." Her finger hovered over Lenna, who was watching her with wide, expectant eyes. "And Lenna... you're just a friend."
The words landed like a dropped drumstick—clattering, awkward, and somehow louder than intended. Lenna blinked, her smirk faltering for half a second before snapping back into place with unnatural speed. "Just a friend," she repeated, tilting her head so her fringe obscured one eye. "Like a... platonic roommate. Or a sibling." She gasped suddenly, clutching her chest. "Oh no. Are we *sisters*?" Her voice pitched upward in mock horror. "Is this *incest*?"
Maarja pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to physically squeeze out Lenna’s nonsense. "Dude, no, we aren’t sisters," she said, voice flat as a punctured tire. "We have a three-month age difference. The math is not math-ing." She gestured vaguely between them, as if the air itself could illustrate her point. "I meant *friend* like—bestie. Like I’d have a sleepover and gossip with you, but not kiss you. Or fuck you." The last part came out sharper than intended, and she immediately regretted it when Lenna’s smirk twisted into something dangerously playful.
Lenna gasped, pressing a hand to her chest like Maarja had just confessed to arson. "Ohhhh," she breathed, drawing out the syllable like a violin string about to snap. "So you’ve *thought* about it." She wiggled her eyebrows, drumstick tapping against her knee in a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like a heartbeat. "Enough to specify *no kissing*. And *no fucking*." She leaned in, close enough that Maarja could see the flecks of gold in her stupid blue eyes. "Very specific denial. Almost... protesty."
Piret had stopped chewing mid-fritter, her eyes darting between Maarja's rapidly reddening face and Lenna's shit-eating grin like this was the best reality show Estonia had ever produced. A rogue crumb tumbled from her parted lips as she elbowed Katrin hard in the ribs—not that Katrin needed the prompt. The red-streaked keyboardist had already abandoned her one-sided argument with the metronome, leaning against the piano with her arms crossed, biting her lower lip to contain the grin threatening to split her face.
"This is," Katrin stage-whispered to Piret, "better than that time we convinced the janitor his mop was haunted." Her voice shook with barely contained laughter, the kind that made her shoulders quiver. She flicked a strand of blonde-and-brown hair behind her ear, eyes gleaming like she was mentally taking notes for future blackmail material.
Lenna’s drumstick tapped against Maarja’s knee, a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the metronome’s ticking in the corner. “Protesty,” she murmured again, her voice dropping into something low and teasing. “Like when you swore you hated that one song Piret wrote, but then I caught you humming it in the shower.”
Maarja’s throat went dry. That had been a private moment—or so she’d thought. “I was *mocking* it,” she lied, too quickly, her fingers tightening around the couch cushion.
The drumstick paused mid-tap. Lenna's smirk widened impossibly further. "Mmhm," she hummed, the sound dripping with skepticism. She leaned in until her nose was inches from Maarja's, close enough that Maarja could see the faint scar above her eyebrow from when she'd tripped over her own guitar cable last summer. "Mocking. Right. Like how you 'mock' me by voting for me as ‘prettiest in school’?"
Maarja's mouth opened—then shut with a click. Her opposing argument dying in her throat. Across the room, Piret inhaled powdered sugar up her nose in a poorly suppressed snort, triggering a coughing fit that sent crumbs flying. It appears that every time Maarja looks at Piret, she has more apple fritters on the table.
Maarja's face flushed so hot she could've powered Tallinn's central heating for a week. "Fucking—Jesus *fucking*—what the actual *shit* kind of—" She sputtered, hands flailing like a malfunctioning windmill before landing on her knees with a slap. "Are you out of your goddamn *mind*—"
"*Language*," Katrin hissed, smacking Maarja's shoulder with the back of her hand—hard enough to leave a red mark. "Sweet baby *fuck*, do you have to swear like a sailor with *Tourettes*?" She punctuated this by kicking Maarja's shin under the couch, nearly toppling Piret's tower of apple fritter wrappers in the process.
The drumstick clattered to the floor as Maarja shot up from the couch like it had electrocuted her. "Okay, fuck this," she announced, voice cracking halfway through. "I'm getting a drink. Or heroin. Either or." She bolted for the door before Lenna could resurrect her shit-eating grin, her boots squeaking against the linoleum like a startled flock of birds.
Behind her, Piret's muffled cackle dissolved into another powdered sugar coughing fit. "Dude," Katrin stage-whispered, loud enough to carry, "you broke her." A pause. Then, with palpable delight: "*Again.*"
Lenna watched the door swing shut behind Maarja with the solemnity of a philosopher contemplating the cosmos. Or, more accurately, with the smugness of a cat who'd just knocked a priceless vase off a shelf. She turned slowly to face Piret and Katrin, her fringe flopping into her eyes as she tilted her head. "Think she's into me?" she asked, voice lilting like she'd just posed the meaning of life.
Piret choked on the last of her apple fritter, crumbs spraying across Katrin's sleeve. Katrin didn't even flinch—just brushed them off with the resigned patience of someone who'd long accepted that Piret's digestive system was 40% pastry. "Oh my *god*," Katrin breathed, her eyes alight with the unholy glee of a woman who lived for drama. "You *troll*."
The hallway outside the band room was eerily quiet compared to the chaos Maarja had just fled. She pressed her back against the cool lockers, focusing on the metal digging into her shoulder blades—anything to distract from the way her pulse hammered in her throat. From the other side of the door, Lenna’s laughter bubbled up, bright and unrepentant, followed by Piret’s wheezing and Katrin’s gleeful, "*Again*?"
Maarja groaned, tipping her head back until it thunked against the locker. She should’ve stayed home today. Should’ve feigned food poisoning. Should’ve joined a *different* band—preferably one without a grinning, riddle-spouting menace who somehow always knew exactly which buttons to press.
Maarja squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image away—but it stuck like gum under a school desk: Lenna leaning in, her stupid grin softening into something almost *serious*, her breath warm against Maarja's lips. The worst part? In the daydream, Maarja didn’t pull away. She tilted her chin up, just a fraction, and—
"*Fuck*," she hissed, slamming her palm against the locker hard enough to rattle the contents inside. Somewhere down the hall, a janitor yelled something about vandalism, but Maarja was already speed-walking toward the bathrooms like her boots were on fire.
The bathroom door swung shut behind Maarja with a hollow clang, cutting off the distant echo of Lenna’s laughter. She gripped the edge of the sink hard enough to turn her knuckles white, staring at her reflection in the smudged mirror like it might offer answers. Her face was flushed—not just pink, but *glowing*, like someone had cranked her internal thermostat to "volcano." Her choppy blonde hair stuck out in every direction, as if she’d been electrocuted mid-panic. The remnants of the pink hair dye from earlier in the year matches her face pretty closely.
"Get it together," she muttered, splashing cold water on her cheeks. It did nothing.
The water droplets trailed down Maarja's face like traitors, sliding over skin that still burned with the phantom heat of Lenna’s proximity. She glared at her reflection, willing the flush in her cheeks to subside. "You're into *men*," she whispered fiercely, gripping the sink tighter. "Actual, real, *penis-having* men." The words echoed off the bathroom tiles, sounding hollow even to her own ears. The thought of it makes her feel a wave of nausea.
She thought of Jüri—his bland face, his unremarkable sandwich, the way he chewed like a cow with TMJ. A perfectly acceptable crush. Safe. Normal. Not at all like the way her pulse spiked when Lenna's drumstick tapped against her knee, slow and deliberate, like it was counting down to something inevitable.
Maarja squeezed her eyes shut, trying—and failing—to conjure up Jüri’s forgettable face. Instead, her traitorous brain supplied an image of Lenna last winter, wrapped in flannel pajamas, her nose pink from the cold. They’d been at Lenna’s place, the radiator coughing like an old smoker, huddled under a mountain of blankets Lenna insisted were “seasonally appropriate” despite it being only mildly chilly.
*Just friends*, Maarja reminded herself, digging her nails into her palms. But the memory unfolded anyway: Lenna shivering dramatically, complaining about “ghost drafts,” then flopping onto Maarja’s side of the futon like a starfish. They’d bickered over space until Lenna, mid-sentence about the philosophical implications of blanket theft, had suddenly gone still. Maarja had woken hours later to the weight of Lenna’s arm slung over her waist, her breath warm against the nape of Maarja’s neck. The weight of her body pressing lightly against her back. She’d stayed frozen, heart hammering, until dawn painted the room gray.
Now, the bathroom’s fluorescent lights hummed accusingly. Maarja scrubbed her face harder, like she could wash away the memory—and the way her stomach had flipped when Lenna, half-asleep, had nuzzled into her shoulder. "Friends don’t spoon," she muttered to her reflection, voice cracking. "Friends *especially* don’t spoon while wearing matching reindeer socks."
The bathroom door creaked open. Maarja stiffened, praying it wasn’t—
Piret staggered into the bathroom with the grace of a newborn deer on roller skates, her face pale except for two blotchy patches of pink high on her cheeks. She clutched her stomach like it was a ticking time bomb, her other hand gripping the doorframe for support. A rogue apple fritter crumb clung to her lower lip like a tiny, gluten-filled suicide note.
"Emergency," she wheezed, her voice three octaves higher than usual. She doubled over, forehead pressing against the cool tile wall. "Code red. Five-alarm *situation*."
Maarja took one look at her—the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the way her knees wobbled like gelatin—and immediately forgot her own crisis. "Oh my *god*," she said, grabbing Piret's shoulder to steady her. "How many did you eat this time?"
Piret groaned, sliding down the wall into a crouch that looked suspiciously like the fetal position. "Lost count after twelve," she admitted, pressing her cheek against the tile like it was a life-saving ice pack. "They were just... there. In the box. Looking at me. *Judging* me."
Maarja rolled her eyes so hard she briefly saw her own optic nerves. "They're pastries, Piret. They don't have eyes." She hauled Piret upright by the armpits, ignoring the way the taller girl swayed like a sapling in a hurricane. "You're literally allergic to gluten. Like, medically. Diagnosed."
Piret clutched her stomach with one hand and Maarja's sleeve with the other, her face cycling through shades of green. "But they're *fritters*," she whimpered, as if this explained everything. "The cinnamon. The—the *texture*." She made a vague, desperate gesture with her free hand that might've been poetry if it weren't for the way her stomach audibly gurgled like a clogged drain.
Piret bolted for the nearest stall like a woman possessed, her Converse squeaking against the tile in a frantic rhythm. She yanked the door open with such force it rebounded off the partition with a metallic clang, then promptly folded herself into the fetal position atop the toilet seat like a malfunctioning lawn chair.
"God *fucking*—" she hissed, pressing her forehead against her knees. "Why do they make them so *good*?"
Maarja stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the water stains like they held the answers to her sudden crisis. Childhood friends didn't suddenly make your pulse spike when they leaned too close. Childhood friends didn't haunt your thoughts like a catchy song you couldn't shake. Childhood friends *certainly* didn't make you notice how their stupid mouth moved when they spoke in those stupid riddles—soft, slightly uneven where she'd bitten her lip during their first guitar recital at fourteen.
That's when it hit her like a poorly tuned power chord: fourteen. They'd known each other since they were six, sharing juice boxes and scraped knees. But something had shifted that summer—the summer Lenna's voice cracked mid-chorus during their first ‘real’ gig, the summer Maarja had caught herself staring at the way Lenna's sweat-damp hair clung to her neck under the stage lights. She'd blamed it on heatstroke at the time.
Maarja leaned against the bathroom sink, arms crossed, watching Piret's dramatic groans echo off the tile walls. The flush of her own crisis was fading—hard to maintain existential dread when your guitarist was currently composing a symphony of digestive regret in the next stall.
"Tell me again," Maarja said, flicking a stray piece of toilet paper off her sleeve, "why you ate thirteen apple fritters when you *know* they make you shit like a medieval peasant with dysentery?" She leaned against the stall door, arms crossed, Piret's forehead pressed against the cool metal partition like it held the secrets of the universe.
Piret groaned, the sound echoing off the porcelain. "They were *on sale*," she wheezed, as if this explained everything. Her voice pitched upward into something truly pathetic. "Three for the price of *one*, Maarja. It was *economical*."
Maarja groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose as Piret's stomach unleashed another unholy gurgle from the stall. "You're gonna get colon cancer," she muttered, kicking the door lightly with her boot. "Like, medically. Diagnosed."
The bathroom door swung open with a dramatic flourish, revealing Katrin mid-stride—her face frozen in an expression of horrified fascination as Piret's latest round of digestive pyrotechnics echoed off the tiles. Katrin's platform boots skidded to a halt, her nose wrinkling like she'd just walked into a biological crime scene.
"Christ *fucking*—" Katrin hissed, slapping a hand over her mouth and nose. Her other hand flailed backward blindly until it connected with the doorframe, gripping it like a lifeline. "Sweet *rotting* hell, Piret, did you *die* in here?" She gagged, her meticulously straightened blonde-and-brown hair swaying as she recoiled. "It smells like Satan's *asshole* after taco night."
Maarja sighed, pressing her forehead against the cool bathroom tiles while Piret's groans crescendoed from the stall. "She had like thirteen fritters," she muttered to Katrin, gesturing vaguely at the disaster zone behind the door. "And she's *gluten intolerant*. Medically. Diagnosed." The last word came out sharp enough to chip paint.
Katrin's nose wrinkled further, if that were possible. She edged closer to the sinks, stepping delicately around an ominous wet spot on the tile. "Thirteen?" she repeated, voice pitching upward in disbelief. "That's not *eating*, that's a *hate crime* against her own intestines." She paused, then added with horrified awe, "*Why* does the music room even *have* thirteen fritters just... lying around?"
Maarja snorted, kicking the stall door lightly with her boot. "She got them from the bakery," she said, jerking her thumb toward the general direction of downtown. "Band room fritters would have *AIDS*."
Piret groaned in agreement from inside the stall, followed by a sound like a dying accordion. "Band room fritters," she wheezed, her voice echoing weirdly off the porcelain, "are like... Soviet-era leftovers. Radioactive." A pause. Then, weakly: "*This* was fresh betrayal."
The bathroom door slammed open again—this time with enough force to make the hinges groan. Lenna stood framed in the doorway, her drumstick raised like a sword, her side fringe askew from what must have been a sprint down the hallway. Her eyes darted from Katrin’s horrified expression to Maarja’s exhausted slump against the sink before landing on Piret’s stall, where another tragic digestive symphony was reaching its crescendo.
“Oh,” Lenna said, lowering the drumstick. “So *that’s* where the plague noises were coming from.” She took a tentative step inside, nostrils flaring as the full olfactory assault hit her. Her face did something complicated—part disgust, part fascination—before settling on smug. “Piret,” she announced solemnly, “you smell like a *crime scene*.”
"It is one," Maarja deadpanned, watching the stall door rattle with Piret's latest gastrointestinal rebellion. "I think she shat her colon out." The words hung in the air like the lingering scent of apple-flavored regret.
Lenna's drumstick tapped against her palm in a slow, considering rhythm. "Fascinating," she murmured, edging closer to the stall like a wildlife documentarian approaching a dangerous specimen. "Do you think it's still salvageable? The colon, I mean." She tilted her head, fringe sliding sideways. "Asking for a friend."
Piret's groan morphed into a shriek as she slammed her palm against the stall door. "*NO* YOU ARE *NOT* SELLING MY COLON ON EBAY *AGAIN*!" The hinges rattled like a tambourine in an earthquake. A lone apple fritter wrapper fluttered pathetically to the floor like a surrender flag.
Lenna gasped, clutching her drumstick to her chest like a holy relic. "But *last time* it funded our drumhead replacement," she protested, eyes wide with faux innocence. She sidled closer to the stall, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And remember the *mystery bidder* from Latvia? The one who asked if it came with a certificate of authenticity?" Her grin turned wicked. "They *tipped*."
Katrin’s jaw dropped so fast it nearly unhinged. She whipped around to face Lenna, her red-streaked fringe flying sideways like a startled bird. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice climbing an octave, “you *sold* *what* on eBay?” Her platform boots clicked against the tile as she advanced, finger pointed like a prosecutor delivering the killing blow. “*Specifically*.”
Lenna blinked, drumstick pausing mid-air. “Piret’s colon,” she said, as casually as someone listing their grocery haul. “Well, *allegedly* her colon. Turned out to be a rubber stress ball from the physio clinic.” She shrugged, grinning at Katrin’s horrified expression. “Buyer never complained. Five stars. ‘Item as described.’”
Maarja groaned, pressing her forehead against the bathroom mirror hard enough to leave a smudge. "I'm going to write a restraining order," she muttered to her reflection. "Use both my hands to write it twice as fast." The glass fogged with her breath, briefly obscuring the flush still staining her cheeks.
Behind her, Lenna's drumstick tapped against the sink in a slow, deliberate rhythm—like Morse code spelling out *you're fucked*. "Double-handed restraining orders only count if you're ambidextrous," Lenna mused, leaning against the tile wall with the casual grace of a cat who'd already knocked over the vase. "Otherwise it's just... sad scribbling." Her grin widened as Maarja's shoulders tensed. "Are you ambidextrous, Maarja? *Bi*dextrous, if you will?"
Maarja groaned, pressing her palms flat against the sink. "Ambidextrous, yes, *very* much so," she muttered, avoiding Lenna's reflection in the mirror. "Not bi though, I think." The words tasted like stale bread—dry, unconvincing. She swallowed hard. "Dick is like a solid three stars. Yet to try pussy."
The bathroom went so quiet Maarja could hear Piret's labored breathing from the stall. Katrin made a noise like a deflating balloon, her hands frozen mid-air where they'd been gesturing wildly about eBay crimes. Lenna's drumstick stopped mid-tap.
Lenna's drumstick clattered to the floor, rolling under the sink with a hollow plastic clatter. She blinked once—slow, deliberate—before her smirk returned with nuclear intensity. "Ohhh," she breathed, leaning in until her breath ghosted over Maarja's shoulder. "Yet to try pussy," she repeated, voice dripping with implication. "But *want* to?"
Maarja shrugged, fingers tightening around the sink's edge hard enough to turn her knuckles white. "I'd live if I didn't," she muttered to her fogged reflection, "but I'd try it just to know if it's good or if porn's a lie." She swallowed, watching her own throat bob in the mirror. "Hint—it definitely is."
The silence that followed was so absolute Maarja could hear Piret's shaky exhale from the stall, the drip of a leaky faucet, the distant hum of fluorescent lights. Then—catastrophe. Lenna's breath hitched against her shoulder, warm and uneven, before exploding into a sound halfway between a cough and a snort. Katrin made a noise like a tea kettle achieving sentience, her platform boots squeaking against the tile as she backpedaled into a stall door.
Lenna's laughter ricocheted off the bathroom tiles, sharp and delighted, her drumstick abandoned under the sink as she doubled over with the force of it. "Oh my *god*," she wheezed, clutching Maarja's shoulder for balance, her fingers digging in just enough to leave crescent moons through the fabric. "You—you *science experiment*—" She dissolved into another fit of giggles, her forehead pressing against Maarja's bicep like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Maarja scowled at her reflection, watching the way Lenna's laughter shook them both. "It's called *critical thinking*," she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite. The warmth of Lenna's breath through her sleeve made her skin prickle. "Unlike some people who just—*leap* into things like a fucking—"
Lenna's laughter hitched mid-breath when Katrin's platform boot connected with the stall door—Piret's moan of despair echoing like a wounded animal. "Critical *thinking*?" Lenna wheezed, her fingers tightening on Maarja's shoulder as she wiped tears from her eyes. "Sweet *fuck*, you're treating sexuality like a—a *lab report*?" Her voice cracked on the last word, sending her into another giggling spiral that shook them both.
Maarja could feel the heat radiating off Lenna's body where she leaned against her—too close, always too close—and her traitorous pulse skipped. "Methodology matters," she grumbled, staring stubbornly at the sink drain. "You don't just—*guess* about shit like this."
Lenna straightened up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, but didn't step away—her hip still pressed against Maarja's thigh like a comma in a sentence she refused to end. "Methodology," she repeated, voice thick with amusement. She tapped a finger against her bottom lip, tilting her head. "So what's your hypothesis, scientist?" The way she said it curled around Maarja's ribs like smoke.
Maarja's throat clicked when she swallowed. "Null hypothesis," she managed, staring at a crack in the ceiling tile above Katrin's head. "No significant difference between kissing men and women."
Katrin's hands flew to her mouth with a muffled squeak. "*Null hypothesis*?" she repeated, voice muffled through her fingers. "Are we—are we *statisticians* now?" She pointed an accusatory finger at Maarja, her platform boots tapping an erratic rhythm against the tile. "Sweet baby *Jesus*, just *kiss* someone and figure it out like a *normal* person!"
Maarja's fingers twitched against the sink. "Experimental design matters," she muttered, watching Lenna's reflection grin like a shark scenting blood. "Control groups. Variables." Her voice cracked. "*Ethics*."
Lenna’s drumstick clattered to the floor as she flung her arms out wide, nearly smacking Katrin in the face. “I VOLUNTEER AS SACRIFICE FOR KISSING!” she announced, voice bouncing off the bathroom tiles like a rogue ping-pong ball. Her grin was so wide it looked physically painful.
Maarja's grip on the sink turned lethal. The porcelain groaned under her fingers. "No," she hissed, voice cracking like a teenager's. "Absolutely not. That would—that's—" Her brain short-circuited, throwing sparks behind her eyelids. "*Methodologically unsound*."
Lenna gasped theatrically, clutching her chest like Maarja had shot her. "You *wound* me," she declared, staggering backward into Katrin, who barely caught her with an exasperated sigh. "Rejecting your *control group*? Your *sample size of one*?" She wiggled her fingers in air quotes, nearly smacking Katrin's nose. "This is *bad science*."
Maarja's grip on the sink tightened until her knuckles matched the porcelain. "I'd rather kiss Piret," she blurted, voice climbing an octave. "And risk whatever *plagues* she's incubating." Her eyes darted to the stall where Piret groaned like a dying walrus. "Or—or Katrin! She's like... really pretty. Might need a stepladder though." The words tumbled out like loose change from a ripped pocket.
Katrin's gasp could've powered a small wind turbine. Her platform boots squeaked against the tile as she whirled to face Maarja, hands flying to her hips. "*Excuse* me?" Her voice cracked mid-sentence. "I'm *five foot eight*—"
Maarja gestured wildly at Katrin’s boots, the chunky platforms adding at least four inches to her already formidable height. “That’s in *flats*!” she insisted, voice cracking. “In platforms, you’re like a *trillion* feet tall—I’d need a *ladder* and a *spotter*.” The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, her hands sketching absurd measurements in the air like a panicked architect.
Katrin’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again—a goldfish impersonation in platforms. “That’s—” she spluttered, platform stomping forward with enough force to rattle the pipes. “That’s *not* how feet work!” Her finger jabbed toward Maarja’s nose, stopping just short of contact. “And *also*—since when do you *care* about height differentials? You let Lenna sit on your *shoulders* at the Tallinn festival!”
Maarja growled, her voice ricocheting off the bathroom tiles like a misfired bullet. "*That’s irrelevant!*" She shoved past Lenna hard enough to make her stumble into Katrin, who let out an indignant squawk as her platforms skidded across a suspicious wet patch on the floor. The door slammed behind Maarja with enough force to make the hinges scream.
The hallway was blissfully empty—no witnesses to the way her hands shook as she fumbled with her locker combination. Twice she misdialed, her fingers slipping on the dial like she'd dipped them in butter. On the third try, the lock surrendered with a metallic click. Maarja yanked it open with such violence that her bass case toppled out, landing on her foot with a solid thud.
"*Fuck!*" she hissed through clenched teeth, hopping on one boot while the other throbbed in time with her racing pulse. Perfect. Just perfect. Now she'd have a limp to match the psychological damage.
Lenna’s laughter chased her down the hallway like a persistent echo, bouncing off the lockers in staccato bursts. Maarja jammed her bass back into the locker with more force than necessary, slamming the door shut just as Piret’s groans from the bathroom reached a tragic crescendo. The bell rang overhead, its shrill bleat drowning out the sound of Katrin’s distant, scandalized shriek of *"LENNA, PUT THAT DOWN—"*
Maarja exhaled through her nose, counting the cracks in the ceiling tiles until her pulse slowed to something resembling normal. She needed air. Or a cigarette. Or possibly a swift, merciful death—anything to erase the mental image of Lenna’s smug grin inches from her face, her breath warm with the scent cinnamon.
Maarja’s gaze snagged on the locker beside hers—Lenna’s, decorated with peeling band stickers and a doodle of what might’ve been a cat or a failed chemistry experiment. The combination lock hung open, its dial stuck between numbers like Lenna’s brain mid-riddle.
She glanced down the empty hallway, listened for the distant echo of Lenna’s voice still trapped in the bathroom with Katrin’s shrieking. The coast was clear.
The locker door creaked when Maarja nudged it open—just enough to slide her fingers inside and fish out whatever stupid secrets Lenna kept in there. Her pulse hammered in her throat like it was trying to escape. *This is insane*, she told herself, even as her hands moved on their own, flipping through Lenna’s haphazard stack of sheet music and half-finished lyric drafts. *Friends don’t riffle through friends’ lockers looking for—*
Her fingers brushed something soft. A hoodie—*her* hoodie, the one that had gone missing three weeks ago after band practice, still faintly smelling of detergent and Lenna’s stupid strawberry-scented shampoo. Maarja’s grip tightened around the fabric. *Proof*, her traitorous brain supplied. *Of what?* She wasn’t sure.
Something else caught Maarja's eye—a metric fucktonne of caffeine shots crammed into Lenna's locker like contraband in a drug bust. Not surprising—overdosing on caffeine was practically a hobby for Lenna, right up there with drumming herself into exhaustion and speaking in riddles that made zero sense. Maarja reached to pick one up, her fingers brushing against—
A Polaroid. Wedged between two caffeine shots like a bookmark.
The Polaroid was upside down. Maarja flipped it between her fingers—and froze. It was a photo from last summer’s festival, the one where Lenna had climbed onto her shoulders during the encore. The image was slightly blurred, the stage lights casting their faces in hazy gold, but the expression on Lenna’s face was unmistakable: grinning down at Maarja like she’d hung the moon, her drumsticks raised in victory. Maarja’s own face was half-turned, caught mid-laugh, her hands gripping Lenna’s calves like she was afraid to let go.
The back of the Polaroid had two (well, one.) words scrawled in Lenna’s messy handwriting: *"proof :)"*
Maarja stared at the Polaroid, her brain short-circuiting like a dying amp. *Proof of what?* The question ricocheted inside her skull, unanswered. Proof they looked ridiculous at festivals? Proof Lenna had zero respect for gravity? Proof Maarja’s hands had lingered a second too long on Lenna’s calves? Her fingers twitched, the edges of the photo digging into her skin.
She shoved the Polaroid back into Lenna's locker like it had burned her, the caffeine shots clattering as she slammed the door shut. The hallway air felt suddenly thick, pressing against her ribs like an over-tightened guitar string. Maarja gripped her own hoodie—*her* hoodie, stolen and folded neatly among Lenna's chaos—and exhaled through her nose like she was trying to defuse a bomb in her chest.
The bathroom door burst open down the hall, Katrin's outraged squawk cutting through the hum of fluorescent lights. "*—absolutely* deranged, I swear to *Christ*—" Maarja didn't wait to hear the rest. She bolted for the emergency exit, her boots squeaking against the linoleum in a frantic rhythm.
———
The knock came at exactly 6:03 PM—three sharp raps that made Maarja’s toothbrush clatter into the sink. She knew it was Lenna without checking; no one else knocked like they were trying to Morse code *"hurry the fuck up"* through solid oak.
Maarja spat out toothpaste foam, watching it swirl down the drain like her dignity from earlier. She’d spent the last three hours lying on her childhood bed, staring at glow-in-the-dark stars she’d stickied to the ceiling at age nine while listening to *Nevermind* on repeat like it could exorcise whatever the hell was happening to her brain. It hadn’t worked.
The knock came again, louder. “Maarja!” Lenna’s voice, sing-song and annoyingly cheerful, filtered through the door. “If you don’t open up in five seconds, I’m revving the engine loud enough to wake your neighbor’s dead cat!”
Maarja wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, glaring at her reflection like it had personally betrayed her. She could pretend she wasn’t home. She could climb out the window. She could—
Maarja yanked the door open just as Lenna’s fist was mid-air for another knock—her drumstick raised like a weapon, her grin wide enough to eclipse the sun. Behind her, Piret’s battered Volvo idled at the curb.
“You’re alive!” Lenna crowed, drumstick prodding Maarja’s sternum. “I *told* Katrin you hadn’t spontaneously combusted from sexual confusion.” Her eyes darted to the hoodie clutched in Maarja’s death grip—*her* hoodie, freshly stolen back from Lenna’s locker—and her smirk turned nuclear. “Ohhh. *Burglary*.”
Maarja's grip tightened on the hoodie. "It's *mine*," she snapped, jerking it away from Lenna's drumstick. The fabric still smelled like Lenna's shampoo—distinctly, infuriatingly *her*. "You're the burglar here."
Lenna gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Slander!" She leaned in, close enough that Maarja could count the freckles dusting her nose. "I was *preserving evidence*." Her voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial and warm. "Like that Polaroid."
Maarja sighed, her fingers tightening around the hoodie. "So a lift?" she muttered, eyeing the Volvo dubiously as it shuddered like a dying horse. "Piret driving, I’m guessing, since it’s her car?"
Lenna’s drumstick twirled between her fingers with the ease of a seasoned menace. "Oh, sweet summer child," she cooed, stepping backward toward the driver’s side with a flourish. "Piret is *incapacitated*." She jerked her thumb toward the backseat, where Piret lay sprawled like a corpse, one arm draped dramatically over her eyes, a half-eaten apple fritter dangling precariously from her other hand. "Gluten coma. I diagnosed."
Maarja’s stomach dropped. "*You’re* driving?" The words came out strangled. She’d ridden with Lenna exactly once—a harrowing five-minute trip to the gas station that had ended with Lenna screaming obscenities at a pensioner for driving "like a concussed turtle." The pensioner had been parallel parking.
Lenna grinned, swinging the driver’s door open with a creak. "Buckle up, buttercup," she chirped, drumstick tapping the roof like a starting pistol. "I’ve got *road rage* and *zero impulse control*."
"Yaaay," Maarja deadpanned as she slumped into the passenger seat, buckling her seatbelt with enough force to strain the fabric. The Volvo's upholstery smelled like stale apple fritters and existential dread—a scent Piret had lovingly christened "teenage regret" last summer.
Lenna's drumstick tapped against the steering wheel in an erratic rhythm that did *nothing* to inspire confidence. "Brace for impact," she sing-songed, yanking the gearstick with the finesse of a rabid raccoon. The car lurched backward—then jerked violently as Lenna's hand slipped off the knob, her fist flying sideways like a misfired cannonball.
Lenna's fist connected with Maarja's lower abdomen with the precision of a drunk darts player—just slightly off-target, but with enough force to knock the wind out of her.
"*Fuck*—!" Maarja wheezed, doubling over like a folding chair, her forehead smacking against the dashboard. The pain radiated outward in concentric circles, settling somewhere between her ribs and what felt suspiciously like her left ovary. "Did you just—*punch my uterus*—"
Lenna blinked down at her fist, still hovering mid-air like a confused meteorite. "Oh," she said, voice dripping with faux innocence. "Did I?" Her fingers flexed experimentally. "Weird. Must've slipped."
Maarja groaned into the dashboard, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "You *bitch*," she wheezed, voice muffled by pleather. "I think you ruptured an organ."
Lenna's fingers skated across Maarja's stomach with all the grace of a drunken ice skater—gentle at first, then digging in like she was kneading dough. "There, there," she cooed, voice dripping with mock sympathy as her nails scraped over the fabric of Maarja's shirt. "Think of it as... involuntary core training." Her grin was audible. "Free Pilates."
Piret's wheeze from the backseat sounded like a deflating accordion. She lifted her fritter in a shaky salute, crumbs cascading onto the seat like edible confetti. "*This*," she announced between chews, "is the best thing I've ever witnessed." The fritter disappeared into her mouth with a wet crunch, her moan of delight muffled by pastry. "Worth the gluten coma. Twelve out of ten."
Maarja groaned, pressing her forehead harder into the dashboard until the pleather left a temporary dent. "I think I'm infertile now," she muttered, voice muffled by the vinyl. "Congratulations, Lenna. You've sterilized me with a single punch. Darwin Award fucking *pending*."
Lenna's fingers paused their kneading, drumstick clattering to the floor as she leaned in—close enough that Maarja could smell the apple shampoo again, mingling with the Volvo's distinct aroma of impending doom. "Oh, sweetheart," she cooed, breath warm against Maarja's temple. "If infertility worked like that, half of Estonia would be barren from gym class dodgeball." Her hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the waistband of Maarja's jeans with terrifying casualness. "Besides, you'd need *way* more trauma to that uterus to—"
The sound that escaped Maarja’s throat wasn’t human. It wasn’t even *mammalian*. It was the kind of noise a mouse might make if stepped on by a Doc Marten—high-pitched, desperate, and humiliatingly involuntary. Her hands flew to her throat as if she could physically shove the sound back down, her face burning hotter than Piret’s Volvo’s overheating engine.
Lenna froze. Her fingers—still perilously close to the waistband of Maarja’s jeans—twitched like a cat spotting a laser pointer. For once in her life, she was speechless. Her mouth hung open slightly, fringe dangling over one eye in a way that would’ve been charming if Maarja wasn’t currently contemplating vehicular manslaughter.
Lenna revved the engine with the enthusiasm of a demolition derby contestant, drumstick now wedged between her teeth like a pirate's cutlass. "Buckle up, lab rat," she mumbled around the wood, grinning as the Volvo shuddered beneath them like a spooked horse. "Experimental conditions: one—" she held up a finger, nearly swerving into a mailbox, "—Piret's colon is currently rebelling against her life choices. Two—" another finger, the car lurching over a curb, "—Katrin thinks we're bringing her gluten-free snacks as an apology for today's biohazard. Three—" the final finger jabbed toward Maarja's nose, "—you're about to test your *kissing hypothesis* at *Katrin's fucking house*."
Maarja's fingers dug into the seat cushion hard enough to puncture vinyl. "*What*," she hissed, voice strangled. "No. Absolutely not. Turn this car around before I—"
The Volvo fishtailed around a corner with the grace of a shopping cart on meth. Lenna’s drumstick, still clenched between her teeth, vibrated with the engine’s death rattle. “Too late!” she sang around the wood, yanking the wheel hard enough to make the tires screech. “Science waits for no coward!”
Maarja’s stomach lurched in tandem with the car. “I *revoke* my hypothesis,” she gasped, clawing at the dashboard as they narrowly avoided a parked bicycle. “Null findings! Inconclusive data! *Retracted for peer review!*”
———
The Volvo screeched to a halt outside Katrin’s apartment complex, its brakes emitting a sound like a dying seagull. Maarja’s forehead peeled off the dashboard with an audible *thwup*. She blinked at the cracked vinyl imprint now permanently embossed on her skin. "I think you fused me to the car," she muttered, rubbing at the pleather-shaped dent on her forehead.
Lenna yanked the drumstick from between her teeth with a wet pop, twirling it like a baton before jabbing it toward the apartment building. "Science calls," she announced, vaulting out of the driver’s seat with the grace of a caffeinated lemur. She paused halfway to the sidewalk, spinning on her heel to grin back at Maarja. "Bring the hoodie."
Maarja sighed, dragging the stolen hoodie with her like a security blanket as they climbed the stairs to Katrin's apartment. She could still feel the ghost of Lenna's fingers pressing into her stomach, the phantom ache of that accidental punch lingering like a bruise she didn’t want to fade.
Lenna bounded ahead, drumstick tapping a chaotic rhythm against the banister, her boots scuffing the steps with the grace of a drunk gazelle. "Knock knock," she sing-songed, rapping her knuckles against Katrin's door in a staccato beat that sounded suspiciously like *shave-and-a-haircut*.
The door flew open before the last knock landed. Katrin stood there, platform boots planted wide, arms crossed like a disapproving librarian. Her eyes zeroed in on Piret first—Piret, who was still swaying slightly on her feet, clutching a half-eaten apple fritter like a lifeline.
Katrin's expression softened for half a second before hardening again. "*You*," she hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at Piret. "You *abandoned* me in that biohazard zone!"
Piret blinked, fritter crumbs cascading from her lips like edible snowflakes. "I was *dying*," she protested weakly, lifting the pastry as if it were Exhibit A in her defense.
Katrin wasn't having it. With a noise that was half-growl, half-squeak, she launched herself at Piret with the force of a small hurricane. Her arms wrapped around Piret's waist—and then physics took over. Piret's eyes widened comically as Katrin's momentum sent them both toppling backward into the apartment with a *thud* that shook the floorboards.
The apartment door swung shut behind them with a click that sounded absurdly final. Maarja stood frozen in the entryway, clutching the stolen hoodie like a hostage negotiator holding a bomb. From the living room floor, Piret groaned into Katrin’s shoulder, her fritter squashed between them like a sacrificial offering. "I regret nothing," Piret mumbled, voice muffled by Katrin’s shirt.
Lenna sidled up beside Maarja, her elbow jabbing into Maarja’s ribs with the precision of a sniper. “So,” she whispered, breath hot against Maarja’s ear. “Hypothesis time.” Her fingers plucked at the hoodie Maarja was strangling. “You steal my things, I steal yours—very symbiotic. Very *queer*.”
Maarja groaned, shoving Lenna’s fingers away from the hoodie with more force than necessary. “I am *not* queer, I like dick!” The words came out louder than intended, bouncing off Katrin’s pristine walls like a rogue drumstick. “And even though I’ve not seen any vagina outside my own, I *know* I don’t care for it.” She crossed her arms defensively, the hoodie crumpling between them like a surrendered flag.
Silence. Then—
Katrin's muffled snort from the floor sounded like a dying lawnmower. Piret lifted her head from Katrin's shoulder, her face smeared with frosting and disbelief. "*Jesus*, Maarja," she wheezed, "you just announced your vaginal disinterest louder than our last amp feedback."
Lenna's drumstick tapped against Maarja's temple—once, twice—before sliding down to tilt her chin up. "See," she murmured, leaning in until their noses almost touched, "that's what makes you *such* a liar." Her breath smelled like gum and impending chaos. "If you *really* didn't care, you wouldn't yell it at Katrin's fucking wallpaper."
Maarja hissed, her fingers twisting in the stolen hoodie like she was wringing a neck. "I *yelled* it because you morons won't get off my back about it!" Her voice ricocheted off Katrin's framed band posters, cracking on the high notes like a busted speaker. "I'm like, *pretty* sure I'm not gay—I've had zero primal urges to fuck a woman before!"
The moment the words left her mouth, Lenna's drumstick froze mid-air. Piret choked on fritter crumbs. Even Katrin's platform boots squeaked against the hardwood in abject horror.
The silence that followed Maarja's declaration was the kind of silence that came before natural disasters—heavy, electric, and utterly doomed. Even the Volvo outside seemed to hold its exhaust-filled breath.
Lenna's drumstick hovered inches from Maarja's nose, frozen mid-tap like a metronome stuck on *oh fuck*. Slowly—painfully slowly—Lenna's smirk returned, curling at the edges like a lit fuse. "*Primal urges*," she repeated, voice dripping with unholy delight. "That's such a *you* way to phrase it." Her drumstick tapped Maarja's collarbone, tracing the neckline of her shirt with terrifying precision. "Like sexuality's some... Neolithic cave painting. *Ugh* woman, *must* club over head—"
Maarja threw her hands up, the stolen hoodie dangling like a surrender flag. "Why do you all care about my romance life *now*, anyway?" Her voice cracked on the last word, bouncing off Katrin’s pristine walls like a rogue cymbal crash. "Like, a week ago if I said *anything* romantic about *any* guy, you’d all just say *‘ew’* and throw fritters at me!"
Piret, still sprawled on the floor with Katrin’s elbow lodged in her ribs, lifted a crumb-dusted hand. "Objection," she wheezed. "We threw fritters at *everything*. It’s our love language."
Maarja groaned, shoving the stolen hoodie into Lenna’s chest like a flaming torch. “Do you only care about my feelings *now* because you guys think I have a crush on Lenna?!” Her voice ricocheted off Katrin’s meticulously organized bookshelf, knocking a framed photo of their first gig askew. “Because I *remember*—whenever Katrin or Piret found some hot dude to like, you’d all be *nice* about it! But me? God forbid I have a *crush* without you guys mocking me like I’m some fucking *baby*!”
Katrin’s platform boot squeaked against the hardwood as she struggled upright, Piret still clinging to her like a drunken koala. “That’s *different*,” Katrin huffed, adjusting her hair with one hand while the other tried—and failed—to detach Piret’s frosting-smeared fingers from her shirt. “When *we* like guys, it’s *normal*. When *you* like guys—” Her nose wrinkled like she’d smelled something rancid. “It’s like watching a toddler try to flirt with a fire hydrant.”
Maarja’s hands clenched around the stolen hoodie like she was trying to strangle it—or maybe herself. The fabric smelled like Lenna’s shampoo, like stolen drumsticks and poorly-timed laughter, and it made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with Lenna’s accidental uterus punch. “Maybe there’s a *fucking* reason for that!” The words exploded out of her like a misfired power chord, sharp and discordant in Katrin’s meticulously clean apartment.
Lenna’s drumstick froze mid-air, hovering between them like a punctuation mark waiting for the rest of the sentence. Piret’s fritter crumbs stopped mid-fall. Even Katrin’s platform boots let out a scandalized creak.
Maarja's hands curled into fists, the stolen hoodie crumpling between them like a discarded love letter. She folded inward—shoulders hunched, spine curved—as if trying to shrink small enough to disappear into the fabric’s folds. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible, cracked at the edges like a bad vinyl.
Maarja's voice cracked like a dropped drumstick. "The reason I'm so fucking weird with romance, why I'm so *incapable* of it—" Her fingers twisted in the hoodie fabric, knuckles blanching white. "It's because I'm a *lesbian*." The word landed like a cymbal crash—too loud, too sharp, reverberating in the sudden silence.
Katrin's platform boot squeaked against the hardwood. Piret's half-chewed fritter fell from her lips. Lenna's drumstick clattered to the floor, rolling toward Maarja's sneaker like a surrendered weapon.
The silence after Maarja's confession wasn't silence at all—it was the deafening white noise of three people forgetting how to breathe. Lenna's drumstick rolled to a stop against Maarja's sneaker, the click of wood on rubber absurdly loud in the frozen apartment.
Maarja wasn't looking at any of them. Her fingers were twisted so tightly in the stolen hoodie that the seams groaned. When the first tear hit the fabric, it made a dark star-shaped bloom—like ink spreading through tissue paper. Then another. And another.
"It's not—" Her voice shattered like dropped glass. "I didn't *choose* this." The words came out wet and broken, syllables sticking to her teeth. "I tried. God, I *tried* to like boys. I dated Erik for *three months* and every time he touched me I wanted to peel my skin off." Her laugh was jagged, hysterical. "I thought maybe I was broken. Like some factory defect no one caught before shipping."
Piret made a wounded noise from the floor, her frosting-smeared hand reaching out blindly. Maarja recoiled like the touch might burn.
"You don't *get* it," she choked. "When Katrin talks about holding hands with boys, people think it's cute. If I—" Her throat closed. "If I even *look* at a girl too long, they'll say I'm a predator. A pervert. I'll never get to—" The sentence died in her chest. "*Fuck*. I'll never get to kiss someone in public without checking over my shoulder first."
Lenna's drumstick was motionless where it had fallen. Her usual smirk had bled away, leaving something raw and unfamiliar in its place. She took half a step forward—then froze when Maarja flinched.
Lenna's drumstick lay between them like a boundary neither dared to cross. The apartment smelled like stale apple fritters and the sharp tang of Maarja's panic sweat. Somewhere outside, Piret's Volvo backfired like punctuation.
"You *idiot*," Lenna said quietly.
Lenna's voice didn't sound like Lenna at all—no sing-song teasing, no playful lilt. Just three syllables, sandpaper-rough, scraping against the silence.
"You *idiot*," she repeated, softer now, stepping over the fallen drumstick like it was a tripwire. Her boots squeaked against the hardwood—once, twice—before she was close enough that Maarja could see the freckles dusting her nose bridge in perfect constellations.
Lenna’s hand hovered mid-air, fingers twitching like she was debating between punching Maarja again or doing something far more dangerous. Then, with a sharp inhale, she grabbed the hoodie still clenched in Maarja’s fist and yanked—pulling them chest-to-chest so suddenly that Maarja’s sneakers skidded on Katrin’s polished floor.
"Proof," Lenna muttered, shoving the crumpled Polaroid from her locker between them. The edges dug into Maarja’s palm. "You *smiled* like this when I sat on your shoulders at the festival. Not when Erik bought you flowers. Not when Jüri *existed* near you." Her voice cracked weirdly, a high note Maarja had never heard before. "You’re *bad* at lying, but you’re *worse* at being happy."
Maarja's breath hitched, wet and uneven against Lenna's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she choked out, fingers clawing at the Polaroid like it might dissolve. "I'll—I'll get over the gay phase though. Soon. I'll learn to love men, be normal, be a wife, a—" The word *mother* cracked in half, lodging sideways in her throat.
Lenna's grip on the hoodie tightened until Maarja could feel her knuckles digging into her collarbone. "Bullshit," she said, so low it vibrated through Maarja's ribs. "You don't *get over* liking apples just because everyone else prefers oranges." Her free hand came up, smearing a tear across Maarja's cheek with her thumb—too rough to be tender, too deliberate to be accidental. "And you *really* don't get over *me*."
Maarja's breath came in shallow, panicked bursts, her fingers twisting the Polaroid until the edges bit into her palms. "God—but I *can't*," she choked out, voice fraying at the seams. "If my parents even *think* I'm gay, they'll murder me. Let alone the general *public*." Her laugh was jagged glass, cutting up from her throat. "God—"
Lenna's grip on the hoodie shifted suddenly—one hand releasing the fabric to cup the back of Maarja's neck with terrifying certainty. Her thumb pressed into the fluttery pulse point beneath Maarja's ear. "Fuck your parents," she said, voice dropping to a register Maarja had only heard during their heaviest basslines. "Fuck the public. Fuck *normal*." Her nose bumped against Maarja's, the strawberry scent overwhelming now. "You think I give a single *shit* about any of that?"
Maarja's lungs burned. The Polaroid edges were definitely drawing blood now. "You *should*," she whispered. "We're—we're *famous*. Or we will be. And famous girls don't—"
Lenna’s laugh was sudden—a sharp, wild thing that ricocheted off Katrin’s ceiling like a stray bullet. “Famous girls don’t *what*?” She yanked the Polaroid from Maarja’s grip and held it up between them, the crumpled edges stained with tiny crescents of blood. “Famous girls don’t grin like *this* when another girl climbs them like a jungle gym?” Her thumb smeared one of the blood spots, smudging it across the blurry image of Lenna perched on Maarja’s shoulders, both of them haloed by stage lights. “Famous girls don’t steal each other’s hoodies to sniff them like fucking *perfume samples*?”
Maarja’s face burned hotter than Piret’s Volvo engine. “I wasn’t—”
Lenna didn’t let her finish. With a noise halfway between a growl and a sigh, she crushed the Polaroid against Maarja’s chest and leaned in—close enough that Maarja could count the flecks of gold in her stupid, beautiful eyes. "Famous girls," Lenna whispered, her breath warm against Maarja’s lips, "don’t panic this hard over *hypothetical* kisses." Her nose bumped Maarja’s again, an uncoordined nudge that sent static crackling down Maarja’s spine. "Unless they *want* to."
Maarja’s knees buckled. She caught herself on Lenna’s shoulders, fingers digging into the worn fabric of her band tee. "This is a *terrible* idea," she breathed, but her traitorous hands were already fisting the material tighter, pulling Lenna closer until their foreheads knocked together with a dull *thunk*. "We’ll get *hate-crimed*."
Lenna’s grin was all teeth—sharp, reckless, the kind that preceded speeding tickets and questionable life choices. “Hate-crimed?” She snorted, flicking the Polaroid against Maarja’s collarbone. “Sweetheart, we’re *Estonian*. Half our fanbase thinks we’re lesbians already. 5 outta ten fans.” Her thumb swiped across the blood smudges on the photo, painting a haphazard heart over their blurry festival selves. “Might as well *bill* for the show.”
Maarja’s pulse thundered in her ears, loud enough to drown out Katrin’s scandalized gasp from the floor. “You—you *planned* this,” she accused weakly, her fingers spasming around Lenna’s shirt. “The hoodie. The Polaroid. The fucking—*uterus punch*—”
Katrin's platform boots tapped an impatient rhythm against the hardwood as she leaned forward, her fingers plucking coffee beans from a chipped mug with the precision of a concert pianist. Beside her, Piret had managed to prop herself up on one elbow, her free hand clutching the remains of her sacrificial fritter like a bouquet.
"Five euros says they don't kiss," Katrin muttered around a mouthful of beans, crunching down with unnecessary force.
The Polaroid fluttered to the floor between them, landing face-up—a blurry testament to last summer’s festival, to Lenna’s knees digging into Maarja’s shoulders, to the way Maarja’s hands had gripped Lenna’s calves like lifelines.
Lenna’s fingers twitched against the back of Maarja’s neck, her bitten-short nails leaving crescent moons in their wake. “Planned?” She huffed a laugh that smelled like stolen gum and impending disaster. “Hoodie theft is *baseline* lesbian behavior. Polaroids are *optional*.” Her thumb pressed harder against Maarja’s pulse point. “The uterus punch was a happy accident.”
Piret’s whisper cut through the silence like a drumstick through wet paper. "*Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.*" It started soft, barely audible over Katrin’s furious bean-crunching, but quickly gained momentum—each repetition louder, more rhythmic, until it synced perfectly with the erratic thump of Maarja’s pulse. Piret’s frosting-smeared fingers drummed against the hardwood floor in time, sticky and relentless.
Katrin’s platform boot stomped down hard enough to make the coffee beans jump. "*Shut up,*" she hissed, but the damage was done—Lenna’s smirk had already reignited, slow and dangerous, like a lit fuse inching toward dynamite.
The Polaroid lay between them like a dare—blurry proof of Lenna’s knees digging into Maarja’s shoulders, of Lenna’s grin brighter than the stage lights, of Maarja’s hands gripping Lenna’s calves like she was afraid she’d float away. Maarja stared at it like it might burst into flames.
Lenna’s fingers tightened in Maarja’s hoodie, pulling her closer until their noses bumped again—awkward, uncoordinated, sending sparks down Maarja’s spine. “You *think* too much,” Lenna murmured, her breath warm against Maarja’s lips. “Science says—”
The drumming in Maarja’s ears wasn’t just Piret’s chanting anymore—it was her own pulse, a frantic bassline threatening to crack her ribs. Lenna’s smirk was inches away, her breath warm and sticky-sweet from stolen gum, her fingers still tangled in the hoodie Maarja had stolen first. The Polaroid lay forgotten at their feet, their blurry festival selves watching from the hardwood floor.
Then.
Maarja kissed Lenna first.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t cinematic. It was all teeth and panic—Lenna’s surprised grunt muffled against Maarja’s mouth, their noses mashing together at the wrong angle, Piret’s fritter-flavored chanting dissolving into a scandalized squeak. Maarja’s hands spasmed against Lenna’s shoulders, her fingers clutching the fabric like she was trying to strangle the truth out of it.
The kiss tasted like stolen gum and impending doom—saccharine sharpness undercut by the metallic tang of Maarja's nervous bite. Lenna made a noise against her mouth, half-laugh, half-choke, and then her hands were everywhere—in Maarja's hair, at her waist, twisting the stolen hoodie between them until the fabric strained at the seams.
Lenna’s laughter spilled into Maarja’s mouth, warm and fizzy like soda pop. She nipped at Maarja’s lower lip—not gently—and murmured, “Methodology’s shit, but I’ll allow it.” Her fingers tangled in the bleached ends of Maarja’s choppy fringe, tugging just hard enough to sting.