3. “Disasterology” by Pierce the Veil

THREE

“DISASTEROLOGY” BY PIERCE THE VEIL

HARLOW

I let the water from the shower run over my body without even realizing it’s essentially scalding my skin. My mind hasn’t stopped reeling since that dumb lifeguard decided to touch me, let alone speak to me. Then to not tell me his name?

I decide I’ve let this man occupy my thoughts for long enough. Turning off the shower, I dry off then find my locker and grab my black overnight bag that doubles as my practice bag.

I wring out my hair, twisting it up into a bun before throwing on my jean shorts, Doc Marten boots, and an oversized Everson University sweatshirt and tossing everything else into my duffle. As I sling my bags over my good shoulder, my flippers poke me in the neck making me flinch and sending a shooting pain throughout my bad shoulder. Like a reflex, I drop all my bags.

Whispers come from behind me, so I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cool locker. I know what’s happening and this is the last thing I want to deal with right now.

Spinning around, I smile at the few girls who are now murmuring amongst themselves and do a friendly wave. “I’m fine, thanks.” I bend down and grab my bags again then quickly make my way out of the locker room.

Before the door shuts, I hear faintly from behind me, “Can you imagine? Going from, like, the top swimmer to not even being able to carry your own bags? All because you got too drunk at a party?”

I push myself off the wall I didn’t know I was clinging to and make my way out to my car. Tears sting the edges of my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. I open the door of my gray Bronco, tossing my bags in before climbing into the driver’s seat. Leaning against the headrest and closing my eyes, I reach out towards my passenger seat for the soft fabric of my childhood blanket that I drive with. If anyone asked, I’d tell them it’s an old towel. But the truth is, after I got hurt, I started bringing it with me as a piece of comfort.

As much as I wanted to act like coming to the rec and swimming again was easy for me, in the beginning it wasn’t. It made me uncomfortable to feel like some spectacle that people stopped and stared at. After the first week of rehab practices, I decided to do a deep dive online about getting through injuries as an athlete and read an article about the emotional damage it can cause as well. Not being able to do what you love is harmful enough, then factor in my circumstances and, yeah, let’s just say I could definitely feel the damage. I’m not one to really pay attention to my feelings, but the stuff I read made sense.

The article mentioned having something tangible that brought me peace could be helpful. I’m sure they were referring to like a stress ball or whatever, not a childhood blankie, but oh well. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter because right now it’s not soothing me.

Opening my eyes, I let out a large exhale before glaring down at my arms then sit up and grip the steering wheel with my good hand, letting out a strangled scream. I rest my forehead against where my horn is and hit it out of frustration, a few honks sounding off in rhythmic response. Chuckling, to myself, I pop back up to look around and see a few heads turning my direction. Fuck this.

I clip my seatbelt into place before peeling out of the parking lot. I roll down my window and press play on the only song I know will help me express these feelings. “Disasterology” by Pierce the Veil blares through the speakers and I allow myself to sink into the lyrics during the short drive home and forget about all the bullshit from the last hour.

As I pull into the Overlook Apartments, I look around and take in the mountain scenery. Everson University is known for a lot of things but being nestled in the North Carolina mountains is definitely at the top of the list. I’m not complaining, it certainly is pleasing to the eye.

I shut off my Bronco and grab my bags before making my way to my unit. As I slide my key into the lock, I hear movement beyond the door letting me know my best friend is home too. I push into the apartment and am greeted with a very loud, “LOW-LOW!”

I don’t know how many times I can argue against that nickname but if it makes my best friend happy, then I will continue to let it roll off my shoulders, among many other things.

“Lennyyy…” I whimper out in a failed attempt to match her enthusiasm as I kick the door shut behind me and walk into the kitchen to meet her.

“Uh, that’s it?” She stands there with her hands up in the air—a spatula in one, a glass of wine in the other.

“Yes, Lennon. That’s it.” I turn out of the kitchen and start towards my room, dropping my bags on the floor in the process.

“Whoa, no way José. What’s wrong?”

Apparently I didn’t get out all my frustration in the car ride home because I spin around and force out between clenched teeth, “They were talking about me again in the locker room.”

Lennon drops her hands, setting down her wine glass and the spatula before rushing over, wrapping her arms around me without hesitation. “Those bitches. Who was it? Do you know?”

I groan at the pressure she puts on my shoulder. She steps back and leans to kiss me on the forehead. “I’m sorry. It’s just a few more weeks at the rec center then you will be back with me and the rest of the team.”

I shrug my shoulders as best as I can then turn back around and walk into my room. Lennon is right. The only thing standing between me and the much needed end of all this gossip is just a few more weeks. Well, that’s if I pass my PT evaluations.

Lennon must be back at it in the kitchen because I hear a crackling sound and a small shriek. I close my eyes and laugh to myself. Lennon is a lot of things; my best friend, my roommate, my teammate, my confidant, but she’s NOT a good cook. She tries though, I’ll give her that, but most of the time it ends like it will tonight—me taking over and her hopping up onto our counter, sitting criss-cross applesauce, drinking her glass of wine while watching.

What’s really funny about Lennon not being able to cook is that she’s Italian. She grew up in a house where home cooking was introduced to her when she was basically a toddler. She does know how to boil noodles and add jarred pasta sauce to a dish, but that’s about the extent of her cooking knowledge.

Me? My dad taught me to cook when I was in high school and had to start following meal plans during race season. At first it felt like a chore, but it quickly became something I looked forward to when I realized all the different variations of meals I could make. Even though I’m less than an hour away from home, I still miss him, and being able to cook some of the meals we made together gives me the feeling that I’m back with him in the kitchen.

Lennon has been benefiting from my cooking skills since high school, when we first met. We didn’t attend the same school because she lived just outside of Everson Valley, but I was fortunate enough to have met her on our year round swim team when we were fourteen. We’ve been inseparable since.

I start to walk into my bathroom and pull out the messy bun on top of my head, when my phone goes off. I roll my eyes. This is the last person I have patience for, but if I ignore them, it’ll only make things worse.

Beckett

You still coming to our party tomorrow night?

I need a date

I place my phone down on the counter and get back to work on my tangled hair. I know I shouldn’t even be going over to the Chi Kappa house with all the gossip of my injury but I also know that Beckett won’t take no for an answer. Not another second passes and I’m texting back as if operating on auto-pilot.

Yeah, sure.

I toss my phone behind me onto the cream comforter that encases my bed and take in my reflection in the mirror.

I look at myself, my shoulder, and tears start to prick the surface again. As if Lennon can sense what’s going on, she pops her head into my room. “Hey Low––oh, hey, shhh.” She rushes over and pushes my knotty hair out of my face before running her thumb over my cheek where a single tear has betrayed me. “What’s going on?” Her voice is so tender it makes me want to cry harder.

I reach up, putting my hand over hers and move it off, giving it a small squeeze. “Nothing,” I offer, but she doesn’t seem convinced so I add on, “Today’s practice was just hard and hearing those girls talk about me getting hurt just made the sting worse. And then he had to touch me and apol?—”

“I’m sorry, back up. He? ” She looks at me with wide brown eyes.

Shit.

I stumble over my words trying to cover my slip up but Lennon stands in front of me now with crossed arms, tapping her foot.

“Try again,” she responds with a bite to her tone.

I look around the room searching for anything to focus on other than my best friend who is growing more impatient at my lack of response. Side stepping her, I make it to the edge of my bed and plop down.

“Do you know that blonde lifeguard at the rec center?” I groan.

This gets her attention and before I can blink, she’s next to me on the bed. “Oh my gosh.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I retort before laying back on my comforter and staring at the ceiling.

Long brown hair is now dangling in my face as she hovers over me with the most demanding look. I swat at her hair before sitting back up and facing the wall.

“He’s always staring at me and today I decided I was done with it. He was basically watching me the entire time I was there so when I finished my practice, I walked over to his stand to confront him.”

This has Lennon jumping off my bed and turning on me faster than a cheetah going after its prey. “You did, WHAT?!” The last word echoes in my room as her voice raises to a shrill pitch.

“I confronted him!” I say before lifting my hands up and slapping them down on the tops of my thighs, falling back onto my bed again.

“I heard you! But what did you say?!” The urgency in her tone makes me laugh. I peer up over my nose and she’s standing in front of me now with her hands on her hips in a way that says, Uh hello? I’m waiting!

“I asked him if I could help him with something because he was clearly staring at me and it was creeping me out.” I squint as I finish my sentence, bracing myself for her response, as it likely won’t be gentle.

“Harlow! For heaven’s sake! You can’t just march up to people and accuse them of things like that!” She pushes her hands through her hair before looking at me, the smirk reappearing on her face. “Well, what did he say?”

“He denied looking at me,” I say with a blank expression. “But then he got off his stand and…” My voice trails off as the memory flashes in my mind again.

“And, what? Harlow! Get out with it!” Lennon claps her hands in my direction.

“He said he was sorry!” I roll over on my stomach, burying my face into my comforter in hopes I can hide the blush creeping into my cheeks as I finish my sentence. “He said he was sorry I was injured and then rubbed his thumb over my hurt shoulder.” The confession is muffled by my mattress but doesn’t prevent Lennon from hearing every single word.

I feel a light tap on my butt and roll back over as Lennon sits next to me and looks down at my flushed cheeks. “Low, babe. That’s…”

“Shocking?” I fill in for her, sitting up but not meeting her gaze. “Freakish?”

“Well, it’s those things for sure, but what I was going to say was kind. Thoughtful?” Lennon lays down and we turn on our sides to face each other.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, because when I asked him for his name after I realized I didn’t know it, even though he clearly knew mine, he wouldn’t tell me.” I huff.

“Wait, what do you mean he knows your name but you don’t know his?” Lennon raises her eyebrow.

“That was how he started the conversation after I confronted him on his stand! He hopped down and followed after me, then said, ‘You’re Harlow, right?’ Which actually, now that I think about it, tells you right there he is watching me.”

“Or he knows who you are because everyone on campus knows who you are?” Lennon offers in response.

I scowl back at her. “Okay, fine. Well either way, after he made that oddly kind gesture, I asked for his name and he wouldn’t give it to me.”

Lennon stands up and for a moment I think she’s about to join me in my little rage fest. Instead, she’s the second person to shock me today. “Good,” she says, then walks towards the kitchen before calling out, “Come on Harlow, dinner won’t finish itself and we both know I’m done cooking.”

My mouth falls open, just like it did only an hour or so before, but I stand up and follow her into the kitchen.