All My Blog's A Stage

Ding!  

Cee: Hey girlfriend! Guess what?! I saw Josh at practice today! 

Ding!  

Ash: duuuude i found a copy of an old doc frm 2nd grade XD 

Ding! 

Matt: You wanna play death batl in Mystic Vanquish? i just got a new wepons pac and wanna test it owt 

I scrunch my eyes closed from Lord of The Rings – just before I can start Chapter 9. Three dings mean three texts from three very different people. I’m out sick with the flu, and really don’t feel like changing my identity three times. I try to tell myself it can be something good. Maybe it’s Zoey Jin sending three texts about our school project. Maybe it’s three texts from Aisha Davis about her new book, “Esmerelda and the Lost Crown”. I know it’s not, though. Zoey always writes in one big block like she’s a college professor, and Aisha is the slowest texter I know. I glance at my phone and read the messages over. Celia Locke had gossip about Josh – a boy I was good friends with (and Cee was convinced I had a crush on) – from practice. I was sick, so I wasn’t there. Aisha had dug up an old version of a book we had worked on as kids most likely while cleaning her century-old laptop for the thousandth time. Matthew Jin was reaching out after what seemed like ages. He only texted me when his stepmom and dad aren’t arguing. I’ve never understood why he misspells stuff. He has a perfect GPA, so maybe he just turns it off when he gets home, and he knows not everything is going to be nitpicked? In fact, the whole reason I have a 3.9 GPA this year because I turned in an English paper with, God forbid, one misspelled word. I wrote “Henceforth” as “Hencfroth” and got kicked down to an 86. High school sucks, but back to the text messages. I sort through how I would handle thee three of them. I’d call Cee first. She always has someone else to gab to, so we won’t talk long, then I’ll talk to Matt. Our rounds are quick, and he won’t want to stay on. Then I’ll call Aisha. We could talk for twelve hours about nothing. I sit up from my floor – did I mention everything hurts? – and collapse onto my bed and start picking at the loose thread on the pillow I sewed last time my Abuela came to see us. Next, I fiddle with my earbuds. They’re no airpods, but they’re wireless and come in this cute cat case and let me hear things pretty well. I sigh because know I’m just stalling answering their texts. I have Read Receipts on for the sheer purpose of guilting myself into responding to people right away because I know they can see that I’ve read their texts. Finally, I pick up my phone. 

To: Cee 

Me: No way!! Call me ASAP!! I NEED to hear the tea! 

To: Matt 

Me: Sure. I’ll call you in like 10 k? 

To: Ash 

Me: bro gimme 20 mins ill call u 

I clean my glasses on the hem of my shirt. I’m supposed to wear them at all times, but I only do at home or around Matt. He caught me with them on one morning when I answered a call that woke me up, hence the muscle memory of putting on my glasses to see who was calling me. I’m practically blind without them, but after Sophia Armstrong (part of Cee’s little entourage) pushed imaginary glasses up her nose and said “technically” in a nasally voice whenever I opened my mouth, I stopped wearing them in public. Like, excuse me for wanting to see clearly enough to make out the facial features of the person sitting next to me. I rant a lot in my head, but I don’t talk that much. Dad says I have an iceberg personality like him. I think a lot but only say a fraction of it.

Wake me up when November ends~ My phone goes off again. I smooth my hair down – I am not getting teased about my flyways again – and answer the call. 

“Heyyy! It’s meeee!” Sings the familiar voice. Cee grins. Her hair is still wet from the pool. I just pray she’s not calling from the locker room, but from the TikTok music in the background, I think she is. 

“Girl just spill already! I need to know what happened!” I gush. Cee squeals. I’ve always thought her squeals sound like a poodle. 

“I know! Ok, so, I got to swim today an – oh did I tell you I just got this new bathing suit? It’s white, black, and this cute fiery orange to match my hair and our school colors! Isn’t it just fabulous that our school colors compliment my hair? Well anyway I…” She’s on a roll. Cee is…social is a nice way to put it. I hate to stereotype her, but if you were to take all the basic white girls of the world and blend them all together, she would be the product. Cee is tall and curvy with green eyes, auburn hair, and enough freckles to decorate a small litter of leopard cubs. She’s in tune with all the latest fashions, the trendiest apps, and the most creative hairstyles. Anger bubbles up from my bunny slippers to the tips of my hair. I’ve been out for five days, and she hasn’t called me once, but now she’s calling me to flex about her new $70 bath suit? What am I to her? Chopped liver? Refried beans? (Well, no, I actually love refried beans. Especially the kind they make at those Mexican restaurants with the overzealous bands.) I nod and smile mindlessly. I would never say what I’m thinking. Mom always says “Katalinia, you will never get anywhere in life if you don’t stand up for yourself!”. The thing is, I don’t like confrontation. I hate it, actually. I hate knowing something and watching people lie to my face. I find myself taking a Buzzfeed quiz by the time she hangs up. I guess I was that bored. I stare at my wall. It shouldn’t be this hard to just tell someone something. I’ve pictured myself a thousand times really telling Cee off with her entourage and everything. I truly have. But the thought of opening my mouth and actually expressing the ways that they make me feel about an inch tall makes my stomach turn into jell-o (jell-o? jello? who knows how to say it) I shove the thoughts out of my head and call Matt next.

Pew! Pew! Pew! I hear the call pickup before I see him. 

“Hey Catbug.” He doesn’t bother looking at his phone. Matt’s a thin, lean boy with a Levi’s haircut from Attack on Titan, dark eyes, and dark hair. The nickname “Catbug” comes from the day we first met. I envy his high-tech bedroom. His mom always feels bad for him because of how much his stepparents argue and sends him gaming stuff like monitors, headphones, a chair, etc. and now he has the most souped-up computer setup of anyone I know. “BANG BANG BANG” from BIGBANG blares in the background. My parents put in a noise complaint if I cough too loud, so I can’t even imagine having music as loud as he does. “I sent you an invite.” I turn on my desktop where – sure enough – there is an invite waiting for me. 

Scarecrow invites you to a battle royale! Dare to attend? 

Twenty minutes and three round later, we agree to go public, and Matt lands a server for us. I’ve never won against Matt. I always like it when his smile goes up into his eyes when he’s winning, though. His laugh always spirals up and hangs there like he’ll pick it up it at the drop of a hat. While we wait for my ancient computer to boot up a public server, he turns to look at me. 

“So, is your comp fixed? Or do you still need me to come over to clean the processor?” He asks, short black nails shining in the low red light. His little sister, Zoey did them once as punishment for losing a bet and he decided he liked it.

“It’s running well, better than it was before I did what you said, so I don’t think so right now.” I drum my own slightly longer nails on my desk. I just got glittery olive-green acrylics done for my birthday, to everything has to be tapped ASMR-style. “It was just the old printer that used to be hooked up to, so when those files were deleted, it ran factory-new.” Matt’s slightly lopsided grin gets bigger. He feels accomplished when his advice works. He puts his arms behind his head and smiles into the ceiling tiles.  

“You still need a whole new computer set up. The one you have runs like it came out of a Wal-Mart dumpster.” He points out big-brotherly. He’s forgotten that my computer is in fact a 4-year-old $300 HP desktop from Wal-Mart with a $10 mouse and keyboard set. The mood instantly fades when the door opens. 

“Ha-Kun!” Mr. Jin bellows. He says something in Korean that sounds stern and condescending, which is met by a weak reply from Matt. “Evelyn, I cannot believe how free you let that boy be! He needs to study, not play these useless computer games!” His voice fades away as he descends the stairs. Evelyn is Matt and Zoey’s stepmother. She’s pretty nice, but I’ve never been on a call with Matt that didn’t end in a distant screaming match between the two.

“Catbug I gotta go.” The mumble the last thing I hear before the call ends. I stare at my reflection in the dark screen and sigh. Talking to him is like coaxing a turtle out of its shell. An e-boy shell rooted in stereotypes and forced self-sufficiency armored with apathy, but none the less, a shell. Every single time I can almost get somewhere, I make a sudden move and he disappears. They have their Korean names, Ha-Kun is Matt’s and So-Young is Zoey’s, but they both go by English names with the kids here. I decide I’ll make a one more call before calling Aisha. She won’t notice anyways. She sometimes forgets to blink when she’s working on one of her documents. The phone rings once, twice, then three times. Finally, Zoey picks up. 

 “Hi Kat!” She chirps. She’s still holding her violin. “Let me finish this song then we’ll talk, ok?” I could kick myself. I forgot that Zoey always practices her violin after school. Well, after school, after Student Government meetings, and then after cheerleading practice. I recognize “Bad Guy” after a few bars. Mr. Jin would never allow anything but classical music to grace the strings of Zoey’s violin if he knew. Mr. Jin is basically every strict Asian parent on steroids. He pushes them to be smart and do stuff that will look good on their college applications. While I love piano, I can’t see how “I can old down strings in a specified order while rubbing animal hair on said strings ” or “I can propel an object made of hard substances coated in cloth or leather in a special shape a far distance” makes someone want you at their school where you read books and write papers (which has nothing to do with throwing balls or playing instruments) or why it has become associated with someone’s intelligence level or possible assets. I hum along till the last line of the song. 

“So, what’s wrong?” She says while carefully placing her violin back into its case. She treats it like her own baby, which I guess she should. The body had 120 hours of painting a winter forest scene sunken into it. “You look worried.” 

“You know what I’m worried about.” I huff and blow a curl out of my eyes. “You can hear your dad yelling across the tri-state area” She snorts into her sleeve as she takes a seat in her egg chair that hung from the ceiling. It was white knit rope with pink throw pillows inside. 

“Daddy isn’t that bad.” She says. It’s like she’s trying to convince herself rather than me. “He’s just…loud.”

“And what about Matt? He doesn’t even bring anyone over to your house.” I point out.

“He doesn’t have any friends to bring over. Ha-Kun’s a loner.” Zoey shakes her head, her long hair bouncing and bangs falling in just the right places. Perfect much? “He does even talk to me that much, and I’m his sister!” She flops onto her bed and gives me a cocked-head smile. She could be a model, but then again, everyone in their family could. 

“He’s going to get beat up one day.” I say. “You saw how Cole and the other football players were looking at him after he dissed them at school the other day. I swear it’s how Cain looked at Abel.” 

“They crossed the line.” Zoey suddenly looks serious. “They insulted the chain rings.” She burst into laughter. I snicker. We’ve teased Matt about his accessories ever since he started his “gothic-emo” faze. I’ve been friends with Matt and Zoey since we were in the first grade. We didn’t meet on the playground, but rather in the nurse’s office. I was holding an ice pack to my head after jumping off the top of the slide because I thought I would land on my feet like a cat, landing on poor Matt. Zoey had cried and refused to play with the other kids without her big brother, so she had ended up sitting next to him, both staring in horror at the girl with a bruise spanning the length of her face as the secretary called her parents. Matt had called me “as annoying as a bug “ When I didn’t leave him alone for the next few days.

“Kat? Earth to Katalinia?” Zoey taps the phone camera. 

“Huh?” I blink. 

“You left reality for a minute.” She grins. “So, speaking of school, what are we doing for our project?” I groan. 

“I have no idea,” I give a nervous laugh. “How about we build a solar system model, write ‘banana for scale’, then tape it to a toothpick and stick in a model of Earth and label it ‘Our Place in The Universe’?” I lean back in my chair and spread my arms out wide like I’m envisioning a revolutionary name for a company. 

“You know we can’t do that!” Zoey sighs. “I really want to impress Mr. Bohiar with this.” 

“You’re still holding a 4.0 GPA and it’s already December!” I snort. “You’ve impressed every teacher by now. You’re already so far right you’re not even on the bell curve Mrs. Gustafson has.”

“I’m competing with Cole Henson and Zachary Ballenger in her class.” She sounds offended. “They can’t count to ten using all their fingers. If I’m not on the far right I’m an embarrassment to my father. He’s been drilling math concepts into my head since they started adding letters.” 

“I still don’t know how we’re both in Gifted classes. You’re such a rule-follower and I’m only there because I passed Algebra without a tutor.” I scoff. 

“What is it with you and imposter syndrome?” She raises one eyebrow. She can actually do that. She looks almost cartoonish. “You know full well it’s because you’ve been holding the position of salutatorian since second grade, only seconded to the big show-off himself, obviously.” I roll my eyes. 

“Yea, yea.” I wave her off. “As if it wasn’t a battle to the death every year for the second and third spots in our classes, complete with extra credit and after-school tutoring for the lower letter-grade kids. Seriously, though, why don’t we do a project on –“ I look around my room until my eyes land on my water bottle “-water microbes? We can prove how disgusting the water fountains are.” Zoey nods. 

“That would be great! I don’t think anyone’s done that before!” She exclaims. My phone dings, snapping me away. It’s Aisha. 

Ash: y havent u called me yet??? its been 30 mins!!! with a tired face emoji. 

“I gotta go.” I say quickly. “I forgot to call someone.” 

“Oh no! You need to call them!” Zoey’s narrow eyes widen to the size of actual golf balls. She’s all about being polite. We hang up and I text her back. 

To: Ash 

Me: sorry!! i was talking w/ zoey about our biology project 

Ash: figured ud be working on a project with ur honor roll friends or smth 

She’s mad at me. 

I try calling her, to which she seemingly begrudgingly picks up. As per usual, Aisha is sitting on her loft bed with the lights turned off typing away on her brother’s old laptop. It’s grey with stickers like “I LIKE MY TEA LIKE I LIKE MY FICTIONAL CHARTACTERS: UNCOMFORTABLY HOT”, “I CAN’T EVEN THE FEELS ASDEFGHJKL”, “I SHIP IT”, “DON”T TOUCH MY LAPTOP”, and others. The only light in the room is the fairy lights holding photos on her wall and the glow of the computer screen. 

“Hey Ash.” I say.

“Still sick?” She doesn’t look up. She’s wearing the same grey hoodie her brother gave her when he went to college. I swear she hasn’t washed that thing as much as she wears it. 

“Yea.” I mutter. 

“So, you didn’t go to swim lessons-” I glare at her “-or practice or whatever you call it?” I’ve been on her back about calling it “practice” and not “lessons” for months now. I have a problem with practice being called “lessons”. I didn’t put in ten years of swimming, climbing the ranks of the team for it to be called lessons. Lessons were for 5-year-olds whose parents want them out of their hair for an hour. 

“Nah. I didn’t go to school, either.” I say. Aisha nods. She doesn’t go to the St. Lauren’s High School with me, Zoey, and Matt, but she isn’t on the Breakside Swim Team with Celia. Actually, I know her from when I first started acting a few years ago. It was my first year there, and clearly it was Aisha’s first, too. She didn’t talk much, but I went up to her and didn’t leave her alone until she started talking to me. Evidently, it worked. Now we’re almost constantly texting each other and talking about different ideas for books. 

“Anyways, I found an old copy of Annalise and the Summer Thief.” She finally breaks away from her laptop and brushes her dreadlocks out of her eyes. 

“No! I thought we burned that file!” I moan. Aisha likes to go hunting for old works we did as 8-year-olds and force me to read them. 

“Apparently not.” She grins. Her teeth are white as milk against her Hershey-chocolate skin. “I sent it to you.” My computer chimes. I open my email and see the familiar contact Hoodie pop up.  

“Do you still have me set as Nugget in your computer? I ask pointedly. She will never stop making jokes at my short height. I’m only 5’2” in my favorite 2-inch heel boots. She bites her lip, her eyes sparkling mischievously. 

“It’s possible.” She turns back to her laptop.  

The amount of times I feel like I could strangle her in a day. 

I take a sip from my tumbler instead of reaching through the phone The Ring style and squeezing her until her head explodes. It has black glitter and an angry Stich from that Disney Movie Lilo and Stich and says, “Touch Me and I Will Bite You”. Some people have shirts, others have Instagram blogs, and I have my tumblers. I place my cup down just as I hear a glass-shattering screech. 

“Ash! Is Kat on the phone? Mom said to stop hogging her!” Tamilia, Ash’s little sister, howls. 

“She’s my best friend, Lia!” Aisha yells back. “Stop talking about her like’s she’s a stuffed animal! And get out of my room!” I hear the door slam. 

“Should I be concerned for the health of Kiki?” I ask, fully knowing the answer. Kiki was the family cat that was always being picked up and held at some ungodly position by Lia. 

“Be afraid,” sighs Ash with an eye roll, “be very afraid.” 

“At least she didn’t get ahold of Cricket and Pepper again.” I snicker. Once, Ash left her two hamsters (Winter White Dwarf Hamsters, she would want me to be specific) at home while her youth group went on their annual Fall Retreat, only to find her two babies’ cage foul-smelling and the hamsters malnourished. As it turned out, Lia had been overfeeding the hamsters by shoving seeds into their cheeks until the seeds were popping out because she thought it was funny in her ten-year-old brain, leading to them storing the extra food through their cage and letting it rot and diarrhea from overfeeding. I’ve never seen Ash so angry. She does weightlifting, so it’s not an exaggeration when I say she was about to tear their handmade, two-tier, bite-proof, PETA-regulation, metal cage in half and smash Lia’s face in with it. 

“We do not talk about that,” she hisses, the same fire in her eyes as the day it happened when she ranted for a good hour and a half about it while pacing a hole in her floor. “Just…open the document.” We read, use dumb voices for, and talk about the 5-page story about Annalise, a detective trying to catch a break from her busy schedule, leaving the New York port on Mary, a 5-star cruise ship, and running into a wealthy businessman who becomes her client when the ship turns a floating Murder Mystery episode until my mom calls me for dinner. With four kids on top of building a business from the ground up, Ash’s mother hardly has time to breathe, let alone count and regulate all her kids, so they basically eat leftovers or whatever Larisa put in the crockpot that morning at any time of the day. I zone out while eating. I feel a pang of guilt for not being honest with everyone. It’s in everyone’s best interest, I remind myself. I always start out as a generic friend. Once, I find something you like, I go home and research and memorize everything I can about it, and come back and am now your personalized friend, ready for anything you like. I absolutely hate myself for it but thinking that people only like you if you agree with them is part of Asperger’s, I guess. I memorized the whole freaking timeline of Five Nights at Freddy’s for Nick Browner because he liked it, and I taught myself almost every shade of nail polish for Maddison Sanders, a girl who’s friends with Julia Avara and the popular crowd now for some reason.

It’s not that I really care who likes me, but it feels like every person I interact with is like stepping into a new character on stage, like when you have a small cast so the Beast might also be playing the Grocer. Sometimes I don’t even know who I am when I’m talking, as if it’s just words on a script I memorized for a part, but it’s now someone’s view of me. It’s like being that dollar store slime that doesn’t want to mold but does it anyway because it has no other choice.

It’s only when I head up to my room with a cup now refilled with water with strawberry infusion (Dad says I have too fancy tastes) that I remember there’s one last text. One I’ve put off all day because I didn’t want to respond. One that I would be happier to delete the contact of. 

Unread Message 

Jay: Hey Katalinia, I want to ask you something…