Page 6 of Our Secret Moments

He retrieves the cup happily, pulling it to his lips as I watch him. “Good?” I ask, needing some sort of reaction from him. The slight tremor in his body isn’t a good sign.

“The best,” he says, sighing as he sets down the now empty glass.

“He spat it out when you turned around,” Archer murmurs. I watch the betrayal flash across Wes’s face and it’s the exact same expression I have on my face. My best friend of almost twenty years…

“I swear to God, Archer, you want to be a Moody Margaret all day until I doonething and then you snake me out,” Wes says, turning to him, one hand tightened around his towel, the other in the air, his mom’s German mannerisms shining through as he waves his hand at him.

“Maybe try being less obvious about it next time,” Archer suggests, still not looking up from his newspaper.

“There’s not going to be a next time,” I say, peeling the more agreeable cookies off the tray and into a Tupperware container lined with kitchen roll. My mom will eat them regardless of the state and I’m sure I could convince my dad too. “Because I’m not going to offer any of my goods to either of you ever again.”

Archer scoffs. “Fine by me. I like my bowels exactly how they are.”

“Since we’re being honest,” Wes starts with a shrug. I give him a look, knowing something stupid is about to come out of his mouth but he carries on anyway. “That apple pie you made me for my birthday wasn’t the best thing I ever had. When I went home, even Jarvis didn’t want a bite of it. And that cat eats anything.”

I shut the lid of the Tupperware box with extra force, throwing it into a plastic bag. I don’t even want to look at them anymore. “Do you ever know when to shut up, Wesley?”

“That isnotmy government name and you know it!” he whines, looking just as childish as he sounds.

He pouts, throwing his arms up as he storms in the other direction. Neither of us realise that was the arm holding up his towel until it drops to the floor, flashing us his football butt.

THREE

CAT

“THESE ARE TEARS OF RELIEF! I PROMISE.”

I usedto think there was nothing worse than a hangover.

But there is.

It’s that feeling you get where you’re not actually hungover because you haven’t drank much, but your head is throbbing, your back is aching, your stomach feels like it’s been squeezed out by a giant and the makeup you forgot to wash off last night doesnotlook cute. Some people can pull off the raccoon look, but black mascara against my dark skin is not as flattering as some would hope.

After spending the entire night staring at my ceiling fan spin rapidly, secretly wishing it would just fall right on me, I rolled out of bed and told myself it was fine. ThatIwas fine. I used to think I was an optimist, but maybe I’m just delusional.

I never usually stress over grades.

Okay, so maybe one time I threw up before my third grade spelling bee when it wasn’t worth anything, but that’s totally unrelated.

Some people say that I’m a perfectionist, or that I care too much about the little things that won’t matter in the long run, but I’ve always been that person. Because if no one is worryingabout these ‘little things,’ someone has to, right? And that someone just happens to be me.

Naturally, everyone in this dorm is a worrier. Growing up with Elle and Nora has shown me just how much we over analyse situations and see the worst possible outcome before settling on something rational. Usually, Elle is the most chilled out of the two of us and leaves most things up to the universe, or just lets them be.

I physically can’t do that.

I worry about the stupid things that could go wrong like an elevator breaking down or an attack happening in my apartment. Or like grades, even though I know I studied my ass off for my final piece on genetic mutation.

The thing about journalism is that when you have a story to tell, you have to tell it in a certain way for people to truly understand you and to feel connected with your story whilst trying to be funny and also sounding like your most authentic self.

I’ve battled with this for years and it’s something I’m still trying to get the hang of. My writing style is something unique to me and I always get that pang in my chest, a voice in my head telling me that I’m not good enough when my teachers mark me down for my style of writing.

Nora Bailey, my best friend, theatre major and my literal lifeline is also a worrier, but she’s a much more chaotic one. Nora is a natural born leader and a phenomenal actress, singer,anddancer. She’s always been a good performer and she sometimes takes method acting to the next level.

When we were kids, she once convinced a mean girl in our class, Emily, that she was Miley Cyrus over the phone offering her backstage access to her tour date in Colorado. The mean girl fell for it, but when she hadn’t heard back from ‘Miley’ in weeks she was heartbroken.

Nora put on the best performance when we went back to school, acting as if she didn’t crush that little girl's dreams. I thought it was hilarious after the way she treated the three of us at school. Elle, however, a true Cancer through and through, couldn’t take it and started crying when Emily started crying in class. After that, Nora promised never to use her magic of acting for harm again.

Still, even after being accepted into the best performing arts course in the state, she’s pacing in the kitchen, script in hand, a highlighter in her mouth as she recites lines back to herself.

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