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Hazel and PJ sat on the floor of Hazel’s basement. Backs pressed up against a vinyl couch older than both of them combined, a shitty fur rug under them, matted with time and the overall dampness of the basement. Hazel vaguely recalled it maybe being white at one point, but now it was more of a dusty grey, and that wasn’t something she wanted to think about any more than she had to.
Between them was a bottle of fancy red wine with a French name Hazel couldn’t pronounce. She rolled the cork in her hands, shredded from their attempt to open it using a pair of scissors, a TikTok tutorial, and PJ’s unwavering determination.
Hazel watched as PJ clenched her jaw and her arms tensed around the bottle, muscles firm as she exerted all her strength into opening the bottle. Her hands gripped around one handle of the scissors, the blade slipping around with alarming unpredictability. PJ didn’t seem to give a shit about the lingering threat of impaling herself, embracing the danger.
Hot.
After a few minutes, Hazel swiped a corkscrew from the kitchen and tried to ignore PJ’s offended gasp. PJ called her a coward and muttered snide comments under her breath, along with much louder remarks about how ‘she almost had it’ or ‘she was so close’.
Hazel scolded herself for getting the corkscrew. She could’ve saved herself a trip to the kitchen and PJ’s pride.
And she missed out on PJ pulling it open with scrappy brute-force.
Now, they were drinking straight from the bottle, passing it between them like a joint.
Not that Hazel would know what that’s like. Hazel didn’t smoke; she’d taken the middle-school fear-mongering videos and guest speakers to heart. Even though she knew they were bullshitting, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was too much of a pussy. She wasn’t able to push past the irrational sense of overwhelming guilt.
Or fear. Probably both.
The wine felt like enough of a sin already - the underage drinking of it all - but she knew PJ wouldn’t have come over unless she was given an incentive, and Hazel was sure her mom wouldn’t notice, and remembered how excited PJ was to find out Brittany had a fake ID, so maybe it wasn’t too bad.
Honestly, if PJ asked her to hit a joint, she probably would.
Fuck it, if PJ asked, Hazel would find a joint.
Was PJ into that? Girls who did weed? Should she invest in like… a bong or something?
Hazel stared at PJ - at her throat as she swallowed, the way her lips parted slightly, shimmering with a coating of liquid courage.
PJ handed the bottle back to Hazel, their fingers brushing casually and easily. On the rim of the glass was a faint glossy smudge, the print of PJ’s lip balm.
This was technically an indirect kiss. Hazel felt her heart flutter, too giddy and flustered over the situation, given that they had made out, with tongue, a week ago.
And Hazel had not stopped thinking about it.
She thought about PJ’s spit coating the bottle, and felt an embarrassing heat starting too low for her comfort. The thought of PJ’s spit spread the heat from her crotch up to her face, and she was embarrassingly turned on. Way more than anyone should be.
Hazel brought the bottle to her lips, lining her mouth up with the mark of PJ’s lip balm (whether she did that intentionally or not was up for debate), and took a sip.
She thought maybe it was an acquired taste, but still, on her fifth try, it still tasted horrible.
Like overly bitter fermented hairspray. Fucking gross.
Hazel considered just pretending to drink it from that point onwards; PJ would have more alcohol to drink, and she’d enjoy that. But she was afraid PJ would be able to tell. Smell the lie in Hazel’s breath or see it in her eyes. Hazel just had to commit to torturing her tastebuds.
Hazel was bad at reading people and even worse at lying.
So, she swallowed the wine with regret, keeping her expression calm and neutral. Like it was cool. Like she did this all the time. Like she enjoyed it.
Hazel wiped her mouth with her sleeve and tuned in to what PJ was saying. God-forbid she misses too much and gets asked a question.
“-and like, I get she’s in her honeymoon phase or whatever, good for her, she has a hot cheerleader girlfriend now and is probably out getting hot cheerleader pussy every week, I get it. But holy shit, it’s so fucking annoying. They are insufferable.”
Hazel nodded, passing the bottle back to PJ and desperately willing the tears welling up in her eyes to retreat.
“All they do is fucking canoodle. If I have to watch them feed each other one more time, I’ll kill myself. Or I’ll kill them and then myself. Like, I don’t have anything against them being happy, but get a fucking room, oh my God.”
Hazel laughed weakly and watched as PJ ran her lips over her teeth.
PJ slumped against the couch, swirling the bottle in her hands, watching the whirlpool she created in the liquid, “This doesn’t taste that bad. It’s definitely not good, but it’s not horrible. That’s probably because it’s older or something. More expensive? Whatever,” PJ took another sip.
PJ didn’t glance up from the bottle in her hands when she continued, “I kinda get why my dad was so into drinking.”
Hazel blinked, scanned PJ’s face to try to figure out how she was feeling, and then tried to formulate an appropriate response from there. Yet, she failed at the first step. PJ’s expression was somewhere between a smirk and a grimace, like she was forcing both at the same time.
Hazel knew about PJ’s dad leaving, but she didn’t know anything else about the man.
To be fair, the only people who knew about him outside of PJ’s family were probably Josie’s family. And they were basically honorary members of PJ’s family, so that didn’t count. Hazel tried to go through everything she actually knew.
Anything she picked up from when they were kids.
She knew he fucking sucked. She knew he left when PJ was eight (she was inconsolable for months). She knew he was never around…
That’s about it.
“What do you mean?” Hazel asked.
After the words left her mouth, Hazel wanted to hit herself over the head with the corkscrew. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to ask. PJ hated people digging. Hazel learnt that pretty early on when they were kids, too many questions and she would get pissed and shut down.
Today, it seemed luck was on Hazel’s side.
PJ scoffed, shaking her head, “I kinda just thought he was a deadbeat loser… and like, yeah, he is- was. But maybe he just liked alcohol more than having kids. And hey, maybe he was onto something, this shit is something else.” She took another swig.
PJ clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth as if she were trying to chew and swallow her own words so she wouldn’t say them. Before Hazel could even think of what to say, PJ continued.
“Y’know what, I probably just have his alcoholic genes.” She handed the bottle back to Hazel, casually as if she were just riffing. Like that wasn’t one of the most devastating things Hazel had ever fucking heard. Like it didn’t mean anything.
“That’s… really sad,” Hazel said. Her heart twisted like it was a sponge being wrung out, and all the guilt, pity and every negative emotion flooded back into her system.
PJ let out a short laugh, as sharp as glass, “Wow, great analysis. What are you, my therapist?”
Fuck, stupid idiot Hazel.
“Sorry, I-”
“No, don’t even worry about it. It’s kinda funny the more you think about it,” PJ waved a hand dismissively, still refusing to look at Hazel, and laughed.
Hazel didn’t want to, but she did anyway. Short and soft, desperately hoping that was the reaction PJ wanted from her.
“It’s not like he was classy about it; his idea of ‘hiding’ his whiskey was pouring it into this crusty old Gatorade bottle. Which was fucking transparent by the way, and everyone could tell that it wasn’t Gatorade. And like… it had his backwash in it, and you could like, see the particles of food in it. So it was just… like this weird concoction of beer, unchewed food and spit.”
Hazel fought the urge to make a face, to react.
“He wasn’t dramatic either, no breaking bottles or throwing shit. Thankfully. He would just get in his fuck-ass truck and disappear. For days or weeks. Then he’d show up out of nowhere smelling like motor oil and piss and crash on the couch. He’d pass out so deep I thought he was dead sometimes.”
Hazel winced and stared down the neck of the bottle, suddenly aware of how warm it was from PJ’s grip.
PJ finally looked at her, “What, you grossed out now? If it makes you feel any better, he never drank any of this fancy red wine shit. He was too cheap.”
Hazel hesitated, trying to string something together. Something coherent and meaningful. To let PJ know she was listening. The air felt thick, unbearably so.
“It couldn’t have been easy growing up with…” She let her words trail off; she regretted speaking as soon as she started; these were not the right words.
PJ shrugged, picking at her nails. Suddenly hyper-focused on the state of her cuticles.
“I think you’re really strong,” Hazel said.
PJ stared into Hazel’s eyes, and Hazel could’ve sworn that for a split second, PJ’s features softened.
Yet she had no proof as PJ quickly wore her favourite grin and rolled her eyes, “Now you’re just being weird. Don’t get fucking deep on me.”
Hazel decided to stay silent. Wait for PJ to continue speaking or for the quiet to consume them both.
“You’re kinda hot when you’re trying to be deep.”
…
What the fuck?!
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Hazel’s brain immediately ceased all operation. Every half-formed thought and any planned segue into a serious conversation were all abandoned. Nothing but screaming filled her thoughts. Loud, indecipherable screaming.
PJ called her hot? PJ thought Hazel was hot?
Hazel looked over at PJ, most likely with her features contorted into a look of horror and desperate, traitorous yearning.
God, PJ was pretty. Annoyingly pretty.
In the darkness of the basement, her eyes still sparkled. Her hair was tousled from running her fingers through it too much, the dainty brown curls framing her face. Her cheeks were just the slightest bit flushed, a dusting of salmon across her features. Her nose was much redder, like she was on the verge of tears. She looked like a painting, half-smeared, delicate and tragic.
Hazel thought about maybe complimenting PJ back, but didn’t trust herself to get the tone right.
Shit, PJ was beautiful.
Hazel’s brain caught on fire. Now was not the time.
Hazel wanted PJ to think she was hot, just not in these circumstances.
This could not be real. Like, this actually could not be happening.
Huh?!
Hazel completely short-circuited, stuttering over broken sounds, no words coming out of her mouth.
PJ leaned in a little closer, her voice low, “What? You are wildly hot.”
Not fucking helpful, PJ.
Hazel wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind PJ’s ear.
And then, PJ leaned in even closer. Hazel could feel the weight of her stare, the wine on her breath, the heat from her skin.
Holy shit, PJ was going to kiss her.
Hazel wanted PJ to kiss her.
So bad.
She had wanted it so badly, ever since the game.
But this? This was wrong. Everything about this was fucking wrong. They were both intoxicated, PJ was drunk, sad, and just opened up about her dad and-
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck this.
Hazel chose the correct option. The only option. She gently placed both her hands on PJ’s shoulders, set down the almost empty bottle of wine, and pushed her back.
“Wait, don’t,” Hazel said, shaky and breathless, “do you feel like now isn’t the best time to like, y’know. Because like, I don’t think you want this, I think it’s like some sort of coping thing and-”
PJ groaned dramatically and rolled her eyes, as if Hazel had pulled out a bible and started preaching the gospel to her.
She pressed a finger to Hazel’s lips, shushing her, “Okay, just… shut up for a second.”
Hazel sat there frozen. Her heart thumped against her ribcage so heavily she was afraid it might shatter her bones.
“I’m not gonna make out with you if you don’t want me to, like that part’s fine. Obviously.” PJ pulled her hand away from Hazel’s lips, “But don’t psychoanalyse me or whatever. I don’t want to process shit or talk about my feelings. I just want to get drunk- or wine drunk, and be stupid. So please don’t ruin this with like… talking.”
Hazel nodded fast, as if going fast enough could undo what she said, “Yeah, totally. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said- y’know. Sorry.”
She wasn’t going to ruin anything. She could keep her mouth shut.
Hazel bit the inside of her cheek hard, the way she did when she wanted to say something but knew she probably shouldn’t.
She wasn’t sure what was worse, PJ not wanting to kiss her for the right reasons, or the fact that she kind of wished she had kissed PJ anyway.
Hazel wished PJ actually wanted her.
5:34 pm
PJ: hey, r u free?
Hazel: Yeah, what’s up?
PJ: can i come over?
PJ: im so boredddd and josies being a little shit with Isabel
Hazel: I don’t really want to be in my house right now, so not the best idea.
PJ: thats fine come to my place then
PJ: jyst climb through the window tho
PJ: if u use the front door ill kill you
Hazel: Sure.
5:36 pm
Hazel: Sorry, I don’t know your address.
5:40 pm
PJ: LMFAOO dumbass
PJ: 43 mavis street
PJ: ull know which one my window is when you see it
Hazel: Thanks, I’ll be over in 12 minutes according to Google Maps.
And that is how Hazel found herself standing outside a two-story building, peering around the corner like she was about to rob a bank.
She knew PJ’s mom was a hair stylist - PJ bitched about being forced to help out there enough for Hazel to remember - so arriving at ‘Cut Above’ wasn’t all that surprising.
What was surprising was that PJ lived right above the hair salon. Hazel had never been over to PJ’s place before. As kids, they’d always end up at Josie’s or Hazel’s house, or the park, or literally anywhere else. Never PJ’s.
And to be honest, Hazel hadn’t really been to this part of RockBridge Falls; she’d driven past before, but never actually walked through this block.
It was a nice area. Filled mainly with stores, apartment complexes and small townhouses. It was almost cinematic, tall trees swaying in the night breeze, an atmospheric buzz from the neon signs above convenience stores.
The salon also had a large neon sign sitting just above the awning, casting a pink glow on the pavement below. Hanging on the front door was a little red sign reading ‘OPEN’, and everyone inside the building didn’t seem to notice her, or was too preoccupied with activities to acknowledge her presence. She liked it better that way, not being perceived.
She scanned the windows along the side of the building, all of which led up to the second story. She spotted one, window open, allowing Hazel to peek inside - posters littering the walls, a desk lamp set to purple and a life-size cardboard cutout of Rarity from the Equestria Girls movies. A black hoodie was slung over the windowsill like bait. Hazel identified the hoodie as PJ’s, remembering seeing it in some of her Instagram thirst-traps that Hazel definitely didn’t take screen recordings of and had insanely unholy thoughts about as she watched them religiously in her camera roll.
After quickly scanning her surroundings and seeing nothing but the dull light of streetlamps, she moved closer to the building so that she was standing under PJ’s window.
How the fuck do you even climb a building?
Could Hazel get arrested for this? Trespassing? Breaking and entering?
She vaguely remembered sneaking through windows as a classic coming-of-age movie trope, but couldn’t seem to remember how the protagonist did it. Or was it that it was often people sneaking out of homes rather than into one?
There was hardly anything around her, just grass that brushed at her ankles, the starry night and a cracked plastic rubbish bin against the wall.
Dragging the bin directly under the window, Hazel climbed onto it, slowly going from crouching to standing as the lid wobbled underneath her. She placed her hands on the side of the building for balance, trying to drown out the many rushing thoughts in her head about getting caught and maybe actually going to juvie, with thoughts about how the fuck she was going to get through the window.
PJ was always doing stupid shit, so maybe if Hazel did stupid shit, PJ would like her more.
This was so fucking stupid, Hazel thought as she wedged her sneaker into a groove in the wall where a brick had eroded and hoisted herself up.
As she reached up for the windowsill, on her tiptoes, praying she could keep her balance, the lid moved underneath her. The slightest shift, but enough to cause her to slip backwards, her palm catching the edge of the brick where something was jabbing out. Something metal? It tore into the skin on her palm, ripping a line into her flesh, blood already welling up and oozing into the folds of her skin.
It hurt like a fucking bitch. Hazel bit back a scream, settling for a wince to not disturb anyone nearby, or - even worse - to avoid PJ hearing her in pain over a minor injury.
PJ would probably laugh, or worse, give her that look of half-pity and half-disgust that she made whenever she felt bad about something and decided to act like an asshole instead. Either way, Hazel didn’t want that. She wanted PJ to think she was brave. Or sexy. Or just not a total loser who overreacts at barely any pain.
Anything but pathetic would be nice.
She had a generally high pain tolerance; it was probably fine.
Trying to ignore the stinging sensation in her hand and the taste of blood in her mouth from biting on her lip too hard, she tried again. Her uninjured hand finally grasped the edge of PJ’s window frame, and using all her core strength, clawed her way in with only one arm.
As she practically fell through PJ’s half-open window, she hit the ground hard, her shoulder aching with the impact from PJ’s hardwood floors.
“Took you long enough,” PJ said, Hazel still reeling from the pain of hitting the floor and the open wound on her hand to figure out what was happening, “Y’know if you told me you were here I could’ve moved something underneath the window to break the fall.”
Hazel stayed on the floor for a beat, taking note of how PJ barely glanced over at her before looking back at her phone.
“Oh my God, y’know what just happened? Fucking Josie and Isabel again, I swear-,” PJ started pacing the room, scrolling through messages on her phone as Hazel got herself to sit up, moving towards PJ’s bed and sitting on the floor nearby, leaning against it.
Hazel pulled her knees up, using them to hide her bloodied hand behind as she studied it.
It did not look fucking good. The skin around the opening was torn, blood obscured her vision of the swelling flesh of her hands and little pieces of gravel and dirt were wedged into the injury. The blood was slowly dripping down her hand and onto her wrist, but she didn’t want to interrupt PJ.
“-and she wants to get Isabel a fucking fireworks show? Like an actual professionally organised pyrotechnic show for her birthday. And I told her how insane that was, and now she’s mad at me because I told her it was a stupid idea that she can’t afford.”
Explosives? Hazel saw the opportunity to make herself useful, “I can probably do it for her. I’d need to practice, but Isabel’s birthday is pretty far away, and that’s enough time, I think.”
PJ groaned, “Hell no, do not tell Josie you can do that. One, you need to stop engaging in illegal activities involving explosives because sooner or later, someone's gonna call the FBI on you or something. Two, if Josie finds out, she and Isabel will be even grosser.”
PJ stopped pacing and threw herself onto her mattress.
“They’ve been planning matching tattoos. Did I tell you that?” She had, at least five times. Hazel didn’t mention that because she liked listening to PJ’s voice, “-like on their ribs. Josie was showing me font options. They’ve only been together for like a month, how is this fucking real!?”
Hazel tried to close her hand into a fist and was met with a shooting pain. She really should deal with it, wash it out. Or maybe bandage it? Or just, not get her blood on PJ’s floor, that was probably bad manners.
Could she get tetanus from this?
PJ kept talking, Hazel didn’t really catch the specifics, lost in her thoughts, but she was listening.
She enjoyed the cadence of PJ’s voice. How carefully she spoke, even when she was passionate, and how she managed to emphasise almost every word, somehow different from the one before it. She had a theatrical way of speaking and a raspy tone that felt like heaven to listen to.
Hazel noticed small things in the room, a huge Neon Genesis Evangelion poster stuck up with blutack next to Polaroids of her and Josie shot at an angle that suggested they were taken by PJ’s little brother. The Rarity cut-out she had seen from outside looked even more absurd up close, clearly adorned with lipstick marks. Hung above PJ’s desk were Christmas lights, a few bulbs flickering, threatening to burn out.
The room was so distinctly PJ.
“-yeah. But like… I am glad Josie’s happy. Even if she can’t be normal about it.” PJ said, coming to the end of her rant.
Hazel sat in the silence for a few seconds, hand throbbing, making sure PJ wasn’t going to continue before speaking up, “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall, first door on the left. Hurry up ‘cause if you piss on my floor, I’m not helping you clean it up”
Hazel forced a quick laugh as she stood up too quickly, practically sprinting through the hallway without letting herself look at her palm.
She locked the bathroom door and flicked the lights on with her good hand. Standing in front of the sink, she held her fucked hand under the tap, hoping the running cold water would numb it, or wash out the dirt that had embedded itself into the wound.
Hazel wasn’t sure if it did any of that. She did know that it hurt like a fucking bitch.
The stinging pain multiplied tenfold underneath the water, but she used her good hand to keep it under the stream, knowing an infected hand would hurt even worse.
She tried to turn her wince into a smile, remembering an educational kids show she watched last summer about how smiling made pain signals easier to manage. She had mentioned it to PJ once who had immediately given her shit for watching children's television, so Hazel had finished the rest of it in secret and an unreasonable amount of shame in her chest. It didn't feel like it was working.
Blood bloomed out of the cut, and the water ran red into the drain. Fresh as ever. The bleeding still hadn’t stopped.
Hazel grabbed a handful of toilet paper and pressed it to her hand in a futile attempt to do something. Yet the blood soaked through in seconds. She pulled the toilet paper off her hand, pieces ripping off and sticking to her skin, a sick papier mache held together by her own blood.
Sighing, Hazel ran her hand under the cool water again, throwing the toilet paper in the bin.
Her eyes flicked up to her reflection in the mirror.
She felt like such a fucking idiot, and looked like one too.
It was as if someone else was wearing her skin and possessed her to do things she would never have wanted to do. She stared at the mascara clumped at the corner of her lashes that felt like it was gluing her eyes shut every time she blinked, the thick coat of lip gloss covering her lips that tasted like cough syrup, and her cheeks still lightly pink from the blush she tapped on before getting out of her car. And on top of it all she was still smiling like a fucking bitch.
Hazel had asked Stella-Rebecca to teach her after school, and she practically beamed at the chance. Stella’s kind soul gave Hazel some of her own makeup even as Hazel repeatedly refused to take it with her. (Stella-Rebecca had shoved it into Hazel’s bag inconspicuously as she hugged Hazel goodbye.) It felt like hell then, and she thought if she pushed through, she’d grow accustomed to how it felt. She had practised multiple times to figure out how to do it right. How to make it look identical to how Stella had shown her.
Hazel’s skin itched. None of this was her; it didn’t belong on her face. It wasn’t right.
She wanted to scrape at her face, claw it off, get rid of the offenders that left her feeling like she was burning from the inside out, and maybe if she was lucky, her facial features in the process.
Her eyes flicked down to her chest.
The neckline of her shirt was uncomfortably low. She thought it would work, but now, she just wanted to curl in on herself and never have to look at her own body again. She tugged at the neckline, trying to force it to sit higher, but since the shirt was made that way, it was stubborn, and she just felt wrong.
PJ didn’t even look.
Not once.
Hazel herself couldn’t stop fucking looking. Her gaze was unwillingly magnetised down every time she saw herself. But there was no effect on PJ.
A few weeks ago, Hazel had walked up to Brittany after self-defence club.
“Remember that shirt you wore last week at the party?”
Brittany looked back up at her while putting a band-aid over a new cut, “Yeah… the one where my tits were basically out?” Hazel nodded, “Why do you ask? What’s up?”
“Just wondering where you got it from.”
Brittany almost responded, out of indifference and her own reflexes, but she caught herself, her face morphing into something else. Her mood shifted
“Is this for PJ?” She said. Her harsh glare bore holes into Hazel’s skin.
Hazel didn’t answer fast enough. Which was answer enough.
“Don’t do things for her.”
Hazel forced a brittle laugh, “It’s not like that.”
Brittany didn’t even smile back, “Look, I’m pretty sure everyone knows how you feel about her, and once you start doing shit like that for her. It’s a slippery slope.”
Hazel stared at the floor. Face hot with embarrassment.
“You don’t have to-”
“Can you just tell me where you got it? I’m not asking for a lecture,” Hazel tried to keep her tone as polite as possible.
Brittany frowned. Hesitated. Sighed. But in the end, she told Hazel.
The push-up bra Hazel had borrowed from Stella-Rebecca - knowing Stella, she’d probably deny ever lending it to Hazel and just let her keep it - was almost suffocating. Pinching at her ribs in a way she couldn’t stand.
She did all of this just so maybe PJ would spend a few more seconds looking at her. It was stupid and childish, but she wanted PJ to look at her in the same way she looked at Brittany.
It didn’t even fucking work.
This was so fucked up.
Not wanting to spend any more time dissecting her reflection, Hazel turned and left.
As she walked through the hallway, she thought about washing her hand again; she felt it pulsing at her side and clutched it to her chest. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.
She re-entered PJ’s room, forcing a smile onto her face. (Although it was likely it just appeared as a neutral expression instead).
PJ gave her a weird look; Hazel didn’t know what that meant. Her brow was furrowed, so it was probably negative.
“What the fuck did you do to your hand? Did you try and fillet yourself in the bathroom? Jesus, Hazel…”
PJ walked over to her desk, rummaged through a drawer, and pulled out a beat-up first aid kit.
“Here, dumbass,” she said, tossing it to Hazel, “fix it before you bleed out.”
Hazel tried to catch it with her good hand, but ended up using both out of instinct. Her palm ached where the gash was, and she tried to ignore it, instead focusing on the blood she had just gotten on PJ’s first aid kit.
Hazel felt the sudden urge to say something. She felt like she needed to, like her subconscious was screaming at her to speak, but it seemed like her consciousness wasn’t informed, and she was left without any substance to say. She pushed the urge down. Further and further into herself, hoping that over time it would just stay there. Never occur again. Hoped she could keep it down forever.
A strange sense of disappointment washed over her like a tsunami.
She didn’t know what she expected. A compliment on any of the million things Hazel did to herself? That didn’t sound like PJ, though. PJ didn’t give compliments to girls like her.
At least PJ noticed her hand.
At least PJ noticed something.