#why does Roy say ‘we have city on Saturday’ when the match is in fact the day after next

[jamiesfootball]

I have loved all the comments I’ve gotten on my post season three fic (like you don’t even know how much I have reread all of those bad boys they give me oxygen), but by far one of the most gratifying ones I’ve gotten has been:

“you made that last episode seem so much more reasonable”

THAT WAS THE GOAL

[literaryspinster]

Forever Yours, Iris West, Chapter 4: The Sad Girl

Chapter 4: The Sad Girl

When Saturday rolls around, I spend a short time wondering if I should go out. I go so far as to make a half-cocked attempt at planning a trip to the movies, but Scott has a family thing, so he’s out, and Cynthia has a date so she’s out too. I know I shouldn’t be relieved, but I am, least of all because Fefe and her pet dweeb have been popping up everywhere all week and I refuse to accidentally run into them again on my own time. Luckily, Barry knows not to talk to me anymore, and he sensibly cuts Felicity off every time she starts to steer into asshole territory, but just seeing them at all is enough to make my entire body clench.

That’s why I plan on spending the weekend with my brother, the one guy I really trust anymore. Coming to America, Our favorite movie, just hit Netflix again and we’re watching it with the biggest horde of popcorn and candy known to man. We already have the movie on DVD and Blu Ray, but it's reappearance on the streaming service still feels like cause for mini celebration.

“Boob alert!” I say, hitting pause frantically as Prince Akeem’s bath scene pops up. I’ve seen this one a million times and I always manage to forget about the nudity.

“I’ve seen boobs on TV before sis,” Wally says, rolling his eyes instead of shutting them.

“I’m not thinking of you, I’m thinking of me and how highly awkward it is to look at boobs with my kid brother, if you won’t shut your eyes then this seems like the perfect time for a soda refill.”

I hit play again and get up just before the naked women pop up out of the water. I go into the kitchen, Dad and Cecile are cooking dinner and it smells like roasting poultry in here.

“Are you sure that’s an appropriate movie for Wally?” Cecile says, taking a break from cutting up a tomato for the salad.

“Nope,” I reply casually. “But he was ruined ages ago, blame Roy Harper and his bootleg copy of ‘I Spit On Your Grave’ in fourth grade.

Cecile laughs and starts again at chopping the tomato.

“What about you?” dad says as he peeks into the oven. “I’m sure there are more teenager friendly things you can be doing right now.”

“Here we go,” I groan deeply as I open the refrigerator and grab a half full two liter out.

“I’m just saying, there’s a big world out there honey, no use in making it smaller your senior year.”

“I still miss the days when you were overprotective and crazy.”

I pour the soda quickly and put the two liter bottle back in before dad can say another word. When I join Wally in the living room again, the onscreen boobs have long passed.

“Dad has a point, you know,” Wally says.

“What do you have super hearing?” I say.

“Nope,” he says, shrugging. “Just nosy.”

“I’m not gonna argue with you there kiddo.”

He gets quiet, but there a weight to the silence, like he's contemplating what to say next.

“I’m just saying, and no offense, but I’m 13 and I cancelled plans to hang out with you tonight.”

He should have kept it at contemplating. I hate that he's a kid and I can only ever be so mad at him for being a jerk.

“Wow, that is way harsh Wally.”

He looks up at me to interpret my silence, and his stupid face does seem sorry, so I toss a handful of popcorn at him to let him know we’re cool. But maybe what he said, and what Dad said, did get to me a little. Was I really so abnormal?

After the movie, Wally goes up to his room to do some online video game thing with his friends and I step outside to feel the cool night air on my face. If it weren’t in the wee hours of the morning over in England, I’d call up Linda to see how she is and tell her that I miss her. I knew that I would the moment she left, but I didn’t expect it to hit quite so hard. She at least would have come over for a night of Eddie Murphy and popcorn if she knew I’d rather stay in, and she wouldn’t have given me crap about it either. In fact, I think Linda might be the only person who understands why I started to pull into myself and avoid all but a handful of people. Linda was easier to trust with that sort of thing even more than my family was, because as much as I knew Linda worried about me, I also knew that she’d never try to change me.

I look up at the stars, thinking they look impressively bright tonight, like the city must be darker than usual out there. Maybe I’m not the only one sitting at home after all, maybe everyone is needing a break right now. I like watching stars, most of the time they never move, but they still seem like they're putting on a show. A romance maybe. I know I can be cynical, and antisocial, but unbeknownst to most people, I'm into that sort of thing. Why else would I have written those letters? It was a writing exercise, and a way to be in my feelings away from watchful eyes. But I also wrote them because I legitimately enjoy the idea of being in love, even if it is just an idea. Mom and Dad were in love, so I know that it can be real, but she still died, it still ended, and he still moved on. I love Cecile, but her being here will always remind me that loving only one person forever is only a thing in stories. And maybe that's what the letters truly are, just stories.

Right before I decide to stand up and head back into the house, I hear that sound, that annoying, bizarrely familiar sound. How do I always know when it’s him running toward me? Do his feet fall in such a specific way that it can’t be mistaken for anyone else?

I try to get inside the door faster but not nearly fast enough, because he calls out to me before I can properly twist the knob.

“Hey Iris,” he says, but his voice doesn’t sound like it usually does when he says my name, it doesn’t sound inappropriately cheerful in that way that makes me want to violently flick his ear until he snaps out of it. He sounds sad, almost choked up really, and my annoyance fades into concern.

“Are you okay?” I say, letting go of the knob and turning to face him.

“I’m fine,” he says, catching his breath. “Everyone gets dumped sooner or later right?”

Before I can say another word, he’s run off again.

By Monday, I’ve mostly forgotten about my weird encounter with Barry Allen. High school relationships end all the time, and even if I do feel weirdly sorry for Barry, and even Felicity, it’s not enough to stick with me through the weekend.

It isn’t until I make my way down the hallways that I’m taken back to the other night. Unsurprisingly, Felicity is right there by the lockers for the world to see, surrounded by well-wishers. I don’t know why they broke up or who’s fault it was, only that Felicity dumped Barry and not the other way around. And yet, she’s the one being consoled.

“I just thought we were different you know, special,” Felicity cries, dabbing her cheeks with a Kleenex.

“The only thing special about Felicity and Barry is Felicity,” Her friend, Caitlin I think, says. Of course I know that’s bull. I have a couple of classes with Caitlin and she’s always singing Barry’s praises. I promise that I never try to absorb any of this stuff, being a journalist just means being naturally observant, and that proclivity gives as well as it takes. I pass to my locker before I take in another sad word.

I manage to get through trig, AP Lit, and AP US History without another whisper of secondhand drama, and by lunch I’m feeling relatively positive about the day. Scott and I are supposed to sit together so we can discuss the Teacher’s Union story we’ll be assigning to two hopeful underclassmen. To be perfectly honest I’d love to tackle that one myself. It’s the kind of piece that if executed properly will bore the student body to tears but get college admissions guys in death match mode over whoever wields the byline. Unfortunately, part of being Co-editor in chief is to delegate and lead, which sometimes means sacrificing the big, important scoops.

I flip through the notes I’ve already jotted down on this piece, because there’s only so much I can help myself. I keep going even when Scott takes the bench across from me, and I launch into the idea storm that’s been brewing since early Sunday.

“So I jotted down a few notes, thoughts you know? It’s mostly Just stuff that I’ve sort of heard through the grapevine and general speculation. I also took the courtesy of taking down all the important phone numbers, email addresses and URLs I think our staff picks are going to need. By the way, I think Kara Danvers would be perfect for this, she’s bright, she’s curious she’s everything this story needs, and I—

I stop mid ramble when I realize I can feel the silence on the other side of the table. Usually Scott would have interrupted me two sentences ago. I finally look up at him. He looks weird, almost edgy, his hands clutching his backpack straps for dear life, his eyes wide and frantic.

“Scott, what’s up? You look like you just found out Don Lemon died.”

“Um Iris, I really think we need to talk.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, letting my notebook fall closed. “About what?”

He’s silent as he removes one strap of his backpack and swings it around to his side, unzips it and reaches in.

And when he takes it out, it’s almost as if my blood freezes a split second before even seeing it. It’s Scott’s letter, in a pulpy brown envelope with a big Malcolm X stamp in the corner, his address in thick, sturdy black ink, just the way I wrote it. It’s neatly unsealed across the top, like he used a letter opener because of course he would. He definitely opened it, which means he definitely read it.

And I think I have to go die now.

Next Chapter: Leo Snart, The Boy From Homecoming