Wants And Needs Ch 01

I'm bored out of my gourd.

I sit at the back of the classroom, as far away from Mr Henderson as I possibly can, and even that is not enough to save me from the droning of his voice.

I keep glancing at the clock, willing it to move faster, yet the more I focus on it, the more glacial it feels. My only escape is to doodle aimlessly on the corner of my notebook.

Sigh. It'd be easier for me to escape in that mindless bliss, if I didn't have the most anxious girl ever perpetually looking over my shoulder. I swear, Sylvia's eyes have been flicking between me and her meticulously taken notes, far more often than mine have been going to the clock.

What does she even have to worry about? More importantly, why does she want me to worry as well?

I know my friend, and I know that at some point, apprehension will win the internal struggle, boil over, and force her to say something out loud, rather than let sleeping dogs lie.

"Phoebe," she whispers urgently, "did you finish your part of the project?"

Right, there. There it is. As predicted.

I shrug nonchalantly. "Not really. Got bored of it. It's just a stupid project anyway."

Sylvia's face falls. Disappointment and creeping fear replace anxiety in her eyes. "But... it's due today. We were supposed to present it together, after Mr Henderson's class! I did my part, I stayed up all night..."

I roll my eyes. "Calm down, Sil. It's not the end of the world. It's just a grade." A grade at a dumb, worthless community college, I might add... though I suspect saying that out loud might be a little too cruel even for me.

"But this is important!" Her voice rises slightly, attracting a few glances from our classmates. How Mr Henderson hasn't noticed yet is beyond me.

Figures. The one time I want the old fucker to notice a disruption, so he can make Sylvia shut up, and it's the one time he's not paying attention. That's just my luck.

"This project counts for 25% of our semester grade! Phoebe, we need... I need a good grade, can't you take this seriously for once?"

I turn towards Sylvia, ready to finally snap and tell her to leave me the fuck alone already. Then, I look at her, really look at her, and see the worry lines etched into her forehead, the way her lower lip is trembling.

Fuck me. She really does care about this stupid grade, doesn't she? I feel the sting of guilt. Fuck me twice.

It's hard to look away from that care, as a friend. But why couldn't she care about something that actually matters? Why does everything always have to be boring and sad?

"Sylvia, you worry too much," I say at last, in a softer voice than I originally had in mind. That must be a good compromise, right? "It's fine. I'll talk to Mr. Henderson, charm my way out of it. You know I'm good at that."

She shakes her head, and her eyes are... glistening? Fuck, is she about to cry?

"Don't you get it? It's not just that, Pheebs! You told me you'd do it, I trusted you! Is it too much to ask for you to care? Why can't you just do what you're supposed to do, just once?"

What the hell just happened? Sylvia never talks back to me. That's sort of our thing. She's the goody-two-shoes, and I'm the dashing, rebellious type who actually makes decisions. I'm starting to worry that she might be really upset with me, this time.

But, that would require contemplating the possibility that I've really fucked up. That just wouldn't do. I suppress the thought immediately.

As the class bell rings, I open my mouth to retort, but Sylvia's already gathering her things.

"I can't believe I trusted you to actually do your part. I should've known better," she mutters, more to herself than to me, and then she's storming out of the classroom. I stay in my seat, stunned, in deafening silence.

The guilt that I had pushed away comes flooding back, heavier this time. I sink deeper into my chair, as if I'm trying to disappear... to slink away from what I've done--or rather, what I haven't done. I want to be angry at Syl, to decide that she has no right to be upset, that all I want to do is simply be left to my own devices.

Somehow, that rings hollow even to me, this time.

I should go after her, apologize, fix this.

But it's just a stupid project!

But even if that's true, it's not really just about the grade anymore, is it? It's about our friendship now, about trust.

And I've just broken both.

***

I'm a boiling cauldron of negativity.

I'm resentful at being called out as the lazy slacker I obviously am. I've never pretended to be anything else, so why do people still expect me to do anything but coast through school with the minimum effort possible?

I'm guilty, because Sylvia is my friend, and I've hurt her.

I'm anxious, because I don't want to confront the idea that I may need to change my usual playbook, this time.

I kick at a rock in front of me, sending it skidding over the sidewalk. The street is empty, and the sun is high in the sky. My stomach rumbles -- it's lunchtime after all -- but I'm too sullen to go back home right about now.

I keep replaying Sylvia's words in my mind, like a broken record, barely paying any attention to where I'm going... until I find myself standing in front of a small, quaint shop nestled between two larger buildings.

Huh. How did I end up here, and where is here? Curious, I don't remember seeing this store before, and I'm sure I wouldn't forget if I had. The sign is a soothing tan colour, decorated with ornate letters that read WANTS AND NEEDS.

A bell tinkles overhead, and the store looks dimly-lit and stuffed, at least seen from out here. The smell of old, polished wood fills my nostrils. It all feels very cozy, and very... inviting.

On a whim, I push the door open.

The bell tinkles overhead as I step over the threshold. Inside, the shelves are lined with an assortment of oddities and trinkets. Old watches, small statues of monsters and anthropomorphic figures etched out of wood, coins, the occasional dagger and flintlock pistol. Is this an antique store?

It certainly feels that way. There's a warm, musty smell that reminds me of old books and forgotten attics.

"Welcome, young lady," a voice greets me. I turn to see an elderly man behind the counter, his eyes twinkling with a kind of mischievous wisdom. "What brings you to my humble store?"

I shrug, wandering closer. "Just looking around. Is this place new? It's certainly... different."

He chuckles. "Different is often just what we need." He pauses, studying me for a moment. "You seem troubled. Care to share with an old man?"

Normally, I'd scoff at that sort of request. The fuck does this guy want? But I don't feel like I normally do. I'm troubled, and I can't really govern my emotions, and I keep thinking about Sylvia.

Besides, he looks so grandfatherly... I instinctively feel like I can trust him. Maybe he'll have some wisdom for me. I don't really listen to old people as a general rule, but maybe it'll be good to try something different, just this once.

Like he said, different is sometimes just what we need.

I hesitate, then find myself spilling the story of the morning's events, of Sylvia, the project, and my own carelessness. The words come out in a torrent, flowing over the dam of my usual defensiveness. It catches even me by surprise...

But not the shopowner, it would seem. He lets me talk, listening patiently, nodding and following along without interruptions. That's... like, I'm basically traumadumping on the guy. Is he just fine with that? Is he that good a person?

When I finish, the man walks around the counter, his movements surprisingly fluid for someone who looks ancient enough to have fought in both World Wars.

"Ah, the fiery spirit of youth," he says as he circles the counter. "But sometimes, doing what others expect of us isn't as bad as it seems. There's a certain power in cooperation and compromise, young lady. And in... selflessness."

I snort, but it's purely performative, because the guilt gnawing away at me is not so easily silenced... and judging by the glimmer in his eye, I think the old man knows this, too.

"What did you say your name was?" I ask.

"I didn't share it." But before I can ask further, he holds up a hand. "Let me show you something."

He reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a small, intricately carved box. "This," he says, opening it to reveal a shimmering pendant, "is a special piece. It helps its wearer see the value in following the path laid out by others. It removes the warping lens of egoism, and replaces it with the lens of selflessness."

Really? A fucking pendant? I guess I should have expected it. I pour my heart out to this man, and he sees an opportunity to scam me into buying some cheap trinket. Maybe he's got a stone that can purify my chakra, too.

What did I expect, though? He's a shopowner, for God's sake, and basically everything on display here is a trinket, or looks that way, at least. The stupidity is mine, really. I shouldn't barge in and expect a random man just doing his job to act as my fucking therapist.

I should make my excuses, politely decline the pendant, and leave.

I should.

But the old man's eyes haven't left mine since he opened the box, and my guilt hasn't left me, eitherr, and I'd be lying if I said my curiosity isn't piqued...

I reach out and take the pendant.

It really does shimmer, as if the edges are blurry. There's some kind of figure etched onto its surface, but I can't make it out in the glittering haze -- it's like the thing is emitting its own mist, or something along those lines.

Which is ironic, I suppose, since the shopowner says it's supposed to clarify things.

I don't know what material he's used to create this shimmering effect, some colourful dust maybe. It does look pretty cool, and confers some uniqueness to what is otherwise a pretty unremarkable piece of bling.

It doesn't really have any other features that I could describe. If I was trying to tell someone about it, I feel like words would fail me. That's pretty sad, for a trinket. Well, there is one other thing I notice -- it's warm to the touch.

"And how does it do that?" I find myself asking. My voice feels soft, soft...

The old man smiles. "Who can say? But one thing I can promise you. Until the lesson's learned, it'll make things... different."

Bruh. I understand he feels the need to be in character or whatever, but does he really have to be so vague? It doesn't make him look mysterious, it's just cringe. I open my mouth, ready to say something... but the words die in my throat. Something about the last thing he said, it just... hit me. I keep repeating the word in my mind, over and over.

Different.

I turn the pendant around in my hand, letting the mist creep closer before my eyes. So pretty.

I suppose there's no harm in trying. Sometimes, different is just what we need in our lives, right?

"And what's the price?"

The old man's face stretches into a smile. One that's somewhat less... grandfatherly, now. "Tell you what," he says as his hands find my shoulder, slowly guiding me towards the front door. "Give it a test run. If you don't like its effects, take it back and we'll forget this ever happened."

"Okay, I guess," I say, and I frown, because something doesn't really add up about this interaction, but I'm not sure how, or what, or why. "You're... you're really giving this to me for free?"

The gentlest of pushes against my shoulders sends me forward, by just one step. It's enough to push me out of Wants And Needs, and back into the sunlight.

"Oh, no," the man says behind me, chuckling. "Not at all."

The door slams shut.

***

I feel different.

I guess that's the point. Isn't that what I wanted? No, what I needed? The more I try to concentrate on the encounter in the shop, the more it seems to slip away, like a strange dream, like I'm trying to clutch at running water.

The pendant is safely away in my backpack, but it feels as if the mist is still here, in my head, even if I can't see it.

I mean, obviously the pendant isn't doing anything. It's just a dumb trinket. But I guess the old man's words got to me. Maybe I just needed someone to talk to, so I could find the courage to try and change the way things are.

Still kind of spooky, though.

Maybe Mom's heard of this shop before, and can help me understand what the deal is with the old man. I hang my coat and step into the kitchen, where I find her cooking and talking on the phone.

Mmmh. I guess I better not disturb her.

I turn around and head for the living room, where I find dad reading the paper on the armchair. And there's Chris, my little brother, sprawled on the couch, glued to some nerdy video game.

"Dad," I say, "have you heard of that new store on-"

"Phoebe, you're home," he says, cutting me off. "Can you please set the table?"

Normally, I'd roll my eyes and mumble some excuse, slinking away to my room. But the mere thought is enough to thicken the mist in my mind. It rallies around me, pressing in from all sides, like a physical presence, a ring of soft dancing lights and muffled sounds closing in around me.

And before I know it, I'm nodding. "Sure, Dad."

The surprise on his face is almost comical. I move back to the kitchen and go straight for the cabinets, grabbing plates and silverware. It feels... strangely satisfying, being helpful.

It feels different.

Lunch is a relatively peaceful affair. Chris keeps throwing me suspicious glances, as if waiting for some snarky comment from me. But it doesn't come. Instead, I find myself asking him about his day, listening to his excited chatter about this new wargame he's purchased.

Normally I'd tell him that's the sort of topic that will get him beat up at school. But now, I just... listen.

When it's time to clean up, Chris groans, his turn to wash the dishes. I look at the sink, the dirty dishes piling up, and again, the mist seems to close in. Different, things need to be different. Why not try and change up the usual patterns?

"I'll do it," I hear myself say.

Chris looks at me like I've grown a second head. "What's up with you today, sis? You're acting weird."

I shrug, turning on the tap. "Just felt like helping out, that's all."

As I wash the dishes, lost in the repetitive motion, my mind wanders back to Sylvia. What was it the old man said? A different lens. That's what it feels like. Before, everything was a jumbled mess of my own turmoil and her hurt.

Now, focusing on the former seems impossible. Instead, all I can see is the hurt and disappointment on her face. That's... clarity, I guess? The mist in my mind seems to dissipate when I contemplate how much I let her down. Sylvia, my best friend. How could I do that?

I finish up and dry my hands, and dodge my mum's attempts to thank me. There's no time for that now, there's something more urgent I want to take care of.

Not want... need.

I need to make a call.

***

I feel scared. Every ring of the phone is met by multiple beats of my heart.

Whatever realisation I came to when I talked to the old man earlier today, I know this: it won't win me my friend back on its own. She needs to be willing to give me a second chance, first.

That sucks, but it's just how the world works, I suppose.

"Hello?" Sylvia's voice comes through the other end, at last. Relief washes over me, but not enough to make me oblivious to the fact that she sounds hesitant and guarded.

I need to remember that this phone call isn't about how I feel. It's about how she feels. That's what I should prioritise.

"Hey, it's me, Phoebe," I say, forcing out something that can barely be called a laugh. "Look, I just wanted to... apologise. I've been an egotistical jerk, and I let you down. I'm sorry."

"Phoebe..." Sylvia sighs. "You do realize the deadline is today, right? What were you thinking?"

"Trust me, I'm well aware," I reply, cursing my own selfish, lazy, antagonistic stupidity. "But I'll make it up to you, I promise. Let me work on my part tonight, and we can submit it tomorrow. You know, using that one-day deadline extension thingy Mr. Henderson mentioned before."

Sylvia pauses, probably weighing her options. I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. "Alright," she finally agrees, her tone still cautious. "But only because I don't want our grades to suffer. So, get your part done tonight, and we'll see what happens."

"Thank you. Seriously, thank you so much," I say, and it's weird, because normally when I agree to do something, I feel so burdened, weighed down. But right now, I just feel... liberated. "I won't let you down again, Sylvia."

"See that you don't," she warns before hanging up.

I toss my phone aside, exhaling deeply. It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I feel like shouting to the world, see? I can be selfless! And I don't need a stupid magic trinket to do it. This was all me, good old Phoebe.

I guess putting other people's needs first every now and then can actually feel good...

Now, all I have to do is actually finish my part of the project and pray that Sylvia forgives me for real.

Somehow, I don't really mind the prospect of busting my ass off for it anymore.

***

Still bored. Feeling groggy, too.

I guess it's to be expected. I resolved to be less selfish, but that doesn't magically make college more interesting, and the sleepless night isn't helping matters either.

But hey, who cares? I'm basking in my small, personal triumph. I can't believe I actually pulled it off! My eyelids feel like they're made of lead, but I did it - I finished my part of the project and emailed it to Sylvia in the middle of the night.

Maybe most importantly, I've faced a critical flaw of mine straight in the face, struck it down, and came out victorious. I feel like a better person already!

"Phoebe, you look exhausted," Sylvia says as we meet outside our first class. Her eyes are wide with surprise, probably because I actually followed through on my promise.

What a shitty friend I must have been. Bless her heart, she's actually shocked that I kept my word. I'm so sorry, my friend.

"Night well spent," I say, stretching out my arms and yawning. "Sent you the project. Check your email."

"I saw," she says, raising an eyebrow. "And... good job. Like, seriously."

"Thanks," I say, unsure of how to react to her genuine praise. Are we, like, good now? Is that how this works? Ugh, emotions are so confusing.

The morning progresses, and just in case there was any doubt -- yep, still terminally boring. But at least I can focus on one thing: I did right by my friend. The more I think about it, the more blissed out I feel.

Had I always known that altruism feels this good, I would have become a fucking saint by now, or something. Just the reward of experiencing this bliss again is all the incentive I really need.

During our break between classes, I head to the vending machine. I crave caffeine, and I swear if I don't get it I'm going to slip into a coma during my next class.

But then, I frown. Him. Like a dark cloud passing before the sun. Ugh, I guess it was too much to hope for the entire day to be unblemished and perfect.

Derek is leaning against the vending machines, watching me as I approach. He's got that smug grin plastered on his face, the one that's the leadup to some irritating remark.

I've always had some sort of grudging respect for the asshole, and it's reciprocated. Oh, he's insufferable, and we can't stand one another, but at least he's a loose cannon like me. Someone who chafes against how stifling and mediocre this community college environment is. Stuffy, pretentious, and useless.

Though I don't really like identifying with those thoughts anymore...

"Hey, Phoebe," he smirks, leaning against the wall. "Pretty lovely day outside, right? You know what would make it even better? If you'd be a doll and suck my cock!"