Free Spontaneous by Aaron Starmer Page A

Not today. Parents got me doing a double shift at the hug factory.
    Side note: My parents weren’t big huggers but, after Katelyn, they rolled up their sleeves and did their due diligence, smothering their daughter whenever her face got all droopy. It worked at first, but ever since Brian, it was the opposite of what I needed. Still, Mom and Dad wanted me home that Sunday to be their little stuffed animal. I think they’d come to depend on the hugging, in fact. This was no longer about me.
    Him: When then?
    Me: Not tomorrow either. Working at Covington Kitchen. Keeping busy helps.
    Him: Should I stop in for an Oinker?
    Me: Yaaassss! Wait. No. Not because I don’t want to see you.
    Him: Too much of a tease?
    Me: Exactly. Monday?
    Him: MONDAY!
    As you already know, my deli gig was interrupted on Sunday by the emergency town hall. Cell reception was terrible at the theater, so even when I tried to connect with Dylan, I didn’t get through, and I certainly couldn’t spot him in that sea of anxiety. I’d love to break down all the bullshit that was shat out at that meeting, but I think covering Tina’s DNA witch hunt is enough. Because it represents when the theories went off the rails.
    That Sunday evening, my parents were still huggy, so I was constantly retreating to the bathroom for alone time and giving in to the stupid urge to pull out my phone and shake a virtual fist at all the trolls. TV was even worse. A tour of cable news resulted in teeth-grinding and blind-pulling because I was sure that some helmet-haired reporter was creeping through our shrubbery, about to thrust her head through our window and say, “So is it terrorists, homosexuality, or the overall crappiness of your hometown that’s tearing your generation apart, young lady, and do you mind holding your answers and tears back until my cameraman gets the proper lighting in place?”
    So I went dark for a few hours. I didn’t text Tess or Dylan because if I couldn’t see them in person and hold on to them, then it wasn’t worth it. All I could do was get in bed and wait for sleep to grab me and whisk me along to a future closer to my date with Dylan.

a little further in the future
    O n Monday morning, less than three full days after Perry Love spontaneously combusted, Cranberry Bollinger’s dad waltzed into his daughter’s room to wake her up and found Cranberry sauce all over her Miyazaki posters.
    Fuck. Sorry. Bad joke. Old habits die hard. But come on, the girl’s name was Cranberry.
    It was and has always been Cranberry, as far as I know. My earliest memory of her is the first day of fourth grade, when Ms. Caldwell took attendance and said, “Cranberry Bollinger. Is Cranberry Bollinger here?”
    â€œ
Here
,” came a soft voice from the back and we all turned around to see a purple-haired, dark-skinned girl wearing a black T-shirt with a ghostly face on it. I didn’t know until years later that the ghost face represented a Guy Fawkes mask, the symbol of Anonymous, everybody’s favorite zit-faced army of hackers.
    Yes, Cranberry was a hacker, a gamer, a cosplayer. Even back in fourth grade. I would tell you more about her if I knew more about her, but I don’t. She was always just Cranberry, the girl whose name launched a thousand corny puns.
    â€œDon’t get bogged down, Cranberry.”
    â€œHey, Cranberry. You know what my favorite cocktail is? A Cape Codder. Because it’s a mix of vodka and you.”
    â€œYo, Ocean Spray!”
    She seemed to take it in stride, usually rolling her eyes and saying, “Hilarrrrrious!” or “Only heard that one about a billion times.”
    Granted, most of it was harmless. Can’t pack much punch into cracks about cranberries. It wasn’t like she was named Cherry, Peach, or some other sexy fruit. Cranberries aren’t sexy and neither was Cranberry. She was awkward. She was quiet. Outside of class, her