Four Of A Kind

Chapter 50: [2.23] Please Don’t Call Me Cute!

Three o’clock arrived with the inevitability of death and taxes.

I found Harlow waiting by the Lexus in the student parking lot, her school bag replaced by an oversized tote decorated with anime pins. She was practically vibrating.

“Ready!”

“I can see that.”

“I made a list!”

“You showed me the list.”

“I made a BETTER list!” She pulled out her phone and showed me a new document. This one had time estimates next to each item. “See? Craft store, thirty minutes. Post office, fifteen minutes. Hair clips, twenty minutes. Manga store, forty-five minutes because I might need to browse.”

“Might?”

“Okay definitely. But efficiently! I’ll browse efficiently!”

The craft store was a twenty-minute drive. Harlow spent the entire trip telling me about her cosplay project, which apparently involved recreating an entire magical girl transformation sequence outfit complete with hand-sewn details and LED lights embedded in the fabric.

“The Soul Gem is the hardest part because it needs to GLOW, you know? Like actually glow. So I’m thinking battery-powered LED strips but those get hot and I don’t want to burn myself while I’m posing for photos.”

“That would be bad.”

“Right?! So maybe cold LEDs? Do cold LEDs exist?”

“I have no idea.”

“We should google it!”

“While I’m driving?”

“I’ll google it!” She was already typing on her phone. “Oh my god there ARE cold LEDs! They’re called EL wire! Isaiah, you’re a GENIUS!”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You inspired me!”

“By saying I don’t know?”

“Exactly!”

We pulled into the craft store parking lot. The building was massive, a warehouse-style structure filled with more creative supplies than I knew existed. Harlow was out of the car before I’d even turned off the engine.

Inside, she moved through the aisles like a general surveying a battlefield. Her eyes scanned shelves with laser focus, dismissing entire sections with a single glance before zeroing in on her targets.

“I need burgundy satin for the cape. And gold trim. And maybe some rhinestones?” She turned to me with an expression of genuine inquiry. “What do you think about rhinestones?”

“I think I don’t know what rhinestones are.”

“They’re sparkly! Like little jewels! They make everything better!”

She grabbed a package off a hook and held it up. The plastic container was filled with tiny gem-like objects that caught the fluorescent lights and scattered them into rainbow fragments. Her eyes were literally sparkling in response.

“We’re getting these.”

“Of course we are.”

The fabric section consumed fifteen minutes of our allotted thirty. Harlow held different shades of burgundy against various lighting sources, muttering to herself about undertones and color accuracy. I stood nearby and held her tote bag, which had somehow gained three additional items I hadn’t seen her select.

“This one!” She finally proclaimed, holding up a bolt of satin that looked identical to the four she’d already rejected. “It’s PERFECT!”

“What made this one different?”

“The weave is tighter. See?” She held it closer to my face. I saw fabric. “It won’t fray as much when I cut the cape edges.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should! I know what I’m doing!”

She did, actually. Her explanation of fabric weights and draping properties during the checkout line revealed a depth of knowledge I hadn’t expected. Harlow Valentine might come across as scattered, but she was an expert in her domain.

“Oh! I need to check this fabric against my skin tone!” She grabbed the bag from the cashier before I could take it. “There’s a fitting room in the back. Wait here! I’ll be quick!”

She disappeared behind a curtain before I could respond.

I waited. Checked my phone. Vivienne had sent three messages about tomorrow’s schedule, each more detailed than the last. I responded with confirmation and resisted the urge to ask if she ever did anything spontaneous.

Then: “Isaiah!”

Her voice. Muffled. Distressed.

My stomach dropped.

“What’s wrong?”

“The zipper on my skirt got stuck on the fabric and now I can’t move and I think I’m trapped!”

Why is it always zippers?

First Vivienne. Now Harlow. Was this a Valentine family curse? Were they all afflicted with some genetic predisposition to zipper-related emergencies?

“Can you untrap yourself?”

“I tried! It made it worse! The fabric is EXPENSIVE, Isaiah! If I rip it I’ll have to buy the whole bolt!”

I looked at the curtain. Looked at the ceiling.

“I’m coming in. Don’t… do anything.”

“I CAN’T do anything! That’s the PROBLEM!”

I pushed aside the curtain.

Harlow stood in the corner of the small space, twisted at an awkward angle that looked genuinely uncomfortable. Her uniform skirt was caught on the bolt of burgundy satin she’d been holding against herself. The zipper on her hip had somehow become entangled with the fabric.

“See? I’m stuck!”

“I see that.”

“Can you fix it?”

The problem became immediately clear. The zipper was on her hip. To untangle it, I’d need to get very close to her side. My hands would need to be very near her waist. Near the curve where her hip met her thigh.

“Hold still.”

“Okay!”

I knelt down to get a better angle on the tangled mess. This put my face approximately level with her hip. The fabric of her skirt was thin. Navy blue. Pleated. I could see the outline of her thigh through the material.

Focus on the zipper. Just the zipper. Nothing but the zipper exists in this universe.

“You’re really good at this!”

“At what?”

“Untangling things! You have very steady hands!”

“Thanks.”

The zipper had caught on a loose thread from the satin. I worked it free carefully, trying to touch as little of her actual clothing as possible. The fabric was warm from her body heat.

The thread came loose. The zipper slid free.

I stood quickly. Stepped back until my shoulders hit the fitting room wall.

“All done.”

Harlow beamed at me with the force of a thousand suns. “You’re my hero, Assistant-kun!”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“But it’s cute!”

“That’s the problem.”

Her head tilted. The ribbons in her hair swayed with the motion. “You don’t like cute things?”

“I don’t like being called cute.”

“I didn’t call YOU cute. I called the NICKNAME cute.” She paused. “Although now that you mention it, you ARE kind of cute. In a tired, mysterious, probably-has-a-tragic-backstory kind of way.”

“I don’t have a tragic backstory.”

“Most people at Hartwell has a tragic backstory. It’s like a requirement.” She gathered up the fabric bolt, checking it for damage. “Rich people are never happy. That’s what makes them rich. All that ambition comes from somewhere.”

“I’m not rich.”

“Exactly! So you’re probably the MOST interesting person here. What’s YOUR tragic backstory?”