Winn

I'm irregular.

No, not like the ticked-off kind. The kind where my mind bops around in a wacky world of disorganization and creative oddities. Can't say that I'm in the creative flood, though. That's an understatement. I haven't drafted lyrics or tabs in what feels like decades. Though, my genius brain grapples the most hopeful ideas in history. The thoughts are so idealistic that even my positivity reddens in embarrassment.

They're unrealistic. That's the obvious label.

I can't change death.

This isn't my current irregular. It's the former. It's the bustling abnormality that is my schedule, my process, and my life. It's Scramble, the meeting, and the walking mirrors of me.

Glancing at this sophomore, like all the others, throws me into a pit of nausea. My "style choice" was a brilliant coverup in the Christmas hype. The copycats are reminders of my impermanence decked with bald heads, fake piercings, and silver chains. Though, they haven't copied one thing: the excessive makeup I need to apply right now.

I don't have time for that. It's irregular. Usually, I would have thirty minutes to outline next week's schedule and reapply, but not today.

Faking a smile, I drop my green pen into the side pocket of my backpack and hand his marred worksheet back. "Pin me if you need more help."

The sophomore looks at me, an identical bald head blinking like an SOS signal. "Yep, will do. Thanks," he mutters, glowering at the mathematics page. No surprise there. The kid hates tutoring, especially since it's Friday.

Signing out on a slip of paper and a Google form, I skid out of the room, hollering a ritualistic goodbye to my favorite math teacher. Quickly, I shoot down the hallway, the closest flight of stairs, and past an adjacent corridor before halting before the library.

My notepad and questionnaire make their home on the library table, which smells of Lysol. The entire library smells of cleaner, actually. It's a little-known fact that the librarian has OCD.

A boom rumbles the table and rocks the analog clock beside the door. With a gentle nod at the figure, my eyes trail to the blue athletic duffle and backpack slung across both shoulders, seeming to weigh the figure like a sack of potatoes. What if she's carrying potatoes? Why would she have potatoes? God, my thoughts have gotten so much weirder since I got on this new pill. How much of a difference can two weeks make?

"What's hopping, Natalie?" I ask, beaming.

"Life." Natalie nods, her eyes surveying me in a glance. "Scramble is connecting with labs and ancestry agencies to help adoptees reconnect with birth parents, correct," Natalie states, eyeing me expectantly.

Involuntarily, my shoulders shrug as if to say, yep, Scramble strives for connection. That's our brilliant expansion right there. That's where Kyle got the name. Hold up, was that a question? Tilting my head, I wait another second. "Yeah, a team in NC is. They're located near Durham. It'll be up by May."

I may not be alive by then.

Woah, that's morbid. And not very punny.

I may be alive by then.

This new treatment will work. That's what Dr. Thomas tells me. Something about how they tested my DNA and whatnot. God, that was expensive.

Natalie's brows shoot up. "The research triangle of the world? Near Duke, correct?"

"Yeah, we've got buckets of connections now." The prospect of expanding this far was unbelievable then and still is. It's like, wow, this was just a stupid idea before. It's funny how it started with Kyle, a senior at the time, approaching me, a freshman, with the outlandish idea. It was a good distraction, then. And it still is.

Focus, Winn. Zeroing in, I kick another seat out. Does she want to kill her back with the potatoes? Natalie's brows crease, and she rubs the bridge of her nose. "Will I be able to selectively involve myself in that forum?" she asks, sliding into the blue cushioned chair.

"Well, no." I wince. Snap. Maybe that's the only reason she's meeting with me. "This position is as a consultant, managing regional clients' accounts for romantic and platonic relationships."

After a longing glance at the door, Natalie's brown eyes meet mine, softening. "What now? I'll assume this state isn't parallel to your previous experiences." Phew, I'm not a failure.

Positively. It's not a regular consultation where we get to know you, and you get to know us. I know Natalie, but that doesn't mean Scramble does, meaning my spreadsheets and the database. And Natalie already knows about us too. She's got tabs on Project Boiled Eggs, for goodness sake! But this is the hiring system, and it isn't in the public eye.

"It's pretty simple," I start, shifting my copy toward Natalie. "First, all hires get the all-inclusive experience. That's the longest part." Her eyes drift to the ceiling and then close. "Second." I move my pen down a row. "Hires for this position observe three consultations. Then," my voice trails. Natalie's bronze-colored skin seems an entire two-shades lighter. Clearing my throat, I tap her elbow. "Are you okay?"

She places her elbows against the table, props her head on her hand, and sends me a paper-white stare. "I'm great. Why do you ask?" Her eyes flick to the door while a shadow of a grimace flashes over her features.

"You look distracted." One reason I'm glad you're here.

"I'm fine, Winn." There isn't a trace of a smile. "We need to do the consultation, correct?" she questions with a clear of her throat, taking my printout.

"Yeah, of course." I position another paper to my right and peek at my watch. I've got twenty minutes. "They're pretty simple. It's a reduced list. Ten questions."

There's a flash of relief in her eyes as if she's been dreading this entire process. Maybe she is. She was when I tried to get her to join Scramble as a client last month. What changed? Was it the fact that I offered her a job yesterday?

"So, what kind of experience do you expect with Scramble?" I question while snatching my green pen.

Lips pressed tightly, eyes narrowed, and nose curled. Her expression says it all. "Nothing less than interesting," she drawls.

To confirm, I lean forward and arch a brow. "Good interesting or bad interesting?"

"Bad interesting." Natalie nods, retrieving a notebook of her own.

Then why are you here? You slammed the brakes the last time I brought up Scramble, claiming that we encouraged instant love. Not true! It isn't my fault if someone develops an infatuation. I can't control the wind! I wish I could, though.

My pen drifts across my notebook, scribbling her previous answer. Should I question it? Scramble will help her, and I'll get a replacement. It's a win-win situation. I think? "Alright. Are you looking for a romantic relationship or a friendship?"

"Surprise me." Natalie's eyes aren't on me but on the ceiling.

My orbs travel to the same blip on the roof. God, there's a pencil shoved into a panel! It must have been those sophomores. They've gotten so much worse since their freshman year. "Got it. You've told me these next three before, but I just wanted to check on these. Sorry if it sounds like I'm being inconsiderate because it could be, so y'know? I'm not trying to be weird, so. I mean," Pausing for a breath, I don't get the next word in.

"Chill, Winn." Her lips twitch, and she covers her mouth with a hand, breaking the wall of her arms. Is she...laughing at me? She covers the giggle with the clear of her throat. "Your questions?"

My fingers rub the base of my neck. "I'm taking a shot at the rule of three here. What's your gender, age, and sexuality?"

Natalie's eyes narrow at me. "Nothing has changed." A curve tugs at her lips. "And never have I ever seen you so flustered, Mr. Smooth. Has detoxification been treating you well? How is your liver life?"

"God, you're funny!" I shake my head, holding back a belly laugh. "How'd you hear about that?"

Her left arm relaxes against the table while her right loosely grips a pencil. "People talk. Apparently, for an entire three years. To confirm, you crafted a theme song for the smooth ER while speed dating organelles in AP Bio."

"Positively, along with some organelle pickup lines." I shrug, adjusting my questionnaire.

"Really?" Natalie arcs a brow, daring me.

I straighten my features, delivering my creation with the utmost seriousness. "I like membranes. You like membranes, so let's build an endoplasmic reticulum?"

Natalie chuckles, wrinkles forming around her eyes. I guess nerd jokes go a long way. I should feel queasy, but I'm laughing too. So much for my two-feet-of-space rule. We're only twelve inches away. She's close enough to notice my sunken cheeks and afflicting skin tone. No one needs to see that. No one would care to see that. No one would care to know. No one alive, anyway.

I'm too close. My stomach seems to do flips, unlike the nauseous sensation I get at the thought of someone finding out. I suppose it's the feeling my clients describe after the click. Am I feeling that "heart melting, stomach spinning, flying feeling"? Not again.

Slowly, I back into my seat, tipping the chair on two legs. It's probably not a good idea with my recent track record. In the public eyes, it's clumsiness, which wouldn't be a long shot, but then there's that other thing: the irregular feelings that tense or numb my leg depending on the day.

Natalie squares her shoulders, scanning the distance. "So, you identify as a cisgender female who's sixteen and straight?" I raise my green pen, pointing it at her.

Her lips twitch, and her chest rattles. "Yes, Winn." Am I that funny? I'm not that funny. Then, why is she suppressing a laugh?

My eyes flicker to the questionnaire, aware that I've asked her most of these questions in the past seven months. "Sweet. Okay, so next. What are five things I should know about you?"

"My name is Natalie. I'm sixteen. I attend this high school. My eyes are brown. My hair is brown," Natalie states, her lips forming a hard line.

That's the same thing you said the first time we met! Seriously?

"What?" She snorts. "Would you rather I say. My hobbies include everything sports related. I have two siblings. My dad is an electrician. I'm fascinated by the world of sci-fi. My favorite place in the world is nowhere. And bonus, I can solve a Rubik's cube with CFOP." Her eyes narrow. "But you already knew that."

"Hey! You're reading my list!" I screw my best offended expression onto the hole of my face and pin the questionnaire to my chest. With a flicker of realization, a maniacal grin creases my features. "But you didn't answer the last question."

"You won't likely use that information to match me with someone." Natalie blanks her face but not before a dramatic eye roll.

Tilting my head and quirking a brow, I question, "So, what do you look for in a friend, friend?"

"Oh, look at the time!" Natalie pretends to stand.

"Not so fast." I waggle my pointer at her. "It's only..." I flick my watch up. "...5:27. Oh, snap!" I'm so late! I should have left at 5:10! "I'm sorry! I've got to run!"

Natalie breathes what I assume is a relieved sigh as the phrase spits from my mouth. Like the Flash, I snatch my notebook, shove my questionnaire into a folder, and haphazardly sling my backpack over my okay shoulder. Without so much of a backward glance, I bang into the creaky door. I'm so late.

"Winn? Wait." I spin on my heels. Instead of a polite farewell, Natalie stares at me, wiping her palms against her leggings, her lungs working overtime. "Can I get a ride?"

A nauseous wave pummels me, but another rip overrides the flight code. "Of course. Where to? Do you know anyone else who needs a ride?"

Why wouldn't I help her?

That's what I'm here for.

It's not like I'm stricken with a maligner mess again. It's not like you could see me. It's not like my world would end if anyone found out.

No one except my oncologist and dermatologist needs to know.