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insertsickusername13 · 2 years ago

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They See Right Through Me

I wrote this entire thing on my phone while waiting for my stupid flight that got delayed like three hours. I promised myself I’d post it before we took off bc I haven’t posted any like, original content in so fucking long so it’s unedited but I present to you: Everyone forgets Jenna’s birthday except it’s the archer by taylor swift coded

word count: 2.7k

tws: mention of suicide, kinda graphic but no one dies

For Michael’s first birthday after the SQUIP, Jake rented out an entire retro arcade that Jeremy had found four hours away from Middleborough. They skipped school that day, took the train, and spent six hours playing games everyone but Michael hated. They were smiling the entire time.

For Jeremy’s first birthday after the SQUIP, they all pitched in to buy him a new computer and spent the evening watching movies on his kickass macbook.

They took Christine to New York for six days to see three different shows on broadway. Rich got a new skateboard and spent the day at the skate park receiving lessons from some professional skater Jenna had never heard of. It was all far too extravagant, courtesy of their insanely rich King and Queen (handsome Jake, pretty Chloe), but it’d become a defining characteristic of their friend group—the ‘squip squad’, as Michael had dubbed it. They threw crazy fucking birthday parties.

Jenna didn’t exactly expect the same for herself. Though it was never explicitly stated that she still wandered in the outskirts of the group, fitting in only when it was convenient or there was an extra seat in the car, it remained an unspoken fact. She wasn’t even sure they were aware of it. They didn’t think about her long enough for it to even occur to them that she had no where else to sit, that she considered most of them to be her best and only friends.

Thinking about it realistically, she’d probably get a cake. Maybe a couple gifts, if she was lucky. A balloon.

She wouldn’t admit it out loud to a soul, but there was a spark of disappointment when she got to her locker that morning to be met with math textbooks and an uneaten granola bar from the day before rather than streamers and her friends singing to her. She glanced around, a pathetic show of hope, a last-ditch effort to believe she was more than the little bits of gossip she contributed to the group. Jake was walking briskly in the other direction, his hand on Rich’s back, dragging him away from the English class they were both supposed to be going to and towards the single-stall gender neutral bathrooms on the first floor only one person was supposed to be in at a time. Christine was standing by the stairwell with Jeremy, animatedly talking about a musical she’d discovered.

No one was looking at her.

Jenna walked to class without a good morning from a single one of her friends. Even worse, she didn’t get a happy birthday either.

She held out until lunch. All morning she listened aptly to every word spoken, groping and striving to find enough gossip that she’d capture the attention of the entire lunch table just long enough for someone to say, ‘by the way, isn’t it your birthday today?’

Dustin apparently slept with Kylie. Barely interesting, considering his rep, but Kylie was claiming he only got off after licking her toes, and one of Jake’s favorite jokes was pretending he had a foot fetish. That was her in.

She sat down, already buzzing with the anticipation of all eyes on her, their attention captivated. But before she could get a word out, Jake hopped up onto the table, clapping his hands twice to capture the undivided attention of everyone within a ten foot radius.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”

Jenna was torn between the hope building in her chest, distracting and loud, as bright and sporadic as a display of fireworks, and the instinctive, all-consuming urge to forget every opinion she’d ever held just to listen to Jake Dillinger speak. Though the squip had taught the group to value themselves and not societies ideals of normal, that did nothing to dismantle the hold Jake held on the stent body.

“As many of you are aware,” he continued, flashing his crowd a winning smile, “Our dear friend, Christine, holds the talent of a million Anne Hathaways combined, and it seems a local director has finally acknowledged the full extent of her talent and cast her as Blanche in a showing of A Streetcar Named Desire!” At the grand announcement, a round of applause flitted throughout the cafeteria. Jenna was so caught up in it she almost missed the disappointment of Jake ignoring her birthday.

It didn’t settle until he was sitting back down. Still smiling, he said, “Pinkberry tonight as a celebration, ladies? Then drinks at my place?”

Jenna frowned. She tried to find the flicker of hope she’d kept burning all day somewhere in her chest, nestled safely between the growing admiration for her friends as they went from ruthless bullies to kind, genuine actors and actresses and nerds and the ghostly confidence she still had in herself that she fought everyday to keep even vaguely alive. She found empty darkness and the daunting realization that there was no more time for them to pull in with a surprise. She understood forgetting in the morning—knowing her friends, they’d all probably stayed up too late the night before—but this was…

They’d forgotten. They’d all forgotten. They were throwing a party for goddamn Christine Canigula, the girl so pretty and talented Jeremy was willing to let himself be mind controlled just for her affection, on Jenna’s birthday.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to stay exactly where she was seated, on the edge of the table next to Michael, and just start crying. She wanted them to see her tears and ask if she was okay and she wanted to scream their mistakes in their faces and watch the realization. She wanted their pity, even if it was faux and layered with the knowledge that they should feel bad even if they didn’t, because she needed them to look at her. To see her. To convince her that she hadn’t already died, that she wasn’t just a ghost so unwanted she’d been turned away from heaven and damned to pine after the attention of people who didn’t want her. She was prepared to wander the halls of Middleborough as the outline of a girl until it burned or rotted away.

But she rose to her feet instead, slow and unassuming, and walked away, her bag over her shoulder. She was pretty sure Michael cast a second glance over his shoulder—a split second, could he see her?—but there was the ever growing possibility that it was out of curiosity rather than concern.

That theory was proved when she walked out of school without a text. When she drove herself home in her crappy-ass car that she could barely afford and no one bothered to check if she was okay. When the group chat (that she’d notably had to ask to be let into) kept texting like nothing was wrong, like there wasn’t supposed to be candles and cakes and balloons at every corner.

She settled on the floor next to her bed, her vision blurred by tears she wasn’t prepared to let anyone see.

She didn’t know what she was doing wrong. She was better than Chloe at least, right? She was never ruthless like Chloe was. People didn’t quiver at the sight of her, didn’t flinch when she brushed up against their arm, so why were they so willing to take Chloe to a fashion show in Paris for her birthday while Jenna sat alone in her bedroom?

She considered killing herself just so they would mourn. She considered doing it in the ugliest way possible, with blood and guts and tragedy entwined in every vein of hers that laid exposed. She considered doing it on her birthday so they’d know it was their fault. You forgot, her funeral would scream, you fucking forgot.

But to do that would be to admit defeat; to admit that her friends, whom she admired more than anything, were bad to her. Terrible.

She’d tell them. It was that simple. She’d tell them it was her birthday, then they’d apologize and be good to her.

She got dressed up. She wore a long summer dress, a butterfly barrette in her hair, a silver necklace—she thought she looked like a princess.

She left without looking in the mirror long enough to question if she was attractive, if the outfit wasn’t enough to hide her inherent ugliness that surely everyone constantly saw, and showed up to pinkberry an hour before they agreed to meet.

She wasn’t going to be the first one there, she decided. That would be too far. Too obvious. She waited in her car until Christine, Brooke, and Chloe showed up, all in Brooke’s car. She slipped in before the boys had a chance to arrive as to not appear too late with a natural smile on her face.

Conversation was already bubbling when she sat down next to Christine, far enough from the edge that someone would be forced to sit next to her and she’d be sandwiched between two people. When the boys arrived Michael plopped down next to her, the smell of weed clinging to his clothes.

“Sup,” he said, and it took her a moment to realize that it was directed at her.

“Hi?”

She and Michael weren’t friends. She didn’t want Michael to pay attention to her. She wanted Chloe. Brooke. Jake. Rich. The clique of popular kids who supposedly weren’t popular anymore but really were.

Michael squinted at her.

“You’re eye shadow’s glittery,” he said while Christine summarized the plot of A Street Car Named Desire for everyone else.

Jenna nodded briefly at him before turning to Jake and opening her mouth. The plan was the same. Enter with the foot fetish story, transition into her birthday.

“Hey, did you hear—“

“I bet English teachers fuck that play in their free time,” Jake laughed, leaning back and draping his arm over Rich’s shoulder. Christine squawked and shot something about metaphors and unnecessary crude jokes back at him. Jake accepted her criticism but turned to Rich and whispered something else that had them both giggling.

Jenna tried again.

“Jake! Did you—“

His attention was stolen by Brooke blowing bubbles into her smoothie. He laughed. Jenna tried to keep her hurt masked by anger and determination. She’s tell them. They’d feel bad. She’d be okay.

“Jake—“

She wasn’t even sure what Jeremy said, but Jake was listening attentively, completely unaware of Jenna.

She clenched her fists into her dress.

“Dude, I don’t think he can hear you.”

She turned back to Michael, eyes narrowed.

“No fucking shit.”

“Aye, I’m being nice here.”

“Really?” she said, eyes widened and vowels drawn out to try and emphasize just how deep her sarcasm ran.

Michael rolled his eyes before he gaze settled on her, daring her to continue speaking. To insult him further. To say something mean enough that it wouldn’t be out of proportion for him to snap back at her.

She didn’t want him. He was a loser. Beyond a loser, beyond the social hierarchy. He resided on a scale all of his own entitled ‘Liked Because He’s Friends With Jeremy and Gives Jake Free Weed.’ Even she didn’t have to talk to him.

But he was looking at her. Cold and uncaring, his gaze remained pinned to her face, lazily examining her expression. He could see her.

“Dustin has a foot fetish,” she sighed.

Michael stared at her. He didn’t seem to understand.

She decided it was simpler to say, “It’s my birthday,” than continue her stupid attempts to get someone to remember.

Michael’s stare remained blank. Then, slowly, he blinked awake and sat up a bit straighter.

“Like, your birthday-birthday? The day you were born?”

Jenna nodded. There was a lot she wanted to say, complaints she wanted to voice, but it felt like something was clawing at her vocal chords and whispering promises of sobs and cries so pitiful they’d be forced to ignore her out of discomfort rather than gather around to provide support.

“Why…uh, why aren’t we doin’ a party thingy?”

Jenna shrugged and crossed her arms. Michael frowned.

“Whaddya want to do?”

“Anything,” Jenna breathed, quiet and pained. She had to blink rapidly to keep tears from forming. Michael nodded seriously and rose clumsily from his seat.

“K,” he said, then stuck out his hand for her to take, “Let’s go.”

Because it was Michael standing up and not her, Jeremy paused his conversation to ask, “Where’re you going?“

“Out,” Michael snapped back like a preteen just learning what the term independence meant. Without waiting for Jenna to look up from her lap (hiding her trembling lips), he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her from the booth.

“You’re all bitches!” he called out behind him, so confidently yet so muddled by his determination to keep himself standing upright that Jenna couldn’t help but snort out a watery laugh.

Michael dragged her to his rundown car, paused in front of the driver’s seat, and said, “You should probably drive.”

“Me?”

“I am like, way too high to be driving.”

Jenna scrabbled for the lingering bits of the mask she upheld. She straightened her posture, turned her hesitant smile into a condescending grimace and said, “God, you’re such a fucking loser.”

Michael didn’t dignify her with a response. He stumbled over to the passenger seat, sat down, and waited. Jenna didn’t have any choice but to get into the driver’s seat.

The second she was seated, Michael said, “We’re not gonna do the mean girl shit. I deal with enough of that shit sitting with fucking Brooke and Chloe. This is escaping, Jenna. Now drive us to Shop Rite and be fucking nice about it.”

Jenna was in no place to deny him. She drove them there in tense silence, questions sitting on her tongue, so heavy she couldn’t even speak them.

Why do they like you? Why do they treat you better than me? You’re a loser. You’re worse. Why can they see you?

Michael bought her a cake and candles. They sat on the roof of his car in the darkness, Michael’s phone pinging with constant text messages from their friends asking what the fuck was going on (Jenna thought she glimpsed a text from Chloe asking if he and Jenna were having a secret affair). Jenna had her hands clasped politely in her lap, unable to look at him. She thought she finally understood why people didn’t like her.

She couldn’t talk. Michael had told her to drop the act, to be herself, and now she couldn’t talk. Everything she tried to say was an extension of someone else. A rerun of an insult Chloe had said weeks ago, a joke that vaguely resembled something Jake had said.

“Do ya want me to sing, or do you just wanna blow out the candles?”

Jenna blinked back tears and shrugged.

“I suck at singing,” Michael said. Jenna almost insulted him. She kept her mouth clamped shut.

“…so,” he continued, hesitant now, “Maybe uh, just blow them out?”

I wish they could see me, she thought as she blew out all eighteen of the candles Michael had lit. She was only turning seventeen, but it was sweeter than what anyone else had done, so she didn’t bother commenting on it.

As if reading her mind, Michael whispered, “Sorry they forgot.”

Jenna shrugged.

“Do you, uh, wanna eat?”

Jenna wasn’t sure she’d be able to swallow any cake he gave her. Still, he cut her a slice with a plastic fork he’d bought and passed it to her on a paper plate with the words ‘Happy Birthday!’ printed in bright pink letters across it. She accepted.

“So…what do you like?”

“Hm?”

“Well I gotta get you a gift now, right? Somethin’ nice as compensation for being a total dick all day.”

Jenna liked gossiping. She liked pinkberry. She could pretend to like Shakespeare if she tried, but she had the sinking feeling that wasn’t what Michael was asking.

The last thing she remembered genuinely wanting to be was a princess, or maybe an explorer.

“Uh, nature, I guess?” The words tasted like acid in her mouth, so painful she began to question if they were even true. Still, because Michael was looking at her, she pushed through. She’d lie until she was buried and dead if only he’d keep looking. “I wanted to be an explorer. I really liked snakes.”

“Snakes?!” Michael screeched, “Snakes! Fuck, I’m not getting you a snake. Jesus.”

Jenna forced out a small, sympathetic chuckle.

“I’ll take you to the zoo or something. You’re going into the reptile house alone, I don’t fucking care, but we can look at the zebras and stuff together, I guess.”

In her chest, nestled between her self confidence and her flickering admiration for her ‘friends’, she thought she felt something like hope spark.

“Really?” she whispered, pathetically desperate. Michael nodded determinedly.

“Fuck yeah.”

Jenna ducked her head to hide the glowing smile on her face.

She decided, for the sake of the unfamiliar excitement growing inside of her, jumping and leaping in her lungs as it screamed for the first time in years, that didn’t need Jake’s shallow attention or Chloe’s condescending stares, just as long as this one person—this one nice person—could see her.

#bmc #be more chill #im on a loving jenna rolan arc #girlie deserves better #love u bbg #jenna rolan #sparkly star fanfic #implied richjake #they had sex in the gender neutral bathrooms sorry bro #in my jenna rolan fangirl era #i probably shouldn’t have posted this but idc #i own my shitty writing it is MINE #so weird not to write richjake romance idk i feel broken

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