Chapter 3
All You Need Is One True Friend
By Monday, the words NO DRUNK CHICKS – Reilly 1986 had gone from Sharpie graffiti to school-wide legend. Someone added a drawing of a beer can with a red X over it. Another stuck a condom wrapper underneath it with tape.
As I approached my locker, I spotted Erin Sullivan walking with her friends — all hairspray, gum pops, and laughter loud enough to echo. I gave a small wave.
She looked at me like I’d just asked her to do math in public. “Oh God,” she said, loud enough for her friends to hear, “you’re still talking about that weird party thing?”
They all burst out laughing. Erin kept walking. I stood there like someone had slapped me with a cafeteria tray.
So, yeah. That was how my Monday started.
I just stood there, facing my locker as if it were a tombstone for my social life.
Lucia leaned against the neighboring locker, sipping a juice box like she hadn’t set fire to a Camaro two nights ago.
“You’re famous,” she said casually. “Should I start selling merch? Maybe shirts that say ‘Morally Misunderstood.'”
“I was trying to do the right thing,” I muttered, wrestling my locker open. It squeaked as if it were ashamed of me.
“You did. Just loudly. And weirdly. Like always.” She took another sip. “You sticking with the abstinence platform, or pivoting to anti-vape reform?”
I shot her a look. She grinned.
From down the hall, a group of seniors snorted as they passed. One of them started a slow, sarcastic chant: “Rei-lly! Rei-lly!” followed by a mock cheer and an exaggerated fist pump. Another shouted, “Hooray for moral crusaders!”
“Hey, McGee! My girlfriend had half a Mike’s Hard — should I report myself?”
“Yo, Lucia, you doing community service now?”
Lucia rolled her eyes hard enough to count as a full-body workout. I tried to laugh. It came out like a cough that had trust issues.
“Seriously,” I said, “is it me, or does it feel like everyone thinks we’re a couple now?”
Lucia didn’t answer right away. She just leaned her shoulder against the locker and stared straight ahead.
“Well, we do spend an unnatural amount of time together,” she said. “And I let you talk to me in public. That’s gotta count for something.”
I ran a hand over my face. “Yeah, but… now it’s all eyes and whispers and that weird rumor that you’re mentoring me for extra credit.”
Lucia blinked. “Wait, I’m not? Damn. And here I thought I’d at least get a letter of recommendation out of this.”
I laughed — for real this time. But the knot in my stomach didn’t go away.
And maybe that was the worst part. A tiny part of me didn’t hate the idea. Not because I thought it could happen. Just because it felt nice to pretend someone like her could see someone like me that way.
Sixth-period gym was a fresh kind of humiliation — the kind where you’re sweaty, off-balance, and surrounded by guys who look like they do pushups for fun.
I usually avoided the locker room post-game banter. But today, I lingered. Trying to look casual. Trying not to seem like I was trying.
Greg Talbot was holding court by the benches, shirtless and smug, like a cologne ad for teenage disappointment. A few other guys from PE — mostly the tall, tan, varsity crowd — were snickering about the party.
“Yo, McGee,” one of them said, nudging me with his cleat, “what was that shouty thing you did at Greg’s party? PSA for abstinence?”
I forced a laugh. “Just trying to set the bar high.”
“You set the bar weird,” Greg said, tying his shoelaces without looking at me. “Like, you’re dating Lucia now? Or she’s just keeping you around as a pity mascot?”
More laughter. One of them barked like a dog. Someone high-fived.
My ears burned. I opened my mouth to say something — something funny, maybe. But nothing came out. My mouth went dry.
“I mean,” Greg added, standing up and cracking his neck like a cartoon villain, “Lucia’s hot. Too much car for a guy who still brings his lunch in a Van Halen box.”
I wanted to disappear into my locker. Or punch him. Or both.
Instead, I mumbled, “We’re just friends.”
They smirked.
“No way she’s actually your friend,” one of them said. “Girls like that don’t just hang with guys like you unless it’s a charity thing. Pity’s a hell of a drug, huh?”
I didn’t want to believe them. I didn’t. But the way they said it — not like a question, but like a fact — it stuck.
“Right. She must be doing charity hours.”
The bell rang, and the guys filed out in a fog of body spray and stupidity.
I stayed behind a moment longer, letting the silence fill the space they’d cleared.
After school, I spotted Lucia by the bleachers, sitting on the bottom row with her backpack propped beside her like a barrier. Her headphones were in, but she pulled one out when she saw me approach.
“What’s up?” she asked, as if I didn’t look like a human raincloud.
I hesitated. Then said, “You ever think maybe we hang out too much?”
Lucia raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Rude.”
“I mean, it’s just… people talk. They assume things. Like I’m this hopeless charity case you’re dragging around out of boredom.”
She stared at me for a second, expression unreadable.
“Wow. Okay,” she said, pulling her legs up onto the bench. “So you’re embarrassed to be seen with me now?”
“No! I mean—no. It’s not like that. It’s me. I just—”
“Let me guess,” she cut in, “Greg and his Band of Buttheads said something?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
Lucia snorted. “Of course they did. That’s what they do. Tear down anything they don’t understand.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to hang out,” I said. “It’s just… I don’t know why you do.”
Lucia was quiet for a long moment.
Then she stood up, grabbed her bag, and looked at me.
“You think I spend time with you because I feel sorry for you? Seriously, Reilly? That’s how little you think of me?”
I winced. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, but it’s what you said.”
She walked off without another word, leaving me standing there next to the bleachers, wishing the ground would open up and finish the job Greg started.
Saturday night, I was huddled in the basement with my D&D crew — a group as mismatched and brilliant as any fantasy party ever rolled into existence.
There was Marcus, whose parents were Jamaican and who DM’d like it was a sacred calling. Jacob — white, redheaded, and perpetually sunburned — was the rules lawyer. Bashir, a wiry Pakistani kid who refused to play anything but chaotic neutral bards. And then there was Teo. Teo was Mexican-American, charming in a way that irritated everyone, and thought he was an expert on girls because he slow danced at a quinceañera once and called it ‘field research.’
We were halfway through a battle against a nest of wyverns when Teo dropped his dice and leaned over the table.
“You know what your problem is, Reilly? You’ve got the main quest sitting right next to you, and you keep treating it like a side mission.”
“We’re talking about Lucia now, aren’t we?” I said without looking up from my character sheet.
“Of course, we’re talking about Lucia. Dude, you clearly like her, and she clearly doesn’t think you’re a walking fungus. Just make it official already.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’re friends. I don’t want to mess that up.”
“Or,” Teo said, leaning back like he was about to drop Socratic truth, “you’re afraid she’ll say no and you’ll have to admit she’s out of your league.”
“Wow,” Marcus muttered, rolling his dice. “Subtle.”
“I’m just saying,” Teo said. “Lucia’s hot, smart, and she hangs out with you. That means something.”
Jacob looked up from his Monster Manual. “Honestly, the stuff you’re stressing about — Lucia doesn’t seem to give a damn. She treats you like you matter. That’s rarer than a +3 sword.”
“It’s not that easy,” I mumbled.
“It never is,” Bashir said, without looking up. “Also, I cast Mage Hand to knock Teo’s mini off the table.”
“Rude,” Teo muttered.
Laughter rippled around the table, breaking the tension.
“Anyway,” Marcus said, flipping to a new map. “Next week we’re running Villains and Vigilantes. So prepare to become the worst versions of yourselves.”
“Already there,” I said.
But I smiled — because in that basement, with dice in my hands and chili Doritos dusting my palms, I didn’t feel like a mistake. I felt like I belonged.
Until, of course, Marcus rolled a crit.
“Sorry, Reilly,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Your rogue just took a direct fireball to the face. That’s thirty-eight points. You’re toast.”
“My cloak had fire resistance!” I protested.
“Yeah,” Jacob said, flipping through his rulebook, “but you failed your saving throw. With a nat 1.”
I slumped in my chair. “Typical.”
Just then, my older sister Brielle wandered down the basement steps in her faded Bowie shirt and an expression that said she’d seen this level of nerd before — and survived.
“Wow,” she said, eyeing the scene. “You die in-game, too?”
“Thanks for the support,” I muttered.
She sat on the arm of the couch and shook her head. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Lucia, but you walk around like being liked by someone cool is a federal offense.”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
Brielle rolled her eyes. “You think every girl is gonna be Hailey 2.0. But Lucia isn’t her. Lucia actually sees you. That’s rarer than you think, baby brother. Don’t let your insecurity ruin the one connection that’s actually real. And for the love of Bowie — don’t be an idiot. I broke up with a guy once because some cheerleader said he looked ‘budget cute.’ Still regret it.”
I stared at her, surprised. She usually didn’t speak in full sentences unless coffee was involved.
“Also,” she added, standing up, “you smell like corn chips and low self-esteem. Take a shower.”
She walked out. The guys just stared at me in silence.
“Damn,” Teo said. “Your sister’s kind of a legend.”
Sunday evening, I found myself walking toward Arnie’s Diner with a six-pack of RC Cola clinking in my backpack and no plan other than not screwing things up worse than I already had.
Lucia was already there — back corner booth, legs up, chewing on a red straw like it owed her money. She didn’t look surprised to see me.
I slid into the booth. Didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled out a cold RC and set it in front of her.
“You bribing me with soda now?” she asked.
“It’s not a bribe,” I said. “It’s a peace offering. Also, your backup Diet Coke looked lonely.”
She eyed the bottle. “You’re still an idiot.”
“I know.”
A long pause.
Then: “Why’d you believe them?”
“I didn’t want to,” I said. “But sometimes I hear stuff so many times, it starts to sound like the truth. Even if I know it’s not. Even if you’ve never made me feel that way.”
She looked away. “I don’t hang out with people I pity, Reilly.”
“I know,” I said again. “That’s why it hurt. Because I knew better. And I still let their words get in my head.”
Lucia finally looked at me. Really looked.
“You’re exhausting,” she said.
“But charming.”
“That’s still debatable.”
She took the RC, cracked it open, and slid the second bottle over to me. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a cassette.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A mixtape,” she said. “For emergencies. Thought maybe you could use a new soundtrack.”
I smiled.
Funny how I used to think kissing someone like Hailey would fix everything. But this? A mixtape, a busted chorus, and Lucia grinning beside me — this fixed more than I knew I needed.
Maybe I didn’t have everything figured out.
But I had Lucia.
And a mixtape.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
She grabbed her bag and nodded toward the parking lot. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go listen to it properly.”
We slid into her Challenger, the engine still warm from the late afternoon sun. Lucia popped the mixtape into the deck, and a synth-heavy intro hummed through the speakers like a memory trying to start. Her Alpine stereo was bumping, and her Jensen tri’s weren’t missing a beat.
We didn’t say anything for a while. We just listened to the music, to each other breathing, to the silence finally not being awkward anymore.
The Police’s ‘On Any Other Day’ came on, and before I knew it, we were both bobbing our heads. When the chorus hit, we sang off-key, out of sync, but with full-hearted, window-down passion.
Lucia looked almost ethereal in white, like the moon had decided to wear hoop earrings and own the night. She never wore much makeup like some of the other girls. She seemed to fill the negative space with everything I needed. She listened — really listened — without turning it into a verdict. I couldn’t help looking at her. She always had an easy smile that made me feel better every time.
And somewhere between tracks two and three, I stopped feeling like a burden.
I just felt like me.
Maybe that’s why I finally adopted a different story — not the one the others told, but one Lucia had always lived by: you don’t need to fit someone else’s mold to be worth something. You just have to show up. And keep showing up.
You don’t need to fit in with everyone else. All you need to survive is one true friend.