Impulse

7. Payback

senirasushipping — because the truth always comes out in time

***

This is not good. Really not good.

I'm no expert, but I'd give this musical one star. Maybe two, if I'm being generous. And I'm awarding bonus points for décor.

So I discovered moments before showtime that they don't always have the best of the best onstage. The stars come out at night. Not midday. And it's obvious as can be.

This isn't a play. It's a total free-for-all. If there's a plot, I can't make sense of it. There are four Pokémon competing for the crowd's attention as their trainers shout commands, each more outrageous than the last. And they're over-accessorized to the absolute limit.

Just look at that poor Pidove. It's so weighted down by props, it can barely even fly. I mean, I love fashion as much as the next person. Okay, more. A lot more. But you won't find me decking out my Abomasnow like a Christmas tree.

I can't wait to hear what the others will say, I think, with sarcasm verging on Volkner levels. I made them cancel their plans for this?

Cringing to myself, I risk a glance around. Wake's singing along and pumping his fists in time with the beat. Fantina's watching with her head tilted to one side, taking in the show with a critical eye. I wonder what she makes of the straw hat on that Chandelure. It's not exactly ghostlike. And isn't that a fire hazard?

As for the rest of us? Let's just say I doubt we'll become Pokémon musical superfans anytime soon.

I'm not sitting with Volkner. After all that's gone on this weekend—not to mention in his bed—I can't have him thinking I'm trying too hard.

Besides. He didn't sit with me.

He's a row in front, with the older crowd. And wearing sunglasses. Indoors. That's a new look for him. Maybe he forgot to take them off when he came in. Or he's just embarrassed to be seen at this thing.

I blink twice as a Watchog adjusts its fairy wings. Wings. On a Watchog. You know what? I don't blame him.

Next to me, Maylene checks her phone and her face lights up. "Look!" she whispers. "Aaron just texted me!"

Okay. I know you're not supposed to talk at musicals. But I can't help being excited for her. And the music's so loud, I'm sure nobody will notice. "What did he say?"

"'How's it going at the retreat?'"

"What are you going to say back?" I'm already running through the possibilities in my head. This might be simple conversation, but it's serious business. When a guy texts you, you've got to make the most of it. You can't just write any old stuff. It has to be perfect.

"'It'd be better if you were here,'" Gardenia suggests. "Try it."

"Gardenia!" Sometimes I can't believe her. Maylene might as well come right out and say she likes Aaron, if she's going to do that.

Gardenia would have her do that. It'd probably be the next text.

"Well? What would you write?" she retorts, and I pause to collect my thoughts.

You see, it's complicated. Texting is an art. You have to give the guy just enough of a hint that you're into him. So if he's interested—if he's looking for a sign—he'll get the idea. But if he's not, it'll come across like any other text.

Volkner cuts in before I can answer. "Why not tell him you're stuck at this damn musical?"

I laugh. We all do. But at the same time, I feel a bit caught out. Has he been listening? Poor Maylene.