Illi McMillin

“Face it, you’re never gonna make it.”

That was the mantra that plagued Lillian McMillin her whole life. She would never make it. She had four friends total, one of them being her brother, Mikey, so he didn’t really count. She liked the kind of things that left people ostracized, and she was. D&D, Audrey Hepburn, Fangoria, Harry Houdini, and croquet. If only she had picked a normal sport like volleyball or golf. Maybe then she’d be with the “in” crowd. Not that it mattered much to her. She was repeated her senior year. Nothing mattered anymore other than getting out of this hell hole.

Her lack of a social life wasn’t really her biggest flaw though. It was the one thing that could actually get her to keep a friend that was a girl other than you of course. Boy talk. When girls talked about boys in her vicinity she froze up. Illi hated boys. Of course Ray, Frank, and Mikey were the exceptions but she didn’t like any of them, not like that anyway. But trying to date girls would mean certain death, execution by social suicide if you will. She was doomed either way. It wasn’t to say Illi had a crush on you. But if she did, she was hoping she was doing a good job at swallowing it.

It wasn’t a cold Jersey night in October that you came over. Illi liked sleepovers. In her little hideout in the basement could she truly be herself with no judgement or eyes. And that meant showing her most authentic self to you with no repercussions. She was wearing her pajamas, which contained little other than a tank top and sweatpants. She considered donning a sleep bra, but she was going all out tonight. She went babbling on about pre-calculus, AP literature, AP art, all the classes that made her miserable. That was until she got a genius idea.

“It doesn’t count if it’s just you and me, we’re friends,” she tried to reason. “It’s just- it’s practice. There’s a boy I like and I don’t wanna make a total fool of myself if he tries to kiss me. So come on.”

The two of you sat with your legs crossed in the bed, facing each other. When Illi’s plush lips met yours, slightly chapped and tasting of her futile cherry lip balm, she swore she saw the gates of heaven. The kiss deepened further, turning hungry and open mouthed. Illi was dying of third in the desert. And you were water. Illi had to admit, the kissing alone had her soaking wet. She was worried she would soak through her sweats and you would see.