district six reaping :: [ maeve idlewild ]

"I hate that fucking cat!" Maeve screams as the cat hisses at her outburst. She hisses back. All Roux seems to be able to do is gape at the way her sister's face is twisted with malice, a threat of tears welling up in both their eyes as they look from each other to the wiry gray tabby between them and back again. It was a stray until Maeve coaxed it into the house last week, whispering promises about how everything would be okay and bribing it with milk and scraps of leftover roast chicken from the night before. There had been a bad gash on one of its back legs, crusted over with blood and matted fur, causing it to limp as it was chased by a neighborhood dog. "I wish the dog had eaten it!"

It's a lie. She doesn't actually wish the dog had eaten the cat, but she's so worked up right now that it feels good to spit her anger out like this. Meaning her words isn't the point; the point is to wound Roux and the cat the way they've wounded her. It was supposed to be her cat. She was the one who threw sticks and yelled to get the dog to go away. She was the one who spent two hours soothing the cat's fear and panic so it would allow her to pull it out from underneath their porch. She'd torn holes in the knees of her favorite jeans doing that and it took days to finish scrubbing the grass stains off her palms. She'd fed the cat. She'd bathed the cat. She'd bandaged the cat's wound. It was Maeve who'd gone dumpster diving to find a box that she could turn into a bed for the cat and it was Maeve who'd gotten yelled at by their dads when she'd used one of the nice towels to make the box comfortable to curl up in.

But it was Roux that the cat loved.

Like always, Roux didn't have to work to win the cat over — all she had to do was reach out and pet it, the tabby pushing its head into her scratching fingers and purring. There was an obnoxious amount of purring. It wasn't fair. Maeve's effort, time, and sincerity didn't matter. The cat got up and curled up in Roux's lap immediately, moved itself into her room, and has barely looked at Maeve since.

"Nobody hates you, Kitty," Roux says as insistently as she dares, picking the cat up and holding it close to her chest. Protective. And yet all the more cruel for the attempt at misdirected kindness.

"No," Maeve growls through her teeth, flushing with a new wave of frustration, "I hate Killjoy." Kitty is a stupid name that Roux never should have felt entitled to name the cat anyway, because it wasn't her cat to name. Killjoy definitely suits it much better. "I really do. It peed on my shoes! What am I supposed to do now?! The asphalt's too hot to go barefoot. My skin will melt right off."

It's true. Last summer Maeve ran an errand barefoot and burned the undersides of her feet so badly that her skin bubbled and she couldn't walk easily for weeks, crying as she would try to balance on the outer edges of her feet every time she wanted to so much as walk to the bathroom. Still, both of the twins know that isn't what this is really about. "You can wear my shoes, Mae, it'll be —"

"Your feet are a size and a half smaller than mine. How am I supposed to wear your shoes?"

"I —"

"Stop saying dumb things. Just stop. I'll figure it out," Maeve kicks the small pile of ruined shoes, sneakers and oxfords bouncing off the wall as Roux flinches and Killjoy yowls, squirming for an opportunity to run away. "Get the cat out of here. I don't want to look at either of you right now."

When they leave for the city center, silent and awkward, Maeve is nowhere near as ready as she's supposed to be. Her sundress isn't ironed and her hair hasn't been brushed, but at least she found something to put on her feet. The glossy black patent leather of her tap shoes shines in the sun as each step goes click-clack! Click-clack! Click-clack! She hopes the sound drives her sister batshit insane. She hopes the noise is so piercing that the cat can hear it from all the way back inside the house. She hopes strangers complain so she can make Roux confess responsibility and grovel for forgiveness.

"Mae? I..." Roux looks at her, hand pressed to her mouth as she anxiously chews a fingernail down to the quick. Maeve stares back, expressionless and unsympathetic. "I'll buy you new shoes this afternoon. I have the money I've been saving from helping Mrs. Mahoney in her garden and it isn't much, but you can have it all. Okay? Okay, Mae?"

Reaching into her pocket Maeve pulls out a packet of neon green sticky notes. They look toxic in her palm as she scribbles a reply rather than risk bursting out yelling again. I'd rather skin the cat and use it to make my own shoes. Roux gasps and shrinks into her herself, withering in the harsh morning sunlight. Her dress is wrinkle free and her hair is smooth and shiny. Her shoes are as silent as her sister while they walk. Nothing is fair for either of them in this moment and that's the only thing that makes any of it okay.

At the justice building they stand where they're told, clustered near some classmates from school. One of Maeve's friends does a double take at the tap shoes and mimes a few dance steps with a laugh and a quirked eyebrow. Maeve can only shrug and sigh before halfheartedly kicking her feet around in response, the clickity-clacks echoing through the square as pretty much everyone nearby turns to stare. At least this way it looks like a joke of her own making. The heartbreakingly cute girl from Maeve's algebra class looks over, but despite the scene she doesn't look at Maeve and her tap dancing spectacle. She looks at Roux. Maeve scowls and shoves her hands in her pockets to hide the way her fingers have clenched into fists of eternal disappointment.

Last month Roux found the hearts her sister had spent all school year doodling in her notebooks.




It wasn't an easy thing for Maeve to confess, not even to Roux, her best friend of fourteen years — fifteen if they were to count their time curled up together in their surrogate mother's womb. Longer still if they counted their fathers' dreams for daughters of their own, years of hope and hearts thriving in their united imagination. Still, it felt so good when the words finally tumbled free from her mouth and Roux hugged her, both of them screeching giddily because Maeve had a crush. Maeve had her very first crush and together they were gonna crush this crush. Within moments Roux had hatched a ten step plan for her sister to win over Holland Ramsden-Idlewild ♡ Ramsden and Maeve had never been so thankful.

Within days Roux had ruined everything. Maeve had been too anxious to give Holland a love letter herself and so her sister offered to deliver it for her. Then Holland caught her sneaking it into the mailbox and in true Roux response the only thing she could say in the face of a truly awkward situation was: "I — " Upon reading a confession signed only with a nervous heart, Holland connected the dots she'd been given and assumed all of the compliments, all of the carefully worded hope that Maeve had spent months composing in her head and heart... that all of it was from the person who'd handed it to her.

It's not hard to see why Holland would rather stare at Roux, especially on a day like today when Maeve didn't have a chance to clean up properly and is still paranoid that she smells like cat pee, despite finding alternative shoes. It sucks. It sucks more than anything. Or at least it feels that way until the head peacekeeper calls out: "Maeve Idlewild!" Holland finally looks at her and that just makes it all even worse.

Maeve cracks. Sobs. Her sister pulls her into a panicked hug and she doesn't fight it, her entire body gone rag doll limp. The peacekeepers pull them apart as easily as if they were nothing more than a pair of skinny fourteen-year-old girls without any ability to fight back because that's what they are.

"I hate that fucking cat!" Maeve screams as the cat hisses at her outburst. She hisses back. It's beyond confusing for Roux to watch her sister pick a fight with a cat she rescued herself. None of it makes sense. "I wish the dog had eaten it!" Something small clenches in Roux's chest and she scoops the cat up before it can get too spooked by Maeve's hysterics, stroking its head as she tries not to cry. Crying would probably just make Maeve angrier, as if Roux were attempting to steal her distress on top of... whatever else is happening right now.

Surely she can't mean any of this. It's a lie. Even at her worst Maeve isn't someone who would wish death or violence upon someone, let alone an already injured and traumatized animal. This is just how the two of them fight, now that they're not five-year-olds who only know how to bite and gnash their nubby teeth until the other one surrenders. That's the kind of terrible stuff that only gets forgiven because you were a stupid kid who didn't know any better. Now that they're older they have to be more clever about the wounds they wish upon one another. It's not just Maeve... Roux dishes out her own kinds of hurt too. She can admit that (to herself, at least). It's just that Maeve is upfront about it and Roux wraps hers up in innocent smiles and careful strategy.

When Roux had gotten home that day Maeve had made the cat a little bed to sleep in after spending the afternoon bathing it and tending to its injured leg. It was really sweet. She'd walked in on the cat huddled up in Maeve's arms, her sister looking down at it like she'd just found her new favorite thing in the whole wide world. After the way the last month had gone it was so nice to see her relaxed like that, to not look so angry or sad or lost as she had lately. Roux was nervous the first time she reached out to pet the tabby that it might take a swipe at her, as if Maeve's emotions had become so overwhelming that she had rehomed them within the cat. It was such a strange relief when it leaned into her hand instead and then curled up on her lap as if to say: I don't hate you.

That night when the cat came to hang out in her room, she called it Maeve.

"Nobody hates you, Kitty," Roux says as insistently as she dares. She calls it Kitty because she can't bring herself to admit the cat's real name. Not right now in the middle of this argument, in the middle of all these weeks of passive aggressive fighting. She misses her sister, but saying it out loud won't fix that and the last thing she wants to do is push Maeve even further away by being needy. In this moment she's not even sure she has the right.

"No," Maeve growls through her teeth, flushing with a new wave of frustration, "I hate Killjoy." Still, Roux can't help wondering what Maeve might think if she knew the truth: I named the cat after you in secret because I pretend it's you when I talk to it at night, like if I tell it all the things I've been trying to say to you for weeks then maybe you'll finally hear me. Through... the cat. It's stupid of her. She knows that. "I really do. It peed on my shoes! What am I supposed to do now?! The asphalt's too hot to go barefoot. My skin will melt right off." Her sister isn't a cat that she can win over with a comforting murmur and a few pets. If only.

The air reeks of urine and there's obvious staining that probably can't be washed away even if they tried. It's gross, there's no denying that, and no matter what there's not enough time. "You can wear my shoes, Mae, it'll be —"

"Your feet are a size and a half smaller than mine. How am I supposed to wear your shoes?"

"I —"

"Stop saying dumb things. Just stop. I'll figure it out," Maeve kicks the small pile of ruined shoes, sneakers and oxfords bouncing off the wall as Roux flinches and Killjoy yowls, squirming for an opportunity to run away. "Get the cat out of here. I don't want to look at either of you right now."

Out of options Roux does the only thing she can. She leaves. Back in her own room she hugs the cat far more insistently than the cat ever consented to. "Forgive me, Maeve," she whispers when the cat complains, "please."

When they leave for the city center, silent and awkward, Roux's still swiping at her eyes whenever Maeve's attention is fixated elsewhere. She hopes it isn't obvious that she's been crying, that her eyes were so bloodshot for a while that she wasn't sure she'd be able to convince herself to leave the house. Obviously that was never optional, but surely no one would have missed her. Surely it couldn't be that big of a deal for one girl to go missing.

Maeve doesn't look at her. The glossy black patent leather of her tap shoes shines in the sun as each step goes click-clack! Click-clack! Click-clack! It's the sound of so many fights that have come before. That's usually how she knows Maeve is really upset and that Roux's definitely in trouble for it — when she busts out her tap shoes. Maeve's bedroom is on the second floor right above Roux's and when she smacks her tap shoes against the floorboards it echoes through the whole house, but it's deafening in Roux's room. Click-clack! Click-clack! It's like another way of being shouted at. Roux's stomach twists with reflexive guilt.

"Mae? I..." Roux looks at her, hand pressed to her mouth as she anxiously chews a fingernail down to the quick. Maeve stares back, expressionless and unsympathetic. "I'll buy you new shoes this afternoon. I have the money I've been saving from helping Mrs. Mahoney in her garden and it isn't much, but you can have it all. Okay? Okay, Mae?" She'd been saving up to buy her an I'm sorry gift anyhow, so shoes seem as good a present to get as any. All the weeds she dug up and slugs she pried away from leaves, she didn't quite know what she was doing it for — what way she could attempt to buy her sister's forgiveness in — only that she thought she'd know when she figured it out.

Reaching into her pocket Maeve pulls out a packet of neon green sticky notes. They look toxic in her palm as she scribbles a reply rather than risk bursting out yelling again. I'd rather skin the cat and use it to make my own shoes. Roux gasps and shrinks into her herself, withering in the harsh morning sunlight. She doesn't push the issue again. Instead she just checks to make sure Maeve is focused on something on the other side of the street and then she swipes at her cheek with the heel of her palm. Quiet. So quiet. Nothing is fair for either of them in this moment and that's the only thing that makes any of it okay.

At the justice building they stand where they're told, clustered near some classmates from school. One of Maeve's friends does a double take at the tap shoes and mimes a few dance steps with a laugh and a quirked eyebrow. Maeve can only shrug and sigh before halfheartedly kicking her feet around in response, the clickity-clacks echoing through the square as pretty much everyone nearby turns to stare. Roux blushes as if it were her that was making a scene. She doesn't know why, except for the part where she can still feel the guilt roiling in her gut, telling her to be ashamed. No one is looking at her. No one except for Holland Ramsden, the girl her sister has a crush on and the reason there's practically a civil war going on between them. Maeve scowls and shoves her hands in her pockets. Roux stares at the ground.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Roux was supposed to help Maeve get the girl, not get in the way of that. She still doesn't know quite what happened. There was a plan. A ten step plan, in fact. Everything had been going so well with getting Maeve to admit that she had caught feelings and from there it wasn't even that difficult to convince her that she should write those feelings down in a letter to give them to, ohhhhh let's say, the girl the feelings were for. The only problem was that Maeve had been too anxious to give Holland a love letter herself and so her sister offered to deliver it for her. Then Holland caught her sneaking it into the mailbox.

Still, she should have been able to save the situation. It should have been easy enough to say my sister Maeve asked me to give this to you. Ten little words and everything would have been okay. Maeve wouldn't be pissed at her and Holland wouldn't have gotten entirely the wrong idea and started thinking the letter was from Roux. The cat could have just actually been named Kitty instead of Maeve and Killjoy. Instead...

"I —" That was the only thing Roux could say as she held the love letter out for Holland to take. It wasn't because she had been filled with sudden regret over offering to help her sister or anything like that, it was just because of the look on Holland's face. It was strange. So strange. Too strange to know how to react to and then everything was just bafflingly awkward. All words left Roux's head and that one letter was all that was left besides the one in her hand.

She hadn't known that Maeve had signed the confession with a heart instead of her name, thinking that she'd be the one personally handing it to Holland and that there wouldn't be anything confusing about any of it. There was no reason to think that Holland would run up to Roux the next time they crossed paths, that she would kiss her cheek in a flurry of bashful nerves, that she would press her mouth to Roux's ear and whisper: "I loved your letter." Neither of the twins saw that twist coming.

Roux ran away because she didn't know what else to do. That only served to make Holland as confused as anyone and then she started running away from them too, as if the three of them were playing the world's dumbest game of tag. All that running made it impossible for any of them to clarify the situation.

That's what Roux is thinking about when Holland looks at her. And that's what Roux is thinking about while Maeve is worrying over whether or not she smells like cat pee. And that's what Roux is thinking about when the head peacekeeper calls out: "Maeve Idlewild!"

Maeve cracks. Sobs. Roux's inner anxiety sounds like tap dancing in her deafened ears: Clickity-clack! Clickity-clack! Clickity-clack! She's really in trouble now. It's all she can do to finally gather the courage to reach out to her sister and pull her into the hug they've been avoiding for weeks. The peacekeepers pull them apart as easily as if they were nothing more than a pair of skinny fourteen-year-old girls without any ability to fight back because that's what they are.