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Ruth doesn’t really do volunteering. She doesn’t do chores at home if she can help it, so why would she willingly spend a whole afternoon sorting cans of food for people she doesn’t know?
The answer is detention.
She slouches further down on the tile floor, her legs splayed out in front of her as she aggressively labels a box of donations: Corn and Other Things That Taste Like Sadness.
Across from her, Grace Chasity is standing the straightest Ruth has ever seen a human being stand, placing cans of peas into neat little rows. Grace treats this like she treats everything else—serious, efficient, vaguely like she’s expecting Jesus to descend from the ceiling and rate her performance. Ruth watches her out of the corner of her eye and tries not to think too hard about the word “performance.”
Grace doesn’t talk much, meaning Ruth has spent the last twenty minutes trying to fill the silence without saying anything stupid. It’s not going great.
“So,” Ruth says, leaning back on her elbows. “Why do this during detention time? Doesn’t that make people think you’re in detention?”
Grace glances at her but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Oh, no, I never get detention.”
Ruth shrugs. “I guess.” She pauses, pretending to inspect a can of beans. Why aren’t beans the first ingredient on the list? Why are there even multiple ingredients? “You know, you single-handedly keep us in the charity drive competition with Sycamore. Maybe we could get you, like a cool superhero cape. Oh, no, no capes, I forgot.”
Even with that mess of a train of thought, Grace’s lips twitch. It’s subtle—barely there—but Ruth sees it. A pop culture reference Grace and normal people alike understand? Score.
They lapse into silence again, broken only by the clink of cans. Ruth lets her head loll to the side so she can watch the snow falling outside.
It’s the right kind of snow; heavy and quiet, the kind that makes everything look clean. She smiles to herself, distracted, until Grace’s voice pulls her back.
“Can I ask you something?”
Ruth straightens at that question, suddenly far more serious than any other small talk they’ve made so far. Grace could definitely hide her body if it was God’s will or something. Fuck, is The Incredibles PG-13 instead of PG, or something? Grace isn’t looking at her, just carefully stacking another can. Her face is as unreadable as ever, but there’s definitely something about her voice—quieter, uncertain.
“Sure,” Ruth says, against all worldly common sense.
Grace hesitates, her fingers stilling on the edge of a box. Like she’s trying not to spook a startled animal, Ruth slows her movements, placing cans down impossibly slowly.
Then, Grace huffs a frustrated breath, as if she takes offence at the very notion of being nervous. “I don’t get it. How you know what you feel. How you can just say whatever you think, whenever you think it, like it’s normal.”
Ruth pauses, watching Grace carefully. It’s not like Grace is being mean—she’s not mocking her or sneering the way some kids do. She looks almost… lost. Like she’s trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t fit together. Slowly, the idea starts to creep in that this isn’t just about Ruth saying whatever she thinks. This feels more specific, and what kind of sick prank (or dream) is that? To have the girl on whom she’s maybe had a teeny tiny not-crush (“admiration from afar”, she insists to Pete and Richie) since sophomore year come to her for
“Well, it is normal,” Ruth says softly. “At least for me. It’s just feelings. You get them or you don’t.”
Grace doesn’t respond. She’s staring at her hands now, fingers clutching the edge of the box so hard her knuckles have gone white. It’s painful to watch, yet Ruth can’t help but hesitate before walking over and taking the box from her, placing it onto the table behind them. “...Does that help? Do you wanna talk about it more?”
Grace freezes, and Ruth instantly regrets the question. Too far. Don’t push.
But then, fidgeting with the bow on her hairband, Grace mumbles, “I don’t know.”
It’s impossible to know how to respond to that. So, like many nerds before her, Ruth tries—and fails—to play it cool. “That’s okay, it’s not like you have to know yet.”
Too much, too soon, too obvious, stupid. Grace doesn’t look at her, but her shoulders loosen just a little. They don’t talk again for a while. Ruth doesn’t mind. She feels like they’ve both stepped onto a tightrope, and she’s holding her breath to keep from falling.
Grace stares down at the box, her brow furrowed like she’s deep in thought. Then, in perhaps the most Grace move since they’d both arrived, she departs without a word, leaving Ruth with her mouth open surrounded by cans once more.
*
Grace Chasity doesn’t believe in signs.
Not outside of biblical ones, anyways. Though sometimes it’s tempting to. Like now, standing outside of Hatchetfield High, with snow falling in thick, soft clumps, watching Ruth Fleming tie and re-tie her scarf as if that will make the bitter cold bearable. Grace isn’t sure why she ran, let alone why she lingered until she knew Ruth would be finished. But she did, which led to her now fiddling with the strap of her bag, long enough for Ruth to catch her eye and grin.
“You waiting for someone?” Ruth asks first.
No. Yes. Maybe.
Grace isn’t waiting for someone, but then that leaves no explanation for why she’s still standing there, shivering in her boots, letting Ruth babble about her terrible scarf and the injustice of winter while the snowflakes collect in her curls. It’s not a lie if she doesn’t outright say ‘yes’, so instead she opts to continue listening to the sound of Ruth’s voice.
“Anyway, it’s whatever,” The spiel begins to wind downas Ruth throws her hands into the air. “If I die of frostbite, at least I’ll die with integrity. My mom bought this scarf, and I’m not about to betray her.”
Grace snorts. She clamps a hand over her mouth immediately, horrified at the sound, but Ruth’s grin widens.
“Was that a snort?” Ruth teases. “From Grace Chasity herself?”
“No!” she snaps quickly, staring down at her boots. “I was clearing my throat.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” Ruth adjusts her scarf one last time, then tilts her head toward the street. “Where are you headed?”
“Home.”
“No sh– No way. I meant which way, but it’s fine.Wanna head together?”
Grace hesitates. Her house isn’t far—just a few blocks—but it’s dark and of course it’d be dangerous to fall off of her bike by herself and the thought of walking beside Ruth makes her stomach twist in a way she doesn’t entirely understand.
“Sure,” she says, and the word feels like jumping off a cliff. She pulls her bike from the rack, ignoring Ruth’s questioning glance at it, and walks
The walk is quiet at first. Ruth stuffs her hands into her coat pockets and keeps kicking chunks of snow off the sidewalk, muttering things like, “Take that,” while Grace trails behind her, unsure of what to say. She feels strange. Like she’s too aware of every step, every breath. The snow muffles everything around them, making the world feel small and private, and she can’t stop sneaking glances at Ruth.
Ruth catches her once.
“What?” Ruth asks, blinking snowflakes off her lashes.
“Nothing,” Grace says, too quickly, her cheeks burning.
Ruth shrugs, unbothered, and kicks another clump of snow into the street. Even when it’s just the two of them, it’s like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Sometimes, Grace had wondered if it was just for show; a performance in vain to leave Max and his friends less likely to pick on her. But no, this is Ruth, and if only Grace knew how to be Grace.
That’s the problem. Being Grace has felt like a performance more and more often lately: pretending she’s fine, pretending she knows who she is, pretending she doesn’t care what people whisper about her when she walks down the hall.
They reach the park just as the wind picks up, scattering snowflakes like confetti. Ruth pauses by the entrance, squinting at the swings half-buried in snow.
“Race you!” She says suddenly, and before Grace can protest, Ruth takes off down the path.
Stunned, Grace stares after her for a moment, then huffs a breath and starts running. The snow crunches beneath her feet as she chases Ruth through the park, sidestepping play frames and rushing past benches wrapped in frost. The cold bites at her cheeks, and her skirt tangles around her knees, but she doesn’t stop.
By the time she catches up, Ruth is leaning against the jungle gym frame, panting.
“Wow,” Ruth wheezes, grinning. “Didn’t think you’d actually run.”
Grace crosses her arms, trying to catch her breath. “You cheated.”
“How? I didn’t even say ‘go.’”
“That’s the– You didn’t—” Grace breaks off, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
Ruth laughs again, a little quieter this time, and looks up at the sky. The snow is still falling, dusting her now-soaking curls once more and settling on her coat. She looks… soft, somehow.
“What’s it like?” Grace asks suddenly.
Ruth turns to her, brow furrowed. “What’s what like?”
“Being… Ruth,” Grace says. The word feels fragile in her mouth.
Ruth tilts her head, her smile fading. She doesn’t answer right away, just studies Grace.
“It’s nice. Freeing,” Ruth says finally. “But it’s lonely, sometimes.”
Surprised, Grace blinks. The words hang in the air, quiet and heavy. They stand there for a moment, the snow swirling around them, until Ruth suddenly crouches down and scoops up a handful of snow.
“Anyway,” Ruth says, grinning again, “being free also means I can do this.”
Before Grace can react, Ruth throws a snowball at her. It hits her square in the throat, cold and soaking down her shirt, and she lets out a startled yelp.
“Ruth!” Grace shrieks, brushing snow off her coat.
“God can’t save you now!” Ruth yells, already dashing away.
Grace grabs her own handful of snow, ignoring the sting of the cold to pack it tight and chase Ruth once more.
It really is freeing.
*
The first time Pete and Richie see Grace approaching their table at lunch, Richie chokes on his soda.
“Are you okay? I know the Heimlich, I'm trained.” Grace asks, looking genuinely concerned as Richie waves her off, coughing.
“He’s fine,” Ruth says, shooting him a glare across the table. “Aren’t you, Richie?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Richie rasps, his voice hoarse. He points a finger between Grace and Ruth, his expression still incredulous. “What is happening right now?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ruth says, popping a fry into her mouth and refusing to meet his eyes.
Pete, ever the calmer of the two, squints at Grace. “No offense, but isn’t this, like, against your religion or something?”
“Pete!” Ruth hisses.
Grace tilts her head, unfazed. “What’s against my religion?”
“You know…” Peter gestures vaguely at Ruth. “Sitting with, like, sinners? I know we haven’t really discussed the intricacies of your own beliefs but given you want to wait until marriage to let a boy carry–”
“-Pete!” Ruth kicks him under the table, hard. Still, subtlety doesn’t seem to get across how much she needs him to shut the fuck up “What is wrong with you?”
Grace blinks at them, then shakes her head. “I’m just sitting at a table. I don’t think that’s a sin.” She pauses, frowning. “At least, I don’t think it’s mentioned in the Bible.”
“Boom,” Richie mutters. “Loophole.”
Ruth groans and buries her face in her hands. She hates her friends.
*
Over the next week, Grace keeps showing up.
She never sits with Ruth during the morning rush—probably because Ruth is always flanked by Peter and Richie, who have now made it their mission to pepper Grace with increasingly absurd theological hypotheticals—but Grace does stop by after lunch. She’ll hover at the edge of the table, her books hugged to her chest, and murmur a polite, “Hi, Ruth,” before hurrying off to her next class.
“Yup,” Richie says after the latest such encounter, tapping his temple like a genius. “She’s in love with you.”
“She is not,” Ruth hisses, shoving her textbook into her bag with unnecessary force.
“She literally came all the way over here just to say hi to you,” Pete points out, raising an eyebrow.
“She was probably just—” Ruth falters. She has no idea what Grace was just doing. She normally helps her art teacher on Friday lunches.
Peter and Richie exchange a look. Ruth has wanted to be the subject of relationship gossip for so long, if only to just be in with a chance of dating someone, but it doesn’t feel too good now.
“Man, if that’s not a crush,” Richie says, shaking his head, “then I’m not a Dungeon Master.”
“You aren’t a DM, stupid,” Pete says flatly. “That’s why Ruth’s parents are the ones who buy all the books.”
“Not the point.”
*
The night of the school play is somehow even more freezing than the rest of the week. The wind cuts through Grace’s coat as she waits outside the auditorium, her gloved hands shoved deep into her pockets.
She doesn’t know why she’s here.
Well, she does. She’d heard Ruth mention the play (“No one will actually see me so it’s perfect”) and had spent the rest of the week convincing herself that showing up wasn’t a bad idea. It isn’t like she’s doing anything wrong. In fact, supporting the arts is perfectly normal.
Still, she doesn’t know what possesses her to wait outside after the show. Seeing other students she’s never met walk out to meet their friends, to be welcomed with applause and bouquets of flowers (should she have brought Ruth flowers?!) is terrifying, and by the time the courtyard is clear, Grace has almost convinced herself she needs to leave.
But Ruth emerges before she can work up the courage to do so, and Grace freezes.
“Grace?” Ruth asks, her voice cracking. “What are you doing here?”
“I… came to see the play,” she says, trying to sound casual. It clearly fails. “You said you were working on it.”
“Oh.” Ruth blinks, then grins. “What’d you think?”
“It was… nice,”
“Nice. I’ll take it!”
There’s a pause, and Grace shifts on her feet. “I thought we could… walk home together again. If you want.”
Ruth stares at her for a long moment, then nods, her grin softening. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
*
They don’t make it far.
The snow is heavier now, blanketing the sidewalks and rooftops in white. Ruth keeps stopping to point out random things—an icicle dangling from a lamppost, a snowman someone built on a front lawn—and Grace finds herself laughing more than she ever has.
At one point, Ruth tips her head back, sticking her tongue out to catch a snowflake.
“What are you doing?” Grace asks, half-amused, half-bewildered.
“Trying to catch one,” Ruth says, eyes bright even as she’s looking up. “You’ve never done it?”
“No.”
“You have to try.”
“Is it hygienic?”
“Come on, Chasity. Live a little.”
Against her better judgment, Grace tilts her head back. Perhaps it’s something to do with how her name sounds much nicer leaving Ruth’s lips than Max Jägerman’s, but she gets the feeling she’d do anything if Ruth wanted her to. Still, the appeal of catching snowflakes doesn’t really extend to her, and she blinks as a snowflake lands on her nose.
“There you go!” Ruth says, laughing. “See? Fun, right?”
Grace looks at her, smiling despite herself. “It’s… fine.”
“Fine,” Ruth echoes, rolling her eyes. “I’m calling that a win.”
*
They stop at the edge of Grace’s driveway, the snow still falling around them, softening the glow of the streetlamp above. Ruth rocks back on her heels, her hands jammed into her coat pockets. Grace can feel her pulse thrum in her ears as she watches Ruth shift, looking anywhere but at her.
“Well,” Ruth says finally, her voice breaking the quiet. “I guess this is your stop.”
“Yeah,” Grace murmurs, glancing toward her house. The porch light is on, but the windows are dark. This is probably the first time she’s been out alone so late.
She should go inside.
But her feet stay planted on the snow-covered ground, and she looks back at Ruth. “Thank you for walking me home.”
“Anytime,” Ruth says, smiling. It’s a little lopsided, like she’s trying to play it cool, but there’s a softness in her eyes that makes Grace’s chest feel tight.
The silence stretches between them, and Grace realizes she doesn’t want it to end.
“Can I…” Grace starts, then falters, unsure what she’s even asking.
Ruth tilts her head. “Can you what?”
“I mean…” Grace swallows, her cheeks burning. “I have a question.”
Ruth steps a little closer, her breath visible in the cold air. “Yeah?”
“How did you…” Grace trails off, struggling to find the words. “How did you know you… liked girls?”
“Oh… I don’t know,” Ruth continues after a moment. “I guess I always kind of knew? Like, when I was younger, I thought everyone wanted to kiss their best friends. Turns out… no, just me.” She laughs, a little self-conscious, and shrugs. “What, uh, makes you ask?”
Grace doesn’t answer right away. She looks at Ruth, her heart pounding, and thinks about all the times she’s felt like she didn’t fit anywhere, like she was lying by always justifying her actions with devotion.
“I’m still figuring it out.”
Ruth nods, her expression gentle. “That’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now.”
For a moment, Grace forgets how cold it is. All she can focus on is Ruth; the snow seemingly ever-present in her curls, on her eyelashes, melting against her skin. The way she’s looking at Grace like she’s the only thing that matters then.
Before she can talk herself out of it, Grace takes a step forward.
“Can I try something?”
Ruth’s eyes widen slightly, but she nods. “Yeah,” she says, her breath catching. “Of course.”
Grace hesitates for a heartbeat, then leans in, her hands trembling at her sides. Ruth meets her halfway, and their lips brush together, soft and tentative and warm against.the wind.
It lasts only a moment, but it feels like everything—new and bright and completely terrifying.
When they pull back, Grace can’t bring herself to look at Ruth right away. Her heart is racing, and she’s sure her face is redder than ever. She’d scream if it wouldn’t bring her parents rushing outside to save her.
“That was…” Ruth starts, then stops, a laugh bubbling out of her. “That was great. You’re great.”
Grace finally looks up, and the sight of Ruth grinning at her—unapologetically, unashamed—makes something inside her loosen, just a little.
“Good night, Ruth,” Grace says, her voice steadier now.
“Good night, Grace.” Ruth replies, her grin softening into something smaller, but just as genuine.
Grace turns and walks up the driveway, her steps slow, her breath still fogging in the cold air. She doesn’t look back, but she knows Ruth is watching her. When she reaches the door, she touches her fingers to her lips and smiles.