Protozoa Ella Martinsen Gorham (bio) On a Thursday in May, Noa ditched her friends after school and jumped in a Lyft with Paddy. She wanted to pet his baby moustache in the back seat of the Kia. Instead she floated her arm out the window and bounced it to the hip-hop leaking from his earbuds. The air was warm and dense and sweat curled in the backs of her knees. They rode along Venice Boulevard past shaggy stumps of sawed-off palm trees and sunfaded billboards hemmed in graffiti. Noa's friends Wren and Annaliese messaged her from the carpool lineup: Why the little toad? He'll use you. Roast you. They sent flame emojis. Noa turned away from Paddy, just slightly, so he wouldn't see the messages. Homework at my house, she replied. Wren and Annaliese were still preoccupied with complex cake recipes. They fastened back their sleek hair with headbands tricked out in enormous, furred pompoms. To Noa they seemed all parts light, which was good if you could meet them there, in the light, with the horses. Noa had come to feel like another species around them, a graceless mouth-breather. Their distaste for Paddy held no sway with her. Someday they might understand how it was necessary to take a risk for a boy. Yes, she was afraid. That was the point. ________ Paddy bowled his backpack down the hall and freefell onto the couch in Noa's living room. They played and replayed his latest post, a video poking fun at Callan from school. Paddy roasted people online under the name PaDWack. He had built a fan base after winning the school's slam poetry competition. As his rhymes got meaner his followers adored him more intensely. "This is legit brilliant," Paddy said as he watched himself rap in the school bathroom with his pork pie hat pulled over his eyes: Maestro Callan with his hobo pants. Taking a bath in the school trash cans. Today in the lab he gets a nosebleed. Keep off my keys, and stop picking at these [pointing to his nose]. Callan was an easy target, a loner who used to slide out of his chair and finger his nostrils constantly when they were younger. "Hobo pants, so true," Paddy said. "Told you," Noa said. She'd fed him that line about Callan's jeans, which [End Page 25] were tattered and torn off at the knee. "You're wicked, Protozoa." "Protozoa." She savored the word as she spoke. "The cells?" Paddy said. "I know what they are." In a few weeks they would graduate from the eighth grade at Windsong, where they'd been together since kindergarten. Paddy was set to attend a magnet high school for the highly gifted and sometimes forgot he wasn't smarter than everyone else. Noa was going to the local public school in Venice where her mother said she would develop certain life skills. Paddy rhymed some more: Noa Noa Protozoa, swervy like a boa. They drifted to her room. A faraway lawn mower churred and sun soaked the window above her bed. That morning she had hidden in the closet a model of Hogwarts castle, forty-six posters of boy bands, a bracelet loom. She had placed on the desk a freakish pencil drawing of her father with distorted features, her best one. Paddy, immersed in his phone, paid no attention to any of it. Noa grabbed her giant plush crab and nailed him with it. "Hey!" His hat fell to the floor and he quickly stuffed it back on his head. "You have to respect the lid." Cowlicks made his hair stand in odd clumps. He'd worn a hat to cover it for years, a knit beanie or a bucket hat or his most recent pork pie. At some point he'd become known as Paddington instead of Trevor, his real name. As he pushed her onto the bed a laugh caught in her throat, her heart beating savagely. He dove next to her and cupped his lips over hers, teeth knocking on teeth. His had white plastic buttons of invisible braces on them...
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