Chapter Text
childhood
The new girl’s eyes are two different colors.
Adora wants to ask Ms. Weaver how it’s possible to have two different colored eyes, but Ms. Weaver doesn’t like “silly” questions, and while Adora isn’t always sure what counts as a silly question, she doesn’t want to risk it. She doesn’t like when Ms. Weaver gets annoyed, or exasperated. She much prefers it when Ms. Weaver tells Adora how well she’s done her chores, efficiently and flawlessly.
“You’re special, Adora,” Ms. Weaver told her. “Not like the others,” she whispered conspiratorially, a rare smile accompanied by a pat on Adora’s head. “You’re the best one.”
Adora beamed.
Adora watches the new girl enter the tall, imposing front door of Ms. Weaver’s old, rambling, patchwork white house that’s backed up to a rushing riverbed. It's been passed down in Ms. Weaver’s family for generations, each owner adding on more rooms and corridors that Adora plays hide and seek in with Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio.
Today, though, it’s a sunny, warm day in March, the first warm day their little mountain town has seen in months, and the kids have been outside all day. Earlier, Adora chased Lonnie through the brush by the river, both giggling as they stumbled on tree roots but jumped back up to continue their game. Adora caught up to Lonnie, tagging her, and immediately turned around and shot off for the house. She likes to be there when new kids arrive. Ms. Weaver says that the new girl, Catrina, is Adora’s age, but Adora isn’t sure. Looking at her now, Catrina looks so small, with long, wavy dark hair that seems bigger than the rest of her petite figure. She clutches a garbage back nearly as big as her that appears about half-filled with everything she owns.
“Thank you so much, Shadow,” the social worker is saying to Ms. Weaver. “What would we do without you?”
Ms. Weaver smiles graciously. “It’s the very least I can do for our community.” She turns and looks down at Catrina. “Especially our most disadvantaged members.”
Catrina doesn’t respond, instead looking over to where Adora stands, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, while Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio pretend to not be watching and listening from the living room nearby.
“Adora,” Ms. Weaver says, walking towards the kitchen with the social worker, “please take Catrina up to your room.”
“Yes, Ms. Weaver,” Adora replies, already bounding over to where Catrina stands. “Hi, Catrina,” she says. “I’m Adora!”
The girl shakes her head. “Not Catrina. I’m just Catra.”
“Cool! I’m just Adora. I don’t have a nickname.”
Catra stares at her, unblinking, then looks away. She silently twists the handles of her garbage bag. Adora wants her to talk more. So, she decides on a different approach.
“I’m 8!” Adora declares.
Catra looks up at her from where she’s been staring at her shoes. “I am, too.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“October 19th.”
“Mine’s October 18th! I’m one day older than you.”
This is the first time Adora sees Catra smile. Pleased and emboldened, Adora grabs Catra’s hand. Catra lets her, and Adora guides them to the stairs, hand in hand.
“Come on, let’s go upstairs. A girl just left, so you’re gonna share my room with me.”
“Did she get adopted?”
“No, she was just gone a few days ago.”
Catra nods. That’s how it goes sometimes. They aren’t too young to know that.
Adora leads the way up the stairs, looking back to smile at Catra every few steps. She wants Catra to know that everything is okay, that she’ll like it here, that it’s not scary like some other places Adora has been. Catra tentatively smiles back at her.
Adora pushes open the door to their now shared room to reveal the stark white walls, two beds with matching, dark blue covers, and a large window overlooking the backyard in between them. Catra silently takes stock of the room and sets her bag down on the previously unoccupied bed to the right of the window. Catra sits down on the edge of the bed and looks out the window, still saying nothing.
“Do you wanna put your stuff away?” Adora asks.
Catra shrugs. “Not really.”
Adora tries again. “Do you wanna color?”
Catra raises her eyebrows. “You have stuff to color with?”
“Yeah! I have color pencils,” Adora says proudly.
Catra’s eyes widen. “Wow!”
Adora, delighted that she's impressed and excited Catra, reaches under her bed for her coloring book and plastic bag of color pencils, settling down on the floor between the two beds.
“Here, we can color a picture together!”
Catra slides down off the edge of her bed to join Adora on the floor.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Adora replies. “It’s more fun to do with someone else, and Lonnie never wants to color with me.”
“What about the boys?” Catra asks.
Adora crosses her arms. “They said my coloring book is ‘too girly.’”
Catra takes in the front cover of the coloring book, a picture of a sparkling, beaming princess next to a rainbow-haired unicorn, and smiles. “I like it.”
Adora grins back. “Me too!”
Catra and Adora spend the rest of the afternoon on their picture, and by the end of it, Catra even lets Adora help her put her clothes away in the closet they now share.
Adora is about to fall asleep that night when she hears sniffling from across the room. It’s Catra.
Adora pushes off her covers and quietly steps out of her bed, walking softly to the other side of the room. Catra is lying on her side, facing the wall, and has the covers pulled high up on her face, almost covering her eyes, but not quite. She remains remarkably still except for the periodic sniffles.
“Catra?” Adora whispers.
There’s no response.
“Catra?” Adora tries again.
Catra shifts slightly. “What?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because we’re friends.”
Catra shifts in earnest now, turning over to face Adora. Even in the dark room, Adora can see the tears on her cheeks in the moonlight that streams through their bedroom window. Catra levels her gaze at Adora, initially suspicious, then confused, then something else. Maybe something like curiosity.
Catra wipes a few tears away. “We are?”
“Yeah! And it’s like . . .” Adora takes Catra’s hand in hers and squeezes. “It’s like we get to have sleepovers all the time. It’ll be fun!”
Catra’s smile trembles, but it’s there.
“Okay,” she says.
Catra scoots over and Adora scrambles up and into Catra’s bed. Adora wraps her short arms around Catra, pulling her close, and Catra lets her.
------
high school
Catra grunts when Adora’s feet hit the floor. It’s the “turn off your alarm before I kill you” grunt. Adora knows this, so she does as Catra wants, then drops to the floor and starts her regular series of morning pushups.
When she finally finishes, Catra cracks open one eye, half of her face smushed against her pillow.
“You are so annoying.”
Adora only grins and pulls on her sneakers.
“Start the coffee for us?” she asks.
“I always do,” Catra replies.
Adora bounds over to the bed and kisses the top of Catra’s head. All of Catra’s early morning grumpiness instantly dissolves. Adora’s not annoying all the time.
Catra sits up in bed. “You know, I’m still so sleepy that it would be a lot easier to do the whole coffee thing if you carried me downstairs.”
Adora snorts. “I bet it would. Come on.”
Adora turns around and Catra jumps on her back, wrapping her arms around Adora’s neck and her legs around Adora’s waist. Adora is ready and hooks her arms under Catra’s thighs. She carries Catra out to the landing and nearly runs down the stairs, Catra giggling and breathless at the end. Lonnie passes them on her way to the kitchen, rolling her eyes, but it’s mostly the good-natured, affected annoyance of someone who’s used to this.
Adora deposits Catra in the kitchen and bounds out the door, throwing a wave behind her as she leaves, taking the same path she’s run for years along the river and through the trees, the mist-covered mountains rising up around her.
Adora has spent the last few weeks in woodshop desperate to finish this project by today, because today it’s been nine years since Catra got to Weaver’s house, nine years since they started sharing a room, nine years since the most important person in Adora’s life showed up in it. She wants it to be perfect.
She spent hours measuring, cutting, and sanding each piece until it fit together just right, and as she secured the last piece into place, she felt a sense of satisfaction in her work, in what her hands were able to make, in the precise placement of the hidden compartment on one side of the box.
Unfortunately, the house is chaos as soon as Adora gets home. Lonnie and Rogelio are arguing, Kyle looking helplessly between the two of them. Weaver is snapping at Catra for something to do with the garbage cans, and just as Adora places her shoes carefully in the designated space by the front door, the smoke alarm goes off because someone (Kyle) left a pot of rice to burn on the stove.
By the time Adora gets Lonnie and Rogelio to stop fighting, and Catra gets the smoke alarm turned off, and Weaver tells them they’re on their own for dinner, Adora has almost forgotten about the gift when she makes it upstairs to see Catra sitting on her bed, sulking, flicking that switchblade she loves so much open and closed over and over in one hand, eyes glued to her biology textbook.
She knows the answer, but Adora asks anyway.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m great, thanks so much for asking.”
Adora crosses her arms. “There’s no need to get so huffy about it.”
“I’m not ‘huffy.’”
“Yeah, you are.”
“I took out the fucking trash, what else do you want?”
“I know Weaver can be harsh sometimes—”
“Oh, do you? Do you know that, Adora? She’s never anything but angelic towards you, her golden child.”
Adora scoffs. “Catra, please. I just think she’d be . . . nicer, if you were more respectful.”
Catra slams her textbook closed. “No, she wouldn’t, Adora. It’s not the same for me as it is for you! Why don’t you get that?”
Catra looks as taken aback as Adora feels. They stare at each other for a beat, Catra holding Adora’s gaze, unblinking.
“You always say that,” Adora says. “What do you mean?”
Catra grunts, flopping back onto her bed and crossing her arms over her chest. “Forget it. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Catra—”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she says, softer this time, and Adora can feel Catra pushing against her all the way from the other side of the room. She means it.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to talk about it. I just think you could make it easier on yourself is all.”
“Sorry I don’t feel the need to suck her dick all the time, like you.”
“I do not—“
A loud, rapid series of knocks interrupts them and they both jump.
“Quiet down, girls,” Ms. Weaver says through the door. “It’s 9 o’clock.”
“Yes, Ms. Weaver,” Adora calls out.
Catra stays silent.
“Catra,” Ms. Weaver says. Her tone is a cliff’s edge.
“Yes, Ms. Weaver,” Catra replies, intentionally making her voice higher just enough for Adora to know that Catra is mocking her, but not enough for Weaver to tell.
It seems to satisfy Weaver because her receding footsteps echo down the long hall.
“You’re such a brat,” Adora whispers.
“And you’re a suck up,” Catra whispers back.
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
Adora rolls her eyes, leaning down to dig through her backpack for the box, which is wrapped very simply in newspaper. Adora holds it out to Catra, and Catra gets up into a sitting position, taking the small package from Adora’s hands.
“I made you something,” Adora says.
Catra’s curiosity is obviously piqued. Her fingers tear through the newspaper to reveal a small wooden box about the size of her hand.
Catra relaxes, her forehead smoothing and her mouth softening into a half smile.
“You made this,” she says, not taking her eyes off of the box, “for me?”
“Mhmm.” Adora sits down next to Catra, placing her hand on Catra’s knee. “It’s been nine years. Nine years today.”
Catra brushes her thumb over the smooth lid. “Nine years,” she repeats. She looks up at Adora with the sincerity that disarms Adora not because of its rarity, but because Catra reserves it almost exclusively for Adora.
“I love it,” Catra says.
Adora flushes. “Look,” she says, taking the box from Catra’s hands, jiggling one side back and forth to reveal the hidden compartment that fits into the right side of the box. “That’s how you open the secret part.”
Catra’s jaw drops and Adora practically glows with pride. “Adora, this is the coolest thing you’ve ever made.”
Catra gives Adora a sidelong glance now, her mouth crooking into a playful smirk.
“Do you want your present?”
Adora clasps her hands together over her heart. “Yes, please!”
Catra laughs. “Well, mine isn’t a box with a super secret compartment, but I think you’ll still like it.”
Catra retrieves a robin’s egg blue cardboard box from the dresser. Adora knows without seeing it yet that the box will say “Mara’s” on the top. Catra proudly places the box in Adora’s waiting hands.
“Razz supervised, but I made it,” Catra says as she sits down next to Adora. “All by myself.”
Adora opens the box to find a pie with a simple lattice pattern and tiny leaves on the edges that smells like sugar, cinnamon, and apples.
Adora sighs happily. “I’m going to eat all of this.”
Catra laughs. “As I expected.”
“I’ll share it with you, though,” Adora says, nudging Catra’s shoulder with her own, and Catra grins.
------
childhood
They’re walking alongside the river. Catra trips and Adora grabs her to keep her from falling. Catra accepts Adora’s outstretched hand.
“What’s wrong?” Adora asks.
Catra blurts out her answer, blushing and feeling ridiculous and stupid.
“Lonnie said my freckles are ugly,” she says in a rush.
Adora’s eyes widen, shocked and offended. It might be funny if Catra weren’t upset right now. “Your freckles are not ugly!”
Catra huffs. “How do you know?”
“Because . . . they’re just not, okay?”
Catra only shrugs, but it makes her feel better.
“I don’t know why Lonnie would say that,” Adora says.
“You don’t?” Catra asks.
“No.”
Catra sighs. Sometimes things that feel obvious to her just completely escape Adora’s attention. “She doesn’t like that we’re best friends, Adora.”
“What? That’s not true. Why would she not like that?”
“It is true. She acts like I showed up and . . . stole you from her, or something.”
“That’s stupid, we’re all friends!”
“Well, Lonnie doesn’t like it and she takes it out on me.”
“I’m sorry,” Adora says, her blue eyes full of concern.
Catra shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.” She pauses, then asks, “My freckles aren’t ugly, though?”
Adora vehemently shakes her head. “Not at all.”
Catra is much less annoyed now, and on her way to a much better mood in general. “Okay.”
“It’s gonna be okay,” Adora says, squeezing Catra’s hand. Then, in a whisper, “Tonight is our birthday.”
Catra turns and grins at her.
This is a big one. They’re turning 13. Today is already technically Adora’s birthday, but Adora found out from one of her social workers that she was born late at night, just a few minutes away from midnight, and only a few hours apart from Catra, who was born in the earliest hours of the next day. They established the tradition the night they turned nine to stay up until midnight, right as it becomes Adora’s birthday and then Catra’s.
“Tonight is our birthday,” Catra repeats, a happy thrill racing up her spine. It’s funny. She didn’t notice or care much about her birthday, not until Adora. But then, no one noticed or cared much about Catra’s birthday until Adora.
Adora lets go of her hand and throws her a sly smile. “Race you to the house!”
And then she’s off, Catra shrieking with indignation behind her, then laughing as she races to catch up.
------
high school
Catra zips around Netossa, warning her with a “behind!” as Netossa expertly moves around her with a tray of scones fresh from the oven balanced in one arm.
“Morning, Catra!” Netossa says.
“Morning!” Catra calls out over her shoulder.
Catra likes Netossa. She’s funny and sharp and doesn’t talk down to Catra.
Spinnerella notices Catra and smiles, waving from the other side of the dining room with a pen in one hand and her order pad in the other. Catra waves back at her as she makes for the swinging kitchen door.
Adora is out front with two other baristas, talking to customers and charming even the most disgruntled business people, harried parents, and fussy children as she makes their drinks.
The cafe, “Mara’s,” is named after Razz’s daughter who died a long time ago when Mara was only a few years older than Catra. The small bakery it started out as thirty years ago has evolved into a full service operation that has Razz, Spin, and Netossa catering half of the weddings, birthdays, and graduation parties in town. Last week, Razz let Catra help her with the final touches of an enormous, five-tier wedding cake for a very harried, very particular bride from one of Etheria’s wealthiest families.
Now, Catra enters the kitchen in the back of Mara’s, spotting Razz, her voluminous, frizzy white hair held back by a purple floral scarf that looks about ready to give up at holding it all back.
“Oh, good, there you are!” Razz says by way of greeting, waving Catra over. “So, now that the meringue is done, we have one more thing to add to the batter. And Catra, this is important.”
Catra nods, listening intently.
“The difference between a good cake and a great one is vanilla.”
Catra raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? Vanilla?”
Razz scoffs. “‘That’s it?’ That’s everything!”
This shouldn’t be much of a surprise; Razz always smells like vanilla extract. The real stuff, not the imitation, like the artificial vanilla candle smell that permeates Ms. Weaver’s house during visits from social workers.
Catra smiles a little bit. “Alright, got it. Vanilla is the secret. What else?”
“Here’s another important one.” Razz bustles to the walk-in pantry and back, her long skirt sweeping across the floor. “The secret to making something sweet extra special isn’t more sugar—it’s a little bit of salt.” Razz winks at Catra from behind her large, black, thick-framed glasses, nudging Catra’s shoulder. “All the best things are a combination of both.”
Catra pretends to roll her eyes, but a smile spreads across her face.
------
high school
Catra and Adora looked out their respective windows as Razz drove them a few streets over from the bakery, passing houses with the numbers 221, 223, and 225 before coming upon 227, Razz’s dusty blue clapboard house set into a copse of trees, flowers spilling out of window boxes. The front door sits squarely in the middle of a sprawling porch that houses a quartet of rocking chairs. The house is all windows and a peaceful hum that must be a combination of the river and the bees that float from one flower to the next on the porch.
They were there that first time because the cafe was closed, but also because of a question posed by Razz the day before.
“Do you two want to help an old lady carry some mulch, or do you have something else to do?”
They didn’t, and, their curiosity about Razz and her home evident on the two girls’ faces, Catra and Adora agreed to help Razz in her garden, carrying the mulch and weeding the flower beds and watering the hanging plants on the back porch. Razz made tea and small sandwiches cut into triangles with the crusts cut off. Catra and Adora had looked at her, then at each other, then gingerly accepted Razz’s offerings.
Now, it’s a ritual of sorts for the three of them. Each Sunday afternoon, Catra and Adora come to Razz’s house for time in the garden and tea on the back porch. Adora is good with the plants; they like her. Flowers take root wherever she places them; vines climb happily wherever she guides them.
Razz worries about them. They’re smart girls. Hardworking, sharp. Catra told Razz the other afternoon that she got an A on her calculus exam. She shrugged as she said it, as if it didn’t matter, but Catra doesn’t say anything that she doesn’t want anyone else to know. Catra told Razz because she wanted Razz to know.
“An A? In calculus?” Razz said, eyes wide. “Good job! You should be a mathematician!”
Catra had laughed and rolled her eyes, but she smiled for the rest of the afternoon.
Yes, they’re smart girls. But they’re suspicious, cautious, choosing their words more carefully than most others do at their age. Over the last year, though, they’ve opened, gradually; first Adora, followed later by Catra. They don’t hesitate now when they come over to Razz’s house, kicking their shoes off haphazardly by the front door and setting their backpacks down in empty chairs at the kitchen table as they tell Razz about their day.
They’re safe, here, with her, and that comforts Razz. Whatever else has happened or is happening in Catra’s and Adora’s lives, she can keep an eye on them. She can teach them about pies and flowers and feed them and keep them safe for as long as they’re in her sight.
------
high school
The house has been quiet for a couple of hours now. It’s one of the only things Catra likes about it here. She’s lounging on her bed, reading a book for her English class, while Adora does her geometry homework on the other side of the room. Eventually, they hear the familiar click of Ms. Weaver locking their bedroom door from the outside, just like every night since Catra was nine years old.
This means Ms. Weaver is going to bed, and once she’s out, she’s out, thankfully. Adora immediately gets up from her bed and walks over to where Catra sits and holds out her hand, inclining her head towards their bedroom window.
“Come on.”
Catra smiles and takes Adora’s hand.
Adora lights a cigarette once they’re sitting side by side on the roof and takes a long drag while Catra spreads a quilt over them, swathing them like the star-covered night climbing high above them.
Adora holds out the cigarette to Catra and winks.
“It’s your turn.”
Catra’s stomach tumbles over and over half a dozen times, feeling Adora’s eyes on her as keenly as she would Adora’s hands. She takes the cigarette from Adora’s long, slender fingers, her lips closing around where Adora’s were moments before.
This is Catra’s favorite conversation. They’ve been doing this for years. Catra lays out their plan once again, the moon hanging low, silver and burning in the dark sky.
“We start working as early as possible, which we’ve already done, by working at Sal’s bagging groceries as soon as we turned 15.”
Adora rubs a hand over Catra’s back, the motion soothing and thrilling at the same time.
“We save every dollar we can to have enough money to move into a crappy studio when we turn 18.”
“But it won’t be crappy because it’ll be ours.”
“Right, it won’t be crappy because it’ll be ours.”
Adora scoots back a little bit, pulling Catra over to sit between her legs. Adora wraps her arms around Catra’s shoulders, drawing Catra’s back to her chest. Catra leans back, Adora’s sturdy frame reassuring behind her, and takes another draw from the cigarette, closing her eyes.
“We finish high school, apply for every scholarship that exists, and go to college,” Catra continues.
Adora kisses the back of Catra’s neck, sending sparks down Catra’s spine.
“And we stay together,” Catra finishes.
“And we stay together,” Adora repeats, completing their oft-repeated refrain.
They pass the cigarette back and forth until it finally burns out. Catra turns around in Adora’s arms to kiss Adora’s smoky, sweet lips, still tasting the heat of the cigarette.
------
high school
Adora is exhausted.
This day was long, and hard, and didn’t let up once. She woke up with a crick in her neck and Catra had to drag her out of bed for once. Soccer practice was brutal. Coach had them doing drills until they could barely stand, and the second she got home, Weaver was on top of her about chores.
She wants to be done with today already. She missed dinner because of practice, and now she just wants to eat something, fall in bed, and get Catra to scratch her back until she’s about to fall asleep. Sometimes, Catra hums a tune softly as Adora drifts in and out.
Downstairs, everything is dark and quiet. Everyone else is already in their rooms, even though it’s not quiet hours yet. Adora walks into the kitchen, the only light in the room spilling out of the walk-in pantry. It’s there that she sees Catra, and she smiles, about to say something, about to walk towards her, when she spots Weaver standing in the pantry, too, her significant height towering over Catra’s petite frame. She corrects herself, biting back the words she would’ve said if she and Catra were alone. She’s about to make her presence known when she catches just the tail end of something Catra says.
“. . . then take it, I don’t care.”
“Oh, you don’t care? I am simply shocked, Catra, at the thought of you not caring. You insolent, lazy, worthless waste.”
A flare of anger, hot and sharp, takes Adora by surprise. Not surprised that she’s angry, but that she’s hearing Weaver say these words. Weaver isn’t a . . . soft sort of person, and Adora is not a stranger to some of her sharper words, but she’s never heard Weaver speak like this. Not even to Catra.
“You’re just pissed because I don’t care about your stupid house, and your stupid chores, and your stupid checks that you get every month for housing all us poor orphans.”
Catra goes down so fast that at first, Adora thinks she must have tripped. But that doesn’t make any sense; Catra was standing still. It’s then that Adora sees Weaver’s fist, clenched in a ball, over Catra’s crouched body, one of Catra’s hands covering her right eye and cheekbone where Weaver’s fist connected with Catra’s face.
Catra stands up, quickly, and Weaver only punches her again. This time, Catra is ready for it. She doesn’t fall, only flinches and takes the hit.
All of this happens so quickly that Adora is still trying to understand what she’s seeing when the second punch lands. Something about this startles Adora out of her nearly catatonic state, and suddenly Catra is yelling at her, and Adora doesn’t know why, only that she’s holding something and she knows she can’t let go. Her hands are squeezing something, tight, and Catra is clawing at her from behind, shaking her shoulders, and there’s another pair of hands now that Adora is aware of, scrabbling at Adora’s arms.
They’re Weaver’s hands. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, skin pale. She’s trying to get Adora to let go of her throat.
Oh. That’s what I’m squeezing.
Adora finally does let go. Catra is still clinging to her from behind, and Adora turns around briefly to look at her. Catra is flushed, the curls framing her face wild, blood on her lip and a bruise forming around her right eye.
Adora reaches for Catra and pulls her into her arms, and Catra is shaking, shaking so hard Adora worries she’ll break into pieces and scatter across the floor. Catra is saying something but Adora almost can’t hear her over the roaring in her own ears. Adora lets go of Catra slightly, just enough to smooth her hands gently over the crown of Catra’s head, her shoulders, her arms, looking for anything that might be broken, out of place, harmed in any way. Tears are welling in Catra’s eyes, and Adora sees the effort she’s putting into holding them back. Catra doesn’t cry in front of Weaver, no matter what.
Adora finally turns back around to find Weaver, crouched down on the floor, her hands fluttering around her neck, still catching her breath. Weaver looks up at Adora in a way she’s never seen before. It’s not the disappointed look she gives Adora when she’s late getting home from school, or forgotten to unload the dishwasher. It’s certainly not the approving smiles that Adora lived for as a little girl, when she would do things around the house without even being asked just for a chance at that smile.
It’s fear.
Good.
Without breaking eye contact with Adora for a moment, Weaver stands up. They don’t touch each other in front of Weaver—they never have. Not handholding, not a hug, not even a hand on a shoulder. But now, Adora grasps Catra’s hand behind her, and Catra holds on tight. Catra squeezes once, and Adora squeezes back twice, completing their signal.
She’s not hurting you again. Not as long as I’m around.
Weaver reaches Adora’s eye level. Adora is just as tall as her now, maybe even a half an inch taller. Adora hasn’t noticed until now, but this small detail makes her feel even stronger. Even though Adora is trembling, even though her legs feel like jelly, a part of her knows she could put her hands around Weaver’s neck again, knows she could finish the job if Weaver makes even the smallest threatening move towards Catra.
Weaver clears her throat, but it’s still scratchy, weak. None of her usual authority.
“Adora, you need to understand—”
“If you touch her again, I’ll finish you.”
Adora knows this in her marrow, in a deep part of herself that she was only marginally aware of before this moment. She would do it.
For the first time since Adora let go of her throat, Weaver looks like herself again.
“Do you have any idea what I could do to you for this? Attacking the woman who takes care of you?”
“I’ll tell the truth.”
“No one will believe you,” Ms. Weaver says. Her threat carries the cold sting of probable truth.
Catra stills behind Adora.
Adora takes a deep breath, staring Weaver down.
“Maybe not,” Adora says, squeezing Catra’s hand again. “But we’ll still turn 18 next month, and you will never touch her again.”
Weaver opens her mouth to speak, but Adora doesn’t give her the chance.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. Me and Catra are going up to our room. We’re going to go to sleep, and in the morning, you’ll act like nothing happened. In three weeks, we’ll be gone. That’ll be the end of it.”
Adora turns and walks out of the pantry, clutching Catra’s hand all the while, leading both of them away from where Weaver still stands in shock.
She recovers enough, though, for her voice to follow Adora out of the kitchen.
“You were nothing before I took you in, and you’ll be nothing without me.”
Adora grips Catra’s hand harder and doesn’t turn around.
Adora closes their bedroom door and Catra yanks her hand free from Adora’s grasp, taking a few steps away from her into the room.
“Why did you do that?” Catra practically hisses, her arms crossed and locked tight against her chest.
Adora, still disoriented, doesn’t understand.
“Why did I do what?” she asks.
“Downstairs!” Catra hisses. “Why did you do that?”
Adora’s head throbs. “She hit you.”
Catra huffs. “I had it.”
“She hit you.”
“Adora—”
“She clocked you in the face, twice!”
“Yeah, I know! I was there!”
“Would you rather I hadn’t done anything? Because that’s not fucking acceptable to me!”
“I can take it,” Catra bites out through clenched teeth.
“You shouldn’t have to!” Adora is nearly actually yelling now, and she catches herself, lowering her voice, hoping Kyle and Rogelio can’t hear them through the shared bedroom wall. “Catra. You shouldn’t have to.”
Catra finally fails to hold back her tears. She raises her hands to her eyes, wiping them away roughly with the heels of her hands.
Adora breaks at the picture in front of her. Catra’s wilted frame, the streak of metallic red at the corner of her mouth. The anguish that was previously smothered by anger and adrenaline and fear since she saw Catra and Weaver in the kitchen finally surfaces.
“How long has this been going on?” Adora asks.
Catra shrugs, looking over Adora’s shoulder at the wall behind her.
“No, don’t do that,” Adora says. “How long?”
Catra taps her foot on the floor, arms still crossed. “A few years, I guess.”
“A few years? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because she would’ve sent me away!”
Cold seizes Adora’s body in spite of the warmth of their room.
“What do you mean?”
Catra audibly inhales, straightening her shoulders.
“She said if I told anyone, she’d send me away. Tell my social worker to put me somewhere else.”
Catra looks down at the floor.
“Away from you,” she says, quietly.
Adora doesn’t know what to say. Her limbs are heavy from the receding adrenaline and her heart is even heavier from the discovery of this secret, this secret that Catra has carried by herself all this time.
“Hang on,” Adora says. “You’re still bleeding a little bit.”
Adora grabs a tissue and her water bottle from her backpack, motioning for Catra to sit down on her bed. She does, and Adora settles next to her, gently wiping the red from her mouth.
“She’s always left my face alone,” Catra says. “I don’t know what happened.”
Adora cups Catra’s chin in her head and presses a featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth, opposite from the cut she cleaned. She strokes away the tears on Catra’s cheeks with her thumbs, humming an unrecognizable tune, and Catra relaxes a little bit against her.
“I’m sorry,” Catra whispers.
“No. No, no, no, no,” Adora whispers, lips pressed to Catra’s temple. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m bad.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not.”
Adora cradles Catra in her arms and Catra cries. Adora murmurs gentle, loving words into Catra’s soft hair until she falls into a fitful sleep.
She’ll never let Catra go if she has any say in it.
------
now
The lawyer’s office is freezing cold.
It makes no sense because the weather outside is mild, but for some reason it’s sub-zero in here, the squeak of leather chairs the only sound in the otherwise silent office.
Catra sits in the chair across from Adora, scrolling through her phone.
Netossa asked them to meet her and Spinnerella here. They’re talking to Razz’s lawyer about a bunch of technical stuff that made Adora’s head and heart hurt as she listened to Spin talk about the details of taking over ownership of the cafe.
Spinnerella and Netossa emerge out of a nearby door and immediately scoop Adora and Catra into tight hugs as soon as they stand. Adora instantly feels better. Warmer, safer. She glances at Catra in her periphery to see that she’s smiling, too.
The four of them walk outside and into the parking lot, the warmth of the mid-morning sun bringing some comfort as Adora anxiously anticipates whatever it is Netossa insisted they all be together for.
“Now, of course, you all know that the cafe is going to me and Spinny,” Netossa says, “but there are still a bunch of other things to settle. There’s a big one, though, and . . . well, I think it’s best if Razz tells you herself. There’s a note for the two of you.”
Netossa hands the note to Catra, and Catra opens it slowly, angling the piece of paper so she and Adora can read it at the same time. Adora immediately recognizes Razz’s handwriting and her heart constricts.
To Adora and Catra: the house goes to both of you. It needs some work, so I’m leaving the funds for that, too. Years ago, I asked you to trust me. I’m going to ask you to do the same, one more time.
I’m asking because I love you both.
- Razz
Adora doesn’t move for what feels like a long time, although it can’t be more than a few seconds. She and Catra stare at the note, unmoving, until Catra’s hands begin to shake.
“But—but . . . Spin, Netossa, are you two okay with this?” Adora asks, somehow in control of her own voice again.
“Of course we’re okay with it!” Spinerella says. “Razz told us a while ago what she planned to do with the house, and we were thrilled . Me and Netossa already have a place, and that house is . . .”
Spinnerella pauses here, looking back and forth between Catra and Adora.
“Very important, for both of you,” she finishes.
Netossa turns her attention to Catra. “Catra? Are you alright?”
Catra clears her throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright. I just—she didn’t tell us that. Well, she didn’t tell me.” Catra turns to Adora. “Did she tell you?”
“No, no. She didn’t tell me. I had no idea.”
Catra looks at Adora with an expression she can’t read, but Catra lets it go.
Spin and Netossa have to get back to Mara’s, so they walk outside together, and another round of hugs later, Catra and Adora are left in the mostly empty parking lot as the sun climbs higher in the sky.
“Well,” Catra says.
“Yeah,” Adora replies.
“This is . . .”
“A lot.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have to get back to work?” Catra asks.
“No, I’m off today. And if they need me for some reason, I can just run over there.”
“I thought you were working with that environmental science professor up at BMU?”
“Yeah, I did, for a bit. Plans changed.”
“Oh.” Catra looks like she wants to ask more, but she doesn’t. “What are you doing now?”
“I just got a new job here in town, actually.”
“Oh, cool. Do you like it?”
“I do! I like it a lot, actually.”
“That’s good.”
Adora always hates this, and she knows Catra must, too, and yet they always do it. Pretend to not know what the other is up to, even though Spinerella and Netossa always tell them. Where they work, where they live, if they’re dating anyone. Adora isn’t. Hasn’t much at all in the last few years except for hookups here and there that never go anywhere. As far as Adora knows, Catra hasn’t dated anyone since she broke up with her last girlfriend, the one she met in grad school, the one she almost—
“Sorry, but do you have a cigarette?” Catra asks abruptly, shaking Adora out of her thoughts.
Adora clicks her tongue. “I don’t actually. I quit.”
Catra raises her eyebrows, but then nods. “That’s good, though. Was it hard?”
“Oh, god, yeah. Excruciating. I was a nightmare for a month.”
This gets a small laugh from Catra, and for the first time all day, it’s that sound that threatens to pull Adora apart. Adora likes that she can still do that, and it has her smiling at Catra in a way that she maybe shouldn’t.
That’s when Catra’s smile thins, so slightly that anyone other than Adora wouldn’t have noticed, and Catra pulls her sunglasses down from the top of her head to cover her eyes. She shifts on her feet and turns her gaze out across the parking lot. Adora suspects Catra is done with conversation for the moment, so she addresses something else, something they have to discuss eventually, so Adora might as well bring it up.
“So, what do we do?”
Catra sighs, lolling her head forward and looking at the ground. She finally looks up, turning to meet Adora’s eyes fully.
“I guess we go look at the house. Then we just . . . go from there.”
Adora nods. “Sounds good to me.”
It’s not like it’s been all that long since they were last here. They all gathered for Christmas last year, like they always do, but they stayed downstairs, splitting their time between the dining room, kitchen, and back porch looking out over the mountains.
Catra enters the kitchen, and it’s the smell of countless late night conversations with Razz and Adora at the table by the kitchen windows that threatens to knock her off balance. Sharp cinnamon and bright lemon harmonize in a way they shouldn’t, drawing up memories of late high school and early college that force Catra to lean on the nearby counter. She reaches out to stroke one finger along the talavera tile backsplash above the kitchen sink. She and Adora helped Razz put that in the summer after their freshman year of college, when they moved back for the summer and worked at the cafe again.
Between Adora’s soccer camps and Catra’s internships, it was the last summer all three of them lived in the house together before Razz died.
Catra watches Adora check the plants on the back porch, which she’s been doing for months, according to Spinerella. Adora’s fingers press gently into the top of the soil of each plant, touch shining green leaves as she passes each one.
Catra’s still not entirely sure what Adora does. Adora tried to explain it to her last Christmas, but it was very technical-sounding to Catra, lots of science-y terms she didn’t understand. But Adora seemed happy, genuinely happy about it in a way Catra hadn’t seen in a while.
Halfway through their first year of college, Adora excitedly explained the major she’d just chosen, environmental science, and how she was going to spend her life working outside.
“I’ll test soil, and water, and be out in the trees and the rivers all day,” Adora had said then, glowing with promise, and Catra had loved her so hard for it.
The rhythmic thud of Adora’s heavy work boots announce her return inside, and Catra turns away from the sound quickly, pretending she hasn’t been watching.
The plants are still green and flowering and fragrant, just as Adora knew they would be. She comes here every other day to check on them, more often than is strictly necessary, but it calms her. It helps with the aching center of missing Razz, the axis her life has turned on ever since she passed. Adora sneaks a glance through the window to see Catra leaning on the kitchen counter, looking silently around the room.
Pulling in a deep breath, Adora walks back inside, and Catra turns to face her.
“We could rent it out, split the profits,” Adora says, and pauses. Then, “We could sell it and do the same.”
Catra nods. “Yeah. We could do both of those.”
“Do you have a preference?” Adora asks. She still can’t read Catra’s expression.
“I . . .” Catra looks up at the ceiling, at the thick, exposed wood beams supporting the roof. “Do you?”
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Adora says. “Yet, anyway. We have to fix everything up, first. Get someone to fix the plumbing, and electrical. The heat never works right. Most rooms need new paint, too.”
“Wow, we could finally change that gross puke green in the downstairs bathroom.”
Adora chuckles. “That would be satisfying. Maybe we just . . . do all that first. Then decide the rest.”
Catra looks relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, Let’s do that.”
------
high school
One of the first things Razz noticed when she first met Catra and Adora was that they shared everything.
Food, drinks, money, scrunchies. Anything that is Catra’s is Adora’s, and anything that is Adora’s is Catra’s. They’ll occasionally squabble about one thing or another, but it’s never genuine, and it never lasts long. When the two of them sit next to each other at lunch at Razz’s house, they wordlessly pick off of each other’s plates, a silent agreement made so long ago that it renders conversation unnecessary.
Razz saw who they were to each other right away, that very first day they walked into her store nearly two years ago, asking for job applications. She’s anything but new to the world with more than 70 years behind her, and she knew she was a lesbian for close to half of that time. She knows two young ones when she sees them.
Razz is known in town to hire teenagers during the summers especially, but she’d never hired kids as young as Catra and Adora before. Adora walked in first, Catra close behind. 15 years old, polite, shoulders back and head held high, confident, Adora asked Spinerella if she could speak with the owner. Adora stuck out her hand as soon as Razz approached.
“Hi, Ms. Razz. I’m Adora, and this is Catra. We’d like to apply to work here.”
“Call me Razz,” she said, accepting Adora’s handshake. “Everybody does!”
Adora smiled like a ray of sun. “Okay! We’re both very hardworking, and reliable, and fast learners.”
Razz, instantly charmed, smiled back. “That’s very good to hear, dear.” Razz turned to Catra. “And you want to work here as well, dear?” Razz asked Catra.
“Yes.”
Adora not-so-subtly nudged Catra in the ribs.
“Yes, ma’am,” Catra corrected herself.
Razz bit back a smile, endeared to the two girls.
“I think we can do something about that,” she said.
If there had been any room left to wonder, it was confirmed on Catra and Adora’s first day at work, when Adora’s shift ended first and she leaned over the counter to give Catra a $5 bill and a kiss on the cheek. Catra blushed and Adora grinned, waving at Catra as she left the cafe.
Now, a little over two years later, Razz enters the bakery’s kitchen to the sound of frenzied whispers coming from the pantry that don’t sound like an argument, exactly, but an intense discussion, nonetheless. She peeks around the corner to find Adora and Catra facing each other, Adora’s hands clenched at her sides.
“. . . you again?”
“She won’t.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Adora—”
“Hello, my girls!” Razz interrupts, startling both of the girls as they turn to face her.
“Hi, Razz,” Adora says, giving a strained smile, while Catra mumbles something that is probably a greeting of some kind.
“What’s going on?” Razz asks, her eyes moving from Adora, to Catra, and back. Neither of the girls answers, instead looking at each other, deciding something, and staring back at Razz, wordlessly.
The way these two close ranks is unlike anything Razz has seen. They fall silent, Adora instinctively moving just half a step in front of Catra. Catra gives, as she always does to Razz’s eyes, the impression of something prepared to strike, or run, or both. A mountain lion, perhaps. No—a mother bear. Regardless, Catra is always alert, eyes trained on any potential threats, watching Adora’s back in a way Razz isn’t sure Adora is entirely aware of.
“Something happened,” Adora blurts, her words running together.
“Adora,” Catra says, half warning, half desperation.
Adora charges forward. “It’s our foster mother. I don’t think we should stay there.”
Catra glares daggers at Adora. This hasn’t happened before, not that Razz has seen. Adora is asking for help. Adora is calling Razz in, and Razz is ready.
“Well, then, my dears. There’s only one solution.”
Catra and Adora exchange a glance. They don’t know where this is going.
“What’s that?” Catra asks.
“You both turn 18 next month, correct?” Razz says.
“Yes,” Adora says, confused.
“October 18th and 19th, yes?” Razz continues.
Catra and Adora both nod.
“Alright, then,” Razz says. “I want you both to move in with me.”
A stunned silence falls between the three of them, until Adora speaks.
“Razz, we—we can’t do that. You’ve already done too much for us.”
Catra remains quiet, but she’s watching Razz intently, those striking eyes glittering. She’s thinking about it.
“There is no such thing as doing too much for you two,” Razz says, softly, but without room for argument.
Neither of them know quite what to make of that.
“What would it be like?” Catra asks, finally.
Razz smiles. Catra likes to know what to expect. They both do, but Catra is less likely to charge ahead anyway, like Adora often does. Catra waits, and watches, observing people and the world around her, so she knows what to anticipate.
“It would be like when you come over, except instead of leaving, you’ll stay. You’ll go to school, like always, and work here, like always. We’ll work in the garden, we’ll cook meals, I’ll go to bed at 9 while you two stay up late watching TV,” Razz says, smiling.
For the first time since this conversation started, the girls visibly relax. Catra no longer looks like she wants to run, and Adora unclenches her jaw. Adora and Catra look at each other, and something Razz has observed many times but never been privy to happens again as the two of them make a wordless agreement. The girls turn back to Razz, and it’s Catra who speaks for them.
“Only if you’re sure,” she says. There’s something of a challenge in Catra’s tone. Not for the first time, Razz wonders how many times someone has offered something to these girls without ulterior motives.
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure,” Razz replies.
“We can pay rent,” Adora says.
Razz’s heart cracks a little bit.
“I’m sure you can, dearie. But I want you to come stay because I love you both, so that won’t be necessary.”
If it’s possible to feel the moments when the world shifts, when something changes a person fundamentally, that is what Razz feels when Catra and Adora hear these words. A door they didn’t even know was there opens, and Razz is asking them to walk through it.
“I’m asking you to trust me,” Razz says.
It’s Adora who speaks for them, this time.
“We can do that.”
One week later, Razz’s girls are loading their few possessions into her car as Weaver glowers from the doorway, partially blocking the entrance to the house. Catra knocks into Weaver’s shoulder on purpose to get past her. Weaver’s fingers twitch. She halfway raises one hand and abruptly stops, balling her fists at her side instead.
Catra and Adora climb into Razz’s car, Adora in the front, Catra in the back next to the duffle bags. The car is completely silent. Then, Catra speaks.
“If you’re gonna back out, now’s the time to say so.”
Razz smiles at Catra through the rearview mirror.
“I’m about to back out,” Razz says, eyes glittering with mischief. With this, she starts the car and shifts into reverse, backing out of Ms. Weaver’s driveway. Catra and Adora’s laughter fills the car as their previous home becomes smaller in the distance.
There’s four bedrooms in Razz’s house, more than enough for Catra and Adora to each have their own. But as she and Adora sit side by side on the bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms two doors down from Razz’s, Catra realizes she doesn’t want to. But Adora beats her to it.
“Catra, I–I don’t want to start having my own room. Or sleeping by myself.”
Catra’s insides go melty. She leans her head on Adora’s shoulder.
“I don’t want to, either,” she murmurs.
Adora grasps her hand. “Let’s share, then.”
Adora pauses then, and Catra waits. There’s something weighing on Adora that she’s not saying.
Then, finally, “I’m sorry that . . . that I didn’t get it,” Adora says. “That I gave you a hard time about Weaver.”
Catra shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. It’s not like I told you.”
“I know, it’s just . . . all that time. I really didn’t get why it was different for you. Why it was harder for you.”
Catra almost feels like crying. She doesn’t know why she needed to hear Adora say that, but she did. “Thank you.”
“I feel so stupid for trying to please her. To get her approval. To prove I was—I don’t know, worth having around? I just . . . I just wanted—” Adora stops, wrapping her arms around herself.
Catra leans against Adora, resting her chin on Adora’s shoulder. She puts her arms around Adora’s waist and tugs on Adora’s arms, coaxing her to let go. She does, and she curls herself around Catra’s body instead.
“I know,” Catra says. “I did, too, once.”
Adora rests her cheek on the top of Catra’s head, the tension in her body gradually easing.
“I always want you around, you know,” Catra whispers.
The answer comes in the form of a small kiss pressed to Catra’s temple.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Adora whispers back.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
A dozen pictures are permanent fixtures on the mantle above the fireplace in Razz’s living room. Many are of Mara all through her growing up years, Spin and Netossa’s wedding photo, and the very first picture Razz ever took of the cafe, standing proudly in front of the sign bearing her daughter’s name all those years ago.
A couple of months after Catra and Adora move in, a new framed picture joins the ones already on the mantle. It shows Adora and Catra, both wearing paper crowns from party crackers Spin brought for the occasion, behind the three-tier chocolate cake that Razz made with lit number candles spelling out “18” on the top. They’re not looking at the camera, but at each other, smiling.
That night, just a few minutes before midnight, Razz sleeping soundly across the hall, the girls tiptoe downstairs in pajamas and slippers with quilts wrapped around their shoulders, stumbling down the back porch stairs in a rush of giggles and hushed words, running to the edge of the river where the light of the full moon reflects off of the rushing water.
Catra throws her arms around Adora’s neck and Adora spins her around as Catra squeals in delight. Adora sets her down on her feet, then grabs one of the discarded quilts and wraps it around both of their bodies. Catra leans in close.
“Happy birthday,” she whispers.
“Happy birthday,” Adora replies, just before she presses a soft kiss to Catra’s mouth.
They sway under the starry sky until the cold urges them back inside.
Catra and Adora fill out their college applications on Netossa’s laptop and write Razz’s address on all the forms.