“First of all I’m not gay,” she says, staring dubiously at your breasts.
“Pretty sure you’re at least bi,” you tell her, putting your hands on your perfectly proportioned hips.
“I asked for the perfect boyfriend.”
“Maybe I’m trans and you’re fetishizing me,” you offer, dry. You know she made you, you know you’re perfect. You have existed for two minutes and in that time you have done your absolute best to be the perfect boyfriend-girl for your girlfriend-mom.
This has mostly involved telling her you love her for two minutes while standing naked in her bedroom.
And annoyingly, you do. Love her, that is. You’re devoted as shit. She’s the embodiment of a Goddess. A living Madonna. Your muse.
“I have to get rid of you,” she tells you, breaking up with you without ever having acknowledged your love. Without even giving you a chance.
“Well unless you’re going to kill me, you’re kind of stuck with me.” You shrug. It’s the truth. “There’s no way to undo a wish. It’s a wish. You wished for me.”
“I wished for a boyfriend,” she insists.
“Maybe I’ll get you one. They say you can’t wish for true love.” You smile, but your heart breaks.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “that’s a really good theory. Thank you.”
She gives you a name she always imagined for her first daughter. Says that technically, you kind of are.
The sentiment rubs you wrong.
You have been her boyfriend for two weeks, which has mostly involved helping her feel loved. And also yelling ‘wait for your boyfriend!’ as you run down the hallway in school to catch up with her and make her laugh.
Everyone says you’re best friends. This is fine with her.
It still feels slightly off, but you love her and you’ll put up with it.
Her seat neighbor in biology is a total chad, but he has muscular arms, and she writes his name surrounded by hearts on her notes.
You know definitively that he is a chad.
One day he corners you in the cafeteria before your girlfriend-bestfriend-mom can meet up with you.
“Hey,” he says because he’s a chad, “so do you think she likes me?” He looks pointedly at your friend in line for lunch.
“I think she likes your arms,” you point out, because you were made to be her perfect boyfriend not this guy’s friend.
“Oh she does? Nice. I uh, like her hair.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s super nice. Like those fancy curly ribbons on presents.”
Oh God he’s right. You’re nodding now.
“And she smells so nice.” He is also nodding.
“All the damn time. Smells the best.” You’re shaking your head in disbelief at how good she smells.
“So you like her?” He asks, like a chad.
“I am her perfect boyfriend,” you tell him, honestly.
He considers this.
“So she’s gay.”
“She says she isn’t.”
“So she’s gay,” he says again, and might be less of a chad than you gave him credit for.
You shrug. You’re not even sure what to tell him.
“Well shit,” he mutters. “I was super into her, too.”
Your whole body burns. It’s unpleasant.
Oh God you’re angry.
“Whydidn’t you make a move then?!” You demand, furious for her, but more for yourself.
“I dunno man. Doesn’t matter now though. How could I compete with you?”
“A good point.”
“We should hang out. We have the same taste in girls.” He grimaces.
“There are other pretty and good-smelling girls at this school,” you agree, but smirk. He reads your mind and scowls at your victory and boyfriend superiority.
“You know what? She’s not even that pretty,” he grumbles, and it’s a petulant boy’s grumble but for some reason it’s completely intolerable.
The dean’s office is very cold, but you feel perfect. You are perfect. Your friend’s parents were called since you technically don’t have any. You told them to call your friend because she technically wished for you.
The faculty didn’t take you seriously, but there she is, peeking through the little window in the door anyway. Your friend doesn’t look as mad as you thought she would that you punched the guy she has a crush on.
You’ve never been to prison but you imagine this is what it feels like.
“Thank you for your time.” The dean escorts your friend’s parents out, they smile reassuringly at you. The wish makes them think you’re their daughter. Everyone else knows you’ve only been there a few weeks. Magic is fickle like that.
You sit across from the dean, and he steeples his fingers.
“So,” he says in a drawl. “You were wished into existence?”
You’re so surprised that you nod.
“Not the first time, at this school. Being this close to the sinkhole does that sometimes. You’ll have to transfer, of course.”
You’re lost, so you say nothing. He laughs.
“What are you, the perfect friend? Girlfriend? Sister?”
“Boyfriend.” You shrug. You don’t get it either.
“I will bet you a million dollars,” he says thoughtfully, waving his pen at you, “that she slurred and said “boy’s friend” or something. Magic is a stickler like that.”
“But I’m perfect, and I love her.” You’re pretty sure that’s magic.
“Did you make friends with any boys?” He looks knowing.
“Yes? They’re fine?” And chad deserved to get punched, but he tried to punch you back so you’re even.
“And what about your friend?”
“Love her.”
“And her friends?”
“Nice girls. Cute.”
He raises his eyebrows.
Huh.
“I’m the gay one,” you reason out for yourself. “I thought my friend was too because she was my- uh-”
“You didn’t question it because you thought it was wished into existence but don’t worry you can still explore-”
“No no, I’m definitely the gay one,” you reassure him.
“Give the girl a prize.” He chuckles. “You be whatever you want. Being a boy’s friend doesn’t mean you can’t be your friend’s girlfriend.”
“She’s-”
“A highschooler. Who cares? Figure it out together.” He wags the pen at you. “After you transfer schools of course. I’ll give your new ‘parents’ the name of the place I sent the last two wished-for kids. You’ll do fine there. The boys will love you and there’ll be lots of pretty girls.”
“But I want to be with-”
He sighs.
“Sometimes that doesn’t work out, kid. It’s puppy love. Let it run its course, enjoy it, then let it go.”
You resolve immediately not to do that, but you nod in understanding anyway.
“Get out of my office.” He waves you away. “And talk to the counselor! It’s hard enough being a highschooler, you’re in for it!”
You walk out and your friend is there, hovering.
“What happened?!” She hugs you tightly, then holds you at arm’s length. Her hair is curly and gorgeous. She smells amazing. She’s perfect.
“I’m in love with you,” you tell her, because you’re in shock and high on adrenaline.
“I wished for you to love me.” She rolls her eyes and hugs you again.
“What if I am in love with you?” Your arms don’t come up around her.
“It’s fine.” She squeezes you gently. “I knew that the second I met you.”
You laugh shakily and hug her back. She doesn’t let go.
“The co-ed softball team wants you to try out.” She seems ready to let you go but she stays close as you both scrub your eyes for a moment, then have to take a break to clean up your eyeliner and mascara.
“I’m expelled, actually.” You shrug. She screams in outrage. You half-laugh at the way her voice breaks.
You’ll be okay.
This is perfect.