cherry soda

Your browser lacks required capabilities. Please upgrade it or switch to another to continue.

Loading…

<span class="title">Cherry Soda</span> <span class="author">by <a href="https://greenappleteeth.itch.io" target="_blank">greenappleteeth</a></span>

<<nobr>> <li>[[ID;]]</li> <li>[[OTHERS;]]</li> <li><<link "credits">><<script>> Dialog.setup("Credits"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("credits").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>><</link>></li> <</nobr>>

<<set $chapter to "chapter one">><<if visited() is 1>><<if settings.notifications>><<notify 3s>>Notifications active!<</notify>><</if>><</if>>In accordance with early August weather, it's several degrees past comfortable, air heavy and miserable under a tepid stream of air-conditioner. The state of the cracked blacktop is all too apparent as the bus rumbles, tires taking the full brunt of each pothole. Between the cracks in the sidewalk and the withering rows of saplings lining the road, Kenningston is the same as you when you left it. A memory preserved in unerring detail. A twinge of emotion flares in your chest in time to the whoosh of pneumatic doors, passengers dwindling down for each creak of the hinges. The situation is a mirror image of when you left. You can still remember trailing behind Isolde with a too-big backpack and a rolling suitcase that threatened to fall from your grip with each divot in the sidewalk. Isolde’s face had grown increasingly stormy the longer the both of you waited, glaring at the scratched timetable as if she could find fault within the numbers and letters for the bus being late. The elderly lady to the left of you hacks out a wad of phlegm into a gingham handkerchief and she stares at you, eyebrow raised. “You one of //those?//” It takes you a moment to realize the question is directed towards you. "Excuse me?” She snorts unkindly. “An Alverwaithe.” As she moves in conversationally, you match her, leaning backwards in response. “One of //those//.” In typical Kenningston fashion, her accent is thick, syllables drawn out in a leisurely drawl. You blink at her. //Those// apparently being the colloquial reference to the students of Alverwaithe Academy. In their immaculate Rolls Royce convertibles and Loro Piana knitwear, the children of philanthropists and owners of S&P 500 companies drink themselves into a stupor every weekend and ride a wave of nepotism into a T-20 college. You, with your threadbare socks and scuffed pair of sneakers, an heir to an obscene amount of money? What a joke. “Scholarship,” you say. A distinct difference. She smiles in satisfaction. “I’m never wrong about these things. It’s in y’all’s posture.” The implication of being grouped together in the same category as //those// Alverwaithe students makes you bristle. She brushes over it with a chuckle. “What’s a student like you doin’ on the bus? No drivers to drop you off?” A silent accusation. *[[Obviously, you're a proponent of public transport.|1.12]] *[[You're ignoring her. She's a complete stranger trying to get a rise out of you.|1.13]]

/* define your story variables here */ /* NAME STUFF */ <<set $fname to "What is your first name?">> <<set $lname to "What is your last name?">> /* RYAN RELATIONSHIP */ <<set $ryancrush to false>> <<set $ryanlove to false>> <<set $ryanfriends to false>> <<set $ryanstranger to false>>

/* custom widgets go in here */ <<widget "are">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>are<<case false>>is<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "were">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>were<<case false>>was<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "s">><<switch $plural>><<case true>><<case false>>s<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "es">><<switch $plural>><<case true>><<case false>>es<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "re">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>re<<case false>>s<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "ve">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>ve<<case false>>s<</switch>><</widget>>

You haven't received it yet. <<button "Return" $return>><</button>> /* or <<link "Return" $return>><</link>> */

Nobody yet. <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

[[Sugarcube 2 Documentation|https://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs]] [[OpenDyslexic Font by Abbie Gonzalez|https://opendyslexic.org]] [[Notify Macro by Chapel|https://github.com/ChapelR/custom-macros-for-sugarcube-2]] [[Live Update Macro by Cycy|https://github.com/cyrusfirheir/cycy-wrote-custom-macros]]

Treks through the forest are hard on a normal day; it’s especially unbearable on days like this, days that water down your drinks with melting ice cubes faster than you can blink. Sweat sticking your shirt to your body like a second skin, you stumble, one end of your untied laces caught in the tread of your worn sneaker. When you crouch down to fish it out, your aglet is cracked, peeling from the friction of your steps. The split in the plastic feels like an omen of bad news. “Did you get lost?” Ryan calls from somewhere ahead of you. Her voice floats to you through the gaps between the trees. Even with a sticky white cast of sunscreen coating you and the canopy of leaves above your head, the blazing sun is cooking you to a crisp. “We’re going to miss him if we don’t hurry up!” Fingers fumbling, you try to thread the ends together in a knot you haven’t quite mastered yet. A shadow falls over you. “Let me,” Ryan sighs with the righteous maturity being the elder by a mere year and a half affords her. Her face is hidden, shadowed against the backdrop of the blue sky, dark hair brushing her shoulders in snarls as she double-knots your shoe with ease. "Didn't you learn how to do this?" You shrug. "Don't tell me you forgot," she says, pulling you up as she stands. The skin-on-skin contact makes your bond thrum like a plucked string, something secret and magical about the way the threads of energy hum in resonance. Her palm is sticky from the residual carbonation of the soda she shared with you earlier. “C’mon. He’s going to leave before we get there.” You blink at her. “Who are we looking for?” “Someone that can help,” she says as if that clarifies everything. You almost trip again, dirt crunching beneath your shoes. She snorts at you, guiding you around a bristling patch of leaves. A tumble here would be fatal: the patches of earth are no longer loamy, shot through with roots stones that threaten to scrape your knees and elbows. Tugging on her hand, you persist. “But what does that mean? Are we looking for someone? Isolde said not to talk to strangers.” “Since when did you listen to what your mom tells you?” You frown. “She’s not my mom.” Ryan pokes your forehead. “Yeah, but she’s raising you, right? That makes her your mom.” “No, it doesn’t.” “Yes it does.” Ryan’s exposed skin is lobster red, freckled shoulders peeling from a painful looking sunburn. You’re tempted to point out that going outside without sun protection makes //her// the ignorant one, but you hold it in. “Anyways, we’re almost there.” “But where is //there//?” “There is there,” she responds, irritation creeping into her voice. “Now be quiet. I'm trying to listen.” <span class="next"><<button "Next" "3">><</button>></span>

You jolt upwards, eyes roving as you try to place your surroundings. “You up? It’s the last stop on the bus.” Narrow features swim into your field of vision, and Ryan’s name sits briefly on your tongue before you register the rest of the girl’s face. Wavy hair, dark eyes, and crooked teeth. Your eyes are painfully bleary, and you rub them, adrenaline still racing through your veins. She’s vaguely familiar, but the resemblance is non-existent. A knee-jerk reaction from your sleep-addled brain. “You were kind of twitching for a moment there,” she says, offering you a discerning look. “<<cycle "$cycling" autoselect>> <<option "I'm fine">> <<option "Oh, fuck">> <<option "Don't worry">> <</cycle>>,” you say, face burning in embarrassment. The sun is nearly gone from the sky, streaking clouds with orange and pink. You're not sure how long you were asleep, but you’ve definitely missed your stop. You stand, hamstrings protesting the movement. The left side of your neck is in a painful crick, muscles constricted from your unplanned nap. “Do you know what time it is?” She checks her wristwatch. “Almost eight.” Just your luck. You're late //and// lost. You scrub the heel of your hand over your face, exhaling deeply through your nose. The familiarity of it all stings. You’ve done this once with Ryan, the both of you snoring away, your head tucked into the space between her neck and her shoulder. The girl makes to leave, evidently having finished talking to you. That’s when it clicks. Even with the fading visibility, the name printed on the back of her letterman jacket is readable – RAMIREZ. You've seen her laughing in a Snapchat video, wrapped in fairy lights and attempting to slosh Ryan with the contents of a red solo cup. Out of her school uniform Grace Ramirez looks a little more drawn and tired, expression a little more faded than the pixelated grin and raucous cheering you familiarized yourself with. Her sneakers look new, but the laces are stained, white turned grey under layers of dust and dirt. @grrmiez, one of the people you're to be living with for the next year. *[[Call out to her. It's late, and you could really use her help finding the sharehouse.|6.6]] *[[Don't call out to her. You're tired, and you've had enough interaction for the day. You can find the house on your own. (incomplete)|6.5]]

Something is definitely wrong. The last time she dragged you here was when she had broken a vase and enlisted you to bury it, the two of you scraping out a shallow hole at the base of a poplar, only gnats as a witness. She had sworn you to secrecy, a solemn process carried out over the remains of blue-and-white porcelain. Ryan is pulling you forward with the same single-minded attitude. Dread sinks into your stomach, settling over the remains of an ice-cream float drenched in Cheerwine. You peer at her out of the corner of your eye, a //what’s wrong what are you doing// transferred from your fingertips to hers. She squeezes your hand in response a //trust me don’t you trust me//, before dropping it as she leads you into a tangled thicket, entrance dark and deep enough to consume you whole. “He might've left by now.” Your fingers twitch at the abrupt absence of hers, watching her as she pushes her way through undergrowth at a pace you can’t match. “Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. “We need to catch up.” A silent cry of protest creeps up your throat. You want to go back, back to the safety of the soda fountain and its tiled floors. “But why?” She offers no response, plunging further into the depths without so much as a glance backwards. Panic tugs at you, a primal urge telling you to run away. The crumbling ground. The bare branches. This place feels alive in all the wrong ways, ravenous for something //more//. Hungry. Waiting. “Come back,” you whisper, but she's long gone. <span class="next"><<button "Next" "5">><</button>></span>

You shake your head, and she raises an eyebrow. "Dehydration is a bitch," she warns you, popping open the cap with a practiced twist of her wrist. "So,” she says, taking a swig. “You're from the area?" *[[People normally leave Kenningston, which is exactly what you did. Tell her.|8.1]] *[[She seems nice enough, but you're not spilling your entire life story to her. Be vague.|8.2]] *[[You're going to dodge the question. Don't tell her.|8.3]]

You accept the proffered drink, careful not to brush against her fingers as you take the bottle. The opaque cap twists off with a sharp fizz, and you peer down at the amber-colored liquid. "Iced tea and fresh lemonade," she explains. You take a tentative sip, and grimace. You've forgotten that "fresh lemonade" means using enough sugar to make your teeth ache. "So. You're from the area?" *[[People normally leave Kenningston, which is exactly what you did. Tell her.|8.1]] *[[She seems nice enough, but you're not spilling your entire life story to her. Be vague.|8.2]] *[[You're going to dodge the question. Don't tell her.|8.3]]

"I was here for four years," you say, and she hums in understanding. "I was here until I was ten and then I moved to the West Coast. This is the first time I've been back." "Ah," Grace says. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense. I was wondering why you didn't have that," she gestures. “That vibe to you.” "What vibe?" She raises an eyebrow. "The Kenningston vibe? Y'know? There's not really an in-between when it comes to this place." You do know. Ryan used to speak about it all the time. The special thing about it was that it resembled someone’s //idea// of a town rather than an actual town. Kenningston was best known for its obscenely rich families, philanthropists and industry giants that swept in and set up shop in the area. Massive properties sat neatly in their manicured lawns, marble and concrete, an untouchable monolith of old money. You had never gone near those places. A walk from one end of town to the other told a different story. Empty-eyed and crumbling, a single sliver was dedicated to the culmination of half-assed development that never received enough funding to install anything but fences tipped in barbed wire. Buildings that fell to decay, skeletons of once hopeful mechanics and pizza places shuttering post-2008 economic bubble pop. Nature climbed over gutted homes on the outskirts. Dilapidation and decay hid under verdant fields of grass. Alcoves formed by dried brambles sheltered headstones weathered smooth. That was Kenningston; a ghost of a rural community that slumbered beneath millionaires and their modernist ideals. <span class="next"><<button "Next" "8.5">><</button>></span>

"I live on the West Coast. I haven't been here in a while." "Ah," Grace says. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense. I was wondering why you didn't have that," she gestures. “That vibe to you.” "What vibe?" She raises an eyebrow. "The Kenningston vibe? Y'know? There's not really an in-between when it comes to this place." You do know. Ryan used to speak about it all the time. The special thing about it was that it resembled someone’s //idea// of a town rather than an actual town. Kenningston was best known for its obscenely rich families, philanthropists and industry giants that swept in and set up shop in the area. Massive properties sat neatly in their manicured lawns, marble and concrete, an untouchable monolith of old money. You had never gone near those places. A walk from one end of town to the other told a different story. Empty-eyed and crumbling, a single sliver was dedicated to the culmination of half-assed development that never received enough funding to install anything but fences tipped in barbed wire. Buildings that fell to decay, skeletons of once hopeful mechanics and pizza places shuttering post-2008 economic bubble pop. Nature climbed over gutted homes on the outskirts. Dilapidation and decay hid under verdant fields of grass. Alcoves formed by dried brambles sheltered headstones weathered smooth. That was Kenningston; a ghost of a rural community that slumbered beneath millionaires and their modernist ideals. <span class="next"><<button "Next" "8.5">><</button>></span>

You shrug, looking towards the ground. "As much as anyone is." "You're from the West Coast?" Grace asks. "Yeah." So much for not divulging anything. She hums in understanding. "Yeah, that that makes sense. I was wondering why you didn't have that," she gestures. “That vibe to you.” "What vibe?" She raises an eyebrow. "The Kenningston vibe? Y'know? There's not really an in-between when it comes to this place." You do know. Ryan used to speak about it all the time. The special thing about it was that it resembled someone’s //idea// of a town rather than an actual town. Kenningston was best known for its obscenely rich families, philanthropists and industry giants that swept in and set up shop in the area. Massive properties sat neatly in their manicured lawns, marble and concrete, an untouchable monolith of old money. You had never gone near those places. A walk from one end of town to the other told a different story. Empty-eyed and crumbling, a single sliver was dedicated to the culmination of half-assed development that never received enough funding to install anything but fences tipped in barbed wire. Buildings that fell to decay, skeletons of once hopeful mechanics and pizza places shuttering post-2008 economic bubble pop. Nature climbed over gutted homes on the outskirts. Dilapidation and decay hid under verdant fields of grass. Alcoves formed by dried brambles sheltered headstones weathered smooth. That was Kenningston; a ghost of a rural community that slumbered beneath millionaires and their modernist ideals. <span class="next"><<button "Next" "8.5">><</button>></span>

<<set $statone to 50>><<set $stattwo to 50>>\ !Stats <div class="stat-bar-group"> <div class="stat-bar-container"> <div class="stat-bar-overlay-left">Stat One $statone%</div> <div class="stat-bar-overlay-right">Stat Two $stattwo%</div> <div class="stat-bar" id="statone-stat"></div> </div></div>\ Make sure to tag the stats page (& any similar pages) with 'noreturn' and include a return link like the one below to avoid an infinite loop! <<button "Return" $return>><</button>> /* or <<link "Return" $return>><</link>> */

Another page to do whatever you want with! I really just wanted another page to fill out the footer menu<3 ---- !Heading 1 !!Heading 2 !!!Heading 3 <<cycle "$cycling" autoselect>> <<option "Cycling link 1">> <<option "Cycling link 2">> <<option "Cycling link 3">> <</cycle>> <<textbox "$textbox" "Type here...">><<button "Submit">><</button>> * List item 1 * List item 2 * List item 3 <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

"Got it." She holds her hand out. You stare at it. Oddly formal for someone her age. "I'm Grace." Her nails are bitten down to the quick, a smudge of ink coloring flap of skin between her thumb and index finger purple. “Ramirez,” she amends. “Grace Ramirez. I look forward to spending the year with you.” "$fname $lname. Me too.” You clasp her hand, but you jerk in surprise. Something between the two of you //sparks.// <span class="next"><<button "It hurts." "grd.1">><</button>></span>

<div align='center' style='font-size: 150%;'>\ <<type 100ms>>Seven years ago.<</type>> \ </div> <span class="next"><<button "Next" "2">><</button>></span>

"Sure. Where to?" She rolls her head, popping a joint. "I'll drive you there, it's not that far." <div align='center' style='font-size: 90%;'>\ This is the end of the current demo! Save on this page to return here next time.\ </div>

The rejection sits on the tip of your tongue. You're tired. You want nothing more than to shower and then crash. Before you can say anything though, you feel someone lean on your shoulder, an incorporeal existence that feels almost tangible. //First impressions matter,// Ryan laughs, voice staticky. //Don't fuck this up.// You bite your feelings back. It doesn't matter want to do when you're here for her. "Is it far?" She rolls her head, popping a joint. "Nope. I'll drive you there, it's only two or three minutes from here." <div align='center' style='font-size: 90%;'>\ This is the end of the current demo! Save on this page to return here next time.\ </div>

Isolde hadn't understood your need to return. She never //had// managed to understand, spending more time dissecting clipboards full of data in sterilized labs than she did talking to you. You had tried to bridge the gap when she first took you home and heated up a plateful of takeout, asking questions about her favorite colors and ice cream flavors. Her turn came when she took you shopping for bedsheets and let you pick out a set you liked. The both of you had tried when she taught you how to strike a match without burning your fingers, but in the end, her grief won out over her desire to connect. She couldn’t shake the painful reminder of the friends she had lost, the traces of your parents evident in your bone structure and the way you smiled. Even before something //other// settled into your bones and made a home out of you, she’d come to the decision to shut you out. A door to the face of what the two of you could’ve been. What the two of you never were. <span class="next"><<button "next" "1.21">><</button>></span>

<<set $ryanstranger to true>>The last time you spoke to Ryan was half a year ago. At the beginning of January, she had dialed you at three in the morning, laying out in no uncertain terms that she had nearly figured out how to break the curse between the two of you. You were surprised. Neither of you talked with any frequency. Ryan hadn’t changed. She was as eloquent as ever, breaking down things bit by bit. She didn’t need much from you, just the promise that you wouldn’t try to contact her again until she figured things out. That had given you pause, but ultimately it wasn’t anything different from what the two of you normally did. A promise that she'd stay in touch. You hadn't given it much thought at first. But you sensed it, little pinpricks the longer time went by, like she was pulling on your connection from afar. You kept the promise, no matter how much your mind kept returning to the conversation. What had she meant? What was she doing? She kept a lot of things from you. You never knew the full extent of what she sensed and what she could do, but you assumed it was something like you. The threads and tethers of something otherworldly that extended between the two of you became weaker with distance, enough to make you forget with increasing frequency. She left you behind, just like you had left her. You had felt her death before they broke the news to you, before anyone even chanced upon her body. Possibly before she even took her last breath. The connection tore with such violence, you fell to your knees and screamed, scrabbling at your chest for air. The memory of crumbling ruins, choked with hungry vines and rusted iron springs up unbidden in your mind, and you squeeze your eyes shut. //Ryan. Ryan, what were you doing?// Things would’ve been different if you had tried to be there for her. If she hadn’t forgotten, why had you? If you stayed in contact with her, if you had tried to help her, would she still be alive? Guilt forms a noose around your neck. <span class="next"><<button "You don't know." "10">><</button>></span>

<<set $ryancrush to true>>The last time you spoke to Ryan was half a year ago. At the beginning of January, she had dialed you at three in the morning, laying out in no uncertain terms that she had nearly figured out how to break the curse between the two of you. Your heart had jolted. You’d scrambled to make sense of what she was saying. The call went on for nearly thirteen minutes, mostly because you kept trying to extend the conversation by cajoling details out of her. She had been as she always was. Low voice, teasing comments, and evasive answers that made you both fond and exasperated. Then, nothing. Radio silence on her end. You had been confused. And then worried. And then confused //and// worried. Then your tangle of emotions turned into fear, and fear turned into desperation. A never-ending slope you hurtled down until your emotions came to a screeching halt. Ryan kept a lot of things from you. You may have known that she failed her calculus exam, but you never knew the full extent of what she sensed and what she could do. You //did// know that being closer to her just made everything feel more normal. More manageable. The threads and tethers of something otherworldly that extended between the two of you became weaker with distance, but you would sometimes tug on your connection, a silent question of //are you there// and the response of //here i am//, a two-step that only the both of you knew. Maybe that’s why you felt it immediately. Her death hadn’t been slow. You felt the connection yank, going taut before it snapped with such violence, you thought your heart had stopped. (And maybe it had actually stopped that day. You’re still not sure if you’re alive.) //what were you doing there? what were you looking for?// <span class="next"><<button "Nothing." "10">><</button>></span>

<<set $ryanfriends to true>>The last time you spoke to Ryan was half a year ago. At the beginning of January, she had dialed you at three in the morning, laying out in no uncertain terms that she had nearly figured out how to break the curse between the two of you. You had called her an idiot, and she had retaliated by calling you stubborn. The two of you went on like that for another minute, and you had felt like Isolde in that moment, clinging to what you knew out of fear of the unknown. Ryan had been as she always was. To-the-point and unflinching. She evaded your questions in a way that made you roll your eyes hard enough for her to start protesting. Ultimately, she had assured you she knew what she was doing. Then, nothing. Radio silence on her end. You had been confused. And then worried. And then confused //and// worried. Then your tangle of emotions turned into fear, and fear turned into desperation. It was a never-ending slope, snowballing down until it all spilled from you in a rush. The memory of crumbling ruins, choked with hungry vines and rusted iron springs up unbidden, and you resist the urge to flinch. Ryan kept a lot of things from you. You never knew the full extent of what she sensed and what she could do, but you assumed it was something like you. The threads and tethers of something otherworldly that extended between the two of you became weaker with distance, but you would sometimes tug on your connection, an exchange of //don't be dumb// and //right back at you// that was laced with an undercurrent of exasperation. You felt her death before they broke the news to you, long before anyone even chanced upon her body. Possibly before she even took her last breath. The connection went slowly, stretching, extending, and fraying bit by bit. Each thread falling apart was a fresh wound, but the moment you felt it truly sever, the pain was enough to bring you to your knees. //What were you doing?// <span class="next"><<button "next" "10">><</button>></span>

<<set $ryanlove to true>>The last time you spoke to Ryan was half a year ago. At the beginning of January, she had dialed you at three in the morning, words spilling out in a rush as she explained in no uncertain terms that she had nearly figured out how to break the curse between the two of you. You had felt the argument bubble out from you almost instinctively. Had she felt it? Maybe it was selfishness that drove you to clutch on to her, but severing the bond was the last thing you wanted. Not after she had refused to let you visit her. A different excuse each time. She was too busy, or she made different plans, or she was going somewhere on holiday, winter break stretching summer break as you sat there waiting for her to remember you. She ended the call angry. You had been angry too. It stung at first. Within a week your anger turned to apologies, which turned into phone calls, which turned into texts that grew increasingly longer. When those went unanswered too, you scrambled for your connection in an ungainly tangle, pulling, pulling, and pulling. Penitence into desperation, desperation into fear. Now you're here thinking about lost chances, rote repetition transformed into muscle memory as you loop videos of Ryan saved to your camera roll. She kept a lot of things from you. You may have known that she liked late-night walks and she fell asleep during World History, but she never told you about the full extent of what she sensed and what she could do. Maybe she was like you. Maybe she wasn’t. The constant was that being closer to her just made everything feel //right//. Like two puzzle pieces slotting together. The threads and tethers of something otherworldly that extended between the two of you became weaker with distance, but you always felt them there, her heartbeat layered over your own. You knew immediately when it happened. The dual-drumbeat halted, and bit by bit, piece by piece, you felt each of the bonds tear apart with such violence you dropped to your knees and screamed until you lost your voice. It was a while before waking up and remembering it didn't feel like your ribs would shatter under the weight of your loss. The memory of crumbling ruins, choked with hungry vines and rusted iron springs up unbidden in your mind, and you feel the hollow pulse in the cavity of your chest. //i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry// falling through a disconnected line. Bitter regret fills your mouth. //what were you doing? what did you want?// You’ve turned it over thousands of times in your mind, wishing in vain you could have said something different. Anything. <span class="next"><<button "next" "10">><</button>></span>

<<if $ryancrush>>You liked her. <<elseif $ryanlove>>You don't want to think about it. <<elseif $ryanfriends>>She was a friend. <<elseif $ryanstrangers>>She was a stranger <<else>> Error. <<endif>>

Actually, if you give it more thought, "never gone near" might as well be the summary of your time in Kenningston. Thayer House? Nope. St. Ignatius? Ha. Alverwaithe? Funny. (The irony of the uniform in your suitcase, pressed sweater and hand-stitched emblem, isn't lost on you.) "We should probably get going," she says. You give her a half-hearted nod. Grace doesn’t meet your eyes as she starts to walk. The entire exchange between the two of you feels stilted, the same polite obligation you carry out when greeting coworkers at a part-time job after a long weekend. You give her a half-hearted nod. If she feels a fraction as awkward as you do though, she's not showing it. From the curt DMs you exchanged, you were prepared to meet someone far more terse, but putting aside the negative feelings, she seems more blunt than anything else. But that //bond.// You still feel the pulse of adrenaline running through you. How the hell do you even bring it up? Do you do it over dinner? Do you ask her right now? She halts and looks over her shoulder. “Need help with your stuff?” Your train of thought derails. *[[Give her your backpack to carry. You'll carry your suitcase.|8.8]] *[[Don't let her help. You don't need it.|8.9]]

<<set $ryancrush to false>> <<set $ryanlove to false>> <<set $ryanfriends to false>> <<set $ryanstranger to false>>You give her your backpack, and she threads an arm through a strap, letting it dangle. You used to be able to count the things you know about Grace on one hand, gleaned through social media posts. From the unwarranted trespass, you can now see fragments of her memories. Invasive. Your memories and hers, feelings bleeding into yours, the boundary turning blurry. She’s on the lacrosse team, she still hasn’t finished her summer reading assignments, and she liked Ryan. Like feels too small, too insignificant a word, but Grace had shied away from labels in her mind. The two of them were close. Close enough for you to feel the remnant of her feelings, clinging to recollections. You have to dig your nails into your palm and will yourself to forget what you just saw. You are not her. To you Ryan was... *[[A crush. Not that it went anywhere.|9.1]] *[[A friend. Nothing less, nothing more.|9.2]] *[[A glorified stranger. The two of you hardly talked.|9.3]] *[[Something more than a friend. Something more than a crush.|9.4]]

<<set $ryancrush to false>> <<set $ryanlove to false>> <<set $ryanfriends to false>> <<set $ryanstranger to false>>You shake your head. "I'm fine." "Suit yourself." You used to be able to count the things you know about Grace on one hand, gleaned through social media posts. From the unwarranted trespass, you can now see fragments of her memories. Invasive. Your memories and hers, feelings bleeding into yours, the boundary turning blurry. She’s on the lacrosse team, she still hasn’t finished her summer reading assignments, and she liked Ryan. Like feels too small, too insignificant a word, but Grace had shied away from labels in her mind. The two of them were close. Close enough for you to feel the remnant of her feelings, clinging to recollections. You have to dig your nails into your palm and will yourself to forget what you just saw. You are not her. To you Ryan was... *[[A crush. Not that it went anywhere.|9.1]] *[[A friend. Nothing less, nothing more.|9.2]] *[[A glorified stranger. The two of you hardly talked.|9.3]] *[[Something more than a friend. Something more than a crush.|9.4]]

“The Lamborghini broke down. So I'm taking the bus." The woman is completely unfazed by your tart tone, letting loose a raspy laugh. “Family trouble?” Evidently she's still stuck on trying to humiliate you. Before you can retort, your phone buzzes. The notification bar reveals a reminder from a game you forgot to delete, but no messages from @grrmiez. You swipe past your lock screen, eager to distract yourself before you get thrown off the bus for swearing at somebody’s nosy grandmother. Flicking through apps, you rest your wrist on top of your suitcase. You feel disconnected from your thumb as you mechanically scroll through your social media feed, seeing but not processing. A repost of a meme. A group posing at the end of an outing. A close up of something marble and carved. A thread of beach photos. Food photography from someone you don’t remember following. A picture from a clipping of newspaper, obituary section circled in red pen. //Nineteen-year old Ryan Carter is survived by–// You turn your phone off. The pointed comments and your flaring temper has made you exhausted. Head lolling back onto the vinyl of the seat, you close your eyes, teeth gritting. The cheap plastic sticks to your skin, heat-haze of summer turning the material tacky. The heat is lulling you into a nostalgic sense of lethargy, settling into your bones and gluing you down. A six hour flight, two hour bus ride, and you’re all the way back where it started. What was the last thing you said to Isolde before you left? You can’t remember. You can only remember that the house was quiet when you closed the door behind you. <span class="next"><<button "next" "1.2">><</button>></span>

You turn to face the window, and ignore the offended gasp she lets loose. “Well, I never," she says. The pane is grimy, but from your vantage point you can see glimpses of chain-link fences pressed too close to homes, and stubborn weeds peering from storm drains. A far cry from verdant fields and golden sunshine, the ground is overgrown and hungry, trampled mercilessly as the bus rattles onwards. Your phone buzzes. The notification bar reveals a reminder from a game you forgot to delete, but no messages from @grrmiez. You swipe past your lock screen, eager to distract yourself before you get thrown off the bus for swearing at somebody’s nosy grandmother. Flicking through apps, you rest your wrist on top of your suitcase. You feel disconnected from your thumb as you mechanically scroll through your social media feed, seeing but not processing. A repost of a meme. A group posing at the end of an outing. A close up of something marble and carved. A thread of beach photos. Food photography from someone you don’t remember following. A picture from a clipping of newspaper, obituary section circled in red pen. //Nineteen-year old Ryan Carter is survived by–// You turn your phone off. Pointed comments aside, you’re exhausted. Head lolling back onto the vinyl of the seat, you close your eyes, blocking her out entirely. The cheap plastic sticks to your skin, heat-haze of summer turning the material tacky. The heat is lulling you into a nostalgic sense of lethargy, settling into your bones and gluing you down. A six hour flight, two hour bus ride, and you’re all the way back where it started. What was the last thing you said to Isolde before you left? You can’t remember. You can only remember that the house was quiet when you closed the door behind you. <span class="next"><<button "next" "1.2">><</button>></span>

<div align='center' style='font-size: 90%;'>\ This path is incomplete! Save on this page to return here on the next update. If you would like to continue playing the available game, click "Next" and it will direct you to Grace's route.\ </div> <span class="next"><<button "Next" "6.6">><</button>></span>

<<set $chapter to "chapter one">><<if visited() is 1>><<if settings.notifications>><<notify 3s>>You chose to go after Grace.<</notify>><</if>><</if>>You scramble to gather your belongings, rushing after her. "Grace?" You call. She turns, hands jammed in her pockets. "Yeah?” "I'm the new tenant.” She squints at you for a moment, recognition flitting across her face. "Oh." A strained moment of silence stretches between the both of you. After some hesitation, she gives you a brusque nod. "Nice to meet you," she says, though her expression says the opposite. The cicadas buzz. You give her a hesitant nod back. "Yeah, same. I'm..." <<textbox "$fname" $fname>> \ <<button "Enter">> <<set $fname to $fname.trim()>> <<if $fname is "">> <<replace "#name-error">>Please enter a first name!<</replace>> <<else>> <<goto "6.7">> <</if>> <</button>>    \ <span id="name-error"></span>

"I'll come with," you say. She doesn't look annoyed by your decision. Rather, she looks pleased, and you barely hold yourself back from blurting out the questions on the tip of your tongue. //What were you to Ryan? How can you be like us – me?// Tension extends between the two of you, but Grace slices it in half by zipping open her bag. She fishes out an opaque glass bottle, drips of condensation still on it. “Drink it," she says, holding it out. "I haven't opened it yet.” The liquid sloshes around the inside. "It’s not good to fall asleep in the heat.” *[[Take the drink.|7.1]] *[[Don't take the drink.|7.2]]

Grace's shadow stretches across the ground. <<if $ryancrush>>You feel a spike of emotion lance through you. Where //was// she during all of this? Hadn't she cared enough to step in? <<elseif $ryanlove>>You feel a spike of emotion lance through you. Where //was// she during all of this? Hadn't she tried to stop Ryan? <<elseif $ryanstranger>>You feel a spike of emotion lance through you. Where //was// she during all of this? Hadn't she tried to talk to Ryan? <<endif>>Someone leans on your shoulder, an incorporeal existence that feels almost tangible. //They're all really nice,// Ryan laughs in your memories, voice staticky and slightly muffled. //Loosen up. They'll love you.// It doesn't matter how you feel. You’re fine. <<if $ryanlove>>You just have to keep telling yourself it's fine. Because in the end, your feelings are misplaced: there’s nobody to blame but yourself.<<elseif $ryancrush>>You just have to keep telling yourself it's fine.<<elseif $ryanfriend>>You just have to keep telling yourself it's fine. You’ll get to the bottom of it.<<elseif $ryanstranger>>You just have to keep telling yourself it's fine. Because in the end, you’re just as complicit.<<endif>> <div align='center' style='font-size: 90%;'>\ This is the end of the current demo! Save on this page to return here next time. You can find me at <span class="blog"><a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cherrysoda-if" target="_blank">my blog</a></span> for more information about the game and what to expect in the future. \ </div>

<<textbox "$lname" $lname>> \ <<button "Enter">> <<set $lname to $lname.trim()>> <<if $lname is "">> <<replace "#lname-error">>Please enter a last name!<</replace>> <<else>> <<goto "gracedinner">> <</if>> <</button>>    \ <span id="name-error"></span>

The connection hums between the two of you, and the barrier between your skin and hers falls away with a snapping motion that makes you flinch. You //(not you)// are so full of grief, it threatens to overtake you, permeating your //(not yours, not yours, this isn't you)// inhales and exhales. A pressure to your mouth //(not your mouth, not yours, what's happening)// tinged with the iron tang of blood, and something bitter you think might be alcohol. Laughter. Laughter and a name. Something soft, whispered over a book, written onto Post-Its, and carved into a bench. //Ryan.// And then hatred? Not hatred. Envy rears its head towards you, snarling, digging claws into your chest //(not yours, get out get out get out get outgetoutgetout)// You drop her hand as if you've just been scalded. Grace shows no sign having noticed the surge of fractured memories, head tilted and expression placid. You attempt to swallow, throat bobbing futilely. Your stomach has dropped somewhere around your ankles. Ryan. She’s like Ryan, but not like her at the same time. You felt it, the envy directed towards your connection with Ryan, an undercurrent of feelings spilling out and all the implications it brings. The connection is achingly close to what you remember, but the invasive push is nothing like what you knew before. Wrong, wrong, wrong. All wrong. //Who are you?// “How far is the place?” You ask instead. Grace shrugs. “It’s not that far, but I was going to get dinner before I headed back. I can call one of the other guys to pick you up? I doubt you want to walk with all that luggage.” As if on cue, your stomach rumbles. She gives you a wry look. "Or you can come with me." *[[You're starving, propriety and luggage be damned. You’re going to get something to eat, and maybe you can figure out what just happened between the two of you.|7.05]] *[[You still feel sick from the brunt of what just happened. Forget asking Grace to direct you to the home. You're going to walk. (incomplete)|meetezra]] *[[You’re not going to deal with this right now. If Grace is like you, that’s the last thing you want. It’ll be easier to get someone to drive you. (incomplete)|nickdrive]]

So you first brought the idea up to Isolde, she had floundered for words, anger winning out over confusion by a tiny margin. “Why,” she had said, intonation so flat the question was practically rhetorical. “Why are you doing this now?” You had only stared at her, toes curling into the plush of her room’s carpet. Her arguments were logical. You would find it harder to work on your college applications. You wouldn’t get good recommendations from your teachers. You would be throwing your life away. The last one sounded more like a plea than the others, but you knew Isolde didn’t care enough to outright tell you not to leave. You’d known you’d won when she said “I can’t go with you,” and you responded, “Then send me alone.” Like the transfer form between her fingers, her face had crumpled, the fight draining from her as fast as it came. She had agreed the next morning. After leaving Kenningston, the two treated the events like a contamination site. Out of sight, out of mind. The scar that bisected the length of your arm was from a nasty tumble. When you flinched at shadows, that was just a byproduct of a childish fear. At first, she had given you platitudes. And then she gave you sick days from school. When that didn't work, it was an introduction to a therapist, those visits bleeding into trips to the psychiatrist. When that didn't change things, Isolde was the one who stopped. You... <<cycle "$cycling" autoselect>> <<option "blamed her. Neither of you had a say in the matter, but she could've taken you seriously. She could've tried to help.">> <<option "didn't blame her. Isolde had a life of her own, one she had painstakingly built up over the years. As much as it stings to admit it, you were an unplanned disturbance.">> <<option "didn't know how to feel. You knew Isolde didn't sign up for all your baggage when she took you in, but deep down, you still felt like she was partially responsible.">> <</cycle>> She ignored you and your problems with a fervor so intense, it was an act of devotion when she turned and bowed her head when you woke up screaming and clawing at your arms. With all the surgical precision of a transplant, she stitched scraps of new life over the unseemly parts of you so she could pretend you were normal. That everything was okay. Letting go of you was a final benediction. <span class="next"><<button "close your eyes" "1.5">><</button>></span>

<div align='center' style='font-size: 90%;'>\ //Cherry Soda// is an in-progress interactive fiction novel about loss, relationships, and the meaning of destiny.\ </div> *[[Click here for a list of content warnings.|tw]] *[[Click here to start the game.|1]]

!CONTENT WARNINGS Below is a list of content warnings for the current demo of //Cherry Soda//. Please read through and play the game at your best discretion. The current list applies only to the content in the current demo, and will be updated with each addition to content in the future. Feel free to contact me at <span class="blog"><a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cherrysoda-if" target="_blank">my blog</a></span> if you feel I have missed something. Death Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking Implied/Referenced Trauma <span class="next"><<button "START." "1">><</button>></span>