[Each chapter of Octagon corresponds to a song that inspired the shape of the character arc and/or story arc. You can listen to each chapter's "song" to gain further insight into the world-building of Gossamer Loom and the people who live there. I definitely had fun listening to these songs while I was writing the novel. Chapter 3's "Formation Song" is "Back to Black" by Amy Winehouse.]

Pam's, located in town square, was the only restaurant in Gossamer Loom, and it was as much a part of the town as the square itself. The building was small, with a cherry red door and a hand-painted sign that swung gently in the breeze. Inside, the walls were lined with photographs of the town in days-gone-by, and the smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meat filled the air. Pam herself was a fixture in the town, a woman of indeterminate age with a warm smile and a way of making everyone feel at home. The food at Pam's was simple but hearty, the kind of fare that stuck to your ribs and made you feel warm from the inside out. There were locals who had been coming to Pam's for decades, and Ivy could name most of them off the top of her head.

Ivy had worked at Pam's since she was a teenager, a part-time gig that had turned full-time after she dropped out of college. She didn't regret it. College had been a mistake, and Gossamer Loom was her home, for better or worse.

She stood behind the counter, wiping down the same spot she'd cleaned twice already. The rag was damp, her fingers sticky with old grease and coffee stains. But she didn't mind the grime so much—it was part of the job. Another normal night.

Except for one thing. There was a dramatic update in the goings on of the Gossamer Loom pre-teenagers. And Ivy was floored:

Josiah Loomridge sat in a booth near the window with Leslie Johnson, of all people, sharing a milkshake with her.

That wasn't normal. Not even close.

Usually, Ivy saw Josiah in here with Emily Hadley. Ivy knew all about Emily. Emily was a little asshole who put others down to make herself feel better—all shitty little smiles in front of adults and cruel words behind their backs. She had a special place in Ivy's mind—right inside the cabinet of people Ivy would like to see brutalized.

But that was bad. Emily was a little girl! Ivy reminded herself that she needed to stop thinking violent thoughts about people under the age of 16.

Emily wasn't here tonight, anyway.

Leslie was.

Ivy watched them out of the corner of her eye, pretending to polish the counter but paying attention to every little movement. Leslie looked uncomfortable, like she wasn't sure if she should even be there. Her shoulders were hunched, her fingers fidgeting with the straw wrapper, and she didn't make much eye contact. Josiah, though... Josiah looked different. Softer. Almost like a weight had been lifted from him, but he hadn't quite figured out why yet.

Ivy turned away from the booth, her hand tightening around the washcloth. Josiah needs to get the hell out of that thing with Emily. She had seen enough toxic shit in her life to know when a boy was trapped, and Josiah was too young to be stuck with a little demon like Emily. She had overheard the way Emily manipulated him, dragging him around like he was her ken doll. She knew what that did to someone, how it tore at them slowly, making them believe they couldn't leave even if they wanted to.

He's only thirteen years old...

But that wasn't Ivy's business. That voice, the one that always told her to keep her head down, to not get involved, suddenly came swooping back in. She heard that voice ringing in her ears whenever she felt that itch to speak up, to push back. She'd had enough close calls in this town. She was one of the only black women in Gossamer Loom, and the last thing she needed was to give all the old white people more reason to see her as a troublemaker. And Emily and Josiah came from those old white families... the kind that made it clear to Ivy with their glances and their tones just how they saw her...

But dammit, she couldn't just stand here and do nothing. Not when she knew Emily was bad for him. Ivy tossed the rag aside, ignoring the small, rational part of her brain telling her to stay out of it. She didn't owe these kids anything, but there was something about Josiah and Leslie that made her want to help. Maybe it was that dream she'd had about Leslie. Or maybe it was just that she was sick of watching Emily play people like Sims.

The bell above the door chimed, and Ivy turned just in time to see Mrs. Penfield enter... and take a whole booth for herself...

Typical. And she always stiffs, too. Mrs. Penfield had lived the kind of glamorous life during which you don't get to know enough servers to realize how much of their income is the tip. The old type who thought tips are just gravy, never having bothered to look into how the pay scale is actually set up in the service industry.

But, now it was Mrs. Penfield, Josiah and Leslie, and the two regulars in the back who never talked. The rest of the evening crowd had shuffled home. The diner was winding down, and Ivy was grateful for the quiet. It made what she was about to do easier.

She grabbed a coffee pot and headed over to Josiah and Leslie's booth.

"You guys good over here?" Ivy asked, forcing a casual smile. Her gaze flickered between them, noticing the way Josiah looked up at her, startled. Leslie's eyes were wide too, but there was something else there, something cautious.

"Yeah, thanks," Josiah muttered, though his mug was still full. His fingers trembled just a little as he gripped the handle.

"Milkshake still good?" Ivy asked, though she clearly didn't give a shit about that. She was giving herself an excuse to linger, to get a closer look at the situation.

Leslie nodded. She was watching Ivy closely, like she could sense the undercurrent beneath the simple offer of refills.

"I've seen you in here a lot, Josiah," Ivy said, her voice lowering just enough to make it clear she wasn't just making small talk. "Usually with... other company."

Josiah tensed, his fingers tightening around the mug. He didn't respond, just looked down at the table. Leslie glanced between them, the silence thickening around the booth.

Come on, kid. Say something.

"I—uh, yeah," Josiah stammered, his voice strained. "I guess I've been here a lot."

Ivy nodded slowly, letting the pause stretch just long enough to get her point across. "You know, it's nice seeing you with someone who doesn't treat you like shit."

The words hung in the air, sharp and unfiltered. Leslie's mouth hung agape with smiling eyes. Josiah's face went red, his gaze flicking up to meet Ivy's. For a second, he looked like he might protest, might defend Emily out of reflex. But then he slumped back into the booth, defeated.

"She's... complicated," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"She's poison," Ivy corrected, not bothering to soften the truth. She crossed her arms, leaning against the booth. "And you've been drinking it for way too long."

Josiah's jaw tightened, his eyes shifting to Leslie for a moment before darting away again.

"I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life," Ivy continued, her tone firm but not unkind. "But if you keep letting Emily do what she does, it's going to break you. Trust me, I've seen it happen before."

He didn't answer, but Ivy could see the weight of her words settling on him, sinking into his skin like cold rain. She gave him a small nod, stepping away from the booth to give them space. Had she been too hard on him? Crap. He was such a good kid. She didn't want to be a bully, he probably got enough of that on a daily basis from Emily. Ivy was about to descend into a guilt spiral when a familiar voice behind her pulled her attention away.

"Hey, Ivy."

Mrs. Penfield.

"Evening. Coffee?"

Mrs. Penfield beamed, folding her napkin neatly. "Oh, yes, thank you. I've been dying for a cup all day."

Ivy poured the coffee, already sensing where this conversation was going. Mrs. Penfield had that look—the one that meant she was about to launch into political shit Ivy didn't have the energy for.

Sure enough, she started in without skipping a beat. "You know, Ivy, I was reading the paper today, and it's just so inspiring to see so many people of color running for local government this year. It's about time, right?"

Ivy snort laughed, a bit too loudly. Free comedy? At work? She'd heard Mrs. Penfield say racist shit for years when she thought Ivy couldn't hear her. Even last week. The old woman was a hypocrite.

"Yeah, diversity is good..." Ivy said, trying to wipe the mischevious grin off her face - not that Mrs. Penfield would notice anything Ivy said or did over the sound of her own benevolence. Ivy challenged herself to be as mature as possible. Even though she was tired and moodier than usual...

"After the Obamas, I thought we'd see more of this kind of thing sooner," Mrs. Penfield continued. "Better late than never, though... We really do need more diversity in politics. It's so refreshing!"

Ivy stifled a groan. Fuck. No, Mrs. P! Really? Zero to basic so fast she could break the fucking sound barrier. She'd even thrown in the Obamas for bonus "ally points!" Suddenly, Ivy found herself at a crossroads: on the one hand, trolling Mrs. Penfield would make her feel better, but did she really want the bad karma? She decided to bite her tongue.

"Mhm," Ivy squeaked.

"They changed everything, you know... those Obamas..."

RESIST THE URGE TO TROLL! RESIST THE URGE TO TROLL!

"I miss them..." Mrs. Penfield sighed performatively, like it was the series finale of Lassie.

It actually took Ivy a second to register that she was still referring to the Obamas. She gasped before transmuting her laughter into a fake cough. This was too good. Ivy couldn't resist anymore. Her grip on the coffee pot tightened, but she kept her expression neutral.

"You're telling me... before I saw Barack and Michelle and... their... you know... girls... representing people like me... I didn't even know I was black!"

Usually, comments like this disarmed women like Mrs. Penfield. But remarkably, she took this at face value. "Exactly! They really paved the way!"

Ivy nodded, that evil grin just barely sneaking its way back into the exchange. "Yup. Before them, I thought being black was... you know... I don't even remember what I thought about it!" Ivy chuckled, aware she was growing unhinged.

Mrs. Penfield laughed along nervously, clearly trying to hide the fact that she didn't know what was happening. "I know, right? Thank God we've come so far!"

Ivy leaned on the table casually, as if opening up. "It's true. Sometimes I forget I'm Black altogether. But you know how that is."

Mrs. Penfield blinked, confused for a moment. Ivy could have sworn she even caught her glancing down at her arm for a moment to make sure she was still white. "I... but, well..."

Ivy suppressed a smirk, pouring herself her own cup of coffee to keep from saying anything she'd have to actually, profoundly feel guilty about later. "Well, let me know if you need anything else, Mrs. Penfield."

As she walked away, she was glowing with pride.

But then she could feel her pulse racing, her hands shaking slightly... She was having a panic attack. 

Is Ivy safe? Why the panic attack? Read part two to find out...