FICTION
MARGARET COLLINS
THE MOLLY PROBLEM
Molly Marlene was, in a word, wrong.
Not in the way that a smudged equation on a chalkboard was wrong, or the way a pair of mismatched socks was wrong. No, Molly was existentially wrong—the kind that sets your teeth on edge and makes your stomach churn with a vague, unplaceable irritation.
Everything about her seemed designed to rub me the wrong way. The way she spoke was all airy and lilting, as if she were singing a song that nobody else could hear. The way she dressed was always slightly off—skirts that were just a fraction too swishy, sweaters that were so soft it was as if she was wrapped in perpetual coziness. Even the way she walked, with that deliberate slowness, was like she was gliding on air while I had to trudge through the mud.
It wasn’t that Molly was mean—in fact, I would’ve preferred her that way. If she was cunning, cruel, or obviously malicious, I could have called her what she was: an enemy. But, everyone else adored her, and they had long since decided that likability was more important than the truth.
“She’s just so lovely,” they’d say, eyes going soft.
I wanted to shake some sense into them. Lovely? Molly Marlene was infuriating. She was the human equivalent of a song stuck in your head—a song you never liked in the first place, but somehow everyone else knew all the words and sang along without hesitation.
I watched her from across the library one afternoon. As if the universe had conspired to make her glow, Molly was in the sunniest spot, a group of maybe ten people around her in a semicircle. She was smiling at some boy beside her—Spencer Somethingson—and the whole group leaned forward, hanging onto her every word.
I couldn’t hear her, but I could feel it—the soft, airy way she spoke, like a feather drifting down, just out of reach. People filled in the spaces between her words with whatever they wanted to hear. That was the trick, wasn’t it? Molly never said anything real. She just was, and somehow, that was enough.
I turned back to my book, rubbing at my eyes when the words bled together like watercolour.
***
It wasn’t just the way people spoke about her. It was the way they changed around her. Even the most cynical, the ones who prided themselves on being above it all, softened in her presence. Professors gave her knowing smiles, as if she were their favourite student, though she never seemed to do anything exceptional in class. Strangers struck up conversation with her, drawn by some invisible force. The stray cat that lurked around residence, notorious for hissing and clawing at anyone who looked at it wrong, had once curled up at her feet.
Molly Marlene was a magnet, and for some reason, I wasn’t attracted to her.
***
I remember the exact moment I realized something was really wrong with her.
It was early. I was working on a group project by myself. Everyone else wanted Molly to look over their work, to make sure they were doing it correctly, to maybe give them a compliment if they were lucky. She had a way of making herself central to everything without doing much. A suggestion here, an encouraging smile there—and suddenly, everyone was working for her.
I had just pulled out my pencil case when I noticed her across the room. She wasn’t alone.
A girl I didn’t recognize stood with her, looking dazed. Molly touched her shoulder lightly, tilting her head in that knowing way she always did. The girl nodded along, her face slack, as if she were listening to something just below the range of human hearing.
I held my breath. The air felt thick. It was the kind of silence that hummed.
The girl blinked rapidly, shook her head, then walked away without a second glance at Molly.
Molly turned, then—too fast. She saw me, and she smiled.
It wasn’t the light, effortless smile she gave everyone else. This was something else, something sharp, like she had knives for teeth.
I felt an odd pressure in my skull, like the moment before a headache blooms. My stomach twisted. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it vanished.
Molly’s expression softened, her head tilting as if she were confused. As if I was the strange one.
“Are you okay?” she asked, in that maddeningly gentle voice.
I swallowed. Nodded. Packed up my things and left without another word.
***
I couldn’t let it go.
The problem with Molly Marlene was that she didn’t make sense. And things that don’t make sense bother me. They itch at the edges of my mind until I can’t think about anything else.
So, one night, I decided to confront her.
She was alone—which was rare—and sitting on a bench in the courtyard, bathed in the orange glow of a streetlamp. When she saw me approach, she didn’t look surprised.
I stopped in front of her. Took a breath. Then, I popped the question.
“What are you?”
Molly blinked. Then, she laughed. It was a small, knowing thing, as if I’d asked the wrong question entirely. “That’s not really what you mean, is it?” she said. It was more of a statement than a question.
“No one else sees it. But I do.” My voice was tighter than I intended.
She tilted her head, considering me, her eyes catching the light in a way that made them seem too bright, too deep, too knowing.
“Do you really want to know?”
Yes.
No.
I swallowed. Molly smiled. My stomach dropped as I realized I was standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable.
“Get some rest,” she said simply, her fingers ghosting my arm.
One moment, I knew for certain there was something terribly wrong with Molly Marlene.
The next, she was just Molly. Lovely, perfect Molly. And she was smiling, so I smiled, too.
Because, really—what was the problem?
Margaret Collins (she/her) is a young adult currently living in Ontario, Canada. She believes that if someone else isn't going to write what she wants to read, she'll try and write it herself. Margaret loves fantasy and science fantasy books, and also dabbles in poetry when she feels like it.
